A Scandalous Lady (25 page)

All she knew was that she'd never be good enough for him. She wasn't good enough for anybody.

Chapter 17

T
royce woke up feeling like the hounds of hell had taken up residence in his brain. He rolled over on a prickly bed of straw and immediately regretted the motion when the devil himself started whacking the inside of his skull with a fifty-pound pitchfork. “Ahh, damn,” he whispered, pressing his palms to his temples.

He licked his chalky lips and opened his eyes. Chunks of limestone seemed to weigh down on his lids. Each time he blinked, grit scored his eyeballs.

After several tries he was finally able to peer through slits and thanked God for the gloomy gray wedges of light beaming onto the straw-strewn floor. Sunlight would have put him six feet under.

Then again, he figured it was no less than he deserved for drinking himself into oblivion.

He struggled to remember how he'd gotten here, in this state. Hell, he wasn't even sure where
here
was. A stable, he realized, hearing a horse nicker nearby. A vague memory of a country pub formed through the soupy fog of his mind. A bottle of something that tasted like seawater, a pretty barmaid with sienna eyes, red-gold hair, and a wreath of flowers on her crown—

No. Not a barmaid. Princess Faith.

The night before came back to him in a rush. The ball, the moonlight, the boathouse.

Faith.

Ah, God. Had he really gone to her room? Seduced her in her bed? Taken her maidenhead on the deck of his ship? “Bloody hell . . .”

He rolled over on his straw pallet, and his stomach pitched.

Troyce lay still on his side and waited for the wave of nausea to recede before sitting up. Again, the devil stabbed his skull. Again, he cradled his head, and hissed when his fingertips brushed a knot on the back of his skull; he dimly recalled being struck on the head by something quite wicked, but accepted the punishment that was his due.

To bed Faith, to ruin her knowingly when he'd committed himself soon to marry another, was unforgivable. Never had he behaved so abominably toward a woman, no matter what her station in life. He wouldn't have thought himself capable of such a heartless act before last night. Before holding Faith in his arms. He should have resisted her. Should have been more honorable. Should have at least told her. . . .

How was he ever going to explain himself?

He owed her an apology at the very least. Not that she would accept it, nor would he blame her if she threw it back in his face. But he had to try.

His stomach protested viciously when he got to his feet. He weaved in place for a moment or two before he trusted that his wobbly legs would bear his weight without his having to use the stall gate to support him.

He managed to locate his horse after several miserable minutes and led the creature outside. A drizzling rain and flat, gray skies greeted him, an appropriate reflection of his mood. He blinked and lifted his face to the overcast sky, welcoming the cool mist against his face.

The fist caught him unaware.

The blow struck him between cheekbone and jaw. The force spun him around, and he landed on his knees in the mud. “How does it feel, Westborough?” A sturdy boot caught him in the ribs. “Don't feel too ducky, does it?”

Troyce shook his head to clear it and spat out a mouthful of blood. “You've just made the biggest mistake of your life, Swift.”

“It's you who made the mistake, Westborough. No one steals from me and gets away with it. Give me my goddamn money. And while you're at it, I want Fanny and the lad back, too.”

“Go to hell.”

Troyce threw himself to the left and rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding another kick. The motion made his stomach pitch and bile rise in his throat. Cursing the effects of a hard night of drinking, Troyce willed his insides to settle.

“I'm warning you, Westborough.” Swift circled him like a hawk. “I want my money, and I want Fanny and the boy.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what you want.” He lumbered to his feet. “If you think I'm just going to hand them over, think again. They suffered enough at your hands.”

“Oh, spare me another bloody bleeding heart!” he wailed to the sky. “Now I'm beginning to lose my patience, Westborough.”

And Troyce was just beginning to regain his. Thoughts of what Faith's life must have been like with this lanky piece of slime sent wild rage careening through him. He wanted nothing more than to give that rage free rein, charge his target, and pummel him into the mud.

