Page 6 of Lady Farah Creates a Scandal (The Season of Secrets #2)

R ockwell arrived early at the dock. His meeting with Captain Clarkson who would be sailing the ship to Africa went as expected—the captain bristled at the indefinite delay until Rockwell explained that he had to go to Ireland first on his other smaller ship, the Doreen .

However, with Rockwell’s money funding the expedition, the captain had little choice but to wait.

Let them idle away maintaining the ship. How hard was that?

Rockwell had made it to Wapping Dock in time for the Doreen to leave for Dublin at high tide. Night had just fallen and his body hummed with impatience as he stood on the deck watching the many ships journey down the Thames toward open sea.

The air was thick with tension, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of his upcoming hunt.

However, Farah’s face haunted him—the hurt in her eyes when he’d refused to help her last night. He wished he could have helped her. Wished he could risk even offering for her. She’d make any man a wonderful wife, but he knew a marriage to him would be a disaster for her.

Pain lanced through him at the thought of marriage.

He’d proposed once, to Charlotte, a woman he’d met in the Americas.

Joy had burst through him when she’d said yes to his proposal.

They were on their way home to England to announce his engagement to his family and friends, when she had become ill on board the ship and died in his arms.

He’d had to bury Charlotte at sea.

He’d told no one about his fiancée, not even his brother. That was when he realized he couldn’t have everything he wanted. Exploration was best left to men. He’d not risk someone he loved ever again.

Travel and exploring were his first love, and he’d leave the idea of family to his siblings to provide.

Tiffany and Wolf had something he’d never have.

Couldn’t have, when his sailing the world came first. He wasn’t that selfish.

Not again. Charlotte hadn’t really wanted to leave her home, but she did for him.

And she paid the ultimate price. He wouldn’t ask that of a woman again, wouldn’t condemn her to a life of loneliness while he chased every horizon.

He leaned on the railing, as memories of Lord Lucien Cavanaugh, Viscount Furoe, his best friend outside of his brother, pressed in on him.

He’d tried to talk him out of taking a commission to fight in the Irish Rebellion, but Lucien, at the impetuous age of three and twenty, had just fought with his father and wanted to escape from under his thumb.

Plus, Lucien really thought he could help quell the uprising.

Rockwell shook his head as he gazed at the stars. Only twenty English soldiers died in the short-lived skirmish, but Lucien had been one of them. An only son. It had destroyed his father who blamed himself. Lucien’s father lost himself in drinking and gambling and slowly fell into debt.

He remembered the night he thought he’d seen Lucien as if it was only yesterday.

In the dimly lit confines of the smoke-filled tavern in Dublin, Rockwell had nursed his pint of ale, his thoughts lost in the haze of memories.

The chatter of patrons and the clinking of glasses faded into the background as his mind wandered, haunted by the specter of his deceased friend, Lucien. He’d died in these very streets.

Rockwell let the guilt sink in. If only he hadn’t fought with Lucien about him pulling out of their planned trip to South America. Lucien was in love and had decided to get married to Lady Courtney. He was sure Lucien volunteered for Irish post to prove to Rockwell he wasn’t under Courtney’s thumb.

Stupidly, Rockwell’s gaze had swept across the crowded room, searching for any sign of familiarity amidst the throng of strangers. And then, like a whisper of smoke in the wind, he’d thought he saw him—Lucien, sitting at a shadowy corner table, his features obscured by the swirling mist of tobacco.

Heart pounding in his chest, Rockwell rose from his seat, his movements slow from the alcohol he’d been drinking in his friend’s memory.

The figure remained still, shrouded in darkness, but something about the way he sat, the tilt of his head, stirred a flicker of recognition deep within Rockwell’s soul.

“L-Lucien?” Rockwell had stuttered, his voice barely audible above the din of the tavern.

The figure stirred, turning slightly to reveal a glimpse of pale skin and dark hair, but before Rockwell could fully discern his friend’s face, Lucien rose abruptly, disappearing into the smoky haze like a phantom.

Without a second thought, Rockwell tried dashing after him, pushing his way through the crowded tavern and out into the cool night air of Dublin. The cobblestone streets had been slick with rain, the glow of lanterns casting eerie shadows against the ancient buildings.

