by Cheryl Holt
“It’s obvious we’re religious devotees who’ve taken vows of poverty, so he is greedy. I’m just stating the truth.”
“I don’t need quite so much truth in front of the girls.”
It was a constant topic for quarreling. With all that had transpired, Rowena believed the girls should toughen up and grow more wary, but Faith wasn’t so heartless. She thought she and Rowena should pretend—as much as they were able—that everything was fine.
They were all sufficiently on edge, and it was cruel to unduly alarm the children. Rowena disagreed, feeling that they weren’t nearly alarmed enough. Rowena was correct, but Faith wouldn’t admit it. If calamity struck and Faith and Rowena perished—God, forbid!—what would happen to the three girls?
The prospect didn’t bear contemplating.
She had a purse strapped to her waist. She opened it so the driver could peek inside. It was very, very empty. She shrugged in apology, hoping she looked contrite. As he realized he’d get no reward, he muttered a remark that had to be an epithet, spat at her feet, then clicked the reins. His goat pulled the rickety vehicle away.
“Honestly!” Faith fumed as Rowena said, “Well! I never…”
Rowena picked up a rock as if she’d throw it at him, but Faith grabbed it away. Rowena had never wanted to be a nun, and her temper and patience were exhausted.
“Let him go,” Faith scolded. “Don’t make a fuss.”
“Good riddance,” Rowena hurled to his departing back.
“Good riddance,” the girls echoed like a chorus, but they quieted when Faith glared at them.
“We didn’t like your stupid old cart anyway,” Rowena yelled.
Shortly he disappeared over a hill, and they were all alone. The only sounds were the crash of waves down on the beach and the rustle of wind swishing over the sand. They turned toward the sea, toward the villa that faced the sapphire water.
The building was quite large, and she wondered who had constructed it. The spot was so bleak. Who had chosen it and why?
In front of them, the Mediterranean stretched to the horizon. Behind them, the desert dunes rolled to infinity. The road they’d journeyed on wasn’t really a road at all but a line of wagon tracks cut into the dirt. There were no other houses, neighbors, farms, fences, or animals. There was just the sea and the sand and the gulls cawing.
It seemed as if they’d arrived at the end of the Earth, as if they might take a wrong step and plunge off the edge. They might have been the very last people on the planet, as if disaster had felled everyone else and they were the only humans left.
How had her life reached such a ridiculous point?
She might have stood there forever, pondering her pathetic lot, but Rowena and the girls were staring, waiting for her to tell them what to do. Ever since Mother Superior had died a few weeks earlier, Faith had become their leader, a position she hadn’t sought and didn’t relish. But if she hadn’t taken charge, who would have?
She was twenty-five and Rowena twenty. Rowena was hot-headed, quick to rile and even quicker to lash out. She could be wild and erratic and had none of the traits necessary for the peaceful solitude of the convent, but her parents had locked her away anyway.
In a crisis—which was definitely how Faith would describe their current predicament—Rowena shouldn’t be deciding any issue.
So…there was just Faith, and she was trying desperately to keep them alive and fed and safe until she could figure out how to return to Scotland. It was her sole motivation, her sole objective.
“Shall we go in?” she asked them. “I’m anxious to discover what type of fellow is here.”
“Do you suppose he speaks English?” Rowena said. “I hope he does.”
“If he doesn’t,” Faith replied, “I speak French and a bit of Spanish, and the girls speak Italian. We should be able to communicate in some fashion.”
“He’ll help us, won’t he, Sister Faith?” Mary asked.
“Of course he will,” she staunchly insisted. “A gentleman—most especially a British one—can always be counted on to assist a lady who’s in trouble.”
“Are we in trouble?”
At Faith voicing the word trouble, she could have kicked herself. “No, not trouble precisely. We’re in a little jam, but we’ll get out of it.”
“Are you sure?” Mary pressed.
“I’m positive.”
