by Deborah Hale
Abruptly Bethan drew away from him as if scorched by the dangerous heat that smouldered between them. “I should get back to Rosalia. I think I’ll take her for a walk on the beach. The breeze is always a bit cooler down there. If that fails, I may just plunge into the water.”
Simon pictured her rising up from the surf, her auburn hair whipped out by the sea breeze and her pink muslin gown plastered to her skin, making her look deliciously naked. Botticelli’s bland-faced Venus would pale in comparison.
“That sounds wonderful.” He sighed. “May I come too?”
For moment he feared she would refuse. Then her wary look softened. “We’d be glad of your company.”
Perhaps she’d taken pity on his sweat-misted face. Or perhaps she thought it would be easier to keep her distance from him out of doors. Whatever the reason, a wave of gratitude lifted Simon’s spirits. “Let’s go then, before we melt into a pair of puddles on the floor.”
As they headed off to collect his daughter, the realisation struck Simon hard that he enjoyed Bethan’s company in more than just his bed.
Chapter Twelve
Had she been wrong, letting Simon persuade her to stay and continue caring for Rosalia? As the days passed, Bethan asked herself that question more and more often.
She’d hoped that keeping him at a distance would nip her feelings for Simon in the bud. Instead she found herself touched by the concern for his daughter’s welfare that had forced him to endure this awkward arrangement. She appreciated the restraint and respect he’d shown her after all the trouble she caused him. She pitied his loneliness and the festering wounds of the past that made it so hard for him to love or to trust a woman.
Now, as much as she longed to feel Simon’s arms around her and his lips upon hers, she also yearned to laugh with him, comfort him and remain faithful to him until he learned he could trust her. After the betrayals he’d suffered, she doubted he would ever let her get that close to him. And she could not give herself to him, either as mistress or wife, in a heartless exchange for the material comforts his fortune could provide. It must be for love or not at all.
That did not make her immune from temptation. The longer she stayed under Simon’s roof, the more it felt like home. She had to remind herself constantly that it was not and could never be. The stronger the bond she helped him forge with his daughter, the more she yearned to be part of it. She must not forget she was only a servant in this house, not a member of the family.
The only true family she had left was her brother and she could not afford to waste any more time in trying to locate him. So far her few, furtive inquiries had led nowhere. Caring for Rosalia left her no time during the day to pursue her search and Simon had made it clear he didn’t want her going out by herself at night. If only there was someone she could trust who knew Singapore well and might be willing to help her.
What about the harbour-master Simon had mentioned?
“Would you like to go pay a visit to some of your friends?” she asked Rosalia one morning while braiding the child’s hair. “Perhaps those people who live up on the hill?”
“I used to visit the Flynns before Willy went away with his aunt and uncle,” Rosalia replied in a wistful tone. “Now there’s no one to play with. Charlotte is all grown up and Baby Sophia is too little.”
As Bethan strove to hide her disappointment over having her thwarted plan, Rosalie chattered on, “I’d much rather go see the Bertrams. Alfie and Agnes are almost my age. We used to play together all the time. Their papa writes the newspaper.”
“Does he?” Bethan’s spirits lifted. Rosalia had mentioned wanting to visit these children before. Their father might be a source of useful information about the Dauntless. “Let’s go pay them a call then, shall we?”
Rosalia heaved a dispirited sigh. “They moved to a new house, way down past the Sultan’s istana.”
“That’s not very far.” Bethan tied a blue ribbon around the end of Rosalia’s thick, dark plait. “We could walk there if it wasn’t so hot. I’m sure Mahmud would be happy to drive us.”
“Oh, no!” Rosalia whipped around with a look on her small face as if Bethan had suggested they play with a spitting cobra. “The sultan might catch us and make us his slaves, like those poor girls Papa rescued!”
“Don’t fret.” Bethan knelt and clasped the child’s hands. “I’m sure the sultan wouldn’t do any such thing. Your papa took me for a drive to see that istana place and no one there paid us any mind.”
