by Betina Krahn
The questions that lay between them—at the moment he couldn’t remember a single one. All he could think was that his brother was home. All of the times he’d dreamed of this—seeing the one person in the world who had shared his life and knew him, cared for him—had been promises to himself that he would find a way home. It was this meeting that had kept him alive through pain, captivity, and deprivation. All of that came flooding back at once—he could hardly breathe.
“Ash,” he managed to whisper.
He could tell his brother was feeling the same intense emotions. Ash’s face . . . his features were stronger, more chiseled than Arthur recalled, and his body seemed thicker. He was dressed handsomely—had an air of confidence about him as he took in the details of his long-lost brother’s appearance. His chest seemed to be swelling . . . his heart had to be pounding, too.
They locked gazes, looking into each other, searching, feeling their way back to each other after years of separation.
“Artie.”
Emotions erupted.
Arthur lunged for Ashton with open arms and was met halfway by his brother’s frantic embrace. They held each other so tightly that joy squeezed out of their eyes and ran down their faces. They rocked back and forth until they were unable to contain the intensity of feeling—it exploded from them as laughter. They hugged and laughed and nearly pulled each other off their feet as they celebrated seeing, hugging, loving each other.
Shouts of excitement came last, bleeding off the excess of emotion as they released each other. They kept hands on shoulders, afraid to let go completely, and swiped their eyes, grinning. Slowly, they came back to awareness of the people collected nearby.
Red, Reynard, and Grycel approached to a respectful distance. Daisy and Elizabeth stood on the steps behind Sarah, holding two young boys. The women’s cheeks were wet and their faces were glowing as they absorbed and reacted to the reunion, each in her own way.
The tide of pleasure was so full in Arthur that there were no questions about voyage or absence or reasons in his mind. He just wanted to enjoy the moment and relish the presence of people he’d held in his heart for years.
“Daisy,” he said, hurrying to meet her as she came off the steps to throw her arms around him. He picked her up and whirled her around, then set her down to gaze into her face.
“Careful—that’s my wife,” Ash said with a broad smile.
“Yeah, well, she was my betrothed before she was your wife,” Arthur said with a husky laugh. And he hugged her again.
“Look at you!” Daisy tugged on a lock of his long hair. “When did you get so tanned and so . . . so . . . wild looking?”
“A lot happens in six years,” he said, smiling. The words worked like an incantation that began clearing the fog of euphoria in his head. “You . . . you’re as lovely as ever, Daisy. Even more so.” He chuckled. “Marriage to my wayward brother can’t be all bad.”
In short order he was introduced to his nephews, Redmond and William. The boys stared at him, until the one known as Wild Bill climbed anxiously up into his mother’s arms and the one Daisy called “Red” studied him with a frown before asking, “Why’s your hair like a girl’s?”
“They’re American, all right.” He laughed and leaned down to face his nephew with sudden inspiration. “Because I’m like Samson, from the Bible. The longer my hair, the stronger I am.”
Little Red’s eyes widened and he looked to his mother, who gave a silent chuckle and nodded. As he watched the boy’s reaction, it struck him that there might be some truth in what he’d said. His hair was a reminder of the strength it had taken to endure and overcome. And Sarah liked it. That alone was reason enough to let it stay the way it was.
When he looked around, he found her beside Ash, talking with the men. He strode out to them in time to hear Ash say, “Couldn’t—wouldn’t believe it until I got Sarah’s telegram. A man who claimed to be my brother? I couldn’t imagine why you lot couldn’t tell if it was him or not.”
Ashton turned to look at him as he approached, and the others looked at him, too.
“Now I see why. Good God—I couldn’t have picked you out in a roomful of strangers. Well, not at first. What the hell happened to you?”
“That’s a story,” Arthur said, feeling a new tension climbing up his spine. “A whole bag of stories.”
“Yeah? Like what?” Ashton said with a tone that was a little too flippant to sit well on Arthur’s ears. “Having too much fun to think about the folks back home?”
