The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “I wish it were that simple, Rowena.”

  “But I do understand,” she insisted. “You were punishing yourself for doing what you did.” He had betrayed the Duchess, but Rowena could not say the words. “You sacrificed your love for the Duchess in order to save the Rosetta Stone.” She steeled herself for his response.

  Rushford took her chin between finger and thumb and brought her face up to his. “I never doubted my love for her. I doubted her love for me.” Rowena wanted to close her eyes to hide from the pain she saw in his gaze. “Look at me,” he said, softly insistent. “The Duchess of Taunton betrayed me.” The words came out evenly, but they must have cost him dearly.

  Her eyes widened. “Now I don’t understand.”

  Rushford tightened his arms around her before he continued, gazing into the foam-flecked channel. “Kate was capricious by nature, lively and intelligent and supremely bored as the wife of an elderly diplomat,” he said flatly. “It was not surprising that she became too curious about some of the dispatches that arrived on a regular basis for the Earl. As a lark, and perhaps as the ultimate revenge against a husband she increasingly despised, she sought to undermine him by passing highly classified information to the French, the Russians, and to Montagu Faron, as it turned out.”

  Rowena stiffened. It was as though Rushford had put his finger on an open wound.

  “I believe most of the time she had not the slightest idea of the import of the dispatches. It was simply a game to her.”

  As was their affair, Rowena wanted to say, but dared not.

  “In the end, she was using me as well,” Rushford continued. Rowena’s arms tightened around him.

  “Not wittingly at first. She was titillated by what she’d learned about me from the dispatches she’d intercepted, intended for her husband’s eyes only. I suppose it was exciting for her to become involved with someone who worked clandestinely on behalf of Whitehall,” he said as though telling a story about someone other than himself. “It was only a matter of time before she discovered that I had been asked by Whitehall to prevent the theft of the Rosetta Stone. By that time, she was so inextricably entangled with Faron’s people that she had no choice but to divulge every last bit of sensitive information to them or face charges of treason in England.” Rushford paused. “I do not blame her. It was not deliberate on her part, I’m convinced.”

  Rowena strained for breath. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. The rough wool beneath her cheek was damp with her tears.

  “As am I,” he said with painful honesty. “Because I then betrayed her.”

  When Rowena was able to speak, she said, “But you had no choice.”

  “One always has a choice. But I made my decision, and I have to live with it.” She felt his muscles stiffen. “And because of it, Faron’s men murdered her and then made it look like a suicide by drowning.”

  “It’s why you have had such difficulty trusting me,” she said. “You believe I would have betrayed you to Faron for my own purposes, had I known how.”

  “I was wrong,” he said bluntly. “I should have trusted my instincts from the start. And when I saw you ready to defend me with only a pistol, arrayed against Faron’s men . . .” He stopped abruptly. “I knew in my head what I’d always known in my heart,” he finished.

  She moved out of the circle of his arms to look at him directly. The drizzle of rain enveloped them both. “It’s curious, Rushford, but the same thing happened to me. I’d known I loved you for a long time in my heart. It was my head that was causing the difficulties.”

  “I love you,” Rushford said, pulling her back against him. “And I’ve made my choice. And I damn well won’t take no for an answer.”

  “You’re terribly arrogant,” she observed, regarding him with her head to one side and a small smile. “But I suppose it’s one of the many, many things I love about you.”

  Rushford dropped his arms and took her head between his hands, his fingers in her hair. “I know I’m terribly flawed, Rowena, but I give you my love, my word, and my life, to do with as you will.”

  “Is that a proposal, Lord Rushford?” Rainwater dripped into her eyes, mingling with tears of happiness, despite the fact that she never cried.

  “More like a demand,” he growled. His fingers tightened in her hair, and his eyes burned with an intensity that should have frightened her.

  “You know how much I love demands, willful creature that I am,” she countered. “But perhaps just this once I shall make an exception.” He smiled before bringing his mouth to hers, and Rowena thought, the instant before she was lost in the enveloping heat of the kiss, that love was as irrational as passion and neither she nor Rushford could hope to control either one.

