Shoving memories of Nathaniel aside, Hope approached the bulkhead and swerved to cross the cabin again, tripping on the plush Turkish carpet at its center. Lord Falkland liked to surround himself with beauty, even in his ship’s cabin, from the intricately carved mahogany desk, to the velvet upholstered Queen Anne chairs, to the twinkling brass lanterns and the tapestries depicting scenes from the English countryside that decorated the walls, to the imposing oak bed in the corner, complete with silk coverlet. Hope shivered at the sight of it. Perhaps she was just another one of his trophies—another thing of beauty to add to his collection.
And like all his precious possessions, he enjoyed putting her on display, all the while keeping her close and guarded.
But Hope didn’t need Lord Falkland any longer. She didn’t need his wealth. She didn’t need his title, and she didn’t need his attentions to make her feel valued and loved. That empty yearning within her had been filled to the full by the love of God.
The ship creaked as it rose over a swell, and Hope braced her feet on the deck and glanced out the stern windows. The sun dipped below the horizon, absconding with the light of day and pulling a dark blanket over the sky. She rubbed her arms against a sudden quiver. Everything seemed worse at night, more threatening, more frightening. As if God took all the light and all that was good in the world and retired with it to His chamber for the evening.
“ I am here, beloved.”
Hope’s eyes burned at the soft inner voice, and she glanced over the cabin. “Thank You, Father. For I fear I will need Your strength tonight.” She doubted she could put off Lord Falkland one more night. What would he do when she rejected him again? Would he force himself on her? Would he lock her below? Cast her into the sea? Or perhaps sail to St. Kitts and complete the task of selling her to one of the island’s grotesque planters.
But this time, who would be there to rescue her?
She tugged a lock of her hair and hurried her pace as fear stole her breath. O God, please help me.
The thick oak door creaked open, and in swaggered Lord Falkland as if he were entering a levee with the king. “Ah, my sweet one.” He smiled, but beneath the smile, frustration stewed. He shut the door with an ominous thud. After laying his cane atop his desk, he doffed his tricorn and shrugged out of his coat, draping it over a chair. Then, straightening the lace at his cuffs, he approached her. Hope swallowed.
“You look lovely tonight.” He perused her, his eyes burning with desire.
“You provided the gown, Arthur.” Hope swished away before he saw the fear in her eyes. “Your wife’s perhaps?” She faced him, willing to do anything to deter him, even anger him if necessary.
“Nay, love. My wife could never”—his licentious gaze swept over her again—“shall we say, fill a gown quite like you do.”
Hope’s stomach sickened under his salacious perusal. Why had she ever been attracted to this man?
He laid a finger on his chin and approached her. “But come, come, are you to be cross with me forever?”
She stepped back. “You have a wife, Arthur. It is no little thing.”
“Hmm.” He loosened his cravat and tugged it from his neck. “But it is, sweet one. Or she is, I should say.”
Hope gasped in disgust. “How can you be so cruel?”
“There’s naught I can do about her ailment.” He shrugged. “And ’twas not a marriage based on love.” He slid his fingers over his cravat and snapped it tight between his hands as if he intended to choke her with it. “But do not speak of her. It puts me in such a bad humor.” He yanked her close and kissed her cheek. “I have missed you, Hope,” he whispered into her ear.
The nauseating stench of lavender and tobacco swirled around her, and Hope tore from his grasp and walked away. Lord, what do I do? She had to stay with Falkland, or he would ruin Nathaniel. Yet even if the thought did not repulse her, she could not give herself to him and be true to God.
His boots thudded over the deck, and Hope spun around to see him opening his desk drawer. He pulled out a bottle of port and poured himself a glass. Taking a sip, he glared her way.
“Why did you marry her?” Hope thrust her nose into the air in a pretense of composure.
“For her wealth, what else?” His eyes glinted in the lantern light. “Not that it impressed the grand Earl of Wrexham.” Arthur gulped down the rest of the port in his glass and poured himself another. He skirted the desk, bottle in hand.
“Who is the Earl of Wrexham?” Hope tried to divert the conversation to anything besides herself.
