Scoundrel (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 4)

by Cheryl Holt

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  “Take that, you scurvy dog!”

  Chase Hubbard shouted the words as he swung his sword with all his might. The steel of his blade cut his assailant on the arm, slicing to the bone. The villain wailed in agony and dropped to the deck.

  But the small victory provided no opportunity to gloat or rest. Pirates had swarmed onto the ship, and they were like a horde of ants. They kept slithering over the rail. Was there no end to their number?

  The confrontation was brutal and deafening. Before he had a second to catch his breath, he was clobbered over the head. He spun, slashing ferociously, while wishing he had a weapon that was heavier and more lethal. In such a stunning, violent melee, it was too light and ornamental for actual life-and-death fighting.

  He’d spent months in Egypt, dawdling and trying to find the money to return to England. During his sojourn in Cairo he’d been extensively trained at swordplay by a fencing master named Valois. While he was grateful to have increased his skill, those polite lessons bore scant resemblance to the chaos of a real battle.

  He renewed his savage volley, determined to survive, determined to repel the bandits who’d accosted them. Yet he wasn’t getting much positive assistance from the crew. Most of them had cast down their weapons and surrendered.

  Chase stood shoulder to shoulder with the captain, and they were gradually being forced toward the stern. The man was stout, sturdy, and very brave, but he simply didn’t have the wherewithal to defend against so many.

  “Look out, Mr. Hubbard! On your right!”

  The warning came from behind where the two other passengers huddled in abject terror. They were a British grain merchant, Mr. Fitzwilliam, and his young clerk, Mr. Robertson. Neither was a fighter, and clearly they were hoping and expecting Chase to save them. Unfortunately the prospect was beginning to seem unlikely.

  A miscreant loomed in, but Chase couldn’t react swiftly enough. His attacker’s blade slashed Chase’s thigh, opening a deep gash.

  “Bastard!” Chase bellowed, and he rejoined the skirmish with increased vigor.

  He’d never been more exasperated or angry.

  The prior year acquaintances had arranged an adventuring expedition to Egypt. He’d been tantalized by their happy stories of how much fun it would be to sail the Nile and tour the pyramids.

  He’d scraped and scrounged to amass the funds to sign on, and he’d convinced his best friend, Bryce Blair, to sign on too. But from the very first day, they’d suffered naught but disaster and tragedy. The entire debacle had concluded with Chase and Bryce quarreling so viciously that their friendship would probably never be mended.

  Chase had tarried in Egypt much too long, eventually being required to work as a bodyguard to earn the funds to buy his passage to England. He’d never given his home country much thought, had never considered himself to be particularly patriotic, but after months of desert heat, sand storms, catastrophe, misfortune, and adversity, England had beckoned like a shining star on a hill.

  He’d wanted nothing more in the world than to return to her placid shores. When he’d finally purchased his ticket and boarded ship in Alexandria, he’d been practically gleeful to be leaving the accursed land where such calamity had occurred.

  After surviving so many setbacks, he absolutely refused to perish! He would not let a gaggle of pirates kill him!

  But even as he made the silent vow, he found himself against the rail. He had very little room to maneuver, to continue his resistance. All around him, the combat was lessening, dwindling to a close. The First Officer fell, then the captain.

  Chase appeared to be the only one still engaged in the brawl. He’d intended to keep on, to save himself but also Mr. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Robertson. They were innocent travelers and fellow countrymen, and with Chase having left Egypt in disgrace, he’d vowed to behave better in the future.

  He’d protect them or die in the trying!

  Yet despite his valiant efforts, he’d been bloodied several times. He was losing stamina, losing strength. The brigand in front of him gave a deft flick of his wrist, a hard parry, and Chase’s own weapon went flying. For a brief moment, he attacked with his fists, but he was rapidly subdued, his arms pinned to his sides, a dagger at his throat.

  He assumed he’d be stabbed through the heart and put out of his misery, but he wasn’t. He watched the fracas wind to an ignoble end. They’d had no chance really. From the instant the black sails had been spotted on the horizon, their fate had been sealed.

  He was on a merchant vessel, one that carried cargo and had a few extra bunks for passengers. They had no cannons to fire, no navy to force the pirates away.

  A man approached. He was patting his vicious companions on the back, offering words of praise for the success of the assault. With the deference shown to him by the others, Chase presumed he was the captain of the villainous boat.

  He marched over to Chase, picked up Chase’s sword, and examined it. Apparently deeming it of trifling quality, he tossed it to an underling.

  The only people still on their feet were Chase, Fitzwilliam, and Robertson. Fitzwilliam was elderly, but Robertson was barely out of the schoolroom, more than a decade younger than Chase who was thirty-two. The pirate captain stepped in so he and Chase were toe to toe.

  The criminal was burly and thickset, with thighs like tree trunks. He was shorter than Chase, unwashed, unshaved. His teeth were rotted, and he smelled. He spoke a flurry of Arabic, but while Chase had learned some important phrases while in Egypt, he was scarcely fluent and had no idea what the man had said.