Partly to distract Rosalia and partly out of curiosity, she asked, “Did your papa really rescue some slave girls?”
Rosalia gave a grave nod. “I heard Ah-Ming and Ah-Sam talking about it. They said it was a brave deed.”
“I’m sure it was.” Bethan longed to hear all the details of this modern-hero story. She could easily picture Simon in the leading role. “Your papa is very good about helping people in trouble, isn’t he?”
She recalled something he’d said about a weakness for damsels in distress. But it went further than that. He’d been so kind to the lads from Durham, especially Wilson—boosting his confidence by making him a clerk and hiring someone to teach him.
“Yes, he is,” Rosalia declared proudly. “Ah-Sam said Sultan Shah was very angry and tried to make trouble for Papa’s company.”
Simon wouldn’t have backed down, though, Bethan mused with a warm mixture of admiration and pride, as if he somehow belonged to her. He was the kind of man who stood up for defenceless folk, mistreated by those in power. Might that include a ship’s wretched crew tyrannised by a cruel captain?
Perhaps she’d been looking in the wrong place for help to find her brother. Perhaps the time had come for her to trust Simon enough to confide in him.
Simon returned from work that night in a foul temper. He’d got little sleep the night before, thinking about Bethan and this frustrating impasse between them.
Why couldn’t she see that, no matter what happened between them, he would never think of leaving her destitute? He was nothing like her father. Hadn’t he gone out of his way to prove, again and again, that he was a man of honour?
When she had first arrived in Singapore, he’d granted her request for time to get to know him. After unwittingly taking her virginity, he’d made her a proper offer of marriage, even though it was the last thing in the world he wanted. When she threw his proposal back in his face, he’d insisted on giving her sanctuary in his house to protect her from those who might take advantage of her impulsive naïveté.
Like the two merchants who’d quizzed him about her in the most impudent way that afternoon. They’d pretended to have a wager they wanted settled. One claimed to believe the beautiful young woman sharing Simon’s house was his daughter’s new amah. The other insisted she must be his mistress. Simon had informed them in no uncertain terms that his domestic arrangements were none of their business. At the same time he made it absolutely clear Miss Conway was under his protection and he would not tolerate any interference with her. Let them make of that what they would.
Shutting the door hard behind him, Simon stalked into the house and went straight to the dining room where he dropped on to his chair.
His bottom had barely touched down when Bethan peeped into the room. “Would you mind if I join you for dinner? I’ve missed having you to talk to as well.”
He knew he should refuse, as courteously as possible. There was nothing to be gained by tormenting himself with hopes of something that could never be. But one look at Bethan and he could not send her away.
Against his better judgement, he motioned her to take a seat. “I warn you not to expect brilliant conversation from me this evening. It’s been a long day.”
“I’m sorry.” A soft glow of concern in her eyes soothed his vexation. “You needn’t feel obliged to entertain me. I just wanted to ask if I could take Rosalia to visit some friends of hers. I think it would do her good to spend more time with other children.”
Simon nodde
d. “I agree. By all means take her.”
Ah-Ming appeared just then with their dinner. Somehow she’d guessed Bethan would be joining him. Her smug look was almost more than Simon could bear.
“There’s only one problem.” Bethan explained Rosalia’s reluctance to drive past the Sultan’s istana to reach the Bertrams’ house.
“Where did she hear about that business with the slave girls?” Simon glowered at Ah-Ming, who pretended not to notice.
Bethan shrugged. “You know what they say about little pitchers having big ears. She’s very proud of what you did.”
“It was nothing,” Simon muttered, addressing himself to his dinner. “On my way to work one morning, I met a crowd of young women coming down the road from Kampong Gelam. I know enough Malay to understand they’d been cruelly mistreated and needed help, so I took them to the police station and told the Resident of their plight.”
