“No doubt,” DeVere agreed.
“You will tell him nothing?”
“You have my word, Salime.”
“Then I suppose this is goodbye.”
He took her hand in his with a sad smile, pressing a kiss upon her fingertips. “Adieu, my dear…and Godspeed.”
You ask my love. What shall my love then be?
A hope, and aspiration, a desire?
The soul’s eternal charter writ in fire
Upon the eath, the heaven, and the sea?
-Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Chapter Twelve
Medford Abby, Kent
Four days later
A piercing shriek rent the air, echoing through the marble foyer and sending a ripple of horror down Simon’s spine. “Good God! What the devil was that?”
“That was his lordship,” The footman replied with a smirk. “Your hat and coat, sir?”
“His lordship?” Simon repeated with a befuddled head shake.
“Aye, there’s not been a moment’s peace in this house since his blessed arrival.”
“Blessed arrival? Do you mean DeVere has a son?”
“Aye, sir. The wee lord made his grand entrance on St. Valentine’s Day.”
The shriek was joined by a baritone bellow from the top of the landing. Gazing upward, Simon was shocked to see DeVere with a squalling bundle in his arms. “Where is the bloody nursemaid?” the viscount demanded.
Seconds later, a buxom young woman with flaming cheeks scurried from the direction of the kitchens, wringing her apron and huffing up the staircase.
“What the devil took you so long?” DeVere demanded.
“Please forgive me, m’lord. His little lordship were sleeping when I went to grab a cuppa tea.”
“Damn it, Sally! Lady DeVere needs her rest. Have you no idea what that woman has been through?”
“Aye, my lord.” She sniffed. “I was there.”
“Then pray feed my hungry son and see that her ladyship is not disturbed again.” DeVere handed off the bundle to the chastised nurse.
“Aye, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsey and began bouncing and murmuring to the child.
It was then that the footman stepped forth. “My lord? There is someone—”
DeVere looked down the stairs and beyond the footman, his eyes widening.
“By God, it’s Sin!” DeVere rapidly descended the stairs to clasp Simon’s shoulders in a firm embrace.
Simon inwardly cringed but stood firmly rooted, determined to conquer the remaining demons.
“How bloody good to see you.” DeVere exclaimed. “But what devil has sent you to Kent in such unholy weather?”
“It’s Salime,” Simon blurted without prelude. “She’s left. Where is she, DeVere? You must know where she’s gone.”
“Come now, Sin. At least warm yourself before beginning this infernal inquisition.”
“Bloody hell, DeVere! You have no idea what I’m suffering.”
“On the contrary, my dear boy. I was in your very shoes less than a year ago when Diana left me. Far worse, she was carrying my son. I know exactly what you suffer. A shot or two of Brandy will help…for the moment anyway.”
Ignoring Simon’s protests, DeVere steered him to his library where a roaring fire blazed. Simon flung himself into an overstuffed chair by the hearth, while DeVere filled two glasses. Accepting the drink, Simon gulped the contents in one long burning draught. The brandy felt like fire hitting his empty stomach, but he still held out his snifter for another.
DeVere arched a brow. “That bad, eh?”
While DeVere refilled the glass, Simon drew himself up to pace before the hearth. “I’m remiss,” Simon said once his body warmed and his head cooled. “I should first have offered my felicitations on the birth of your son. I can only beg you’ll excuse my lack of manners. I’ve been out of my mind for days. First, losing my father…”
“You’ve lost your father? So the good Baron Singleton—”
“He passed four days ago.”
“My condolences, Sin. Baron Singleton was a most … worthy … man.”
“He was a self-important prig,” Simon corrected, “and I was a terrible son, but thank God we made amends before it was over.”
DeVere snorted. “More than I was ever able to do with my sire.” He handed Simon the refilled snifter and raised his own. “To Baron Henry Singleton, may his soul rest in peace.”
Simon saluted and then gulped down half the brandy before setting it on the mantle.