  He couldn’t focus on the brigand. He was peering about, taking in the white clouds in the sky, the blue waters of the Mediterranean, the birds soaring by. In case these were his last minutes on Earth, he yearned to absorb every detail, and in light of the dire circumstances he was acquitting himself quite well.

  Mr. Robertson was holding up, seeming very brave, but Mr. Fitzwilliam had pissed himself.

  “What did he say?” Robertson murmured.

  “I don’t know,” Chase murmured back.

  Their quiet exchange had the pirate snapping a comment and whacking Chase on the arm where he’d been wounded. He bit down a yelp of pain, certain he oughtn’t to display any sign of weakness. He’d go to his grave behaving like the hero he’d never once been in his life.

  The pirate’s question was repeated in Arabic, but Chase shook his head, indicating he didn’t understand. The pirate tried four different languages, finally speaking in English, but with an accent that made his query nearly unintelligible.

  “Your money, Monsieur, if you please,” the criminal said. “I will have it.”

  “I have nothing,” Chase truthfully replied. He had a few coins hidden below in his cabin, but he wasn’t about to provide any assistance that would enable the pirates to easily find his small nest egg.

  He was attired in shirt, trousers and boo
ts, his coat having been shed when he realized they’d be boarded. He spun side to side to prove he carried no purse.

  The pirate pushed him away and moved to Mr. Fitzwilliam. A quick riffle through the man’s coat produced a fat wallet that clinked with gold coins. Fitzwilliam complained and grabbed for the pouch, but he was soundly pummeled into submission.

  The same search was instigated against Mr. Robertson, but to no avail. Robertson was a mere factotum and thus had no money.

  “Merci,” the pirate said to Fitzwilliam. He grinned evilly and stuck the sack of coins in his own coat. “You will be telling me your choice.”

  “What choice?” Chase asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not deliberately cruel”—at this absurd remark, Chase tamped down a laugh—“so you will have the same option as everyone else.” The pirate gestured around. “The sailors will be allowed to join my crew to take the place of those who have perished in the fight. But if they don’t wish to sail with me, they will be delivered to the slave market in Algiers.”

  The defeated captain objected to this and tried to rise, but the pirate hit him very hard, and he crumpled to the deck unconscious and perhaps dead. Blood seeped from a crack in his skull.

  “Here now,” Chase scolded, “haven’t you done enough? The ship is yours, the cargo too. Leave him be.”

  The pirate ignored Chase and repeated, “I give you the same choice.”

  At first, Chase was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You may become a sailor on my crew or you will be sold as a slave as well.”

  Behind him Mr. Fitzwilliam huffed, “You can’t…sell us. We’re free citizens of the British empire.”

  “Not on my ship, Monsieur.” The pirate chuckled with malice.

  “We’re British!” Mr. Robertson took a turn protesting. “You have no authority over us.”

  “As I am now captain of this vessel,” the pirate stated, “and I claim it as my own, I have all the authority I need.”

  “You’re mad,” Chase scoffed.

  “Yes, quite mad,” the pirate amiably agreed. “What will it be? A sailing crew or the slave market?”

  Chase cast a glance at Mr. Robertson and his boss. They were both staring at Chase as if he should do something, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be. He’d been overpowered, disarmed, and had no ability to reason with the insane lunatic.

  “I demand you convey us to the nearest port town,” Chase blustered.

  “Oh, you do, do you?” the pirate sneered.

  “Yes, bring us to a safe harbor at once. Or put us in a longboat, and you needn’t concern yourself with our fate. We’ll row ourselves to shore.”

  The brigand uttered a comment in Arabic to his compatriots, and it must have been humorous for they all chortled with amusement.

  The pirate faced Chase again and said, “While it is a very interesting request, I’m sorry that I cannot oblige you.”

  “I can pay!” Mr. Fitzwilliam offered.

  “Pay what?” the pirate asked.

  “A ransom.”

  “Have you more gold down in your cabin?”

  “No,” Fitzwilliam said, “but if you’ll take us ashore as Mr. Hubbard has suggested, I can arrange for a large sum to be delivered. Name your price.”

  “Monsieur, why am I not believing you will keep your word? And I will not wait for payment from any man. As I’m sure you understand, my line of work is dangerous. We must finish here and be on our way.”

  “He’ll pay a ransom!” Chase fumed. “The man’s rich as Croesus. He can fill your hull with gold if you let him.”

  “I know not this Croesus,” the pirate retorted, “and you still have not made your choice.”

  “Bugger you and your choice,” Chase spat with more bravado than he felt.

  “Are you certain this should be your reply?” the pirate asked.

  “Yes.”

  The pirate spoke to his underlings in Arabic again. Suddenly Mr. Fitzwilliam was grabbed by two burly bandits. They were next to the ship’s rail, and they lifted him and tossed him overboard.

  Chase was so stunned that he couldn’t move. Mr. Robertson shouted with outrage, then he was seized and tossed over too. It was a long drop to the water, and he shrieked with terror as he plummeted down. There was a huge splash, then…silence.

