The Infamous Rogue

by The Infamous Rogue (lit)

  He kissed her cheek.

  She shuddered.

  He had a tender side. It was achingly soft at times, but it was so well concealed. It was only in times of great peace that he dropped his iron front and let the tenderness show.

  He wrapped a stout arm around her midriff, keeping her close. He circled his other fingers under her chin and guided her features to meet his.

  She did as he silently bade. She pressed her cheek against his throat and lifted her mouth. He lowered his head and touched her lips, kissing her softly, gently…lovingly.

  The tears came fresh. Not tears of satisfaction, but tears of pain. Such raw and aching pain, she sobbed.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  He stroked her chin, her trembling lips with his thumb. He kissed her temple, taking in the briny tear that had spilled from the corner of her eye.

  Why? she screamed in her head. Why wasn’t I good enough for you all those years ago?

  “Let me go, James.”

  She bumped his hip, telling him to step aside. He curled both his arms around her instead. And squeezed. Tight.

  Hold me.

  She wanted to step inside him, to shed her skin and become one with him. He’d want her then. If she was a part of him, he’d care for her. She would be good enough for him then.

  She jabbed her elbow into his gut. “I said let go!”

  He didn’t.

  “I know who you really are, Sophia. You will never be happy in this world with anyone else but me. You are your true self only with me.”

  She gasped at the words, burning in her ears.

  No!

  “You want me,” he said roughly. “You belong with me.”

  She wanted him privately, quietly, intimately. But not publicly. Never publicly. The pirate lord’s whore? No! She would never be that again.

  “I belong with the earl,” she said defiantly. “I belong with anyone else but you!”

  His belly ballooned against her back as he took in a sharp breath of air. He let her go. She pressed her body against the cold door for support.

  He stepped back. The chill was biting. She didn’t look at him, though. She didn’t have to, for the man’s brutal expression, his cold eyes were there in the air; they pierced her spine.

  She pressed her face against the door and quietly cried.

  Chapter 16

  Sophia stared at the rows of boxes. The structures flanked the quiet street. Impressive. Uniform. But one town house stood out from the rest. A few months ago, it had needed repairs. Lady Lucas had been living in poverty for many years. But now it looked so officious and grand: a solid structure of grace and superiority. Sophia had funded the refurbishment. The edifice was three stories high, pristine white, and surrounded by a spiked iron fence.

  Keep out.

  She curled her fingers into her palms, staked her nails through the skin. The sharp pain eased the stress in her belly. Would she be welcome inside the abode? A grisly darkness enveloped the slumbering city. There was no one in the street to whisper snide comments or to offer sneering looks. Was she ruined? There was only one way to determine the truth: she had to confront Lady Lucas.

  Sophia opened her fists and pulled in a deep breath. She was back on land, but she sensed the ground moving beneath her feet, making her woozy…She sensed the pirate lord’s eyes on her, too.

  James was part of the interminable darkness. He lurked in the shadows. He waited for her to enter the house. She had asked him not to come with her. She had asked him to remain aboard the Bonny Meg. But the stoic captain had rebuffed her request. Not in words. He had uttered no words. He had simply followed her off the ship. She had sensed his presence throughout the cab ride to the city. And she felt him now. He remained elusive. She didn’t see him. But he was there. She knew it.

  You are your true self only with me.

  The words danced in her head, resounded in her soul. Even now the snug accoutrements squeezed her lungs and she ached for breath.

  Was that all there was in life? To breathe and be free? She didn’t have to hold her tongue or purify her thoughts with James. She didn’t need to wear pinching corsets—or anything at all—with James. She didn’t need to act or stand or sit in an uncomfortable manner with James. But no one would respect her if she remained with the pirate lord. Not as his mistress. Not even as his wife, for the man was a pariah.

  And yet her own social footing might be lost in England. She might already be a pariah, too…like poor Imogen.

  Sophia swallowed the tart taste in her mouth. Freedom wasn’t worth ostracism. She looked into the darkness.