Arthur’s mood changed so quickly it was a shock to even him.
“Like being held captive in India by a maharaja,” Arthur said, each successive word packing more of a punch. “Like almost a year in a Cairo prison. Like going without food for days and sleeping on the deck of a ship because below decks smelled like rot and piss. Like knowing that the rest of the world considers you dead.”
Ash turned slowly to face him, matching his rising hostility.
“Not a word. You didn’t bother to write or send a message. Six damned years, we waited. Six. Years. Thinking you were dead.”
“Six years of deprivation and captivity,” Arthur declared. “Six years of counting on you to manage and protect Betancourt. Six years of trusting you to honor your word.” Arthur’s eyes burned.
The questions, the anger, the injustice of it all came roiling back.
“You knew I had promised Daisy time in New York,” Ash said. “And you were too busy exploring the world to think about anyone else.”
“You didn’t just spend some time in New York, you left England and didn’t look back. You abandoned Betancourt and your responsibilities to it—even after Sir William wrote you.”
Ashton glanced around with a look of disdain. “It doesn’t exactly look like the place suffered.”
Arthur felt it rising, the anger, the need to lash out and make his brother answer for his rejection of the role he’d been born to . . . heir to the heir. His muscles tensed, his fists clenched. When the burst of fury hit, his fist shot out and connected with Ashton’s face.
Sarah cried out as Ashton staggered aside and grabbed his jaw.
“What the—” Ash staggered in disbelief. “You bastard.”
“You git—you know I was born true—and first,” Arthur snarled and landed another blow, this time in Ash’s middle.
Ashton managed to pull his midsection back enough to blunt the impact. All that second punch had done was make him angry. In a flash he let his own fists fly, and suddenly it was an all-out fight.
Elizabeth’s frantic voice rang out: “Red, Reynard—do something!”
Red saw Sarah start to move and rushed to restrain her.
“Ain’t nothing to be done,” Red declared, grappling with Sarah and settling the matter for all onlookers. “It’s between them. Gotta let ’em get it outta their blood.”
By that decree, no one would be allowed to interfere in this bout—it was between brothers who had scores to settle. They were so intent on the fight, they didn’t notice when the big man on horseback arrived, dismounted, and rushed to join Reynard and Grycel.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Steig demanded.
Reynard folded his arms and tilted his head toward the big man. “Brotherly differences. They’re working it out.”
Steig frowned, but then relaxed enough to critique their fighting styles. “The duke would’ve made a good bare-knuckler. Look how he keeps his fists up and tight. The way he throws from his legs doubles his power.”
After several pounding blows, Ash and Arthur paused and stared at each other, panting and bleeding. Ash ripped off his coat and vest, while Arthur unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, explaining, “This is the only decent shirt I have. Don’t want your blood muckin’ it up.”
Ash’s response to the sight of Arthur’s naked chest and muscular frame was one word: “Shit!”
Red turned Sarah bodily and shoved her stubborn form toward the front doors. They collected Dai
sy and the children on the way. Elizabeth realized what he was doing and pulled her daughters by the arms into the house. She closed the door firmly and stationed Ned to see that no one escaped.
* * *
Sarah rushed into the parlor and stood at the big window, watching the mayhem unfold between Arthur and Ashton. Her heart was in her throat as they traded blows and sometimes wrestled, pushing, each trying to sweep the other’s feet or knock him down.
“We have to stop this,” she groaned as Daisy settled beside her.
“They’re big boys,” Daisy said, sounding more annoyed than worried. “They’ll stop when they’ve had enough.” Apparently the sight of her husband and his brother bashing each other senseless didn’t alarm her.
But then, Sarah recalled, her sister had seen them fight before . . . over her.
How dare Daisy stand there watching this without so much as a twitch of concern?
“You realize this is your fault,” Sarah declared, turning to her sister.
“My fault?”
