by Holt, Cheryl
“I am quite intoxicating, aren’t I?” Some of his typical cockiness poked through. “How could you stay away?”
“Vain beast.”
“I am.” He heaved out a weighty breath, laden with what sounded like sorrow.
“I hate to see you so sad.”
“I’m not sad.”
“Yes, you are. What happened?”
He was silent for so long that she was convinced he wouldn’t confide in her. When they chatted over their evening meals, she did all the talking—about England and her childhood at Bramble Bay.
He’d talk too, but later she’d realize that he hadn’t actually revealed a single fact about his past. She really knew no more about him than she had in the beginning.
She was certain this time would be no different, but apparently, his low mood was spurring him to babble in a way he normally never would.
“It’s a pretty scene, isn’t it?” He nodded to the bay, the village hugging the shore.
“Yes, very pretty.”
“Guess how I’ve managed to accumulate so much wealth.” Without waiting for her reply, he baldly announced, “I lied and cheated and pillaged and killed.”
“Pillaged and killed?”she scoffed. “You did not.”
“I did.” He peered down at her. “Imagine every vile deed a man could commit, imagine every evil endeavor, and that has been my life.”
She studied his eyes, but he didn’t flinch from her thorough assessment.
He could spin such outrageous stories. He enjoyed being an enigma, and she’d never been able to judge his veracity. Was he being candid? Was he fibbing to high heaven?
Finally, she said, “I can’t ever decide what I should believe about you.”
“Believe me now. It’s all true.”
“Are you regretting your crimes? Is that why you’re brooding?”
“No, I don’t regret anything. I’d do it all again—in a heartbeat.” His shoulders drooped, and he sighed. “Mildred is my aunt. Hedley is my cousin.”
“You’re so angry with her. Why?”
“Because of my mother.”
“Florence?”
“Yes. Do you know about her?”
“Mildred’s disgraced sister?”she mockingly retorted. “The most scandalous woman in the kingdom?”
“I don’t care what Mildred told you, but my mother was young and foolish, and her husband was a brute. She ran away. She shouldn’t have, but she did.”
“She ruined many lives, John,”she gently said.
“Including her own.”
He eased away and went to sit in a chair. There was a table next to it, a full decanter of liquor. He filled another glass and took a long swallow.
“Why are you drinking so much?” She scolded him as if she had the right to chastise. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”
She grabbed for the glass, and they engaged in a brief tugging match. But he hadn’t the energy to fight, and he relented and let her have it. She placed it out of reach.
“Go back to your room, chérie,”he wearily said. “Perhaps we’ll have our supper tomorrow when I’m feeling more myself.”
“I don’t want to return to my room.”
“Well, you can’t stay in here.” His hot gaze roamed down her body. “With the mood I’m in, there’s no telling how I might behave.”
“I’m not afraid of you. Don’t act as if you can scare me. You can’t.”
“Can’t I?”
He pushed himself to his feet so he towered over her, reminding her of his greater size, of his position of authority, of how there was no one to save her from him. But she stood her ground and refused to move away as he was obviously hoping she would. He was trying to frighten her, but couldn’t. Not anymore.
“Haven’t you wondered who I am, chérie? Haven’t you guessed?”
“Of course I’ve wondered, and you’ve been positively furtive in sharing relevant information, so what do you mean? You’re John Sinclair, and your French friends call you Jean Pierre. What should I know beyond that?”
“Think, Sarah. Figure it out.”
“You’re speaking in riddles.”
“If you’re aware of my mother’s situation, then you must have heard of her other sons—my brothers—Tristan and James Harcourt.”
“I’ve heard of them, but I haven’t ever met them.”
“Even out in the country, there must have been stories about what happened to Tristan two years ago. The entire kingdom was buzzing over it.”
She scowled, pondering, the incident ultimately remembered. “He was attacked by pirates. People claimed it was The French Terror. Tristan was set adrift, and he washed up on a deserted island.”
“He was left for dead, but he didn’t perish.”
“And there was a woman named Harriet with him. She survived, too. They fell in love and married after they came home.”
“A heartwarming tale, non?”
“Yes, it was quite heartwarming. She’s become a notorious character in London—because of the experience.”
“What else did you hear, Sarah? Did you hear what the pirate told Tristan as he stabbed him through with his sword? As he laughed and watched Tristan’s small boat fade into the dark night?”
“I don’t know about any words being exchanged between them.”
“The pirate said, ‘I am Jean Pierre, Le Terreur Français’. The pirate said, ‘You are my brother, and our mother is finally avenged’.”
She stared and stared, then swallowed down the lump in her throat. “What are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you that I am The French Terror, that I am the man who attacked Tristan Harcourt.” He shoved her away and motioned to the door. “You’re very fine, chérie, and I have cherished our acquaintance, but I am the very last person with whom you should have any contact. Now please go away and leave me be.”
But she couldn’t depart until she was sure, until she was convinced that it wasn’t another of his fabrications.
“Is it true? You’re not lying or jesting. You’re The French Terror?”