Rowena shot her a glower that oozed skepticism, but Faith pretended she didn’t see it.
“Come.” She started toward the villa. “I’m eager to meet him.”
“So am I,” Rowena claimed, but her snort of derision told the truth. She believed in the adage that anything that could go wrong would go wrong.
They tromped up the path, the trail easy to maneuver. And they had no luggage to slow them. Their possessions had been stolen while they’d languished in quarantine at the harbor.
They crested the bluff, then stopped in their tracks. The villa was fully in view, the beach below, the sea calm and very blue. Waves lapped on the shore. It was a glorious sight, a sort of oasis. The white marble walls glimmered in the hot sun, and through the main entrance there were shaded walkways and gardens.
She wanted to stroll into the foyer, wanted to lie down and stretch out on the cool tiles of the floor. The ferns and palms beckoned to her, begging her to come in out of the heat.
Down on the beach, two men were racing on horseback. They were laughing, appearing carefree and delighted with themselves.
They were too far away for her to glean much about their features. Both were dark-haired, their hair long and whipping out behind them. They were attired in trousers and boots, but weren’t wearing shirts so she could observe much more flesh than she should have.
Their skin was tanned as if they regularly romped outside without their clothes. Or perhaps they were natives, their skin normally bronzed. Whoever they were, they were muscled and fit and athletically inclined.
She should have glanced away, but she couldn’t. They were so happy. They made her wish she were a man, which was a sentiment she’d often suffered.
Men ruled the world. They dressed how they pleased and acted how they pleased. They traveled when they liked, cavorted and debauched without consequence. She would love to strip off her heavy garments, to run barefoot across the sand in only a chemise and petticoat, but such liberties were never allowed to a female, so she was destined to remain buttoned up in her stifling black nun’s habit.
“Ooh, would you look at that,” Rowena crooned, staring with too much curiosity at the scantily-clad pair. “Could that be our host?”
“I have no idea,” Faith said.
“This jaunt just got a lot more interesting.”
Faith yanked away, and she grabbed Rowena and turned her too so they couldn’t ogle the virile duo.
“Spoilsport,” Rowena complained.
“We have more important matters to attend. Let’s get inside and see what we can learn.”
“I swear you’ve been living in the convent too long. You’ve forgotten how to appreciate a handsome man.”
“I can still appreciate a handsome man,” Faith countered. “At the moment, I simply have other issues on my mind.”
They reached the portico, but no servants rushed out. No butler greeted them. She listened intently, trying to hear any sounds, but it was eerily quiet. Was the house abandoned?
If it was, she wouldn’t be surprised. It would merely be one more stroke of ill luck in a long string of ill luck.
She straightened her shoulders and marched under the archway. As she stepped out of the bright sunlight, she was temporarily blinded, and she had to blink and blink to regain her vision.
Suddenly a very large native man blocked her way. He towered over her, his shoulders massive, his demeanor menacing. His head was shaved, and he had a gold earring in his ear. He had a lengthy, braided beard, strange tattoos on his chest and arms, and he carried a lethal-looking sword on his belt, the blade curved
in a perfect arc to make it easy to decapitate foes in battle.
She blanched with terror, and Rowena shrieked with dismay. The girls screamed, and they—with Rowena—raced out. Faith was left to face him alone.
He didn’t speak, but displayed no threatening moves, and she smiled, praying she seemed pleasant and harmless rather than frightened and ridiculous.
“Hello.” She waited for a similar salutation, but didn’t receive it. “I am Sister Faithful Newton.” She gestured to Rowena and the girls. “These are my friends and traveling companions.”
He stared, but didn’t respond.
“I am with the Sisters of Mercy. Our convent is located near Edinburgh in Scotland. Have you…ah…ever heard of Scotland?”
She repeated her remarks in French, then Spanish, but he didn’t exhibit the slightest hint that he understood. He might have been a stone statue, but she was undeterred.