“My father.” He took a sip and sank into one of the Queen Anne chairs.
By the sullen look on his face, Hope surmised this new subject would cause him to become either extremely morose or extremely angry. Either emotion might save her for one more night. “Did he not approve of the match?”
“Approve? Humph.” Arthur grunted. “I doubt the man knows the meaning of the word, save when it came to my brother, Gifford.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Clutching her skirts, Hope moved to the chair farthest from Arthur and sat down.
“Yes, the grand Viscount of Buckley.” He lifted his glass into the air in a feigned toast.
“So he is your older brother?” Hope gave him a skeptical look, for only the eldest son assumed a title, and Arthur called himself lord. No matter. If Hope could keep him talking—and drinking—perhaps he would eventually pass out.
“Older, and apparently much wiser.” Arthur downed his glass and poured another. “Much better at every task he undertook, if you ask my father.” He slouched back into the chair and seemed more like a little boy than a man.
“Was it my fault I was always sick as a child?” He tone grew caustic and threaded with pain. “How could I keep up with strong, robust Gifford—a head taller and a pound wiser? Whatever I did, it was never good enough.” He stared off into the room, a dull haze covering his eyes, and snickered. “ I was never good enough.”
Hope eyed the man she’d once loved and suddenly felt sorry for him. Falling short of a father’s approval was something with which she was quite familiar. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity!” He sprang to his feet and thrust the half-empty bottle toward her.
Hope shrank back, her heart thumping wildly.
He slammed the bottle onto the desk and snapped his remaining drink to the back of his throat. “I need no one’s pity. For I have made a success of myself without anyone’s help. I possess more wealth and land than my brother ever will. That is why I give myself the title lord, due my brother only by birth.” Setting down the glass, he turned and leaned back on the desk. “‘For he that is least among you all, the same shall be great.’”
She cringed at his distortion of the scriptures.
Rising, he stumbled toward Hope, tearing at the buttons on his shirt. “Enough of this talk. You are mine, and I will have you. It will be just as sweet as before.”
Hope slowly stood and sucked in her breath. Her fingers went numb. Retreating, she held her hand up. “It can never be that way again, Arthur.”
“What do you mean? Of course it can.” He pulled his shirt over his head and laid it on the chair.
He clutched her arms. Pain spiked into her shoulders. “I know you love me. Tell me you love me.” He shook her. The smell of alcohol stung her nose.
“I did love you, Arthur. But I cannot give you that kind of love anymore.” She gazed into his green eyes, rife with anger, confusion, and pain. He could still harm Nathaniel. He would still harm Nathaniel. “I cannot be yours until we are married.” She blurted out her agreement to marry him, though it made her heart crumble to pieces. But it was the only way to keep Nathaniel safe.
Arthur nudged her toward the bed and shoved her down upon it. “Balderdash. You had no compunction about giving yourself to me before.” He stood, hands on his waist, and studied her.
Hope’s skin grew clammy, and her hands trembled. Surely he wouldn’t force him
self upon her. “You don’t love me, Arthur. Don’t you see? I’m simply a prize in your battle for supremacy over your brother. A trophy to display before your father.”
Arthur’s eyes glinted steel. “You have changed.”
“Yes, I have.” She was no longer the desperate, wanton girl who tossed her affections like garbage to ravenous dogs. She was a precious child of the King. Cleansed, purified, made holy. A burst of joy flooded her, despite her dire circumstances. For no one could take that away from her. Not even Lord Falkland.
She gave Arthur a determined look. “I have changed for the better.”
“I shall be the judge of that.” He snorted. Then he released a heavy sigh and brushed his fingers over her cheek.
Taking his hand, she pressed it between hers. “Arthur, I have found God. Or should I say, He found me. He exists. He loves me. He loves you. There is a better way to live.” O Lord, please help him to see.
He snatched his hand from hers as if she’d stabbed it. His face contorted like a mass of tangled rope. “Scads, I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to spend time with Mr. Mason. A reverend’s son, isn’t he? He has poisoned you with that pious rubbish.”
“’Tis not poison. ’Tis truth, and life.”