“So what else has you so bedeviled?” DeVere asked.
“Salime’s disappearance. I stayed away from her only long enough to bury my father, but when I returned, your footman told me she’d packed up and left only hours after I did.”
“She left no word?”
“Only this.” Simon pulled a crumpled sheet of foolscap from his breast pocket. He read, “To the most beloved of my heart, it is to my profound regret that I now take my leave. I will remember you always. Salime.” Even now her terse message made his eyes blur and his mind reel. “She promised she’d wait for my return, DeVere.”
“Then you must let her go,” DeVere said quietly.
“Hang you, DeVere. I’ll do no such thing!”
“Think what you say. You have just come into a title, Sin. You can have your pick of a dozen beautiful and accomplished women, one of which you will be expected to wed. So why involved yourself with a…”
“Don’t say it, DeVere.”
DeVere shook his head. “I’m confounded what to call her anyway, Sin.”
“By her name. Bloody hell. Do you not understand? I love her.”
DeVere chuckled. “You’ve said that a thousand times before. I advised you long ago to break this damnable habit of falling in love with every woman you bed. A fuck no matter how rapturous… is only a fuck.”
Simon could barely control the rage pumping through his veins. “Damn you, DeVere! Do you honestly think that I am unchanged after all these years? That I’m the same callow fool I was? I tell you it was more than that with her. Infinitely more.”
“Let her go.” DeVere placed a hand on his shoulder. “She does not reciprocate your feelings.”
“The hell she doesn’t.” Simon shook off DeVere’s hand. “I had the confession from her own lips.”
That seemed to take DeVere by surprise. “Did you now?”
“Yes. She argued that it didn’t matter. That we couldn’t be together. She didn’t want me to hide her away. That’s the reason she left me. When I proposed finding a house for us, she assumed I wanted to hide her like some shameful secret. Perhaps I did at first, but I don’t give a damn anymore what others think or say. I will have her, DeVere, and only her.”
DeVere’s gaze narrowed. “What are you really saying here, Sin?”
“I’m saying I love her and will bloody well take her as my wife.”
“Have you lost your mind? Do you really think you can take to wife a woman who’s granted sexual favors to half the peerage? What do you suppose will happen when you take your place in the Lords? Do you really think you can abide the snickers, the sly looks?”
Simon shut his eyes, tamping down his impulse to slam a fist into DeVere’s face.
The viscount continued, “Wondering which of your peers has dipped his wick—”
“Enough!” Simon snarled, fists clenched at his sides. “I will find a way to deal with it.”
“Indeed.” DeVere’s mouth suddenly curved into a bemused smile. “I’d hoped she’d one day find a man worthy of her.”
Simon spun on him. “What the devil does that mean?”
“Sorry, ol’ man,” DeVere grinned, “but I had to know if you truly loved her. I must say, it all makes perfect sense now. She was miserable too.”
Simon pounded his fist on the mantle. “Then tell me where the hell she is.”
“I can’t, Sin. I gave her my word.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
&nb
sp; “Because she said she didn’t love you.”
“She lied. I know she loves me.”
“I believe you now, but I can’t break my word to her—not unless I know for certain it’s in her best interest to do so. Do you really plan to wed her?”
“Yes. Now for the last time, tell me where she is!”
DeVere sighed. “I wish I could, but I don’t know precisely where she went. She asked for passage to Spain and pledged to send word to me once she arrives, but beyond that…” DeVere shrugged. “I suppose there’s naught to do but wait.”
“And if she doesn’t send word?” Simon prompted.
“My crew will at least be able to tell you where they made port.”
“Bloody, bloody hell. That could be weeks away.” Simon flung himself back into the chair. “It won’t answer, DeVere.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, but I don’t see that you have any choice other than to cool your heels until the Sylphe’s return.”
