Chapter 20: Stolen Virtue

Charlisse flew into Merrick's arms. Tears flowed down her cheeks as the tight knot within her unwound.

"Shhh. You're all right now." Merrick rubbed her back, engulfing her in his strong embrace. "I'm so sorry."

Charlisse tried to tell him it wasn't his fault, but the words would not come. All she could do was lean her head on his chest and sob, letting all the tension and terror of the night drain into the warmth of his strong arms.

Merrick lifted her chin and wiped the hair from her eyes. "Let's get you back to the cabin."

When they pulled apart, blood stained Merrick's shirt. Alarmed, he grabbed her again. "You're hurt?"

"It's nothing." She backed away, clutching her gown to her throat.

His jaw clenched as he walked to one of the crates and pried it open with his knife. Pulling out a quilt, he handed it to her. "Wrap yourself in this." He turned his back.

Tossing her tattered gown aside, Charlisse enfolded herself as modestly as she could in the blanket and came up beside Merrick. Her legs wobbled. She fell against him. He started to usher her from the room but instead swept her up in his arms and carried her to his cabin.

"I need to find you proper clothes," Merrick said, laying her gently on the bed, "and some salve for your wound." He held her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. When he turned to leave, she would not let go.

"Please don't leave me alone."

Her eyes pleaded with him, revealing a vulnerability he'd never seen before. She needed him. His heart warmed. "Of course."

After closing the door, he moved a chair closer to the bed and sat down. He held her outstretched hand and brought it to his lips, then gently caressed her arm. She tensed at first, but after a few minutes, she began to relax. Her skin was so soft. Despite his attempts otherwise, Merrick's pulse rose and his body heated.

Anger and shame consumed him, diverting his fury inward instead of toward Kent. The young first mate would probably never change. But Merrick. Merrick knew better. He had left Charlisse alone, defenseless, while he was off overindulging in rumsomething he had not done in years. There was no excuse for it. Have I really changed? Or am I the same reckless cad I always was?

It was one thing to allow his wickedness to bring trouble into his own life, but quite another to hurt someone elsesomeone who depended on him for protection. How could he ask her to forgive him? How could he forgive himself? And not just for what had happened with Kent, but for the thoughts that now sped across his mind. Every fiber of his being yearned to touch her, to hold her. He prayed silently for strength, shifting his position, and forcing the desires from his mind.

"I shouldn't have left you alone," he said. "I shouldn't have been drinking."

"There's no way you could have known." She glanced at him, her blue eyes still brimming with tears. "You saved my honor, and quite possibly my life. How can I blame you?"

"Then," Merrick hesitated. "He did not … ?" When Merrick had burst into the room and saw Kent on top of her, he had never felt such rage. The condition of her dress made him wonder if he was too late.

She shook her head.

"Thank God." He sighed.

"A few more minutes, though …"

He wiped a tear from her eye. "Let's have no more talk of it."

Someone tapped on the door. Merrick bolted from his chair, grabbed one of his pistols, and shoved it into the top of his breeches. With the recent mutiny, Kent's attack on Charlisse, and the inebriated condition of the crew, he wasn't taking any chances. He opened the door slowly, then breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sloane's cheerful face.

The old pirate handed him his cutlass. "Thought ye might be needin' this, eh?"

Merrick took it, remembering that he had left it in the storage room, not caring about anything but Charlisse after the battle had concluded.

In his other hand, Sloane carried a tray. "Some tea fer the miss, to calm her nerves a bit?"

Merrick motioned him to enter. "What would I do without you, my friend?"

"Har, methinks ye'd be in sore shape." Sloane chuckled, nodding at Charlisse as he set the tray down. "Some chamomile tea fer ye, miss. I bin savin' it fer a proper moment, an' this seems as good as any."

Charlisse sat and wrapped the quilt tightly around her. "Sloane, you are an angel."

He poured the steaming liquid into one of the cups and handed it to her. "Are ye all right?"

She nodded, taking the cup with shaking hands, nearly spilling the hot tea over its brim.

"That cuckoldy jackanapes! Why, I'd send his innards flyin' off the bow o' this ship if I could."

Sloane turned to Merrick, flashing stern eyes of condemnation. Merrick grimly returned his stare, knowing full well he alone was to blame for the atrocities of the evening.

Grabbing a bottle of rum, Sloane poured a splash into Charlisse's tea before she could protest. "It'll help calm yer nerves."

Taking a sip, she coughed, then thanked him.

"Well, I best be lettin' ye get some sleep." Sloane patted Charlisse on the shoulder. "Ye'll feel much better in the morn, ye'll see." He headed out the door, turning to face Merrick before closing it.

