Nibbling on her lower lip, Anne looked back at the portrait that represented youth lost. “The one on the left is Lord Tristan.”
“You know few could ever see the difference in them. I never understood that. It seemed easy to me, but I thought perhaps it was because I always loved Sebastian.”
Anne jerked her head around, met the duchess’s speculative look. She didn’t love Tristan. “The artist managed to capture Lord Tristan’s teasing nature, I think. That’s all.”
“He did have a bit of the devil in him. Still does, truth be told, but it’s not quite as innocent as it once was.”
“Are any of us as we grow up?”
“I suppose not. I understand you’ve come to see Lord Tristan, but unfortunately, he’s not here.”
“Do you know when he might be returning?”
The duchess shook her head. “They set sail last night, from what I understand. My husband saw them off at the docks.”
“I see. It could be years then.”
“I suspect it will be, yes.” She studied Anne, and Anne wondered what her face revealed. “Will you join me for a spot of tea in the garden?”
“I would be delighted.” And perhaps, just perhaps, some of her melancholy would lift. As she followed the duchess through the house and into the garden, she wished now that she and Sarah had come to call as they’d spoken of doing.
Anne sat at the lace-covered table that the duchess indicated. As they sipped tea, Anne glanced around. The garden was awash in color and fragrances. “You have a very talented gardener.”
“I stole him from my father, but is it really my roses you wish to discuss?”
Anne set aside her cup. The duchess waited patiently, her expression open and inviting. Anne thought under different circumstances that they might have been friends. She released a small selfconscious laugh. “I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here. As I understand it, Tristan announced at my brother’s club that our involvement was quite innocent. To staunch any further gossip, Lord Chetwyn and I are to be married in two weeks. I thought he should know that all is right with the world again.”
“Is it?” the duchess asked.
Anne nodded, because the affirmation wouldn’t pass her lips. If all was right with the world, why was she so remarkably sad? “He needs the sea … Lord Tristan.”
“I’m not sure he knows what he needs.”
“He told me that you rescued him.”
“I’m not quite certain of that. I helped him and his brothers escape but that’s not quite the same as rescuing, is it?”
“You were incredibly brave to do what you did.”
“Unlock a door? Hardly. They were much braver—to ride off into the unknown.”
She made her part seem insignificant, but Anne didn’t see how it could have been. It seemed everyone in this family fought to make light of an event that had changed all their lives.
“You should come to Pembrook sometime,” the duchess said. “I think it would help you to understand Lord Tristan better. The original Pembrook was a castle, with a dungeon where people were tortured and a tower where prisoners awaited their fate. After our marriage, Keswick spent many an hour pounding a hammer against the walls of the tower, striving to destroy it. But it still stands. He decided to leave it in case his brothers needed to take part in its destruction. But his brothers haven’t returned there since they laid their uncle to rest.”
“Do you think he meant to kill them as they believe?”
“Without a doubt. I heard him plotting their murders. I try to imagine how terrifying it must have been for them in the tower—without light, warmth, or comfort. Waiting. Waiting to be murdered, by their own blood. You would think having shared the same experience in the tower that they would be very similar. It shaped them. There can be no denying that. But it is what happened after they left the tower that made them the men they are today.”
Anne couldn’t help but wonder if Tristan needed the sea because he was still trying to escape the horror of what he’d learned in that tower: that someone he may have loved would kill him, that the brothers he loved would be ripped from him, that the only one he could ever truly rely on was himself.
She wanted to weep for the lad he’d been when an artist had painted his portrait. She wanted to weep for the man who, she was beginning to realize, would never return home because it had been stolen from him when he was a lad, and he no longer knew how to find it.
It was sometime after midnight when Tristan brought his horse to a halt near Pembrook. He had a bright moon. In the distance he could see the silhouette of the manor house that Sebastian had built on a rise. He had yet to visit there. He wondered if it would feel like home. He doubted it.
Home had always been the looming castlelike structure that cast night shadows over him now.
Two days earlier he’d docked his ship in the port from which he’d escaped when he was a terrified lad on his own, running for his life. Twice he’d returned to Pembrook, but neither time had he come by water. He was a man now, fearful of nothing, yet he hadn’t relished the notion of docking his ship in the same harbor from which he’d escaped. Still he had given the order and watched from the quarterdeck as the Revenge glided silently into place. From Marlow, he learned many of the skills that made him a good captain.
But there had been no one to teach him how to be a lord. Not teach him perhaps—so much as remind him. His father had certainly drilled particular behaviors into him. He pressed a gloved fist to his tightening chest as another memory with his father took hold. They’d all been banished until lately. He’d had so little time to think of anything beyond surviving and revenge.
God forgive him, but he’d actually initially resented Sebastian because he’d handled their uncle’s demise single-handedly. Tristan had been denied any satisfaction in it. By the time he received word from Sebastian, and made his way with Rafe to Pembrook, the vicious swine was already cold and closed in his coffin. Twelve years of plotting revenge—stolen from Tristan.