“Not nothing,” huffed Ah-Ming. “Others were too afraid of Sultan Shah to help.”
“Rubbish.” Simon signalled his housekeeper to leave. He hated to be thought some kind of hero when the truth was so very different. “There was no one else around at that hour.”
He could not silence Bethan so easily. “Rosalia told me the Sultan tried to make trouble for your company.”
“Idle threats.” He dismissed them with a flick of his hand. “The Sultan gave me more blame than I deserved. The Resident was looking for any excuse to demonstrate he is the new master of Singapore.”
Bethan did not appear convinced. She flashed him a teasing grin. “You do make a habit of rescuing ladies in distress.”
“And it never turns out well.” His lips pursed in a wry grimace. “The Resident used that incident as a pretext to humiliate the Sultan, which caused bad feeling among the Malays.”
Bethan froze with a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. “Are you saying if you had to do it again, you wouldn’t have helped those poor girls?”
“Of course not!” Simon was more than eager to change the subject. “I’d have gone about it differently, that’s all.”
“That’s one of the things I’ve come to admire about you, Simon. You believe in fairness, that powerful people should not abuse the weak or take advantage of them.”
Much as it gratified Simon to hear her say such things about him, her admiration made it all the more difficult for him to control his dangerous feelings for her. “That’s the British way, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” She looked doubtful. “I’ve heard how seamen on British ships are often ill treated by their captains. You wouldn’t agree with that, would you?”
Why on earth had she chosen that example? His leg began to ache just thinking about it. “That is a different matter entirely. Discipline at sea must be maintained. Which sometimes requires harsh measures.”
The reverent glow in Bethan’s eyes dimmed and her lips tightened in a defiant frown. “But you can’t think it right for a captain to treat his crew like slaves or worse? Surely they should have the right to stand up for themselves and—?”
“And mutiny?” Simon slammed down his fork so hard it made her jump. “Is that what you’d advocate?”
Her fair skin grew so pale, the freckles on her nose stood out starkly. But she refused to back down. “If the captain was enough of a tyrant, why not? What other remedy would those men have, far out on the ocean with no one to appeal to?”
His thwarted longing, his confused feelings towards her and the bitter ire that had long gnawed at Simon all came together in an explosive brew. “If you expect me to have an ounce of sympathy with mutineers, you are mad!”
“I don’t see how they are so different from the sultan’s slave girls.” She seemed strangely puzzled by his reaction and far angrier than she had any reason to be. Perhaps her conflicted feelings were looking for an outlet, too. “Is it because mistreated sailors aren’t helpless women looking for you to save them?”
“No!” Simon’s chest felt like a jug of fermented cider that had just been roughly shaken. The pressure building up inside him was more than he could contain. “It is because those slave girls did nobody any harm when they ran away. Whatever excuses mutineers give themselves, the truth is they’re nothing but a pack of bloodthirsty animals, led by damned troublemakers!”
“But—”
“Don’t try to defend them!” He shot out of his seat. “Because you have no idea what men like that are capable of.”
He marched around to her side of the table, making no effort to spare his leg, which now throbbed with pain that was half-real and half-remembered. “You once asked me how I injured my leg. Perhaps it’s time I told you.”
Bethan shrank back in her chair. Her eyes were wide with alarm, but they also ached with sorrow and reproach.
Simon did not want to make her feel that way, but he was caught in a riptide of fierce, dark emotion. If he tried to fight the powerful current, it might drown him.
“There was a mutiny aboard the ship that brought me from England, ten years ago.” Reaching down, he gripped the left leg of his breeches with both hands. “I tried to assist the officers and other passengers. For that, I was beaten, shot and left to die!”
With a violent wrench, he ripped the leg of his breeches apart to reveal the scarred flesh beneath.
The sight forced a strangled cry of horror from Bethan.
“I believe any crewman who even thinks of mutiny should be hanged!” he thundered.
