The Redemption

by Marylu Tyndall

  “What?”

  “These marks on your back.”

  Charlisse shot up, dropping her tea. The cup shattered on the wooden floor. Clutching the blanket to her chest, she stared at the broken glass, then at Merrick. “They are nothing.” She knelt to pick up the cup, but swooned and nearly fell.

  Merrick stooped beside her and lifted her to the bed again. “I’ll get it.”

  Clinging to the bedpost as if it were her only friend, she began to cry. And he realized they were scars, not fresh wounds. “Who did this to you?” Merrick picked up the pieces of glass, deposited them on the table, then sat down beside her. She pulled away.

  With a sigh, he got up and walked to the desk, combing his hand through his hair. There was more to this lady than met the eye. So much more that he wanted to know. But she had been through enough this night.

  “It was my uncle.” Her voice quivered.

  He turned to face her.

  She fidgeted with her hair. “He was my ward after my mother died.”

  “How old were you when you lost her?”

  “Eight.”

  Merrick waited for her to continue, hoping she would, but not wanting to cause further distress. She seemed suddenly so small and frail, so unlike the bold, defiant lady she usually pretended to be.

  The lantern light glowed over her shoulders, sparkling in the highlights of her hair as it cascaded down in a mass of tangled curls. She looked up at him, then away again, squeezing the quilt to her chest.

  “My uncle whipped me for the first time when I was thirteen,” she whispered.

  Merrick’s heart squeezed. He moved to sit on the chair beside the bed and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Why?”

  Still avoiding his gaze, she replied, “I wasn’t sure at first. I thought I must have done something terribly wrong, but I could not imagine what.” Finally she lifted her eyes to his, tears trickling down her cheeks. “He said I was just like my mother—a whore.”

  Merrick clamped his jaw shut.

  “He told me he would purify me.” She hesitated, speaking between sobs. “He would purge the sin and filthiness out of me.”

  Merrick wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he waited, anger churning inside him. “What would make him think such a thing?”

  Charlisse shook her head. “I don’t know. There were never opportunities for me to behave with impropriety. I was kept under lock and key, forbidden to even have friends.” She dabbed at her tears with a corner of the blanket.

  “You were never courted?”

  “Courted?” She snickered. “I was not allowed to talk to a boy my own age. Only once did I ever dance with one, and for that I paid dearly.”

  Merrick tried to fathom a childhood of such abuse, but he could not. His own youth had certainly not been filled with love and pleasant memories, but compared to what she was describing, it had been paradise. “What—” he stopped, searching for the right words as he stared at the cracks in the floorboards beside his boots. He wanted to help her—to take away her pain, but he didn’t know how. “What did he … how …?” He looked up at her.

  Tears spilled over her lashes and slid down her cheeks, leaving trails of sorrow behind. She did not meet his gaze. “He would disrobe me. Then …” She hesitated, swallowing. “He would recite Scriptures from the Bible about chastity, purity, and immorality.”

  Merrick was beginning to get the picture. And it was making him sick.

  “Then he beat me with a whip—as penance for my sinful nature and to purge the wickedness from my soul.”

  “Charlisse.” Merrick studied her, but she kept her gaze lowered. “Who is this uncle of yours?”

  “Richard Hemming, the Bishop of Loxford.”

  Merrick pushed to his feet. “A man of the church? A bishop?” He said a bit too loudly. Rage bubbled inside him. How could anyone hurt this sweet, innocent girl? Visions of her small body cowering under the pelting blows of a man—her own uncle, someone who called himself a representative of God—punched his thoughts. Bile rose in his throat. “How many times did he do this?”

  “Many times,” she answered. “More often toward the end.”

  “The end?”

  “Before I ran away to find my father.”

  Merrick paced, his heavy boots pounding the floor.

  “So you understand now?” she asked.

  Merrick swerved to face her. “Understand?”

  “Why Kent … why he—”

  Shock sped through Merrick. “Do you think what he did was your fault?”

