His little sister had been worried about him. She’d gone looking for Danvers at the docks thinking the captain had information. “I ought to tan her hide.”
“Talking to anyone special, Stephen?”
Caught mumbling, his gaze flew to Albert. “Uncle.”
Stephen straightened to his full height. Albert was a tall man, but then Stephen was used to towering above the heads of most. He’d lost the bulging muscles that he’d accumulated from years on a ship, but they’d come back in time. He longed to get back on the seas—after he cleared up this mess with Kat. He nodded to his uncle.
Chuckling, Albert strode to a table placed beside his favorite chair. He leaned down and picked up his pipe from the marble dish. “If she’d known you were coming this soon, I’ll grant she would not have left.”
“I should have gone after her.”
“My dear boy, you just got here. If you leave and get lost again, your aunt and Katherine, both would have my skin. One is bad enough. But two women . . .” He gave an exaggerated shudder.
“I did not get lost.” If only that were true. His gut twisted at the thought of where he had been. Closing his eyes, he saw the darkness. Subconsciously, he rubbed his wrists. He doubted the marks would ever go away. The other scars on his body had healed. The scars in his mind would take much longer. Thank God, he had escaped. And the very man responsible for bringing him back was also responsible for his sister’s abduction.
When Stephen had been told his sister planned to find him, he’d been furious. When he discovered she’d been taken, he wanted to kill the man accountable and everyone else in his path. Kat had been taken by mistake? Well, someone would pay for that bloody mistake.
Yet, the man, Giles, had assured him she was safe—after he nearly choked the life out of the mate. The damned man was nearly as tall as Stephen himself. For a gent, he had some crafty moves.
Stephen still thought of Kat as his little sister. Still a child. He had to accept Katherine wasn’t a child anymore.
Even if the brat still acted like one.
His irritation changed to fear. Fear of what could happen to a young woman on her own. He’d known women who had experienced the hardships of life. In more than one port, he’d saved females from the cruelty and unwarranted behavior of belligerent men. A few years ago, he’d saved one poor girl of rape. The bastard would never be able to do that again.
Beating a woman was beyond his tolerance. Hell, he had a temper. He’d been in more than his share of fist-cuffs and down-right brawls. He loved pounding his fist on a well deserving person. But he’d never hit a woman. And he would not stand by and allow anyone else to, either. It was inexcusable.
He was not an impatient man, but the worry from his sister’s absence unnerved him. He turned back to stare into the fire.
“I know, son,” Albert said. “We sent news to Viscount Roxborough of your arrival. As soon as Katherine hears, she’ll come back right away. You are my sister’s child. I love you, boy, as if you were my own son. I’m sorry to cause you such worry.”
“You?” Stephen jerked from the hearth. With a deep sigh, he braced a shoulder back against it. His stance belied the tension in his limbs. “Kat is strong willed and stubborn as an as, er, donkey’s butt.”
“We all suspected something was wrong. Your aunt fretted over your absence and Kat worried that some evil fate had befallen you.”
That’s the closest Albert had ever come to poke—about his disappearance. His uncle suspected more, but he would never openly ask. He would never tell them the true horrors of that particular nightmare. It was over. He was free.
And alive. Although for the longest time, he had prayed for death.
“We hoped and prayed for your safe return. We had no idea your ship crashed or you were injured.”
Except Kat.
Theirs was a special bond. Maybe because they had lost their parents. Even when Kat was very young they’d been close. Stephen spoiled her even when his parents were alive. It was just like her. Kat—afraid for her brother. And, then she landed in a heap of trouble. He stopped his arm just before his fist struck the mantle.
“What proof do we have the Earl kept her safe?”
“You can trust me on this one, my boy.” Albert’s voice had the ring of assurance.
“You know him?”
“Take my word. Katherine came to no harm while in his care.”
Stephen knew Albert had connections with important people. But he suspected there were some secret connections his uncle did not want made public. He could respect that. Hadn’t he had to trust a complete stranger with his very life?
One of those connections?
Albert loaded his pipe—one of the few vices that he had developed. “It took some doing to calm Elizabeth down. With you missing and Katherine gone . . .”
“Putting the tale to the gossips that she did go with the Countess was quick thinking on your part, Uncle.”
“Yes. The Viscount was accepting of the tale to appease his wife.”
“It boggles the mind. Charity, a Viscountess. I still remember her as a rascal. She’s been by Kat’s side ever since I brought her here. Instead of one imp hanging on my coat-tails, I had two.” Stephen shoved from the mantel. “And where the devil is she?”
Albert smiled. “She’s off to visit Charity.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Two heads planning mischief instead of one?”
Chapter 27
“Thank you for coming, sir.” Whetherford’s butler showed relief.
Giles had been wound tight as a pocket watch ever since he opened the missive stating it was life or death. Not one to panic, he’d left for Whetherford Manor with no time to waste. Bloody hell. He just got back from locating the girl’s brother. No sleep—then the blasted note telling him to come at once. All sorts of imaginings burst through his brain. He’d run his horse into the damned ground to get here.