With every strike of the lash against his back he’d wished his uncle dead. With every storm, with every bout of hunger when food was scarce, with every absence of wind, with every mile that separated him from his brothers and left him feeling so wretchedly alone—
Reaching into his pocket, stroking the kidskin glove he’d acquired the night he met Anne, he acknowledged that was the reason that he’d been blessedly relieved she hadn’t wanted to marry him, the reason he hadn’t fought her on it. He understood her loneliness. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but he did. He knew the abstract sense of it, the concrete pain of it. He would leave her and forget her. Go on with his life. He wouldn’t love because love tied one down. Love bound. Love and everything that accompanied it terrified him.
Dismounting from his horse, he tethered it to a small scraggly bush and walked through the abandoned courtyard. He knew that Sebastian had plans to destroy this monstrosity, but he had yet to carry through on them. He was too busy striving to keep his wife happy. Love altered a man’s course. It was as unpredictable as a storm.
He strode to the tower. As a lad he’d always thought it so damned tall. Even now it dwarfed him. Wrapping his hand around the latch, he pulled open the door, listened to the hideous screeching of hinges. They’d squealed that night when their uncle’s henchman had escorted them to the tower.
“We didn’t fight,” he whispered. They went like trusting lambs. It was only once they were locked inside the uppermost room that they’d realized something was amiss.
Why would they suspect anything? No one had ever hurt them. They were the lords of Pembrook, idolized and protected by their father.
In the grayness, Tristan made out the lantern hanging on the wall. Taking the matches from his pocket, he struck one and lit the lantern. The shadows wavered around him. He began trudging up the stairs. The old wood moaned. He could smell the must and the odor of disuse.
Finally he reached it. The room. The heavy wooden door stoo
d ajar. Inside was the small table and two stools, one of them overturned. He considered righting it but his attention was arrested by the huge hole on the other side of the room. He set the lantern on the table and examined what remained of the wall.
He remembered Sebastian telling him that he’d taken a sledgehammer to it, that he’d vented his anger there. Through that hole their uncle had eventually fallen to his death.
“Damn you,” he rasped. “Damn you! You stole everything of importance. I don’t care about the titles or the properties. You stole my brothers from me. You stole the opportunity for me to be the sort of man who was content to live in one place, the sort of man who would be worthy of Anne until the day he died.”
He spotted the sledgehammer in the corner, hefted it up, and slammed it into the stone. “Damn you! You made me what I am. My own needs, my own desires, they always come first. There is a wall around my heart as thick—”
He hit the wall again.
“—as formidable—”
Slam.
“—as strong—”
A portion of the wall crumbled, broke apart, went flying away from him and into the darkened abyss of the night. Breathing heavily he stared at the damage he’d done. He could tear down the wall. It had been strong enough to hold them when they were boys, but it wasn’t strong enough now to hurt him.
Dropping to his knees he did what he’d wanted to do that long-ago dreadful night, but feared that once he started, he’d be unable to stop.
He wept.
For the boy he’d been.
For the man he was.
For the lord he wished he might have become.
And he screamed out because in the end, his uncle had won. He’d destroyed Lord Tristan Easton. And Captain Crimson Jack didn’t know how to find him again.
Chapter 26
In two hours Anne would be married, yet as she stood in front of the cheval glass in her gown of satin, lace, and tiny beaded pearls, she felt no measure of excitement. She liked Chetwyn. She surely did. Marriage to him would be proper. She would be proper. She adjusted the veil that fell from a wreath of orange blossoms and wished she’d chosen some other sort of blossom because oranges always reminded her of Tristan. And she didn’t want to think of him today. She didn’t want to think of him ever again.
She was wrapping about her finger the strip of leather that he had once used to bind his hair, to bind hers. She needed to toss it away, but she knew, instead, she would return it to her jewelry box before she left for the church.
“Don’t you look lovely, my lady,” Martha said. “Lord Chetwyn is such a fortunate man.”
“It is I who am fortunate.” The words were the proper thing to say, so why were her eyes burning? “I think you’ll be happy in Chetwyn’s household.”
“Ew.”
Anne turned to find her maid’s brow furrowed so deeply that she was surprised the woman didn’t yelp in pain. “Ew?”
Martha released a deep sigh. “I was going to tell you after the wedding—”
“Tell me what?”
She smiled brightly. “Mr. Peterson has asked me to marry him. I’ve said yes.”
Anne took Martha’s hands. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Congratulations. Although I don’t understand why that should make you dread Chetwyn’s household.”
“Oh, I don’t dread his house, but telling you, m’lady, that I won’t be going. I’m giving my notice.”
Releasing her hold on Martha, Anne scoffed. “That’s a silly thing to do. It’ll be years before he returns—”
“No, he came back last night. Said he missed me too much and had the captain turn the ship about.”
Anne’s heart slammed against her ribs. “They’re in port?”
Martha nodded. “Yes, miss.”
Anne’s gaze shot to the window. What was she expecting for God’s sake? To see Tristan clambering into her bedchamber?