“Lucien! Wait!” Rockwell had called out into the darkness, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he’d chased the fleeting figure through the labyrinthine streets.

But Lucien was like a wisp of fog, slipping through Rockwell’s fingers with each twist and turn of the winding alleys.

Had it truly been Lucien he had seen, or merely a trick of the light?

As the night swallowed the man whole, Rockwell knew one thing for certain—he would not rest until he’d uncovered the truth, until he’d laid to rest the ghost of his dear friend once and for all.

When he’d mentioned it to Wolf, his brother had informed him it must have been his mind playing tricks with him.

He had drunk a lot that night. But Rockwell owed it to his friend to conduct a thorough search.

He turned to go to his cabin. He may as well get some sleep because he would not rest until he’d scoured Ireland and put to rest this obsessive feeling Lucien was still alive.

If the weather held and the breeze stayed strong, they might make Dublin in three days. But if the weather turned, they may have to shelter in Holyhead, Wales until it was safe to cross the Irish Sea.

He pushed open the door to his cabin and washed his face with cold water. He prayed the weather held because he was impatient to begin his hunt. He’d stayed up most of the night ensuring they had sailed well into the English Channel before he left the helm.

One question gnawed at him—why hadn’t Lucien come home? He prayed his hunt would first find his friend and then reveal some reason he might be able to forgive Lucien for letting them think he was dead.

He dried his face and took off his boots.

Laying on the bunk with his eyes slowing closing, he heard a moaning sound.

He thought it was coming from above on the deck, but it grew in volume.

Christ almighty, it emanated from one of his trunks across the room.

He hoped one of Ashley’s cats hadn’t stowed away.

He wouldn’t be held responsible for keeping it from falling overboard.

Though he supposed he could confine it to his cabin, if he could tolerate the smell…

as he would be gone for at least a month if the search didn’t go well.

With a sigh, he moved to undo the ties on his trunk.

Throwing back the lid, he peered inside and he could see something wiggling beneath a pile of his linen shirts.

He was about to pull them back when he saw a scarlet stain on one.

He cautiously lifted them and promptly cursed.

Farah, seemingly unconscious, curled up in his trunk, her delicate features red with heat and her forehead marred by a cut.

“What in blazes…” The sight of her small form knocked the breath from his lungs. He knelt beside her, his fingers trembling as he gently brushed a lock of hair from her pale face.

Questions stormed through his mind. How had she ended up here, in his trunk of all places? And more importantly, there was blood… Was she badly hurt?

Years of treating injuries at sea steadied his hands as he assessed her wounds. Had she stowed away on board to defeat her brother? Or had someone else placed her here, with malicious intent? Either way, he couldn’t ignore the protective surge that rose in his chest.

She weighed nothing in his arms as he lifted her from the trunk, cradling her against his chest. Moonlight spilled through the porthole, casting silver shadows across her face as he laid her on his bunk.

His throat tightened at how fragile she looked.

He pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, willing the bleeding to stop.

Her breathing eased with fresh air. When he dabbed too close to the wound, her hand fluttered up to bat his away.

A smile tugged at his mouth. Not unconscious then.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away as he kept vigil, his mind racing with the implications. A gentleman and lady alone together, no chaperone in sight… Scandal wouldn’t begin to cover it. Blackstone would have his head. How could he shield them both from the inevitable gossip?

But as he watched Farah, her features softened in sleep, desire warred with duty. Had she planned this? Set a trap to avoid marriage to Franklin after he’d refused to help?

The gentle roll of waves matched the tumult in his chest. He had only one option now—and perhaps marriage to Farah wouldn’t be the prison he’d imagined.

Her dowry would fund his travels, and she’d be waiting at home with his children.

Farah, the timid mouse, as most called her. Easy to manage. Easy to leave behind.

Then the vision of her dancing in his Hessian blazed through his mind, shattering his rationalization. He didn’t want timid Farah. He wanted the passionate woman he’d glimpsed behind the mask of propriety. And God help him, he wanted to be the one to free her.

But marriage? He barked out a harsh laugh. As if he had any choice with her lying on his bunk, on his ship bound for Ireland.

He forced himself to step away, heading for the door in search of refreshments for when she woke. The trunk must have been stifling. He’d need to find another bunk for the night.