"Kent?" Merrick whispered.

"All locked up, Cap'n, an' I set Shanks on guard. He ain't goin' nowheres." He gave Merrick a furtive glance, scratched his thick beard, and left.

The captain closed the door and faced Charlisse.

She sipped her tea. Her shoulders lowered slightly. Perhaps the warmth of the rum was beginning to sooth her frayed nerves.

"Sloane is a good man," she said, her voice shaky.

"I know." Merrick approached her.

"I can't say I've ever met a kinder gentleman."

Merrick chuckled, his gaze drawn to the tangled mass of golden curls that fell over Charlisse's back. Unable to keep his hands away, he reached up to caress them. "I dare say poor Sloane has never been called a gentleman before. I think he would find it amusing to hear you say so."

As he moved aside the fair strands, he noticed furrows of pink marks on her back. From her struggle with Kent? Alarm shot through him. "What are these?"

"What?"

"These marks on your back."

Charlisse shot up, dropping her tea. The cup shattered on the wooden floor. Clutching the blanket to her chest, she stared at the broken glass, then at Merrick. "They are nothing." She knelt to pick up the cup, but swooned and nearly fell.

Merrick stooped beside her and lifted her to the bed again. "I'll get it."

Clinging to the bedpost as if it were her only friend, she began to cry. And he realized they were scars, not fresh wounds. "Who did this to you?" Merrick picked up the pieces of glass, deposited them on the table, then sat down beside her. She pulled away.

With a sigh, he got up and walked to the desk, combing his hand through his hair. There was more to this lady than met the eye. So much more that he wanted to know. But she had been through enough this night.

"It was my uncle." Her voice quivered.

He turned to face her.

She fidgeted with her hair. "He was my ward after my mother died."

"How old were you when you lost her?"

"Eight."

Merrick waited for her to continue, hoping she would, but not wanting to cause further distress. She seemed suddenly so small and frail, so unlike the bold, defiant lady she usually pretended to be.

The lantern light glowed over her shoulders, sparkling in the highlights of her hair as it cascaded down in a mass of tangled curls. She looked up at him, then away again, squeezing the quilt to her chest.

"My uncle whipped me for the first time when I was thirteen," she whispered.

Merrick's heart squeezed. He moved to sit on the chair beside the bed and leaned his elbows on his knees. "Why?"

Still avoiding his gaze, she replied, "I wasn't sure at first. I thought I must have done something terribly wrong, but I could not imagine what." Finally she lifted her eyes to his, tears trickling down her cheeks. "He said I was just like my mothera whore."

Merrick clamped his jaw shut.

"He told me he would purify me." She hesitated, speaking between sobs. "He would purge the sin and filthiness out of me."

Merrick wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he waited, anger churning inside him. "What would make him think such a thing?"

Charlisse shook her head. "I don't know. There were never opportunities for me to behave with impropriety. I was kept under lock and key, forbidden to even have friends." She dabbed at her tears with a corner of the blanket.

"You were never courted?"

"Courted?" She snickered. "I was not allowed to talk to a boy my own age. Only once did I ever dance with one, and for that I paid dearly."

Merrick tried to fathom a childhood of such abuse, but he could not. His own youth had certainly not been filled with love and pleasant memories, but compared to what she was describing, it had been paradise. "What" he stopped, searching for the right words as he stared at the cracks in the floorboards beside his boots. He wanted to help herto take away her pain, but he didn't know how. "What did he … how …?" He looked up at her.

Tears spilled over her lashes and slid down her cheeks, leaving trails of sorrow behind. She did not meet his gaze. "He would disrobe me. Then …" She hesitated, swallowing. "He would recite Scriptures from the Bible about chastity, purity, and immorality."

Merrick was beginning to get the picture. And it was making him sick.

"Then he beat me with a whipas penance for my sinful nature and to purge the wickedness from my soul."

"Charlisse." Merrick studied her, but she kept her gaze lowered. "Who is this uncle of yours?"

"Richard Hemming, the Bishop of Loxford."

Merrick pushed to his feet. "A man of the church? A bishop?" He said a bit too loudly. Rage bubbled inside him. How could anyone hurt this sweet, innocent girl? Visions of her small body cowering under the pelting blows of a manher own uncle, someone who called himself a representative of Godpunched his thoughts. Bile rose in his throat. "How many times did he do this?"

"Many times," she answered. "More often toward the end."

"The end?"

"Before I ran away to find my father."

Merrick paced, his heavy boots pounding the floor.

"So you understand now?" she asked.

Merrick swerved to face her. "Understand?"