“But they’re setting sail again this afternoon,” Martha continued. “Just not with Mr. Peterson. He’s given up the sea. He’s going to work in a shipping office or some such. He’s saved his money so we can purchase a home. I don’t have to work any more.”
“Oh, Martha, I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m happy for myself.” Her smile grew. “I never thought to find love. He’s a good man.”
“I’ve no doubt of that.”
A brisk knock sounded on her door. Martha hurried over to open it. Stiff and clearly unhappy, Jameson stood beside Chetwyn. “Leave us, Martha,” her brother ordered.
Martha gave Anne a quick look before scampering into the hallway.
“Chetwyn wishes to speak with you before the nuptials. Highly unusual, but I’ve granted him permission. However, the door is to remain op—”
Chetwyn stepped into the bedchamber and slammed the door shut in her brother’s face. Anne pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. She could only imagine Jameson’s startled expression. She’d never seen Chetwyn so forceful. It was a bit disconcerting to realize that it excited her to see him this way.
He strode to the fireplace, raised his arm, pressed it against the mantel, and stared into the cold empty hearth. “Do wish I’d stopped by your father’s study for a bit of spirits.”
“I have some brandy.”
Looking over his shoulder at her, he grinned. “Do you?”
“Yes, would you like some?”
He shook his head. “No, I suppose not. You should know, Anne, that I will treat you kindly.”
“I never doubted that.”
“You will never want for anything. I am convinced and believe with all my heart that I can provide you with a satisfactory life. But I daresay that I believe you deserve more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think Lord Tristan is a rotten bastard,” he continued. “But be that as it may, I’ve seen the way he looks at you and more, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
“How is that, my lord?” she dared to ask.
“As though you are the only two people who exist in the world.” He faced her completely. “Do you love me, Anne?”
She dreaded answering him. She didn’t want to hurt him but she couldn’t begin today with a lie.
“I don’t love you either,” he said as though she had responded. “I asked you to marry me because of Walter’s letter. I’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion at a rather inconvenient time that it’s not enough upon which to base a marriage.”
“Walter’s letter?”
He reached into a pocket inside his jacket and removed a yellowed crumpled piece of paper. “He was ill when he wrote it. I suspect he knew he would die. He asked me to see that you were happy, and I thought that I could ensure that best if you were my wife. I thought I owed him that at least. I pushed him into joining a regiment, into making his own way. Our coffers are thin, you see, and I didn’t want to give him an allowance. Then we declared war on Russia and I told him to sell his commission. Marriage to you would bring him a dowry; he could make do with that. But he didn’t want to be seen as a coward. It’s my fault he’s dead.”
“No, Chetwyn.” Her heart going out to him, she crossed over and placed her hand on his cheek. She had yet to put on her gloves and she was grateful she could offer him a warm touch of comfort. “He always liked playing soldier as a lad. You know that. Nothing you could have said would have swayed him from going. His heart was set on it. You can’t hold yourself responsible. We all have to make our choices and live with them.”
“Is that what we’re doing, Anne? Making choices with which we must live?”
“Are you crying off?” she asked, halfway teasing, halfway serious, not quite sure what she wanted his answer to be.
“We beat him up you know.”
“Who? Walter?”
“No. Lord Tristan.”
Her stomach tightening, she stepped away.
“The night he came to the club,” Chetwyn explained. “After he told us that he had attempted to sed
uce you but that nothing occurred between you and he. We escorted him outside and pummeled him. Rather badly, actually. He didn’t lift a hand to stop us.”
“No, he wouldn’t have.”
“I thought he’d have been a better fighter, that he would have held his own against us.”
“He certainly could have if he’d chosen. I saw him beat off the ruffians that my idiot brother hired while barely mussing his clothes.”
“So why didn’t he resist?”
“I suspect because he thought he deserved the beating. Or maybe he wouldn’t hurt those I care for. Probably the latter,” she said after a bit more thought.
“Do you love him, Anne?”
Tears burning her eyes, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The sea is his home … and what sort of life would that be for a lady?”
“If it includes love, I should think it would be a very wonderful life, indeed.”
“Oh, Chetwyn.” A sob broke free, and he enfolded her in his arms. He smelled of tart spices while she longed for the fragrance of oranges.
“I vowed that I would honor Walter’s request and see you happy, but I don’t believe your happiness lies with me.”
“According to my maid, he’s sailing off today.”
“Then it seems to me that you should tell him how you feel before he goes. My carriage is in the drive if you wish to go somewhere.”
“My father and brothers have taken to watching me like a hawk.”
“I shall entice them into the library to drink a toast to my happiness.”
Leaning back, she studied his strong features and thought it was quite possible that in time she would have come to love him. “I hope someday you find a woman who deserves you.”
“Meanwhile, darling Anne, let’s stop Walter’s ghost from coming to haunt us, shall we?”
Laughing, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “By all means.”
Tristan read the words a third and final time. He’d never been a man of indecision and he wasn’t one now. He knew what he wanted, and while he wasn’t quite certain he’d acquire it, he did know that he’d live with regret for the remainder of his life if he didn’t at least try.
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