But he'd spent eight years of his life dealing with river scum like Swift. For the most part, they were ignorant slouches, but they were also greedy and without conscience, and therefore should never be underestimated. What they lacked in education, they more than made up for in cunning. One was more apt to find a knife blade sticking out of his back through rash action than calculated thought. Draw them out, Troyce had learned long ago, find their weakness, then strike.

“Now I can make it easy on you, or I can make it hard.” Continuing to circle, Swift shrugged out of his macintosh and tossed it aside. “But I'm not leaving here until I get what I came for.”

“What do you think you're going to do to me, Swift?” Troyce removed his own coat and began to circle as well. “Beat me? Starve me? Throw me out on the streets if I don't earn my keep? I'm not some desperate kid you can bring to heel.”

“The sniveling little maggots need to learn their place. If they want a place to sleep, food to eat, and a roof over their heads, they better bloody well earn it. I don't give handouts to nobody.”

“No, you just prey on those weaker and more helpless than yourself. Oh, that makes you a
real
man, Swift.” His eyes narrowed, giving Troyce his first sign that his taunting was cracking Swift's control. They were beginning to draw a crowd. Villagers gathered on the outer fringe, their curiosity palpable. “I'll bet it just grated on you that Fanny got away. I'll wager you were mad enough to spit nails, weren't you?”

Swift's mouth flattened.

“She's small, she's quick, and she took risks. And that paid off, didn't it, Swift? What's more, when she outlived her usefulness on the streets, hell, she had something the boys didn't. She had a body to lure the men in. Double the money.” His own words sickened him. With herculean effort, Troyce shoved the disgust deep down inside himself and focused on the moment. “Oh, I'll wager that she would have brought in a fortune,” Troyce smiled.

“Her scrawny ass? She wouldn't have brought in that much, and she knew it. In fact, most time she's more trouble than she's worth. Always dreaming, trying to put on airs like she's better than everyone else.”

“But you threatened her with prostitution anyway.”

“She took risks, but she had a wild streak. She needed to learn her place.”

Then why was he so insistent on having her back? Why go through all the trouble?

Then it hit him. “How long was she with you? Ten years or so? That must have given her some ranking in the band. The others probably looked up to her.” In fact, he'd bet the castle that without her there to rally them, Swift's income was beginning to suffer. “How's the band now, Jack? I'll bet you're losing knucks left and right.”

And Troyce knew then that he'd hit the mark. Swift charged, but Troyce was ready. He crouched low, caught Swift around the middle, and threw him over his shoulder. Swift bounced up and charged again. Brawn to brawn, wit to wit, the men wrestled for power, slicing each other with the mutual hatred in their eyes, growling into each other's faces. Troyce managed to push Swift off. He suffered two sturdy blows to his face, before slamming his shoulder into Swift's gut and tackling him to the muddy ground.

And years of pent-up rage poured from his fists. For his parents, his grandfather, the title he never wanted, and the position it had put him in now. For villagers who hated him, a decrepit old manor house that drained his soul, and a marriage he dreaded with every fiber of his being.

But most of all, the rage consuming him was on Faith's behalf, for all she'd endured in her short life. He saw a little girl with amber gold hair, wandering around a cemetery, searching for the family who'd abandoned her. And he saw her at ten years old, selling matches on the street, her stomach pinched with such hunger that it made her easy prey for the wiles of a snake like Swift. And he saw her as she grew from girl to woman, desperate enough to keep herself off the streets that she took risks beyond reason.

And he saw a lovely young woman beneath a staircase, a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair, watching rainbows dance.

I used to dream of being a princess.

His own actions toward her sickened him. He'd been so worried about what Faith might have been trying to take from him that he hadn't given a single thought to what he was taking from her when he'd seduced her on the deck of his ship last night.

She'd promised herself never to become what Jack would have made her. And she'd broken that promise. For him.

A goddamn title. That's what he'd been trying to hold on to.

She'd been trying to hold on to herself.

Gradually, he realized that his fists were no longer making connection with a solid object, and that someone was struggling to contain his flailing blows.