“Yes. I have murdered and stolen and rampaged across the oceans, and I’m not finished.”
“There are arrest warrants out everywhere for you. You’re to be caught and hanged.”
“I am.”
“You’re lashing out like a lunatic. Why? Be honest for once.”
“Because they killed my mother.” He shouted the statement, his fury alarming to witness.
“How did they kill her?”
“She was poor and alone and desperate—and she was dying. I was only ten. I wrote to Mildred, I wrote to my father, to my mother’s husband and his rich, snobbish friends. I was just a boy, and I begged them to help her, but they laughed in my face.”
“I’m so sorry, John.”
He seemed shocked by his outburst, and he reined in his temper. “There’s no need to be sorry, chérie. I swore I would eventually make them pay, and they all are—one by one.”
“That’s why you took Bramble Bay from Mildred.”
“Yes.”
“Because she wouldn’t help your mother.”
“No, not because she wouldn’t help my mother, but because she’s so hateful and vindictive. Mildred needs to understand what it’s like to lose everything she loves, to realize that she has no friends.”
“You’ll die if you’re captured.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Aren’t you worried? Aren’t you afraid?”
“What is it to me if I am killed? Who would care?”
“Mr. Hook would care. I would care.”
“And who are you? Why would your concern matter to me?”
He was being deliberately cruel so she’d think he wasn’t fond of her, but he couldn’t have treated her so well unless he possessed some genuine affection.
“I want you to stop,”she insisted.
“Stop what?”
“Your mayhem. I’m begging you.”
“I don’t
wish to stop.”
“I’m begging you,”she repeated. “I couldn’t bear to have you hanged.”
“They’ll have to find me first.”
“You can murder every person in the world who wronged your mother, but it won’t make you happy.”
“I’m not doing it to be happy.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because I can. Because when I seize their precious money and cargo, I feel like a god!”
“Stop it,”she said again.
“No.”
“Do something else with your life. You’re so bright and remarkable. Choose another path. Choose a path that would have made Florence proud.”
The mention of his mother seemed to resonate. He calmed, his ire fading.
“I’m taking you back to England tomorrow,”he said.
It was the last comment she’d expected. “To…Bramble Bay?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because—as you so poignantly stated—I should make my mother proud. She would hate to know that I had ruined you, so I won’t. I’ll take you home instead.” He shrugged. “I never should have brought you here in the first place, so I’ll rectify the damage. I’ll give you Bramble Bay as you requested of me earlier.”
From the moment she’d initially been apprised of his bet with Hedley, it was the precise information she’d yearned to receive. But now, she wasn’t sure it was the conclusion she sought.
If he took her to England, she’d never see him again. Was that what she wanted?
The resounding answer was no.
He would dock in Dover, would hire a carriage and deliver her to Bramble Bay. She’d return to the quiet existence she’d always enjoyed before he’d burst into her world and ripped it apart.
She’d farm and garden and visit the neighbors, and some day in the distant future, she’d stumble on an old newspaper from London, and she’d read that Jean Pierre—the famous French pirate—had been arrested and executed. Or perhaps that he’d been slain in a battle, shot in a fight, drowned in a sea accident.
Could she bear it?
Again, the resounding answer was no.
Though he’d wagered over her when he shouldn’t have, though he’d spirited her to France over her vehement objection, he’d acted with the best of intentions. He’d truly believed he should rescue her from Hedley, that she’d be safer with him than with her treacherous family.
While she’d been sequestered with him, he’d been charming and gracious and wonderful. He made her feel beautiful and prized and unique, and she’d treasured every second of her odd, thrilling sojourn.
“I don’t want to go back,”she said. “I want to stay with you.”
“No. It’s time for us to say goodbye.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. I’ve learned over the years that it’s easy to move on, that it’s easy to say adieu. You’ll learn this, too.”
“John”—her tone was scolding again—“don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to us.”
“There is no us, Sarah. Now please go away. I have loved your company, but I can’t stand to hear you beg.”
He gripped her arm and led her out. She tried to drag her feet, tried to protest and refuse, but as always happened between them, he was bigger and stronger and he got his way.
He opened the door and, as if by magic, Akmed was there. On seeing John, he bowed low, but didn’t speak.
“Escort Miss Teasdale to her room,”John commanded.
Akmed bowed again.
“Will we leave tomorrow?”Sarah asked.
“About one o’clock. I’ll have the maids pack all your pretty gowns. You can take them with you. And the jewels too, if you like.”
“I don’t want any of it,”she petulantly said.
“You must take them. When I am far from England, I’d like to picture you walking out on the cliffs at Bramble Bay, wearing the clothes I bought for you.”
She stared at him, desperate to figure out how to change his mind.
He’d won her in a card game, had planned to ravish and ruin, then toss her away when he was through. But for reasons she couldn’t fathom, he’d suddenly grown very noble. What had it all been about? Was there any purpose at all?
“Au revoir, chérie,”he murmured. He stroked his fingers down her cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have you home so quickly, you won’t remember that you were ever gone.”
He stepped inside and closed the door.