  After several moments they pulled back from one another, aware that the coast of France was only several miles away. Rushford took her arm and led her to the front of the sloop, and in moments, her hands were steady on the wheel, her feet braced wide apart, her eyes trained on the mainsail as he’d instructed.

  “We are adding to your long list of accomplishments,” he said, standing behind her, his eyes searching the horizon. “You are doing an excellent job of keeping the wind in the mainsail. Simply keep the wind on the left side of your face.” He gently touched her cheek before brushing his lips over the spot, shocked anew at the surge of passion bolting through him. Even though they were both drenched by the drizzling rain and salt spray, his body stirred. Despite the grim circumstances, with a fatal reckoning on the horizon, he was filled with a heedless and consuming passion for this young woman whose own courage and determination made his life suddenly worth living again.

  “There’s a secluded cove to the west which we can negotiate safely, keeping us well out of sight of Calais,” he said, feeling her warmth against him.

  “You’ve done this before,” she noted, her slender hands now blue with cold, yet sure on the wheel. He covered them with his own. “I am hoping one day you will regale me with your stories about your adventures on behalf of Whitehall,” she said. “I trust they will keep me on the edge of my seat.” He could feel the tension in her shoulders.

  “We shall make many stories of our own,” he said.

  Rowena answered with a half smile. “Beginning with this one.”

  And he was determined that it would end well. “Which we will bring to a conclusion together,” he said. He swung the helm, guiding Rowena’s hands beneath his, glancing up at the sail as it gently pulled on the mainsheet to catch the wind. The Brigand swayed dramatically as the wind filled the sail.

  “You have a plan, of course,” she stated, matter of factly.

  “Which entails that you stay below.”

  “Stay below?” The wind whipped the dark red of her hair around her shoulders, her chignon long demolished by nature’s force. “And let you confront Faron without me? You should know me better than that by now, Rushford.”

  He let go of the helm and stepped in front of her. “How did you know that we would be meeting Faron on shore and not at Claire de Lune?”

  She shrugged, her eye on the mainsail. “It makes perfect sense. Firstly, Claire de Lune is most likely an impenetrable fortress. Secondly, you deliberately had me tell Galveston when you would be moving the Rosetta Stone. That gave the Baron more than enough time to let Faron know when you would be coming ashore.” She paused. “My assumption is that Faron will meet us at the cove to collect his coveted Stone.”

  Arms crossed over his chest, Rushford stood with legs apart, clearly comfortable with the sway of the sloop. “Impeccable logic.” He smiled. “And your staying below deck will allow us an element of surprise if need be,” he said.

  Rowena looked at him doubtfully. “Convince me,” she said. “And don’t dare tell me the less I know, the safer I will be.”

  “Wouldn’t dare.” A powerful feeling of protectiveness threatened his equilibrium. The wind whipped back Rowena’s dark red hair; her face lifted to his. In the early morning light there were si
gns of fatigue, but her dark blue eyes were intense and he was again assailed by the desire she effortlessly lit within him. “Faron will not be expecting anyone else but me.”

  “True.” She turned the helm deftly under her hands, a small frown on her smooth forehead. “But he’s not expecting the crate to be empty, either.”

  “He won’t be disappointed,” Rushford said pointedly. “The crate may not hold the Stone, but it does hold something else.”

  “You are going to tell me, Rushford.”

  “Indeed I will. About a quarter ton of ballast, courtesy of London brickworks, and a thoroughly unexpected surprise.”

  “Surprise?” she repeated.

  “Precisely.” His eyes tacked the horizon looking for the familiar curve of land behind which the cove lay. Despite the early hour the mist was thickening, and he needed to avoid the rocky shoals leading to the cove. He moved to stand behind Rowena, his hands over hers on the wheel. “The weather is certainly not cooperating,” he said. “I’ve seldom seen fog this thick so close to the coast.”