“We’ve been in Rome at a convocation, and we were on our way home, but we’ve had some trouble. In town, we were told there is a gentleman here who might assist us. We were hoping we could—”
Before she could finish the sentence, he held up an enormous palm, so she stopped talking. There was a bench in a shaded alcove. He pointed to it, indicating they should sit, then he spun and went into the house.
She glanced at Rowena and the girls, motioning for them to approach, but they were frozen in their spots.
“It’s all right,” she soothed, feigning confidence. “Get out of the sun. Come join me.”
She walked to the bench and continued gesturing. Ultimately they hobbled over, but it was clear they were prepared to bolt at the least sign of danger.
“Is he a giant?” Martha asked.
“No. He’s just a very large man.”
“He looked like a giant to me.”
“He isn’t. He’s simply very tall.”
“He was scary.”
“He wasn’t scary. He was…different from what we’re used to. I’m sure we surprised him as much as he surprised us.”
Rowena peeked over at Faith and, in her usual pessimistic tone, said, “I have a bad feeling about this.” Anymore she was never anything but pessimistic.
“I can’t imagine why,” Faith replied.
“One swipe with that sword of his, and you’d have been a head shorter.”
The girls stiffened with alarm, and Faith snapped, “Rowena! Please!”
They quieted down, with Faith determined not to provide Rowena with an opening to utter another overly dramatic comment. They dawdled for an eternity, until Faith began to wonder if they’d been forgotten.
She was about ready to give up when he appeared and motioned for Faith to follow him. When Rowena and the girls rose too, he scowled, indicating they should remain on the bench.
“Faith,” Rowena hissed, “you can’t go in there alone.”
“Nothing will happen to me,” Faith insisted.
Rowena leaned nearer and whispered, “What if you never come out?”
“I’ll come out. I swear.”
“How long should we wait for you?”
“As long as it takes for me to discover if we’ve found a knight in shining armor.”
“There aren’t any of those left.”
“We’ll see.”
“Be careful!”
“I’ll be fine, Rowena.” Faith nodded to the girls and said again, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Hot and miserable and forlorn, they were such a bedraggled little group. She whipped away, unable to bear their searching gazes. They were positive she knew what she was doing, that she would fix what was wrong, but she hadn’t a clue as to how.
Ever since they’d sailed out of the harbor in Italy, ever since disaster had struck on their ship, she’d been bouncing from one idiotic decision to the next, and no matter what choice she made they were never a single mile closer to Scotland.
Her escort walked into the house and she hurried after him, not having time to assess the surroundings or décor. If she had to suddenly turn around and escape, she had no idea how to get back to the front entrance.
Still though, she tagged after him. What other option was there?
Eventually they stepped out onto a marble verandah. The Mediterranean provided a scenic backdrop. It was the most spectacular spot she’d ever viewed in her life.
At the far end, under a raised, shaded arbor, a man was sitting in an ornate chair that was fancy as a king’s throne.
Two lithe, dark-eyed nymphs stood on either side of him, fanning him with palm fronds. The spritely pair was scarcely dressed, shockingly attired in trousers and vests and showing too much skin. She could see their flat bellies, their naked arms, and an exorbitant amount of cleavage. Their wrists and ankles were covered with gold bangles that jangled when they moved their hands.
As to the man, she thought he might be one of the equestrians from down on the beach, but she wasn’t certain. If it was the same fellow, he’d changed his clothes.
He was wearing an odd, flowing sort of trouser that was sewn from a colorful, shiny fabric. His feet were bare, his chest bare. He had a European ancestry, but he was so bronzed from the sun that it was difficult to predict whether he also had native blood in his veins.
His eyes were very, very blue, his hair black, long, and hanging over his shoulders. He looked bored and decadent and too handsome for his own good, and he was staring at her as if she was an alien creature he’d never witnessed before.
Her escort vanished into the shadows, and she couldn’t figure out if she should approach or tarry until summoned, so she hovered, feeling nervous and unsure as she hated to ever be.