With her hand clamped over her mouth, she stared at his mangled leg in horror. Simon told himself it served her right for making him remember things he didn’t want to remember and feel things he didn’t want to feel.
What had they done to him?
As she stared at Simon’s scarred leg, Bethan pressed her hand to her lips to stifle a cry of anguish.
She’d known about his wound since their very first meeting. At times she’d noticed him walking with a hitch in his brisk stride. Now and then she’d glimpsed a fleeting grimace of pain contort his handsome features. Yet most of the time she’d forgotten about his old injury, never thinking that he might irritable because his leg ached or tired because it had kept him from sleeping.
The shock of seeing that limb, pitted and seamed with scars, reminded her of other wounds he bore—deep ones that had never healed properly. Wounds that had maimed his heart, making it as difficult to love and trust as this one made it to walk at times. How often during the past weeks had she dug at those wounds with her prying questions and meddlesome demands?
Just now, for instance.
As she tried to find the words to tell him how sorry she was, Ah-Ming appeared, wringing her hands. Clearly something had jarred the housekeeper out of her usual calm, capable manner.
“Master, you must come!” she cried, her voice shrill with alarm. “Padre Marco’s cook is here, very frightened. Aiyah! He says outlaws broke into the priest’s house.”
Simon recovered from the shock of the news more quickly than Bethan. “What about Father Marco, where is he?”
“Still at the house.” Ah-Ming pointed towards the inland part of town. “The cook is afraid they will kill him!”
“But God forbid he should summon the police,” Simon muttered.
“He knew our cook from Macao.” Ah-Ming beckoned her master. “That is why he came here.”
Simon started for the door, then glanced down at his torn breeches. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Have Mahmud saddle my horse, then send him to summon the sepoys.”
To Bethan’s surprise the housekeeper did not rush off at once to do Simon’s bidding. “What will you do, master?”
“Go to the priest’s house, of course,” he snapped as he limped past her. “Do what I can to help him.”
Ah-Ming shook her head. “Aiyah! You should wait for the soldiers.”
“There isn’t time,” Simon called back as his footsteps retreated down the hall. “Now go do as I told you.”
Fighting off the twofold shock that
froze her in her chair, Bethan lurched to her feet. Ah-Ming’s words stirred disturbing memories of her misadventure in Chinatown, the day she’d arrived in Singapore. Simon had managed to talk his way out of that tense situation, but those people had been ordinary townsfolk, angered by the ignorance of a foreigner. What if they’d been armed outlaws who meant to do her harm?
“Talk to him,” Ah-Ming pleaded. “He might listen to you.”
Before Bethan could deny it, the housekeeper hurried away.
After what had just passed between them, she was surely the last person Simon might heed. But she had to try.
She’d barely reached the hallway when Simon came toward her, tucking his shirt into a fresh pair of breeches.
Bethan stepped into his path. “Ah-Ming is right. You should wait for the soldiers or the police. This kind of thing is their job.”
“And what harm could come to Father Marco in the meantime?” Simon pushed past her to the stairs. “What would have happened to you that day if I’d waited for the soldiers?”
“You can’t resist an appeal for help, can you?” she called after him, hoping it might make him stop and think. “Not even after all it has cost you?”
At the foot of the stairs, Simon spun around to glare up at her. “Do you think I’m too feeble to be of any help?”
“No, I just…”
She wanted to explain that she couldn’t bear it if any harm came to him. He’d suffered far more than he deserved already. But the words froze on her tongue. She didn’t have any right to say such things to him.
“What about Rosalia?” Bethan clutched at straws for anything that might keep him out of harm’s way. “What if the outlaws come here? Shouldn’t you stay to protect her?”
“Rosalia is not in any danger, nor are you.” Simon bristled at her suggestion that he might be neglecting their safety. “The outlaws wouldn’t dare venture this far. Besides, the jagga man is on duty. I will have Samad and Cook join him if it will make you feel better.”