She dawdled for a moment, and she seriously considered marching in after him. She’d argue and insist that he was wrong for once, that he would not have his way.
Yet gradually, it dawned on her that she probably should return to Bramble Bay, that it would be for the best. Especially now that she knew his true identity. Nothing good could come from a liaison. No good ending could ever occur.
Currently, he was alive and free to sail the seas, to practice his particular brand of mayhem, but he wouldn’t always enjoy such anonymity and liberty. If she remained with him and the power of the Crown crashed down, she’d be swept up in the chaos, might be crushed along with him.
It was better to leave. It was better to pretend they’d never met.
Akmed gestured to the stairs, and Sarah spun and started down.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
John paced in his bedchamber, feeling like a lion trapped in a cage.
He’d spent two decades plotting his revenge, and he was at the height of his power, at the apex of his ability to terrorize and offend. He’d believed himself eager to continue, but recently, he’d been distracted by people and events, by old memories rising to the surface.
He was half-mad with second guessing and rumination.
He kept thinking of his mother, wondering what she would say if she could see the brigand he’d become. He kept thinking of Mildred and Hedley and all they had foolishly surrendered to John.
Most of all, he pondered Charles Sinclair, the man who had blithely sired John as he’d sired so many bastard children. John hadn’t supposed he cared about Charles, hadn’t thought he was interested in meeting him, but suddenly, he was riveted by the prospect that he could.
What was wrong with him? He was no longer a lost boy, surviving on the streets and praying his idiotic orphan’s prayer that his father would magically appear and rescue him. He’d have had better luck asking an angel to fly down from Heaven than to expect Charles Sinclair to play the part of hero.
Earlier in the afternoon, a letter had arrived from Bramble Bay, with Raven apprising John of the surprising visit by Phillip Sinclair. John had always been aware of Phillip, but had never crossed paths with him. He hadn’t wanted to cross paths.
Apparently, Phillip Sinclair knew John’s identity and had traveled to the country specifically to speak with John. He claimed John had sisters in London who were worried about John. He claimed Charles was worried, too.
Charles was demanding that John cease his rampages so he wasn’t captured and hanged. It was the strangest news ever, and John should have discounted it. But the notion that Charles was concerned had rattled John as nothing had in years.
He’d convinced himself that he didn’t need a family, that he was fine on his own with his solitary existence and Raven as his one true friend. Yet evidently, he was craving acceptance as desperately as he had when he was ten and watching his mother—the exalted Countess of Westwood—be lowered into a pauper’s grave.
He hurled his empty liquor glass at the fireplace. Finally, the piece of heavy crystal smashed as he intended, but the loud shatter didn’t soothe his distress.
His work was deadly and dangerous, and he could only carry out his attacks if he was totally focused, if he was paying attention to the smallest detail. His father was next. The plans were drafted, the ships to be destroyed already chosen. John had to prepare—both mentally and physically—for the sea assaults that were approaching.
He couldn’t be distracted, co
uldn’t be moping and obsessing over his brother Phillip, over his sisters and whether they were pretty and kind.
Sarah was just down the stairs, and he was dying to go to her, dying to tell her about Raven’s letter.
The message had upset him so much that he’d forgotten their supper. That’s how preoccupied he was! He couldn’t remember to cancel a measly supper party. If he couldn’t manage such an elementary task, how could he complete a vicious ocean raid with any aplomb?
He hadn’t meant to reveal his identity to Sarah, but in a moment of pique, he’d told her who he was. He’d done it to frighten her. Over the past few nights, he’d realized that his sly seduction was succeeding, that she was growing fond of him. He was becoming enamored, too.
She had him considering a normal connection, and he’d actually begun to imagine he could attach himself to her, perhaps even marry her and make her his own forever. He’d been trapped in a fantasy, in his fantasy castle, in his fantasy life, as if he wasn’t a brutal criminal, as if he wasn’t a heartless, murdering bandit.
His burgeoning affection had been so extraordinary and so out of character that he’d confessed some of his many sins, wanting her to have no illusions, wanting to kill any sentiment that had festered. He had to sever the ties he’d created, had to cut her loose so that she was simply a female he’d left behind.
Then he had to get down to business, had to finish what he’d started with Charles Sinclair.
But oh, how he yearned to have her just one time. He could practically taste temptation on his tongue.
He had to leave her be! What good could come from a hasty deflowering? What good could come from a casual, hurried farewell? There was no purpose to ruining her, and it would be cruel to proceed.
He’d agreed to give her Bramble Bay, so she’d return to England, a wealthy, propertied woman. Suitors would beat down her door, and she’d be able to have her pick of husbands. Yet if he stole her chastity, he’d destroy her chance for a happy future.
Despite her sudden affluence, no gentleman would have her if she’d played the whore for Jean Pierre—the most notorious felon in the kingdom.
He liked her too much to hurt her, but he was an arrogant ass too, and it was so difficult for him to deny himself. And…he was so bitterly lonely. There! He’d admitted it. He was lonely and regretting and brimming with remorse in a way he couldn’t bear.