You ask my love. The carnal mystery
Of a soft hand, of finger-tip that press,
Of eyes that kindle and of lips that kiss,
Of sweet things known to thee and only thee?
-Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Chapter Thirteen
Almería, Spain
After battling almost two weeks of rough winter seas with terrifying swells that sent Salime to her knees in prayer, the Sylphe finally put in to port at Almería. Standing on deck, she stared out numbly across the blue green sea at the medieval wall surrounding the city of her birth, the place she had thought never to see again.
All at once, her mind flooded with memories of childhood—remembrances of walking through the family vineyards with her parents, the pale faces of her mother and infant brother as they were laid to rest, and her lonely arrival at the convent where the stern but kindly nuns had taken charge of her.
“We’ll be ready to take you ashore soon, Miss.” First Mate Mister Campbell appeared by her side. “Is there aught you need once you get ashore? An escort mayhap?”
“You are most kind, Mister Campbell, but I have only a single trunk and a safe escort in Mustafa. He shall convey me to the convent where he and I shall part ways.”
Campbell shifted restlessly as if there were something more he wanted to say.
She waited.
“Are you certain retiring to a convent is what you truly wish, Miss?” His brows met beneath his hat. “Seems a bloody waste to me.”
“What do you mean?” she asked but already suspected the answer. The first mate had been at all times respectful, but she’d recognized the hungry look.
“Surely there are any number of men who would take—”
“Me as a mistress?” she finished for him.
His face flushed. “I meant to say take care of you.”
She arched a brow. “And I suppose you know such a man?”
“Aye. Intimately.” His eyes brightened with perceived encouragement. “If you would only consider—”
She shook her head, rebuffing him gently. “I do not desire such a life, Mr. Campbell, or I would have stayed in London.”
“I s’pose so, Miss, but should you have a change of heart, you only need send word, and I’d come for ye.”
“A gracious offer, but I intend to make my home here where it is warm and sunny, where I can spend my days tending the vineyards. I have come too far to ever turn back.”
She had indeed. Her old life was already far behind, and a new one awaited. All she had to do was leave the ship. Yet somehow it wasn’t as easy as she’d expected. She told herself she would be content to return to the convent, but now was suddenly reluctant to disembark from the yacht.
One of the crewmen signaled Campbell. “All is ready,” he said.
“Are you certain there’s nothing more I can do for ye?” the first mate asked again.
She suddenly remembered her promise to DeVere. “There is one small thing.” She retrieved a sealed letter from the pocket of her plain black bombazine gown. “Would you please see this delivered to his lordship?”
“’Twould be my honor, Miss Salime.”
“Obregón,” she corrected. Lowering the lace veil of her mantilla over her face, she added softly. “Yes, Sarita Maria Obregón has returned home.”
Hiring a donkey cart at the quay, Salime and Mustafa passed through the city gates into the bustling town of Almería. A fascinating mixture of East and West, with its Gothic cathedrals and Moorish Palace, the city had been coveted by Christians and Muslims alike for centuries. Yet, its strategic location was both a blessing and curse, making it susceptible to invasions by both foreign armies and merciless Corsairs.
Salime vividly recalled the day she was taken from this place—the stark terror of the nuns when the barbarians scaled the walls and battered through the gates, the looting and pillaging, the rape and murder. Only her young age had saved her life. Youth and beauty had made her valuable as a slave. Others taken captive with her would be ransomed by their families and set free, but as a lowly ward of the sisters of Santa Teresa, there was no one to pay hers.
Had her father lived, he surely would have tracked the brutes who’d taken her, but General Hernando Obregón had died two years earlier. No, she’d had no one but herself to rely on. Many years had passed since then. Little had changed.
It was market day, and the port was full of merchant ships. They made slow progress through the city square and the marketplace where her ears were assaulted by the calls of street vendors in a cacophony of mixed tongues, hawking fruits and vegetables, silks, spices, and aromatic oils.
