by Cheryl Holt
She’d suffered many catastrophes, and she was in a pickle, alone in Africa without family or resources. Chase knew precisely how that felt. He’d suffered his own adversities in Egypt and had barely survived them.
Initially, when he’d staggered into the villa, he’d been desperate to return to England, but there was actually nothing for him there. His sister was in London, but she was newly married to a man Chase couldn’t abide and busy with her own life. There was no genuine reason he could cite as to why he should go back—except that it was home.
When he and Ralston had been tossed overboard, they’d drifted for days and eventually washed up on the beach below the villa.
It was too far-fetched to be believed, but the magnificent abode had been abandoned, the previous occupants having fled without a word in the middle of the night. No one else ever came to claim the place, and the servants—who’d been nervous and worried—had greeted them like old friends.
There were rumors about the property, of a grisly murder and ghosts walking, so it was supposedly haunted, and the local citizens were more superstitious than rural villagers in Cornwall—if that was possible.
Chase and Ralston had blustered in and stayed, acting as if they had every right, with the servants being perfectly delighted to have someone to tend again.
He and Ralston were immersed in an idyllic, fantastical adventure.
Chase was carrying on like the rich libertine he would have been had his father wed his mother. He had delicious food to eat, fine wine to drink, and loose concubines to satisfy his every wicked desire. He was being showered with all the pampering a fellow could tolerate. He couldn’t predict how long it would last. Probably until a new owner arrived to shoo him out.
But until that happened, England seemed very far away, like a vision in his imagination. He knew he should go home, that he had to go back someday, but not yet.
Not quite yet.
Sister Faithful, with her British accent and familiar habits, had brought uncomfortable realizations winging toward him. That was why he’d been so rude to her. He didn’t want her intruding, didn’t want to be reminded of his peculiar and precarious situation.
If he had his way, it would continue on forever, and he wasn’t about to let Sister Faithful and her troubles interfere.
He dipped down to wet his hair, then he pushed to the surface, like Poseidon rising from the deep. He stood, water lapping at his thighs, and climbed out onto the tiles, the cool marble smooth under his bare feet. He went to the balustrade and stared out at the Mediterranean, wondering how many miles it was to England, how long it would take to get there.
The question vexed him occasionally, but the answer didn’t matter. Not when he had no intention of leaving. He spun to grab his robe and to his stunned surprise, Sister Faithful was standing on the other side of the pool, gaping at him in all his nude glory.
He couldn’t guess which of them was more astonished. Her mouth dropped open in shock and, scoundrel that he was, he didn’t cover himself or hide what she shouldn’t see. He was unaccustomed to having visitors, and he often roamed about naked as Adam in the Garden, especially when he was bathing.
She was holding a towel and a bar of soap, so obviously she’d come to wash too. Apparently she hadn’t been warned that Chase might be using the spot or that there was more than one pool. From the very first, he’d claimed it as his own, and he didn’t relish the notion of sharing.
He shook his head in disgust. Already everything was changing, and he didn’t like it.
“Hello again, Sister Faithful,” he said. “It appears you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Mr. Hubbard! I…I…”
It was all she could manage. He grinned his devil’s grin, having no idea how to repair what would likely remain the most awkward interval of his life. She whipped away and ran, as he sighed. After such a dreadful incident, how would they ever interact in a rational manner?
Sister Faithful had definitely gotten an eyeful, and he was vain enough to be delighted that she’d observed him in his current physical state. He was slender and lithe as Da Vinci’s statue of David, his skin tanned and toned, his muscles long and lean. And his cock…
Well, thank heaven he hadn’t been hard as stone. She’d been saved from that horror at least.
“Dammit,” he muttered, speculating over what to do.
Should he chase after her? Should he wait until supper and pull her aside before the meal for a private conversation? Or was it better to pretend it simply hadn’t happened?
That seemed impossible.
Without a doubt—from this moment on—she would never bump into him without stammering and blushing.
The desert air had already dried him. He tugged on his trousers, a silky garment that was flowing and cool and comfortable, then he headed in the direction she’d gone, which he assumed was to her room.
He was barefoot and hadn’t bothered with a shirt, but when he’d stopped behaving like an Englishman he’d stopped dressing like one. Nor had he any of his old clothes. They were all lost when the pirates had thrown him overboard, so the only items available were what had been left behind when the villa’s prior owner had fled.
It was easy to locate her. The bedchambers all looked out at the sea. She was lodged in one on a corner, on a promontory that offered spectacular views. He halted in the doorway, watching as she paced.
She was wringing her hands and mumbling, and he was greatly humored by her distress. For goodness sake, she’d just seen some male skin. He was sure she’d survive.
“Sister Faithful,” he said.
She gasped and whirled around. “What are you doing in here?”
“I thought we should talk.”
“About what?”
“About you stumbling on me while I was bathing.”
“I most humbly apologize.”
“There’s no need.”