  Charlisse’s moist eyes widened. “My uncle said men are attracted to women of low morals.”

  “Men are attracted to women, period.” He grabbed Charlisse’s hand. She closed her eyes, leaning on the bedpost.

  “Look at me.”

  She opened her teary eyes.

  “None of what has happened to you is your fault—not what your uncle did, nor what Kent did. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “Your uncle was a sick man. He carries all the fault for his actions, and he will have to give an account to God for them. And Kent is just a wicked knave who forced himself on you merely because you are a beautiful woman, and because he wants anything he believes is mine.”

  Charlisse’s eyes flitted back and forth between his as if searching for sincerity.

  “If I may be so bold,” Merrick said with a somber look, “it is my suspicion that your uncle was dealing with a lustful attraction to his niece. Unable to control it, he placed the blame on you. He disrobed you for his own pleasure, and when it aroused him, he beat you. Don’t you see? He was the one filled with wickedness and filthiness, not you.”

  “But what of my mother?”

  “I don’t know your mother. But I do know you, and you have proven your character beyond reproach.”

  Charlisse’s brow creased. “But I’m …” She looked at him, puzzled. “But it’s in my nature to …”

  “If you were a woman of loose morals, why have you been able to resist my considerable charms?” He grinned.

  Charlisse graced him with a smile even as she stifled a sob. “Your words are sweet to my ears.” She took an unsteady breath. “I long for them to be true.”

  “Then believe they are.” Merrick pulled her close, feeling her resolve melt as she leaned against his chest. “Men like your uncle are cowards, preying on the innocent under the guise of religious piety. They make me sick. And it sickens me even more to hear how your uncle abused such a young, innocent girl.” Cupping her face, he forced her to look at him. “Shake it from your mind. You are as much a lady now as you have always been.” He kissed her forehead and coaxed her to lie down.

  Merrick inched his chair next to the bed and sat watching Charlisse until she fell asleep. Still shaky from her ordeal, she didn’t seem to mind his close proximity, and he welcomed the change.

  After he heard her breathing deepen and saw her body relax, he rose and retreated to his spot on the floor. It would be impossible for him to get any sleep with Charlisse so near. There was too much of the old Merrick left in him.

  Quietly, he repented his over-indulgence in rum, his temper, and his selfishness when he left Charlisse defenseless against Kent. There were probably a number of other infractions, but he couldn’t remember them all. Instead, he appealed to the mercy and forgiveness of his loving Savior. He thanked God for the strength and grace he had bestowed on him to handle all the challenges of the day. In particular, self-control. What a wretch he was for even entertaining desires for the lady, especially after what she had been through. He shook his head, ashamed.

  Difficult as it had been at first to restrain himself when she so willingly fell into his arms, after he had heard the story of her horrendous past, something changed within him, and he no longer battled so vehemently against his passions. With each tear that slid down her creamy cheeks, his heart ached even more. Was it possible he cared for this woman?

&nbs
p; A strong desire to protect her from the advances of any man surged within him. She had suffered too much to be thrown once again into the lion’s den, and this time with the most ferocious of all beasts—her own father. How could she endure the attacks of another man she should be able to trust above all others? It would destroy her. No, Merrick must protect her at all costs. And not only protect, he must help heal her wounds by leading her to the only one who could show her that she was worth dying for—the one who had created her and who loved her beyond measure.

  It would certainly aid that cause if Merrick treated her more like the lady she was and less like some tempting morsel served on the plate of his sensual appetite. With this new resolve firmly in place, he quickly fell asleep.

  ♥♥♥

  Nightmares invaded Charlisse’s fitful sleep like enemy troops trying to regain lost territory. They swept down on her unawares with an arsenal of weapons against which she had no defense: arrows of impurity, pistol shots of shame, swords of disgrace, and most of all, cannonballs of unworthiness. The figures that wielded them were dark, slimy creatures without faces. Leading their charge was her uncle, in his brown robe, gold crucifix beaming from his breast. He rode a black horse whose nostrils spurted blood with each blast of air.