  Rowena opened her mouth to continue her questioning but was cut off by a shattering sound that bucked the sloop beneath them. Before she could react, another volley of shots pushed the Brigand violently to the side. Rushford suddenly stood in front of her, a pistol in both hands. “Do your best to keep us steady, Rowena,” he said tersely.

  She knew he wanted her to go below, but his command would have been useless. How long, she wondered, had they been sailing into danger, with Faron watching them from the mist and fog? She clutched the helm beneath her palms, seeing a small boat appear out of the vapor at their bow.

  Two men clambered up the side of the Brigand, followed by several more. Rushford sprang forward, his pistol firing, as one of the men fell to his knees clutching his abdomen. More men poured onto the deck, until Rowena could no longer discern their number. Smoke mingled now with the heavy mist, and she decided to let go of the helm. The winds had died down and the sloop twirled aimlessly. She wished desperately for the pistol she’d left behind at the British Museum. There was no way that Rushford would survive, she thought desperately, looking around frantically for a weapon.

  She had just leaned over to grab an oar beneath the halyard when her arms were gripped from behind. She kicked sideways and drove the oar back into the stomach of one of the men holding her. Her arms were wrenched farther behind her, twisted upward until she swallowed a groan of pain from her injured shoulder. She bit back an overwhelming desire to call Rushford’s name, surging forward against her captors’ hold and biting her lips against the agony in her limbs. In her mind, she swore at Faron, her rage boundless as she thought of Rushford lying dead, and of Meredith and Julia.

  “Let me see Faron,” she said. And when no one listened, she said the words again, until she was repeating them like a futile prayer. Someone silenced her with a blow across the mouth, and she tasted her own blood. Dragging her to the middle of the sloop, they bound her wrists behind her and tied her ankles while she frantically sought Rushford in the melee. It was only when she looked up and away from the deck to the ship opposite that she saw him. And her heart stopped. Standing next to Rushford was a tall man wearing a leather mask.

  Suddenly all was silent, save for the gentle lapping of the waves against the Brigand and the soft murmur of the sails.

  When Faron spoke, his voice was low and gravelly. “I did not expect that you would make the journey today with Lord Rushford, Mademoiselle Woolcott,” he said. The mist parted momentarily to throw into sharp relief the mask’s undulations, sinister and forbidding. Faron’s hair was silver and his eyes a fathomless pitch. Rowena stopped struggling against her bonds. From the corner of her eye, she saw Faron’s men begin hauling the crate over the side of the Brigand.

  “I can appreciate that you are experiencing somewhat of a shock, mademoiselle, but as I was just explaining to Lord Rushford,” he said with a nod to the man at his side, “once again your continued well-being depends on my discretion.”

  Rowena’s first attempt to speak was only a rasp. She swallowed the metallic taste in her mouth to get the words out. “I have waited a long time for this meeting, monsieur.”

  “And to what end?” The Frenchman’s greatcoat swayed with the gentle rocking of his ship. “I can assure you nothing you can say will change my mind in any way concerning your family. Or more particularly, your dear aunt.”

  Rowena saw red and wanted to spit and scream at the very thought of Meredith in the hands of the fiend—She swallowed hard, concentrating on the crate that was now being lowered into the cove. Already, Faron’s men were scrambling to grab the chains and pull the wooden box alongside the French ship.

  Faron smiled behind his mask. “Lord Rushford has been particularly accommodating, delivering the Rosetta Stone to us, as requested and entirely on schedule.” He turned to Rushford. “Many thanks,” he said mockingly.

  “You have bested me this time, Faron,” Rushford said, his eyes a flat, emotionless gray. “I did not expect your ambush nor did I expect that Miss Woolcott would stow away on the Brigand and accompany me on this voyage.”

  “No worries at all,” Faron responded sanguinely. “You saved us some trouble. The Baron informed me a week ago that I might be expecting Mademoiselle Woolcott at Claire de Lune.”

  The Baron was dead, thought Rowena with a savagery that was previously unknown to her.