"Why Kent … why he"

Shock sped through Merrick. "Do you think what he did was your fault?"

Charlisse's moist eyes widened. "My uncle said men are attracted to women of low morals."

"Men are attracted to women, period." He grabbed Charlisse's hand. She closed her eyes, leaning on the bedpost.

"Look at me."

She opened her teary eyes.

"None of what has happened to you is your faultnot what your uncle did, nor what Kent did. Do you understand?"

She stared at him blankly.

"Your uncle was a sick man. He carries all the fault for his actions, and he will have to give an account to God for them. And Kent is just a wicked knave who forced himself on you merely because you are a beautiful woman, and because he wants anything he believes is mine."

Charlisse's eyes flitted back and forth between his as if searching for sincerity.

"If I may be so bold," Merrick said with a somber look, "it is my suspicion that your uncle was dealing with a lustful attraction to his niece. Unable to control it, he placed the blame on you. He disrobed you for his own pleasure, and when it aroused him, he beat you. Don't you see? He was the one filled with wickedness and filthiness, not you."

"But what of my mother?"

"I don't know your mother. But I do know you, and you have proven your character beyond reproach."

Charlisse's brow creased. "But I'm …" She looked at him, puzzled. "But it's in my nature to …"

"If you were a woman of loose morals, why have you been able to resist my considerable charms?" He grinned.

Charlisse graced him with a smile even as she stifled a sob. "Your words are sweet to my ears." She took an unsteady breath. "I long for them to be true."

"Then believe they are." Merrick pulled her close, feeling her resolve melt as she leaned against his chest. "Men like your uncle are cowards, preying on the innocent under the guise of religious piety. They make me sick. And it sickens me even more to hear how your uncle abused such a young, innocent girl." Cupping her face, he forced her to look at him. "Shake it from your mind. You are as much a lady now as you have always been." He kissed her forehead and coaxed her to lie down.

Merrick inched his chair next to the bed and sat watching Charlisse until she fell asleep. Still shaky from her ordeal, she didn't seem to mind his close proximity, and he welcomed the change.

After he heard her breathing deepen and saw her body relax, he rose and retreated to his spot on the floor. It would be impossible for him to get any sleep with Charlisse so near. There was too much of the old Merrick left in him.

Quietly, he repented his over-indulgence in rum, his temper, and his selfishness when he left Charlisse defenseless against Kent. There were probably a number of other infractions, but he couldn't remember them all. Instead, he appealed to the mercy and forgiveness of his loving Savior. He thanked God for the strength and grace he had bestowed on him to handle all the challenges of the day. In particular, self-control. What a wretch he was for even entertaining desires for the lady, especially after what she had been through. He shook his head, ashamed.

Difficult as it had been at first to restrain himself when she so willingly fell into his arms, after he had heard the story of her horrendous past, something changed within him, and he no longer battled so vehemently against his passions. With each tear that slid down her creamy cheeks, his heart ached even more. Was it possible he cared for this woman?

A strong desire to protect her from the advances of any man surged within him. She had suffered too much to be thrown once again into the lion's den, and this time with the most ferocious of all beastsher own father. How could she endure the attacks of another man she should be able to trust above all others? It would destroy her. No, Merrick must protect her at all costs. And not only protect, he must help heal her wounds by leading her to the only one who could show her that she was worth dying forthe one who had created her and who loved her beyond measure.

It would certainly aid that cause if Merrick treated her more like the lady she was and less like some tempting morsel served on the plate of his sensual appetite. With this new resolve firmly in place, he quickly fell asleep.

Nightmares invaded Charlisse's fitful sleep like enemy troops trying to regain lost territory. They swept down on her unawares with an arsenal of weapons against which she had no defense: arrows of impurity, pistol shots of shame, swords of disgrace, and most of all, cannonballs of unworthiness. The figures that wielded them were dark, slimy creatures without faces. Leading their charge was her uncle, in his brown robe, gold crucifix beaming from his breast. He rode a black horse whose nostrils spurted blood with each blast of air.

She bowed in humiliation, baring her back to the onslaught of vile weapons. Slash after slash they tore her flesh, leaving their marks of reproach upon hera stigma for all to see. She was a marked woman, unchaste and contemptible.

Falling to the ground in a crumbled heap, she sobbed.

The roaring of the army slowly dissipated, leaving only the sound of her weeping and the wrenching of her heart as it broke in two.

Someone smoothed ointment on her wounds. A gentle hand applied salve, dissolving the pain. A sweet fragrance filled the air, and a lighta soothing lightshone upon her. She turned around slowly. A man stood beside her, dressed in a white robe. He smiled, and she heard him say, "You are clean now, beloved."