  She bowed in humiliation, baring her back to the onslaught of vile weapons. Slash after slash they tore her flesh, leaving their marks of reproach upon her—a stigma for all to see. She was a marked woman, unchaste and contemptible.

  Falling to the ground in a crumbled heap, she sobbed.

  The roaring of the army slowly dissipated, leaving only the sound of her weeping and the wrenching of her heart as it broke in two.

  Someone smoothed ointment on her wounds. A gentle hand applied salve, dissolving the pain. A sweet fragrance filled the air, and a light—a soothing light—shone upon her. She turned around slowly. A man stood beside her, dressed in a white robe. He smiled, and she heard him say, “You are clean now, beloved.”

  Chapter 21: Beginnings

  Merrick rose early, his body sore from the fight with Kent. After lighting a candle, he spent time reading the Bible and conversing with his Father, getting direction and guidance for the new day. When he was done, he sat beside the bed and watched the angel sleeping there. At least she had been able to get some rest after last night’s trauma.

  Her back was to him. As the light filtered in through the window, she stirred. The delicate curls of her hair flowed over the pillow like gentle waves across a white beach. Seeing the pink scars on her bare skin, he cringed in anger as her story came rushing back to him.

  ♥♥♥

  Sensing someone watching her, Charlisse sprang up in bed. The morning chill alerted her to the blanket slipping down, and horrified, she grabbed the wayward cloth just in time. She hoped Merrick hadn’t noticed, but she could tell from his mischievous smile that he had. A scorching heat crept up her neck, making its way onto her face.

  “A gentleman does not stare at a lady while she sleeps.”

  His mouth curved in a roguish grin. “Indeed.”

  Charlisse clutched the quilt and gave him a cold stare, amazed at his audacity. A moment passed in which his grin faded and remorse tightened his features.

  “My apologies, milady. Let us begin again, shall we? Perhaps my behavior last night will help to improve your opinion of me going forward?”

  Sincerity and a hint of playfulness sparked in his eyes He raked a hand through his black hair. At least two days’ stubble covered his chin and neck, and blood stained his shirt—evidence of his fight for her virtue. His intense gaze contained an odd mixture of admiration, protectiveness, and desire. No one had ever looked at her that way before.

  “I agree. Your behavior was quite noble,” she admitted.

  “Must we be so formal? Surely we passed the bounds of mere acquaintanceship last night. Friends, perhaps?” There was a twinkle in his eye. “Or must I start over with you at the dawn of each new day?”

  “We will be friends.” She conceded. “And, as my friend, I would appreciate it if you’d bring me some clothing.” Charlisse thought she saw a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Her heart fluttered, remembering the tender moments they had shared the night before. Was it the rum Sloane had slipped into her tea that made her disclose such personal details of her life to this pirate? And what of those moments she’d spent resting in his arms? Was that the way a lady behaved? A flood of heat consumed her. She had allowed him too many liberties.

  Merrick stood. “I will accept your offer of friendship and consider it a great privilege, but my heart hopes for much more.”

  The declaration did funny things to her insides. She looked away, feeling vulnerable.

  Merrick took her hand in his, his expression staid. “You shared your heart with me last night, and I hold that in precious confidence. Please know that I meant everything I said about the circumstances of your upbringing and the purity of your character.” He squeezed her hand. “I hope you will give it some consideration and allow your heart to heal from such a hellish beginning.” He paused, then added, “Appeal to God, our Father, for he can heal even the most hardened and damaged souls.”

  Tears welled in Charlisse’s eyes. She had never revealed to anyone what she had revealed to this pirate, this rogue. She hung her head, cursing herself for being so weak and foolish. Yet here Merrick stood, offering her his comfort. He had taken advantage of neither her nor her tender emotions. A tear escaped its lashed boundary and slid down her cheek, and Merrick gently wiped it away. He leaned down and kissed her hand. Charlisse felt her resolve weaken. Could this man be genuine in his concern for her?