  Good-bye, James.

  It was time to part from him for good. She would either leave England in disgrace or marry the earl. But she would not be with the pirate captain anymore.

  It was finished.

  Sophia once more fixed her eyes to the imposing town house before she crossed the stone street with shaky steps. She approached the cold iron gate. The door was silent, well oiled. She passed through it and mounted the front steps. The tall, black entranceway welcomed her like robed death. She slowly removed the key from her reticule. Fingers quivered as she unlocked the door and entered the dark hall. Faint light flickered at the end of a narrow passage. Lady Lucas was still awake.

  Sophia closed the barrier and smoothed her skirt, ruffled but not crumpled. She touched her hair, twisted in a neat fashion. There was a mirror beside the door, but no reflection. It was too dim. She had to trust she looked presentable. She had put herself together aboard the pirate ship. She had styled her locks holding a small piece of glass that had shattered during the sea battle.

  Sophia headed for the light. She treaded softly through the house, each step muffled by the long runner. She walked slowly: an unfortunate wretch trying to stave off doom. She had witnessed many hangings on the tropical island. A sluggish gait had never prevented an execution…yet she still maintained a leisurely pace.

  Sophia’s heart boomed in her head. She meshed her lips together and twisted her fingers around the threads of her reticule. She stopped in front of the parlor door. There was a line of candlelight that peeked through the gap between the wood barrier and the floor; it illuminated her shoes.

  She watched as a shadow whisked across her leather-tipped toes. A figure paced inside the room. With a heavy breath she rapped on the wood.

  The shadow stilled.

  Swallowing the cold knot trapped in her throat, Sophia opened the door. “Lady Lucas?”

  It was a small space, but the ceiling stretched for fourteen feet. At more than twice her height, the long walls loomed above her—so did the shadows. A low fire sputtered in the hearth, making the lanky darkness bounce and laugh.

  The old woman in the middle of the room was wearing a white woolly wrapper, her hair pinned under a frilly nightcap. Gaunt and pale, she had dark smudges under her eyes. She looked like a scorned wraith, haunting the dwelling, waiting for the chance to terrorize an unwelcome intruder.

  Sophia retreated, trembling. She set her hand against her belly to quiet the churning grief.

  She loathes me.

  Lady Lucas darted across the room. Sophia stiffened her muscles…but the woman hugged her. “Where have you been?”

  Sophia gasped. The matron squeezed her so tight, she was strapped for words, for breath. The grief subsided, the roiling movements in her belly stilled, and she let the matron coddle her like a lost child.

  Lady Lucas wasn’t the motherly sort. She had no children of her own. She had always conducted herself and her duties with cool deportment. But now she had set aside her firm demeanor. Sophia didn’t mind the maternal gesture. She ached for it, in truth. She had rarely known the comfort of a parent’s embrace. She needed it now more than ever.

  “You’re thirteen years old and it’s time you start earning your keep,” Alvera said. “I’m tired of half my hard-earned pay going to feed you.”

  “I won’t do it!”

  “Yo
u’ll do it or you’ll be out in the streets.”

  “I’ll look for my father. I’ll go and live with him.”

  Alvera laughed. “That crazy pirate? He’s sired at least a hundred bastards on the island. He won’t care for you.”

  “He will! I’ll make him!”

  “Fine. You go make him. But he’s loco. He lives in the mountains when he’s not at sea. You’ll never find him. He’s a paranoid devil. He thinks everyone’s out to steal his precious gold. He doesn’t even have any treasure.”

  “Maybe he’s buried it?”

  “Don’t be daft, girl. Pirates don’t bury treasure. They spend it on drink and women, like me—and you.”

  “No. I won’t. I won’t do it!”

  “You’ll starve.”

  “I’d rather starve.”

  “You say that now because your belly’s full, but as soon as your belly aches you’ll be back.”

  But Sophia had never returned. She had parted from her mother that day. She had set out to search for her father’s lair—and she had found it.