  The criminals reached for Chase, and he leapt away, managing to briefly slip a dagger from a sheath in an onlooker’s belt. He took several rapid stabs with it, but inflicted no noticeable damage. His minor revolt was cut short by someone clocking him on the head with the butt of a gun.

  Just that quickly, it was over.

  He collapsed to his knees and would have plunged face first to the deck, but he was grabbed, lifted, and thrown over the rail as Fitzwilliam and Robertson had been thrown over.

  He was extremely disoriented, barely conscious, his wounds oozing blood. The fall seemed to take forever, the water approaching in a sort of slow motion. He landed very hard, his entire front smacking painfully.

  An array of strange thoughts careened through his mind. He was cognizant enough to realize that his life should have been flashing before his eyes, that he should have been thinking about his sister, Amelia, or his dear friend, Bryce, and how much he lamented their bitter parting.

  He was about to meet his Maker, would be called to account and ordered to defend his three decades of awful behavior. Regrettably he’d never been anything but a scoundrel and had always enjoyed his disreputable existence. He’d never been sorry for any transgression he’d perpetrated so it would be difficult to offer an alibi for his misdeeds.

  He didn’t have one.

  As he sunk beneath the waves, his last coherent recollection was to remember every hideous mishap that had occurred during his journey in Egypt. Wasn’t it typical that the horrid trip would end with him drowning in the Mediterranean and there being no clue as to what had happened to him?

  He also wondered—as he had a thousand times previous—what had ever possessed him to leave England for a single second. There must have been a reason, but just that moment he had no idea what it might have been.

  CHAPTER ONE

  North Coast of Africa, 1815…

  “Are you sure this is the place?”

  Faithful Newton, who was usually called simply Faith, glanced at the driver of the cart in which she was riding. He couldn’t speak English, but he seemed to understand her question.

  He gestured to the house out on the cliffs by the sea, indicating they had arrived and she should get out and let him be on his way.

  She peered over at her friend and traveling companion, Rowena Bond, and asked, “What do you think?”

  “It’s awfully isolated, isn’t it?” Rowena replied. “What if the property is abandoned? What if this oaf tots off and leaves us in the desert to starve?”

  Faith scowled. “No one is starving, Rowena. Watch what you say please.”

  They had three little girls with them, Millicent, Martha, and Mary MacKenzie, ages five, six, and seven. They were a trio of blond-haired, blue-eyed siblings who were cute as cherubs. Considering the catastrophes their small group had recently endured, they were extremely apprehensive over what might befall them next, and Faith couldn’t blame them for being concerned.

  She was terrified every minute of the day. She didn’t need Rowena adding to their list of worries.

  Mary, the oldest of the three, tugged on Faith’s sleeve and nervously inquired, “Are we going to starve?”

  “No,” Faith firmly stated. “Rowena was joking.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Rowena griped under her breath.

  The driver gestured again to the house, the path leading out to it. He was intent on hurrying them along, and Faith knew she should climb out, but she couldn’t move.

  Even though she was loath to admit it, Rowena had a point. If the seaside villa was abandoned, it was a lengthy distance back to the port town from which they’d come. It being
the middle of the afternoon, the blistering sun was scorching. Any sane person would have stayed in town, would have been loafing in the shade.

  Faith definitely wondered if she was sane.

  Every decision she made turned out to be wrong. Every choice ended in disaster, yet the girls and Rowena were counting on her, expecting her to be in charge and in control, when Faith had proved—over and over—that she had no ability to guide anyone.

  Although she and Rowena hadn’t spoken their final vows, they were novitiates with the Sisters of Mercy order of Catholic nuns. They were from England, but Papist institutions were few and far between in their home country, so their convent was located in Scotland.

  They were wearing their black skirts and white wimples. They looked like nuns and were treated like nuns, but they were stranded in Africa among the Moorish people. They were alone and unprotected, their Papist roots as blatant as if their foreheads had been branded with crosses.

  She’d been told there was a European—possibly an Englishman—living in the villa, that they might gain assistance from him. At least she assumed that’s what had been said. On the desolate, exotic coast where customs and languages were so strange, it was difficult to communicate.

  When they’d departed for the villa, it had seemed perfectly logical to seek out the only European in the area. But now that they were outside his abode, she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she should have left Rowena in town with the children. Perhaps she should have come on her own to see if aid was likely.

  As swiftly as the idea arose though, she shook it away. They oughtn’t to be separated. Not for a single second. Of that fact, she was absolutely certain.

  The driver barked a comment in Arabic, his gestures becoming more adamant.

  “Yes, yes,” Faith mumbled, “I understand. We’re here, and you must be off.”

  She slid down, Rowena too, then Rowena lifted down the girls. Yet the man didn’t continue on. He held out his hand, demanding to be compensated.

  “What does he want?” Rowena asked.

  “I’m guessing he’d like us to slip him a coin for giving us a ride.”

  “Greedy blighter.”

  “Rowena! Such language.”