“Lord Westborough, stop! You'll kill him.”

He went still and stared unseeingly at the face in front of his. Then the haze slowly receded from his eyes, and Bear's frantic features came into focus. With deep, heaving breaths, his gaze swept the crowd surrounding him, their expressions fearful. Mothers held tight to their children. Crones leaned into burly, middle-aged men. Youngsters stared at him with mouths gaping and brows raised.

Then he looked down at the mess he'd made of the man beneath him and was sickened.

Troyce rose abruptly and backed away. No one said a word as he stood in the midst of them, dragging his bloody and swollen hand down his equally bloody and swollen face. Nor did he say anything to them.

“Bear, I hereby appoint you village magistrate. Your first task is to dispose of
that
.”

“Aye, milord.” He inclined his hairy head in the first gesture of respect Troyce had seen since stepping foot back on Westborough lands after an eight-year absence. “What do ye want me t'do with him?”

Bear could throw him to the sharks for all Troyce cared. Except, that would be too easy. He remembered Faith's concern over Swift's band, and feared what might happen to any who remained in the tunnels if they weren't cared for. “Lock him up tight somewhere until arrangements can be made to transport him to London.” He'd use whatever power he had as a peer to see Swift prosecuted. He wasn't sure what he could do for the rest of the youngsters, but at least he could assure that Swift's days of preying on the weak and helpless were over.

The crowd parted as he made his way back to the livery where his horse waited. He didn't even bother with a saddle; just swung onto his bare back and clucked him into motion.

He arrived at the house a short time later and after washing up in the stables so he'd not frighten anyone else, he let himself into the house.

Millie was in the entryway, dusting the tables.

“Where's Faith?”

“Upstairs, milord.” The feather duster went slack in her hand, and her brow creased with worry. “What has she done wrong this time?”

“Nothing—this time it's I who did something wrong.” Troyce took the stairs two by two. He passed Devon as she was coming down.

She held up her hand to stop him. “West, I need to speak with you.”

“Not now, Devon.” Pushing past her, he continued up the stairs.

He found Faith in the tower room, scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees.

Feeling awkward and unsure of himself, Troyce stood in the doorway, his shoulder braced against the jamb. In his lifetime, he'd faced raging storms, violent blizzards, and typhoons powerful enough to make an iron man quake. Yet nothing nature could throw at him compared to the turbulence created in him by one wisp of a woman.

“Faith,” he called softly.

She stiffened, but went on as if he hadn't spoken.

“Faith, I owe you an apology.”

She dropped the scrub brush into the bucket, wiped her hands down the front of her apron, then after getting to her feet, reached for a folded square of linen. “You owe me nothing, milord.”

“Will you look at me?”

She sighed, turned, and gasped. “Crikey, what happened to yer face?”

He smiled at the blunted massacre of vowels. “ 'Tis nothing, love. A minor squirmish in the village.”

“This weren't caused by no minor squirmish. Ye look as if ye been trampled by a team of plow horses!”

He closed his eyes, her touch on his face as close to heaven as he'd ever get. Damned if the temperature of his blood didn't rise—among other things. “Faith, stop.” He gripped her hands within his own, drew them away from his skin, and stared at the work-worn palms. “There's something I must tell you. What happened in the boathouse . . .” As he stroked her fingers, the memory of her clutching him in the throes of passion . . . “What happened between us should never have happened.”

She went still, dropping her hands, then her gaze. “No, it shouldn't have. Your future bride would be sorely disappointed if she knew her groom was tumbling the hired help the night of their betrothal.”

“You know?”

“Servants talk, Baron. Did you think I would not learn of the reason for such a grand affair?”

“I wanted to tell you. If you'll let me explain—”

“You owe me no explanation.”

She started to walk away from him, but he pulled her back and searched her eyes. Flat, emotionless, she stared back at him. “I have no choice, Faith. If I do not marry, I'll lose everything.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” But he could see that she didn't. And he took responsibility for it.