“You broke his heart and made him leave home. He spent years knocking around and being knocked around because you chose Ashton.”
Daisy’s jaw dropped. “No one made him do anything. It was his decision to leave Betancourt because he wanted to see the world, to explore and discover . . . the way he had never had a chance to do. He’d been practically imprisoned here by his nasty uncles and coldblooded aunt.”
Sarah stared at her sister. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”
“Really, Sarah!” Elizabeth stepped in. “Is that any way to talk to your sister after she’s come halfway around the world to see you?”
“She came to see you,” Sarah said, glaring at her mother. “And Red. And most likely to check on her children’s inheritance. It had nothing to do with me.” She looked back at Daisy. “I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment, Mrs. Graham. Arthur is not only alive, he still holds the title. You’re not a duchess, after all.”
Daisy shrank back, stung by Sarah’s words.
Sarah realized Daisy’s shock was genuine and knew she’d overstepped her bounds. But she believed every word she’d spoken and she did not intend to suffer her mother’s rebuke or demand for an apology.
Trembling with anxiety and anger, she turned on her heel and strode for the stairs. She had to see what was going on outside. Blood had been drawn. Sooner or later, someone was going to need medical care.
* * *
Daisy put Wild Bill down and sent her boys out of the parlor, telling them not to touch anything, before turning to her mother.
“What in blazes was that all about?”
“I told her getting involved with Arthur was just asking for trouble . . . and here it is. I’m so sorry, Daisy.” She reached for her daughter’s hands. “I know you had your heart set on being a duchess. I know when you go back to New York as a plain Mrs. it will be embarrassing, but I’m sure we can find a way to explain it that will calm the gossip.”
Daisy yanked her hands away and stared at her mother in disbelief. “You told her I had my heart set on being a duchess?”
“You did.” Then Elizabeth wavered. “Well, maybe not at the end, but you did have a difficult time deciding between the duke and Ashton.”
It took all of Daisy’s restraint to keep from pinching her mother. It was true that she had wanted to marry a duke, but not for any of the reasons her mother probably conjured.
“Worse yet, she’s developed a disastrous attachment to Arthur,” her mother continued. “I tried to tell her he will never be a proper duke. He went through trials in his travels and came back changed . . . odd. You only have to look at him to know he’ll never be accepted in proper circles.”
Daisy never failed to be astonished by the extent of her mother’s narrow-mindedness. How could the woman have lived this long and still measure people by such pitiful standards? Daisy had no idea what her brother-in-law had been through in his travels, but he had come back anything but odd. He was strong and charismatic and handsome in a way that suggested exotic depths. In short, he was a stunning specimen.
“You’ve been steeped in pinky-up London society so long,” Daisy declared, “you’ve forgotten what real men look like. Why on earth would he want to be stuck in London’s suffocating and judgmental society?”
“He’s a duke. He has societal responsibilities.” Elizabeth stiffened. “You know better than anyone how unforgiving society can be.”
“I also know—better than anyone—how unforgiving you can be.” It was a hard thing to say, but Daisy knew that nothing less would penetrate her mother’s headstrong pride. “It took a long time for you to forgive me for being me. I came to England and nearly sacrificed my life to make you happy.” She saw Elizabeth’s shoulders round slightly and almost felt guilty. Almost. Her mother was a hard nut to crack.
“So, Sarah has taken a fancy to Arthur,” she said, musing on that.
“I’d say it’s past the ‘fancy’ stage,” Elizabeth said. “He kisses her and touches her whenever she is near. In plain sight of everyone. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Mutual,” Daisy supplied with sudden understanding. “That explains a lot.” She looked toward the window, thinking of Arthur’s manly allure and her sister’s fervent defense of him. She took Elizabeth’s elbow and drew her to a settee. “What I want to know is, why was she at Betancourt when he came home?”
Elizabeth was still stinging from Daisy’s words and lifted her chin. “I’m not sure she would wish me to tell that story.”