Falkland took a step back, disgust simmering in his gaze. Then his eyes widened and his jaw drew into a taut line. “You gave yourself to that carpenter, Mason. He’s sullied you.” He wrinkled his nose.
“I did not.” Hope’s voice emerged in strangled tones, boiling with temper. She grew tired of being accused of things she had not done.
“And Mr. Keese, too, I am sure. That’s what all this talk of God is about—a diversion, an excuse.” He narrowed his eyes. “You forget, my sweet one, I know you too well. You, religious? Absurd! The truth of it is you no longer want me.” A flicker of pain crossed his eyes, and he turned away, stumbled across the carpet, and grabbed the back of a chair.
“I assure you, I did not—”
“Mr. Keese gave me my money back.” Grabbing his shirt, Arthur swerved around, tossing it over his head. “No doubt he’d already been well paid for his services.” He gave a huff of disdain.
“How dare you.” Hope jumped to her feet, resisting the urge to charge toward him and slap his face. It would do no good. In his condition, he’d probably slap her back.
He clicked his tongue. “I’ll hear no more talk of God. Or of marriage. You’ve ruined my mood for tonight.” He clutched his coat and flung it over his shoulder then faced her, a wicked grin twisting his lips. “But mark my words, you will be mine tomorrow. And if you resist, I promise you, I will ruin your precious Mr. Mason.”
Hope dropped back onto the bed, her heart plummeting.
“You haven’t changed.” Arthur grabbed his cane and the bottle of port and marched toward the door. Opening it, he gave her a scorching look. “God or no God, you’re a trollop, and you’ll always be a trollop.” Storming out, he slammed the door. The resounding finality of the boom shook the foundations of Hope’s newfound faith.
CHAPTER 37
Boom! The blast jarred Hope awake, and she shot up in bed. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced across the room, the details of Falkland’s cabin forming in her hazy vision. The pounding of boots sounded above her, adding to the wild thumping of her heart. Was it thunder she heard? Were they in the midst of a storm? Though the rays of sunshine filtering in through the stern window defied her assumption, she flung off the coverlet and dashed toward the salt-streaked panes. The bright orb of the sun hung above the horizon in the east. White, puffy clouds dotted an otherwise clear azure sky. No storm. At least not the natural kind.
Boot steps pounded louder, and Falkland’s nasal shouts echoed across the ship. Though Hope couldn’t make out what he said, she could tell from the urgency in his tone something frightening was upon them. She scanned the horizon, just catching the stern of a ship passing beyond the window on the right.
A ship!
Without concern whether it be friend or foe, Hope donned her gown, slipped on her shoes, and dashed into the dark hallway. Whoever it was, perhaps they offered a reprieve from the torment of Falkland’s confinement. Weaving around sailors rushing past her, she grabbed one by the arm. “What is happening?”
“Pirates.” His eyes bulged, his face twisting in fear. Yanking from her grasp, he darted away.
Hope’s breath quickened as a chill coiled up her back. Pirates. Lord, Your salvation does indeed come in odd forms. Bumbling through the crowded companionway, she leapt up the ladder and emerged onto deck. A mad scene of fury and frenzy met her gaze as men dashed to and fro, some arming themselves, some climbing the ratlines, others tugging upon ropes and halyards. The acrid scent of gunpowder, sweat, and fear assailed her.
“Run out the guns. Man the swivels.” Falkland’s shrill voice, rippling with terror, crashed over her as he jumped onto the main deck from the quarterdeck. His harried gaze locked onto something off their larboard side, and Hope slunk against the rise of the quarterdeck and glanced aloft.
Her heart stopped. She tossed a hand to her throat to loosen the lump that had formed there.
The Enchantress, her creamy sails bursting with wind, foam bubbling against her hull and crashing over her bow, and the black flag of Captain Poole flapping from the mainmast. Hope squinted, trying to make out the men who stood atop her foredeck, but only Captain Poole came into focus, his black velvet coat clapping in the wind, his dark hair flailing about his face in abandon. Had he come for her? But she’d made no connection with the capricious pirate. Perhaps this was simply a routine raid, an event of happenstance, and she another of his unfortunate victims. Nevertheless, she could not help the joy that surged through her, for she would take salvation in whatever form it came.