“It was Mrs. Beasley what sent the note. We were right concerned.”
While Giles pulled off his gloves, Mrs. Beasley came running across the hall wringing her hands.
“God bless you, Sir. His lordship is in a bad way. Been into his cups for days.”
“Where is he?”
“Still upstairs in his room, sir.” She twisted her fingers in her apron and glanced above the stairway. When she turned back, worry filled her eyes. “He won’t let anyone in. Must be a horrible mess up there. We heard things crashing and he yelled at us to go away. He has not eaten for days.”
“I’ll take care of it Mrs. Beasley.”
Mind intent on his destination, Giles strode up the staircase. What in the hell happened? This wasn’t like Morgan.
He pounded on the door with his fist. Nothing. He tried the latch, and to his surprise, it opened. He flung the door back, slamming it against the wall. God’s Teeth! What a mess!
Morgan lay sprawled. Part of his torso off one side of the bed with both arms over his head. An empty bottle dangled from one hand. If Morgan landed on his head, the deserving tippler would be fine. Giles could just imagine the drunken fool, trying to get up with a string of curse words slurring out of his mouth.
He smiled at the thought. With a roar, Giles yelled, “Get up, man!”
Morgan made a pathetic attempt to rise from his position on the bed—instead he nearly fell off. He tried to pull himself up, but the drink made him slow. By the way he held his head, it must be pounding like the very devil. Giles had no sympathy.
He slammed the door creating a booming sound loud enough to resemble the shot of a cannon, making Morgan curse. “Bloody hell! Go away!”
“I’ve been told you have been in this mode for days.” Giles took a step forward.
“Good God, man. Quit your yelling. And
get the hell out of here.”
Giles advanced another step. “I’m not going anywhere. Now get out of that bleedin’ bed.”
Groaning, Morgan tried to sit up. “Are you deaf? Get out.” He clutched his head again, grunted, and turned over.
“Do you think you can put me out? I’m ready for a good mill.” Giles pushed back his sleeves in preparation.
“Go to the devil, Giles.” Morgan grumbled.
“What happened to you?” Giles studied the disgusting form tangled in the bed covers, moaning on the huge bed. The idiot had his pants on, but his shirt lay somewhere in the massive heap.
“Mind your own damned business.” Morgan muttered.
Giles marched over to the wash stand. He grabbed the pitcher, marched back to Morgan and threw the water in his face. Morgan came up sputtering and swinging.
“Damn you, Giles!” Glaring at his friend, he looked ready to kill him. “You were once my friend, Giles. But, I’m telling you now. Go away and leave me alone.”
“And I’m telling you, friend or not, I will drag your sorry hide down to the river and throw you in if I have to!”
“You and who else?”
“Damn it, Morgan! The way you look right now, I won’t need any help. Look at you!”
Morgan’s face screwed up as he studied Giles. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Apparently your butler cares about you. Mrs. Beasley was worried.”
“No need. Go away.”
“Good God, man! How bloody long has this been going on? I would have believed it of anyone. Anyone! But you! What in God’s name happened?”
Morgan ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Thought I’d be embalmed for a while.” He flopped down on the bed.
“Embalmed?”
“Numb. No thought. No feelings.”
“I know what it means.” Giles scanned the room taking in every detail. Bottles strewn across the floor. “I’d say you were well on your way to pickled permanence.”
“Don’t worry. I planned to rejoin the living . . . eventually.” Morgan turned his head to Giles. “Maybe. In my own time.”
“Maybe, I’ll speed things up a bit.” Giles took a threatening step toward the bed.
“Do you value your life?” Morgan clenched his jaw.
“Evidently more than you.” One of the chairs in front of the hearth was turned over. Giles wondered if Morgan had been in it when it happened. Broken glass speckled the carpet. No wonder the household was concerned. “How long have you been like this?”
“Hell if I know.”
“God’s teeth. You don’t know!” Giles was shouting again.
Morgan scrubbed his hand over his face and shoved his fingers through his mop of hair. “Giles. Now that I have decided—with your help of course—to come out of my stupor . . . do you suppose we could carry on this conversation downstairs?”
Giles crossed his arms and glared with a look meant to intimidate him into obedience.
“Uh, after . . . I clean up a bit.”
Gauging his diligence, Giles accepted Morgan’s word and strode to the door. “I’ll send up more water.”
“How about hot water this time?”
Giles turned around with a smug look. “Would you like me to serve it in the same fashion?”
Morgan’s mouth curved into a smile. “I think I can manage it myself.”
Morgan dressed and met his friend downstairs in his study. When he walked in, Giles sat in one of the high back chairs, a glass of brandy in his hand. Heading to the side table, Morgan opened the cabinet door and pulled out a bottle. He worked the cap free and took a hefty swallow. After releasing a deep breath, he took another. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and scuffed over to drop his frame in his favorite leather chair.