After what seemed like hours, they ascended the hill from which the marble image of Santa Teresa stared benign and unseeing upon the town below. She remembered the statue. Over time the face of the saint had merged with that of her own mother. She had arrived at Convento de Santa Teresa.
With her heart pounding a rapid tattoo, Salime raised the knocker, waiting with bated breath for the answer at the portal. After several minutes she repeated the knock. Eventually, she heard movement. The aperture in the center of the portal opened to reveal a wizened face with small black eyes that regarded her warily.
“Que llama a la puerta? Quién es usted?” the old woman inquired.
“Mi nombre es Sarita Maria Obregón. Mi negocio es con la Madre Superiora,” Salime answered the query, stating her business with the Mother Superior.
“Obregón? Saracita Obregón? Imposible!”
Salime raised her veil. Even as the nun voiced her disbelief, the tiny face peered closer, the black eyes squinting and then widening in recognition. “Es cierto,” she murmured with a nod. “Tiene el aspecto de su madre.”
It’s true. You have the look of your mother.
Following a clatter of bolts, the convent door swung open. The tiny nun’s gaze swept over the eunuch. She shook her head vehemently. “Ningún hombre puede entrar.”
Salime turned back to her eunuch, translating, “No man may enter these gates. It is time to make our parting, Mustafa. You have been a faithful servant to me.” She pressed a bag of silver into his large hand. “Please take this and prosper.”
The giant eunuch returned her farewell with a salaam and a sad smile.
With a heavy heart, Salime watched him unload her trunk from the donkey cart and then depart. She waited until he’d disappeared down the hill, feeling as if a large piece of her went with him. Yes, the old life had indeed passed.
The nun, who promptly introduced herself as Sor Maria Josefa, led Salime through the large and immaculately swept courtyard, past a gurgling fountain, then through an arched entrance leading to another long white-washed stucco building that Salime recognized as the primary domicile of the Sisters of Santa Teresa. The nuns she passed eyed her with covert looks of curiosity, but none spoke.
“Voto de silencio?” Salime asked.
“Si.” The nun nodded.
Salime wondered what a life of silence would be like.
The second building was the convent school where she’d learned her catechisms and received her early instruction in Latin. Between them, connecting the two larger buildings was a tiny chapel where she’d sought sanctuary on that fateful day. Once more old memories assaulted her.
“Wait!” she cried. “Deje por favor!”
Salime spun toward the chapel in ground-eating strides, nearly breaking into a run in her eagerness. She paused at the arched threshold. The chapel was empty of all but the likeness of the Holy Virgin. Nothing had changed in fifteen years. Even the silver and blue damask altar cloth was the same.
Could it still be here after all these years?
Passing behind the altar, Salime ran her hands slowly over the wall, exploring every nook and cranny with her fingers in search of her secret hiding place. She’d almost given up when she found the loose stone and pried it free of the wall. She reached into the opening, shutting her eyes on a gasp when her fingers made contact with the small wooden box.
Sor Maria Josefa had followed her into the chapel and now squatted down beside her. “Qué es esto?”
Removing it with trembling fingers, Salime opened the latch to her rosary and a heart-shaped gold locket that had once belonged to her mother. Wrapping her hand around the cool metal, she clasped it to her breast.
After all these years without it, she’d finally recovered her heart.
Wilt thou take me for thy slave,
With my folly and my love?
Wilt thou take me for the bondsman of thy pride,
Thou who dearer are to me than all the world beside?
For I love thee as no other man can love.
-Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Chapter Fourteen
Wigmore Street Westminster
With his head swimming, Simon poured himself a brandy then plopped into his father’s oversized leather chair behind the imposing mahogany desk. After so many years of receiving his father’s disapproving stare from the other side, it now seemed surreal to be the one behind it. He stared numbly at the neat stacks of papers and rows of ink pots. Until now he’d not been able to disturb any of his father’s possessions. Hell, he’d not even dared to sit in the same chair, but today everything had changed.
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