  Sophia stared at the drunkard. He was sound asleep beside the ramshackle hut. He had never made it inside the house; he’d collapsed at the door. He was snoring loudly. He didn’t smell good, either.

  He was her father?

  She reached for a stick. She didn’t want to touch him, for he looked dirty. She poked him instead. The man came up swinging.

  He had a bushy black beard, speckled with gray. A long scar stretched across his brow and nose. He looked at her with piercing black eyes. “Who the devil are you?”

  “I’m your daughter, Sophia.”

  He didn’t seem surprised to hear her confession. Mother had said he’d sired a hundred bastards like her, that he wouldn’t give a damn about her.

  “Bugger off, brat!”

  He went back to sleep.

  But Sophia wasn’t going back to the whorehouse. She poked him again. He came up swinging.

  He looked at her, eyes red with blood. Wild. “Who the devil are you?”

  She sighed. “I’m your daughter, Sophia.”

  “Bugger off, brat!”

  He curled back into a ball. He was crazy, wasn’t he? But she would rather live with him than with her mother. If she wanted to be with her mother, she’d have to whore like the woman, too. And she refused to do that.

  “I’m here to live with you,” said Sophia.

  He rolled over and opened his eyes. “Like bleedin’ hell you are!”

  “My mother sent me.”

  “Aye? And who’s your mother?”

  “Alvera—”

  “You jezebel!” He staggered to his clumsy feet and slapped her. “Off with you, Alvera!”

  Sophia grabbed her pulsing cheek. She munched on her bottom lip to fend off the tears. “I’m Sophia! So-phi-a! You need a bath. Are you hungry? I can cook.”

  She stepped around the haggard man and entered the hut. She set aside the bundle in her arms—all the belongings she had in the world—and looked at her new home. The house was a mess. But she would make it better. She would make him want her, too.

  Sophia returned Lady Lucas’s embrace. She yearned for the affectionate gesture: a gesture she had seldom known from her mother. Or her father.

  Patrick Dawson had eventually accepted her as his daughter and caretaker, even though half the time he had called her Sophia, and half the time he had called her by her mother’s name, Alvera. He had always railed at her for something, but she had learned to ignore his demented outbursts.

  The man had loved her in his own way. Her mother had been wrong about that; he had cared. Her mother had been wrong about a great many things, including that pirates didn’t bury their treasure. Dawson had. He had buried so much treasure, he couldn’t remember where he had put most of it.

  But over time, Sophia had gathered all the gold into one secret spot. And on the eve of his death, Dawson had asked her to take the wealth. He had stunned her with the reasonable request, for she had believed the man crazy enough to demand to be buried with his precious treasure—not that she would have honored the balmy request and interred him with the gold. But he had been lucid at the end of his life. And he had wanted her to be happy, to have the money. He had never once said, “I love you” in all their years together. But he had cared for her, she was sure.

  “Why are you crying, my dear?” Lady Lucas wiped Sophia’s cheeks. “Are you hurt? What happened at the opera? Where did you go? I thought you had been kidnapped, but then there was no ransom note. Oh, there’s been such buzz!”

  Sophia’s head was buzzing, too. She had been gone for four days. Had she really believed no one would notice her disappearance? That there would be no “buzz”?

  The jeers and slights resounded in her head, the ton’s sharp laughter and biting snubs. She saw the contorted faces, so cold: the faces from the opera house. She saw them laughing at her.

  Whore!

  The thought made her cringe. Her fingers trembled, the nerves numb. She had caged her natural desires, evaded her dishonorable past. For naught. She was disgraced, her dreams shattered. And she had disgraced herself with her own reckless behavior. She had fretted over Black Hawk so much, she had failed to keep control of her own wild impulses.

  She swallowed the heavy knob of tears in her throat. The mockery and searing looks resided in her head. She had been spared public disgrace…unlike poor Imogen. Perhaps Sophia deserved the ignominy? She had let a good friend fall. And the scandal she had unleashed with her own thoughtless conduct was fate’s vengeance, she supposed.