  “And I appreciate your continued cooperation, Lord Rushford, although I don’t entirely understand it. You and mademoiselle will both perish once I ascertain that I have the Rosetta Stone in my possession. I’m surprised you haven’t leapt at my throat, given your reputation. I hear your rages can be quite deadly.”

  “I have my reasons, Faron. I should welcome the good fortune if I were you.”

  “The Baron filled me in on needless details regarding your penchant for the late Duchess and your unwillingness to envision the same fate for Mademoiselle Woolcott here. I should not have believed you to be a sentimental man, still less a moral one.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Faron’s gaze moved from Rushford to Rowena, then back to the crate, which was carefully being lowered onto the deck several feet from where he stood.

  Rowena wished again for her pistol. “Since I have a short reprieve,” she said across the few feet that separated the two ships, “I should like to know the reason behind this madness. Your madness, monsieur.”

  Rowena thought she saw Rushford tense as Faron admonished her with an upraised finger. “Madness? Did I understand correctly? Your sister tried to burn me alive, mademoiselle.” With careful deliberation, he stripped a glove from his right hand to reveal scarred and blistered skin. “Who is the madman—or shall I say madwoman—now?”

  Rowena did not flinch. “Julia had her reasons. Without doubt,” she countered, love for her sister welling in her breast. At least Julia was safe, far away with Strathmore in Africa. But fear for Meredith robbed Rowena of breath. She struggled against her bound wrists, trying to read Rushford’s expression. Behind her she counted three men, and there were at least twice as many on Faron’s ship.

  Faron laughed appreciatively and then smiled at her with something like compassion. “If it gives you comfort to believe so in these last moments of your life, then who am I to deny you?” he said, his breath mingling with the mist. “It hardly signifies. Once I have the Stone and you are no more, I shall be free to concentrate my efforts upon your dear aunt.”

  Rowena’s heart all but stopped, a savage desperation making her pull at the ropes digging into her wrists. The pain was somehow reassuring, telling her that she still had a chance. “Why do you hate us so?” she burst out.

  Faron adjusted his mask. “Hate. Ahh yes, which brings us to Meredith.” He smiled darkly at a memory, his lips a slash against the leather of his face. “How unfortunate you will not be available to ask her yourself. It gives me the greatest pleasure knowing that she has been racked with grief th
is past year, believing you to be long dead and her remaining ward, Julia, virtually in hiding on another continent with her husband. And all to escape my attentions.” He sneered the last few words.

  Rowena stiffened at the cruel twist of his lips. Her shoulder throbbed and was beginning to leak blood again. “You wish to make us suffer,” she said. “Why? I shan’t have a chance to ask again. So at least tell me why,” she asked vehemently, on the verge of begging.

  A flash of pride was quickly banked in Faron’s eyes. “I accused Lord Rushford here of being a sentimental man.” He continued in a distant voice, “Meredith Woolcott was my first love,” he said. “And I hers.”

  It was impossible. Repulsive. Rowena felt nausea overcome her.

  “But I do not wear this mask without reason, mademoiselle,” Faron continued, his eyes obsidian outlined by leather. “You should well ask what Meredith did to me. Your sister Julia did so. There are wounds that go far beyond the superficialities of the skin and inward to the mind and spirit.”

  “Faron.” Rushford’s voice interrupted. “You’ve waited long enough.” He gestured to the crate and the men ready with their metal jacks to pry the lid open. “Talk of the past is useless. If I were you, I’d see that no damage is done to the Stone . . .” He stepped aside.

  Faron lifted his gaze from Rowena and turned first to the crate and then to Rushford, something like suspicion in his eyes. “The Baron assured me that you would make good on your promise, Lord Rushford,” he said.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Rushford responded. “Disarmed by your men in a totally unexpected and unnecessary ambush. As the Baron no doubt informed you, I wish only to protect Miss Woolcott.”

  “Since you had no success protecting the Duchess,” Faron finished the statement.

  Rushford bowed his head slightly. “If you would permit me to at least give some comfort to Miss Woolcott before . . .” He allowed the sentence to drift off.