He studied her, starting with her face, then taking a slow meander down her torso and back up again. She wondered what he saw, but guessed there was no detail that would tantalize such a masculine cad. In light of the willowy girls fanning him, it was obvious what kind of female he enjoyed.
In her dreary nun’s habit, her shapely figure was concealed by the heavy material so she had no traits that would entice him, and she thought he was precisely the type of libertine who would like to be enticed.
With her auburn hair and merry blue eyes, she’d always been pretty, and though she’d been a novitiate with the Sisters of Mercy for eight years, she retained a feminine spark that was abruptly ignited. She wished he’d notice her comely features. But in her dusty, sweaty garments, her wimple firmly in place, it was impossible to appear fetching, and the fact that she yearned to present a more flattering picture was irksome in the extreme.
She’d joined the convent at age seventeen, deeming it the perfect way to escape pressures at home. She would become a nun once she was ready for the final vows so she hardly needed to flaunt herself to a strange man.
“Well…?” he ultimately said, his British accent very clear.
“Oh, you speak English. Good.”
She marched over, stopping directly in front of him. His throne was on a dais so he was up above her, but even without the added elevation, he seemed very large and much grander than she’d expected him to be.
With him seated, she couldn’t exactly discern his height, but she suspected he’d be tall, six feet at least. He was a bit older than she was, probably thirty or so, and with her standing so close, she had to admit that he was an excellent male specimen, broad-shouldered, tanned, hale and fit.
She was flustered by him though, by his bare flesh and piercing gaze, by his superior size and semblance of authority. He made her feel small and poor and insignificant, and she’d like to request he put on a shirt, but she wasn’t certain how to broach the subject.
“You are…?” he inquired in a derisive fashion.
“Sister Faithful.”
“Sister…faithful? Are you commenting on your piety or is that your name?”
She’d had a lifetime of jokes about her name, so her smile never wavered. “Faithful is my given name, sir. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?”
“The pleasure?” He chuckled. “I don’t believe anyone has ever viewed it as being pleasurable to speak with me. We’ll converse for a few minutes, then you can decide what you think.”
She noted that he hadn’t supplied his own name. Was he on the run from the law? Was he a criminal? He lived by the sea. Was he a smuggler or pirate?
“What is this place?” she asked.
“The locals call it the Ghost House.”
“Why?”
“Because there are ghosts in it, Sister Faithful. Why would you suppose? I’d tell you the Arabic name, but you couldn’t pronounce or remember it.” He leaned back and studied her again. “What can I do for you? What has brought you staggering to my door?”
She was offended by his boorish tone. “I didn’t stagger.”
“Fine. You didn’t stagger. How did you arrive?”
“I walked part of the way and rode the rest in a farmer’s cart.”
“You came from town?”
“Yes.”
“Deliberately to find me?”
“Yes.”
“To what end?”
“I need your help.”
She hadn’t meant to simply blurt it out like that. He was being particularly surly, as if he’d never learned any manners, but there was no reason for him to be so impolite. He was the first British person whom she’d stumbled on in weeks. He couldn’t disappoint her. She wouldn’t let him.
“You need my help?” He looked flummoxed. “As I’ve never previously laid eyes on you, what makes you imagine I’d be inclined to provide it?”
“I don’t know where else we can turn.”
“We? Who is with you?”
“My fellow sister, Rowena, and our three charges.”
“Charges?”
“Little girls.”
“There are…what? Five of you?” He was horrified by the number.
“Yes. They’re in the foyer waiting for me, and now that I see for myself you’re British, and clearly you’re a gentleman—”
He snorted with amusement. “I am a gentleman? Your powers of discernment may be a bit off.”
“No, I’m positive you’re a gentleman, and we throw ourselves on your mercy.”
He waved a decadent hand. “Don’t be throwing yourself anywhere. Just tell me what you want. If it’s in my power to bestow it—which I doubt very much—I shall give it to you.”