  “Now I shall see about proper attire for you.” Strapping on his weapons, he turned and walked out the door, offering her a warm smile before closing it.

  The room was so empty after he left. What is happening to me? Am I falling in love with this pirate? Or are my emotions simply surging from the trauma surrounding me?

  Shaking her head, she sank back onto the bed, her mind unwilling to accept what her heart told her was true. It was only silly, girlish emotions—a crazy infatuation brought on by his kindness and protection. Since she had never known a real gentleman’s affection, how would she know if this was love or just a passing fancy?

  She sighed. Right now she needed to focus on finding her father. He was all that mattered. Today, they would arrive in Port Royal. Excitement rippled through her at the thought of finally meeting him. Yet Merrick’s words of warning also echoed in her mind. Her father couldn’t be the same man Merrick described. He just couldn’t.

  Several hours passed. Sloane brought her a dress, a few pins he’d found for her hair, a tub of water for washing, and some breakfast, which she hardly ate—her stomach still uneasy from last night’s ordeal.

  The gown was a beautiful sapphire-blue chiffon over a velvet bodice and skirt, with embroidered lace at the collar and sleeves. She wondered about the poor woman who had owned it prior to her—before being relieved of it by these pirates.

  After washing and dressing, she combed through her tangled hair and pinned it in a loose bun of cascading curls. Then she examined herself in the tiny mirror next to the armoire until she was pleased—telling herself it was for her father alone that she concerned herself with her appearance.

  In the early afternoon, after Sloane reassured her that Kent was locked up and well guarded, she ventured up on deck where only a few pirates loitered in the sun. Most of them were still below, recovering from their victory celebration.

  The trade winds filled every inch of the sails, sending the Redemption on a rapid course through the turquoise water and leaving a trail of white foam as evidence of its grand passing. Charlisse clung to the side rail, closing her eyes, feeling the sun cover her in a mantle of warmth while the wind caressed her skin and danced playfully through her wayward curls. She was growing fond of sailing, the exhilaration, the freedom, with the world—or at least the seas—as her home: no barriers,
no restrictions, each day bringing a new adventure. She could easily see the attraction for a man like Merrick.

  Strong arms reached from behind her, encircling her waist possessively. The captain’s warm breath wafted over her neck even before he spoke. “You look lovely.”

  Charlisse jumped, unaccustomed to a man’s touch. Yet her tight nerves soon melted beneath his embrace. She turned her face, feeling his stubble on her cheek, and looked up into his dark eyes.

  “We’ll be in Port Royal in about an hour,” he said.

  For some reason, the announcement did not bring her as much joy as she expected. Suddenly, all she wanted was to continue sailing aboard this mighty ship, feeling the wind caress her, the spray of the sea shower her face, and Merrick’s strong arms around her. But of course, that was not possible, nor even rational. She had not come to the Caribbean and suffered all that she had suffered just to be swept away by some God-fearing pirate—no matter how handsome or chivalrous he was. He was a fantasy, a dream that could end only in tragedy. With great effort, she shifted her thoughts back to reality. “What happens then?”

  “I have some business to attend to, but I’ll be leaving you with a very reliable acquaintance until I can join you.”

  Charlisse shook her head. “You will do no such thing.” She jerked from his grasp and stepped aside.

  “And then, milady,” he continued, “we shall see about your father.”

  Charlisse smiled and turned to face him. “You will help me?”

  Merrick narrowed his eyes at the horizon. “I will find him, yes,” he said, his face stern. “Besides, I can’t have you running around unescorted in Port Royal, now, can I?”

  Charlisse studied the depths of his dark eyes. The wind tossed his black hair behind him in wild abandon. A hint of a grin played on his handsome lips, and a foreign feeling came over her. It was a feeling of being taken care of, of someone watching out for her, loving her.

  A barrage of emotions assaulted her—fear, uncertainty, hope, and joy bundled together in a chaotic wrestling match. She glanced away, unable to handle the fervor of his gaze. He stepped closer. Turning her face with his finger, he lifted her chin, and his lips found hers.