Oh Lord, make his attack swift and sure and allow no deaths this day.
“Hope, go below!” She turned to see Falkland’s eyes glinting with anger and his face mottled red. “Go below. I cannot be bothered with you now.” Before she could respond, he spun around and bellowed further orders to his crew.
“She’s coming around again, Captain,” a sailor cried from the crosstrees.
“Blast!” Falkland loosed a string of curses that stung Hope’s ears. Sinking into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck, she prayed he would take no more note of her, for she had no intention of leaving. Whether she lived or died was in God’s hands, and if her future held naught but the company of Falkland, then she preferred the latter.
The Enchantress veered to larboard, showing her rudder, and opened fire with the stern chasers . Hope ducked beneath the pelting shots as the air quivered with the roar of guns. Profanities marred the silence that followed. Hope rose and gazed upward to the slivered remains of the Victory’s main and mizzen topsails.
Cursing, Falkland stormed across the deck, pounding his cane against the hard oak as he went. He studied the pirates, his chest heaving beneath his satin waistcoat. The Enchantress swung fully about and shouldered the sea high and wide as she brought her starboard guns to bear.
“Fire on my command!” Falkland, stripped to his waistcoat, barked, his voice a dissonance of fear and rage. His white shirt edged with lace dangled atop his breeches. Strands of tawny hair had loosened from his tie and tumbled over his face and shoulders. Rage flashed in his eyes and poured from his mouth in nonsensical mutterings.
The Enchantress bore down upon them, lowering sail as she went.
“Fire!” Falkland shouted, and Hope plugged her ears as thunderous booms exploded one after the other, causing the ship to tremble and sending Hope’s heart into her chest. Black plumes shot into the air, then dissipated over them. Hope threw a hand to her nose. Coughing, eyes stinging, she batted the vapors away and squinted toward the Enchantress, slowing on her tack and sailing by them with no apparent damage.
“Did we hit her?” Falkland leapt onto the bulwarks, his voice spiked with urgency.
“Nay, Captain.” A tall man beside Falkland spat with disgust. �
��Not a scratch. She’s out of our range.”
Falkland swore, gripped the hilt of his sword, then faced the foredeck. “Back astern and bring our other broadside to bear, Mr. Deems. Lay me athwart her stern. Load the starboard guns!” he bellowed, then lowered his hardened gaze to the deck. “We’ll come in closer,” he said to no one in particular. “Closer, yes. Then I’ll blast her from the sea.”
But before the crew could respond, an ominous boom split the air. Hope snapped her gaze to the Enchantress. A spike of gray smoke darted from the hull.
“Hit the deck!” Falkland commanded as a metallic zing and zip rang through the air above them. An earsplitting boom thundered. A shudder ran through the ship. Eerie silence ensued. Hope opened her eyes to see the crew slowing rising from the deck.
Crack. Snap. The sound of splitting wood grated over her ears, followed by the shouts and screams of the men. “The mainmast! Clear away!”
Falkland stumbled back, falling to the deck, his eyes as wide as doubloons. Hope backed against the bulkhead and winced. The giant mast toppled, showering a web of lines, spars, and billowing sails upon the men. The ship staggered under the blow that smashed her bulwarks at the waist, then she canted to starboard beneath the strain. Hope clung to the quarterdeck to keep from falling.
Cheers and hollers blared from the Enchantress.
Biting her lip, Hope peered through the tangled mass of ropes and spars, praying no one had been injured. Soon every sailor who’d fallen to the deck lumbered to his feet and made his way from beneath the wreckage. Including Falkland, who wobbled with each tentative step he took.
“What do we do, Captain?” one of the sailors asked him, but Falkland only stared at the shattered mast as if he could resurrect it by sheer will. His numb gaze swept to the Enchantress, her decks littered with pirates thrusting weapons and curses into the air.
“Captain?”
“Set the white flag aloft,” he finally said, his voice heavy with defeat. His eyes shifted toward Hope, and she thought he would order her below again, but his glance breezed past her as if he didn’t see her.
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