“A servant told me I could wash, and I didn’t think…I never paused to…I never considered that…” She slapped her palms to her heated cheeks. “I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”
Up until that instant, he hadn’t realized that she’d removed her wimple.
Her hair was down and brushed out, curling over her shoulders in a lush, auburn wave. It was a striking shade he’d never previously observed on a female. He’d grown up in England where every woman seemed to be blond, and he’d spent more than a year in Egypt where all the women had black hair.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d met a female with red hair, and the sight disturbed him very much. It tickled his innards. It had him pondering her in a new and different way that should never be allowed.
Why would she have red hair? And why was it so long and luxurious? If he’d ruminated about nuns at all—which he couldn’t remember ever having done—he’d have supposed they cut their hair very short.
During his initial encounter with her, when she’d been cloaked in her nun’s habit, he hadn’t assessed her attributes. He’d viewed her as having no sexual gender, a sort of neutered, sterile person with no feminine parts.
But on seeing her like this, he was forced to admit she was very pretty. Actually she was quite a bit beyond pretty. She was extremely arresting, with perfect facial features, merry blue eyes, and curves in all the right spots. Cad that he was, he was suddenly evaluating her in a sordid manner that proved he was even more corrupt than he’d presumed.
“Your hair is red,” he blurted out.
“Aah!” she shrieked, and she yanked her towel off the bed and draped it over her head, but she couldn’t conceal all of the lengthy tresses.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why is your hair red? Why do you have hair?”
“Why do I have…hair? Why is it red? Oh, you’re being ridiculous. Would you please leave?”
“No, I mean, I would have expected nuns to cut it.”
“Some do. Some don’t.”
“I�
�m glad you don’t.”
“Mr. Hubbard, please! It’s highly inappropriate for you to be in here with me, and I simply can’t discuss my hair—or any other intimate topic—with you.”
If she knew anything about him, and she didn’t, she’d know that it was useless to order him about. He never listened to anyone, particularly females.
From what he recollected of his aristocratic father, and it wasn’t much, he’d inherited his father’s worst traits for being haughty and overbearing. He always thought he was in the right, and with regard to women, he always was. He found them to be excessively silly—each and every one he’d ever met—and he discounted whatever they said.
He’d been loitering in the doorway, and he brazenly entered and walked over to her. Leaning in, he trapped her against the bed post. He was six feet tall, and she was tiny, probably five-foot-four in her stockings, so he towered over her. He grabbed the towel, and after a paltry tug-of-war she could never win, he pulled it off.
He was being such an ass. He understood that he was, and it was his customary mode of carrying on, but for some reason, she made him want to behave more horridly than ever.
“Who was the red color inherited from?” he asked. “Your mother?”
“Yes. I’m told she was very vain about it too.”
“You were told? You’re not sure?”
“She died when I was a baby, but my father mentioned it once when he was scolding me about vanity.”
He reached out and riffled his fingers through the soft strands. “It’s a shame that you have to hide it.”
“It comes with my choice of vocation.”
“While you’re here, you don’t have to.”
“I don’t have to…what?”
“You don’t have to hide it. You can chuck your veil in the ocean for all I care. Living in this villa is like living in a fairytale. Who’s to know what you do?”
She was tense as a board, clearly terrified over what insane act he might perpetrate next. She’d been staring at his chest, too nervous or too mortified to look him in the eye, but his suggestion about her wimple must have sounded outrageous. She whipped her gaze to his.
“Uncover my hair?” Her tone was appalled, as if he’d proposed she strip naked and dance in the moonlight while he watched.
“Yes. The temperature is always unbearably hot, and you must be miserable in all those black clothes. Why not?”
“It’s not possible, Mr. Hubbard.” She yanked her gaze away, growing mesmerized by his chest again. “Would you…ah…put on a shirt?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have one?”
“No. I lost my bags in an incident at sea.”
“What sort of incident?”
“My friend, Mr. Robertson, and I were set upon by pirates. They threw us overboard.”
Her jaw dropped. “That’s the most heinous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yes, we both thought it was a tad despicable.”
“But you survived.”
“Barely. We drifted up on the beach some months ago, but I don’t have a shirt. I only have the garments some native fellow left in his closet when he moved out.”
She peeked up at him. “This house isn’t yours?”
“No. When we stumbled on it, it had been abandoned—except for some of the servants.”
“You’re a squatter.”
“Without a shirt to my name.”
They were standing so close, and though it was very strange, there was the most incredible surge of energy flowing from him to her. It was almost electric, as if the air was charged with a powerful force. He’d never felt anything like it, and he scowled, curious as to what might be causing it.
Gradually it dawned on him that he must be physically attracted to her, and he wasn’t surprised to find himself enticed. He was a rogue and womanizer and with her being a nun, she was so unavailable to a romantic advance that she might have been an angel up in Heaven.
But her unavailability made her more alluring than she should have been. She was a challenge, and he was disgusted to note that wicked notions were careening through his mind. Apparently he was sufficiently contemptible that he’d consider seducing a nun. He’d like to try it merely to discover if he could succeed.