“All of this over a woman?” Giles flung at him.
“You’ve been talking to the servants?” Morgan slouched with a bottle in one hand and a cold towel in the other. He nursed his head feeling like all the drums in South America had taken up residence there.
“Would you care to tell me,” Giles asked.
Morgan lifted the towel and glanced up. “I do not need your lecture.”
Giles cocked a brow. “Would it do any good?”
Morgan took another pull from the bottle and replaced the cold cloth over his head. “Women. They just keep chipping away. Until you let a woman into your heart and what happens? She stomps on it. Then throws it away.”
“Did I hear you correctly? A man who claims to have no heart?”
Morgan glared at his friend. Former friend, if he kept goading him.
Giles nodded to the bottle in Morgan’s hand. “You’ll have another big head tomorrow, my man.”
“Leave me alone. It’s what I deserve.” Morgan tipped the bottle and took a long draught. “I deserve it for letting a fool woman . . . I’m the fool. Capital F-O-O-L.
“I can’t believe I’m sitting here watching you do this to yourself.”
“It helps me to cope.”
With an ambiguous expression, Giles asked. “This is what you call cope?”
Morgan ignored him. “I chase after one red-headed schemer and get waylaid by another.”
“Schemer? Are we speaking of Katherine?”
“Don’t mention her name. A curse on the wench.” Another bout of dejection welled and shook him.
“Just what did she do?”
Morgan gulped more brandy, then swallowed the burning mouthful. Too bad it didn’t burn her memory from his mind. “She wormed her way into my . . . head.”
“Don’t you mean heart?”
“Hell no. The damned bottle’s empty. I need another one.” He lifted his unsteady frame and clumped to the wooden cabinet. After retrieving another, he flopped back into the comfort of his chair. “To hell with women.”
“Um, hmm. Now you have an aversion to women.” Giles shook his head.
“I never want to see another redhead.” Morgan tossed his head back and turned up the bottle. “God, her hair was so beautiful. The most resplendent, rich color I’ve ever seen.” Morgan stared at his hand while he rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “It was like silk between my fingers.”
“Good God, he’s blubbering like an idiot.”
“It hung down in curls covering those luscious mounds.” Morgan groaned in frustration. “I can feel them in my hands . . . and with my mouth . . .”
“Better drink up, my boy. Randy Rod is bound to be hard as steel by now. You won’t get any relief from a bottle.”
Did Giles need to remind him?
“Are you going to tell me why she left?”
“No.” Morgan gave him a glare that dared him to ask again.
Giles spoke quietly. “You lost your heart to her.”
“I have no heart. Remember?” Morgan tried to convince himself.
Giles took a deep breath. “You sealed your heart when you lost your family. I can relate—as you well know—not wanting to open your heart to pain. Katherine embedded a crack. It’s called living.”
“I never thought a woman could get under my skin like that. Hell, even when I planned to marry, it wasn’t for love.”
“Ahh. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
If Giles were anyone else, Morgan would have told him to sod off. But he would just pick and prod until Morgan professed all. With a shrug of his shoulders, he replied, “You read me too well.”
“Yet here you sulk. Does she know you love her?”
He could deny it.
“No. I pushed her away.” When the silence lengthened, he looked at his longtime friend. Giles’ gaze delved deeper. “Are we having a damned staring match? Oh, all right. She told me.”
&
nbsp; “Told you what?”
Frustrated, he cursed under his breath. “I love you. At a most appropriate time.”
Giles whistled through his teeth. “I see. And, what did you do?”
Reflection cast a nasty glow. Morgan held the brandy bottle in the air.
“You left her for drink?” Giles brow disappeared under straight black hair.
Morgan hated being put on the defensive. He hated even more the picture he’d painted of himself. “I waited until she was asleep. Hell, Giles. I’m not a complete bastard.”
“Women are romantic creatures. They need to hear the words.” Giles pointed out. “What did you say to her?”
“She left.” His friend’s expression convinced him he sounded absurd.
“Did you try to stop her?”
Morgan put the bottle down and stood, running his hands through his already disheveled hair. What could he say? That he deliberately drove Kat from his home? That he shamed her, accused her, lay the blame at her feet, and then cast her out?
“Look at it from her point of view,” Giles said. “Consider how she was brought here. By force. Under false pretenses. She was the wrong woman.” He paused. “Then you pursued her. Followed her to London. When she surrendered and confessed her feelings, you took to the bottle. Didn’t you want her?”
Morgan whirled around and growled, “Of course, I wanted her.”
“Wanted her body? Or wanted the woman for herself?”
Blood and the devil! Giles couldn’t make him feel any lower that he already did. And he didn’t like being the dung on the bottom of a man’s boot. He scowled at him.
The Right One (One and Only Series) Page 20