“Bollocks,” Daisy said, glowering. “I’m her Nevada-bred sister, not some London gossip. Start talking.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Arthur’s hands hurt like hell, his lip was split, and his left eye was swelling. His only consolation was that his brother looked just as bad.
“You abandoned the place. Just walked off and left it.” He took another swing, but just clipped his brother’s jaw. His arms were about as responsive as hanging sides of beef.
“No more than you did, brother.” Ash swung back but only connected with Arthur’s upraised arm. “You knew I wanted nothing to do with the title. I had other plans.”
“You agreed to be my heir.”
“Only because you wanted it. I had no idea you’d actually die.”
“It’s not like I didn’t want to come home. I couldn’t.”
“How the hell would I know that? All I knew was you were cold and dead in some godforsaken—I didn’t even get to see your body and mourn you. God—I hated you for dropping the stinkin’ title and all of Betancourt’s demands . . . on . . . my . . . head . . .”
Ash swayed and fell forward, straight into Arthur, who just managed to keep from falling over. In a moment they were both on their knees, hanging onto each other to stay upright.
“I hated you for not coming home to take my place. Betancourt needed work and guidance and protection—and you weren’t here.”
“Looks like it didn’t do so bad,” Ash said through swelling lips.
“Thanks to Sarah,” Arthur snapped. “She was here when I came back . . . brought Betancourt and me both back to life.” Pronouncing all those “b’s” through split and swollen lips was downright painful.
Neither was ready to give up, though their blows were pathetic. They were exhausted. A couple of more punches and—
A bundle of fury burst through the ring of men watching the bout.
“Out of the way,” Sarah growled as she charged the stubborn pair. “That’s enough! You’re through—both of you!” She pulled Arthur back enough to put her arms between them and push them apart.
“Listen to me, you overgrown louts,” she ordered as they fell backward and stared at her. “It’s time you stop bashing each other like schoolboys and at least pretend to be mature, responsible adults.”
She said to Ash, “Your brother went through hell. It was never his choice to stay away from Betancourt. He spent years trying to
get back here, and when he couldn’t it broke his heart. He came back thinking you might never want to see him again.”
She turned on Arthur with equal heat. “And you—your brother couldn’t bear to come back here and take your place, because to do so would mean accepting you were dead. He loved you too much to give up on you. If you can’t see that, take my word for it until your vision clears.”
She paused to let that sink in and could see from the way Arthur and Ashton were looking at each other that she might have gotten through.
“Somebody’s trying to tear Betancourt apart, and if you keep this up, you’ll do the job for them.” She took one and then the other by the ear, pinching hard enough to make them complain—“Ow!” “What the hell?”—but comply. They scrambled to their feet, bent over to accommodate her fierce grip, and lumbered along with her toward the doors.
* * *
Behind them, Red, Reynard, and Grycel glanced at each other and shook their heads. Women—those looks agreed—just did not understand.
But the bout was mostly over, and the threatening storm was sending down big fat drops of rain as warning. They shrugged and headed inside, too.
Steig paused to pick up Arthur’s discarded shirt and looked thoughtful. “Did you see that ink on th’ duke’s shoulder?” he asked Grycel.
“Yeah. A tattoo,” Grycel answered. “Never seen one like that.”
Steig gave a half smile. “I have. It’s tribal. And it’s an honor.”
* * *
Thunder rolled and the sky opened up to pour buckets down on Betancourt. The summer storm had the rough men collected in the Meriton Woods drenched and ill-tempered. . . glaring at each other and at the treacherous sky. Worse yet, his lordship hadn’t arrived, and the longer they waited in the wet, the less chance they had to execute his plan successfully.
Their pitch-soaked torches were wet, the cloths in the necks of the kerosene bottles were waterlogged enough to boil for tea, and the chances of keeping a match alight in this downpour were nil. Nothing was going to burn tonight. They turned around and headed back to their cabin, only to meet his lordship’s coach on the north edge of the estate.