Julia Justiss - Regency High Society Vol 4

But she wasn’t just any woman. She was Jerusa Sparhawk, and ever since she’d been born that had been enough. More than enough, really. There wasn’t a person in Newport who wouldn’t recognize the Sparhawk name, and treat her accordingly.

But she wasn’t in Newport any longer, and with a handful of words and a few sighs, this Frenchman had managed to strip her of her name, of who she was and what she was. If she couldn’t be a Sparhawk, what, she wondered unhappily, would be left?

Michel frowned, wary of her sudden silence. It wasn’t like her to stop when she was as angry as she’d been, and he didn’t like surprises. Where his fingers grasped the fine bones of her wrist, he could feel how her pulse was racing, only one sign of the coiled tension he sensed in her body. Sacristi, he should recognize it: his own body had been hard from the instant he’d first touched her.

“And consider the knowledge you gained, ma chère,” he said, his voice low. “If we hadn’t met Mrs. Faulk, you wouldn’t have learned of your faithless lover.”

She gasped, appalled that he’d taunt her about such a thing. She’d thought of little else while they’d ridden, and none of those thoughts had been comforting.

Michel pulled her another fraction closer. “You don’t deny it, then?” he asked relentlessly. “You believe what they said?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” she cried as the tears burned in her eyes. “Unlike you, the Faulks had no reason to lie.”

Michel, of course, had believed the story at once, remembering Carberry as a vain, self-centered fool. But he hadn’t thought she’d accept it, too. A girl who’d had the world handed to her would expect the same perfection in her husband, and be blind to his faults if his fortune was substantial enough. From the way she’d defended Carberry to the Faulks, he’d thought she was.

Michel wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise. He was a hard man, a ruthless man when necessary, but he’d never considered himself a cruel one, and what he’d said to her had been heartless.

Morbleu, Géricault, since when have you needed a heart?

“You cannot understand,” Jerusa was saying, her voice quaking perilously with emotion. “I loved Tom, and I thought he loved me more than anything. I thought he would love me forever. I thought—I thought—”

She broke off, closing her eyes as she bowed her head. He remembered how radiantly joyful she’d been before her wedding, how she’d brought him into her circle of happiness with a single, open smile, and he wondered if she’d ever smile like that again.

“Ah, ma bien-aimée,” he said softly, “the man was unworthy.”

“I’m not your wretched bien-aimée!” she cried, and a single convulsive sob racked her. “I’m not anyone’s beloved!”

In her misery she twisted away from him, and, for the first time, the moonlight shone full on her anguish. He had seen this same look on her face before, when she’d finally realized the Faulks weren’t going to accept her farfetched claim. Without the protection of her Sparhawk arrogance, she’d been lost and achingly vulnerable, and her eyes reflected the frightening depths of her desperation, mutely beseeching.

Only one other woman had ever looked to him for help like that….

He had answered Jerusa Sparhawk in the only way he knew how, using the words of compassion and excuses, the careful, quiet words to calm an unquiet mind.

The same way he did with his mother, his poor, lost Maman, who’d asked for nothing more than that he carry her vengeance to the family who’d destroyed her own life and love. Jerusa’s family.

And because Maman wished it, Jerusa Sparhawk would be first.

No, must be first.

Michel released her arm, and she sank to her knees and buried her face and her tears in her hands. For his mother’s sake, he knew he must leave the girl where she was, leave her to her misery and tears and the dew that would soak her skirts. The only son of Christian Deveaux would turn his back on her without another thought, except, perhaps, to consider how exceptionally easily he’d managed to crush his enemy’s spirit.

But God help him, he couldn’t do it. There was too much sorrow in her to bear alone, too much pain in her bowed, griefstricken body. He’d fail his parents with his weakness, but he couldn’t leave her like this.

Without a word, he bent to raise her back to her feet, gently turning her cheek against his chest, and held her, just held her, until her sobbing stopped and her breathing grew still.

And when at last she stood quietly in his arms, he prayed to God for forgiveness.

Josh had barely climbed over the side of the Massachusetts sloop before he began firing questions at her captain.

“You’re bound north from the sugar islands, aren’t you?” he asked, his urgency turning a simple question into a demand. “What port, sir? Have you spoke any other vessels on your journey?”

“Stay a minute, Cap’n Sparhawk,” said Captain Harris irritably. “You’re racin’ onward like the devil himself’s licking at your coattails.”

“He may well be.” Impatiently Josh touched the guard of the cutlass at his waist. He wasn’t accustomed to its weight there any more than he was to the unfamiliar bulkiness of the pistols beneath his coat, but his father had insisted that he take no chances. “I’m searching for a lady who’s in great peril, Captain. Some bastard stole her bold as brass from her parents’ house minutes before she was to wed, and I’ve reason to believe she was taken south, to one of the French islands.”

“A stolen bride!” Harris whistled low under his breath, and the crew members around him strained their ears to hear more. “Sounds like the very stuff of ballads and plays, don’t it?”

“Damn it, Harris, this isn’t some bloody drinking song!” It was frustration that made his temper so short, and Josh knew from the surprise on the other man’s face that he’d spoken too sharply. The same thing had happened with the other three northbound ships he’d stopped and boarded when their captains had told him they’d seen no sign of either an English lady or a Frenchman.

But Josh couldn’t help it. In the days since Jerusa had disappeared and before he’d sailed from Newport in the Tiger, there’d been no clue, no word from whoever had her, beyond that first tantalizing scrap of paper with the black fleur de lis.

Yet worst of all was how ready people—the same people who’d been his family’s friends and associates for years—had been to believe Carberry’s accusations instead of the truth. The man’s battered face had brought him sympathy, not scorn, and while Josh didn’t regret thrashing Carberry as he’d deserved, he would admit now that it wasn’t the wisest thing he could have done.

If Josh had begun this journey determined only to rescue his sister, because of Carberry he now was forced to save his family’s honor, as well. No one believed that Jerusa had been kidnapped. She had always been too pretty, too sought after, too envied for the gossips to leave her reputation alone once she had vanished. There were whispers of her running off with a wealthy young man from Boston, and a second tale involving a besotted, married shipmaster from Virginia. Whichever version, Jerusa had always left willingly, with her family’s knowledge and consent. After all, this was New England, not Scotland in the time of Queen Bess, and abducting ladies from their weddings simply did not happen here.