  At least Lady Lucas was still kind to her. She was not alone. The old woman’s tender touch assuaged some of the grief that quashed Sophia’s spirit. But she wouldn’t admit she had been aboard the pirate lord’s ship. She wouldn’t let the old woman think ill of her even more. Instead, she confessed:

  “I was so upset about Imogen. I wasn’t thinking clearly and I—”

  “I knew it!” The matron took her by the hand and dragged her across the room. “Sit, my dear.”

  Sophia sighed as she rested against the plush and embroidered cushions.

  “You looked so pale and distraught at the opera house.” The old woman settled beside her on the divan and squeezed her hand. “I suspected you had gone off to mourn your friend in private.”

  Sophia shuddered at the word. She had mourned the loss of her father. Was Imogen’s shame akin to a physical death? If so…Sophia was dead, too.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Lucas. I’ve ruined everything.”

  “You very nearly ruined everything, my dear.”

  Sophia was fagged. Her heart had folded and ballooned so many times, she was weary. She had assumed she was ruined. She had resigned herself to ignominy. But the word “nearly” poked her listless heart to life, filling it with vibrant energy.

  “B-but the buzz, Lady Lucas?”

  “The buzz isn’t about your disappearance, my dear.”

  Sophia’s head throbbed, her soul pulsed with renewed strength. “Then what—”

  “You must never run off like that again!”

  Lady Lucas huffed. Sophia offered the faint woman an opportunity to gather her breath. She had endured great distress. She had struggled for four days to keep her charge’s disappearance a secret. The outburst was cathartic, Sophia suspected. And she allowed Lady Lucas a few moments to regain her composure, while she wallowed in remorse for having put the sage woman through the terrible ordeal.

  “I know you’ve lived in the jungle, my dear.”

  Jamaica, Sophia thought.

  “But young ladies—even wealthy and independent young ladies—don’t run away when they’re upset. They lock themselves in a room and cry, as is proper.”

  “Yes, Lady Lucas.” Sophia grabbed her chest, it ached so much. “I’m sorry. But the buzz?”

  “Yes. Yes. The buzz about you and the duchess.”

  The duchess? “What duchess?”

  “The Duchess of Wembury!�
�

  Sophia jumped to her feet, the soft cushions more like hot bricks against her backside. “Oh no!”

  “Yes, the captain’s sister! She put an immediate end to the twitter.”

  Sophia whirled around. “There was twitter?”

  “At first, but the duchess put a stop to it.”

  “How?”

  Why?

  “Her Grace announced you had not disappeared, that you were visiting with her at Castle Wembury.”

  There was pressure on Sophia’s breast. It was hard to breathe. She had never met James’s sister. She doubted very much James had ever mentioned her name to the woman. So how had the duchess learned about her? And why would she do such a thing? Save her brother’s mistress from the chomping lips of the gossipmongers? Had James put her up to it?

  “After you’d vanished, I announced you were ill,” said the old woman. “The earl suspected your ‘illness’ a front for grief, that you were mourning the loss of Imogen’s friendship in private. I let him believe it, too. But after two days ‘shut in your room,’ he wondered if you really were ill or even injured. Then the twitter started. And that’s when the letter arrived.”

  “The letter?”

  “From the Duchess of Wembury, requesting your presence at the castle. Why didn’t you tell me you were friends with Her Grace?” Lady Lucas bustled across the room and foraged through the papers neatly stacked on the writing desk. “Here.” She handed the missive to Sophia. “A footman arrived in person to deliver the invitation.”

  Sophia moved closer to the fire and perused the swirling penmanship:

  My dear Miss Dawson,

  The Duke and I would like to invite you and your chaperone to Castle Wembury. I long to see you, Miss Dawson. Please accept our hospitality.

  Yours sincerely

  , Belle

  Sophia stared at the note, confounded. What did the duchess want from her? Was it a trick? Was the woman acting under her devious brother’s instruction?