Wasn’t that the vilest prospect ever? Was there no idea so suitably depraved that he’d discount it? Evidently not.
“You’ve never seen a nude man before, have you?” he asked.
“Of course not. When would I have?”
“I’m sorry to have shocked you.”
“I was shocked. And exceedingly embarrassed.”
“I’m finished bathing now though, so you can have your own bath.”
“I wouldn’t dare. I didn’t realize the pool was out in the open. I couldn’t wash in such a public place.”
Prim as a nun, he mused and a very British girl to boot, but he should have expected complete modesty. It was the norm everywhere but the isolated spot where they were currently located.
“You can’t refuse to bathe, Sister Faithful. You must be dying in this heat.”
“I am very hot.”
“I’ll send a maid to you. There’s another pool that’s more secluded. You’ll be more comfortable there.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you at supper.”
“You will?”
“Yes. Haven’t you met Mr. Robertson? He went off to invite you.”
“No, I haven’t met him.”
“You’ll like him more than me.”
She chuckled miserably. “Why would you suppose so?”
“He’s courteous and sociable.”
“You’re not?”
“I can be if I try, but usually it’s easier to be cantankerous.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that about you.”
Their banter rumbled to a halt, and they dawdled, staring.
It was the darnedest sensation, but it seemed as if he’d known her for years, as if they’d always been close. A thousand comments were rolling toward the end of his tongue, desperate to spill out.
He wanted to tell her secrets he’d never told another person, wanted to confide all that had happened in Cairo, how he’d betrayed his best friend, how he’d ruined their relationship, probably forever. He wanted to tell her how alone he’d always been, how he’d always yearned to belong and to fit in. He wanted to confess the terror he’d experienced when the pirates had attacked their ship, when he’d figured he was about to be murdered.
He was positive she’d understand and that she would say exactly the right remarks in reply. He’d feel better, would be more content.
He narrowed his focus, anxious to see her more clearly, to glean some hint as to why she was stirring such peculiar sentiments, but he hadn’t a clue. So he stepped away, the flow of energy stopping as quickly as if he’d snuffed out a candle.
“Until supper,” he said, and he whirled away and hurried out before he could tarry and babble like a maudlin, ridiculous idiot.
CHAPTER THREE
“You were awfully quiet during supper.”
“I have to tell you something.”
Faith grabbed Rowena and dragged her into the shadows for a private whispering session.
Since she’d stumbled on Mr. Hubbard exiting his bath, she hadn’t had a chance to confess the humiliating incident to Rowena, and the secret was driving her mad.
They’d just finished a delicious meal, and throughout the repast, Mr. Hubbard had been pleasant and charming, almost as if he was someone other than the taciturn grouch she’d initially encountered.
She thought Mr. Robertson had a positive influence on Mr. Hubbard’s character. The younger man was friendly and chatty, and whenever it seemed Mr. Hubbard might descend to dismals or sarcasm, Mr. Robertson yanked him from the ledge.
The conversation had been invigorating, the food marvelous, and the company interesting, but Faith couldn’t set aside her chagrin or apprehensi
on.
The two men didn’t own or rent the villa. They’d stumbled into it after their horrific incident at sea. Their presence was no more lawful or official than hers, and she was terrified that the true owner might arrive and kick them out.
More importantly, she didn’t know how she was supposed to act around Mr. Hubbard. She’d tried to avoid eating in the dining room, but Mr. Robertson had insisted. He’d invited the girls too and had allowed them to sit at the table with the adults, and their presence had been a boon for Faith.
Mr. Robertson had peppered them with questions about their parents, their schooling, their life in Rome, so Faith hadn’t been required to contribute to the discussion.
She’d dawdled like an invisible lump, vaguely listening to the girls chatter and taking furtive glances at Mr. Hubbard, which he studiously ignored. He’d behaved as if nothing had happened, as if he wasn’t bothered in the slightest, and she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or incensed by his discounting of the event.
How could he be so nonchalant? But then he was a libertine. He’d probably cavorted with dozens of women. He probably had women view him naked all the time. He probably enjoyed it.
Faith was unbearably disturbed by the episode. He was incredibly beautiful, if such a phrase could be used to describe a man. The sight of him—tanned and virile and completely at ease with his body—had left her jittery and confused. She felt hot and cold all over, and she was constantly flushed and quivery.
She’d had scant interaction with men. Before becoming a novitiate, her only genuine amour had been with her cousin Lambert who had hoped to marry her and ultimately be named her father’s heir.
He’d refused to accept that she wouldn’t marry him, and it had been the main reason pushing her to the convent. Her father had demanded she wed Lambert, and she couldn’t obey.
As a child growing up in a house without a mother and a father who was never home, her nanny had been a Catholic and had filled Faith’s head with stories about the saints. She’d made it sound so romantic and special to be a nun, so when Lambert had proposed, Faith had announced her pious intentions.