Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  She hadn’t been able to think about the violence and death that went with war…until she’d confronted the soldiers who’d returned to London Hospital. Still, even visiting the wounded soldiers, Drake had somehow seemed removed from those men who’d lost limbs and eyes. The physical scars they bore were very obvious. Drake however, had returned physically intact and yet, how hard it must be for him to move about Society scarred, but in ways that only he knew. How very lonely for him.

  Her fingers distractedly toyed with the copy of Glenarvon in her lap, fanning the pages, and absently thinking about her unsent notes. All those years ago, she’d written letters but had been too much of a coward to send. After all, why would a man who’d sought out a war to avoid her, ever welcome any words from her?

  Now she wished she’d sent them. Perhaps she would have made a fool of herself and he would have continued to view her as an empty-minded young child, but it might have brought him some comfort to receive a note from the world he’d left behind. Instead, she’d waited for him to return, so selfishly focused on what his arrival meant for her life and her happiness that she hadn’t thought about his happiness—or worse, his lack of happiness.

  She’d only been capable of a girlish self-centeredness. It hadn’t been until mere hours ago that she’d truly understood Drake was no longer the boy who’d sat across from her when their betrothal documents had been signed.

  She snorted. No wonder he hadn’t wanted a thing to do with her then, or even now. To Drake, she had been a child with childish interests.

  The realization shamed her. She was humbled with the extent of her self-absorption.

  Emmaline laid her cheek on her emerald muslin skirts, staring unseeing out the window. The fabric’s deep rich hue bore a similarity to the color of his eyes. She had never before seen eyes as haunted as Drake’s had been that morning—and with the time she’d spent in London Hospital she’d seen her fair share of misery.

  A spasm wracked her heart and she took a deep, shuddery breath. She yearned to hold him close, soothe his hurt.

  A warm drop landed on her hand, then two, and absently she realized she was crying. She swiped her hand across her cheeks. Emmaline cast a despondent stare up toward the sky. She squinted under the brightness of the sun’s rays that reflected off the glass panels and shot prisms of light around the parlor walls.

  If today Drake had walked away from her the same man she’d come to know these many years, detached and indifferent, then it would have been easy to march into Sebastian’s office and request that he dissolve the betrothal contract.

  Drake, however, was far more complicated than she’d ever known. He was scarred, hurting, and it surely explained much of his distantness. She could no sooner walk away from her lifelong commitment to him than she could cut off her own arm.

  It wasn’t pity that held her to him. It was something more, something deep that defied years of bitterness and resentment. When she’d witnessed him reduced to a near shell of the man he was, she had wanted nothing more than to cradle him in her arms and take away his fear, make it her own.

  “You were missed at breakfast, my dear.”

  Emmaline started at the intrusion. She sat up and swiped her hand discreetly across her cheeks. “Mother,” she murmured, keeping her eyes averted.

  The robin’s-egg blue seat cushion dipped under her mother’s slight weight. “I understand you had a visitor this morning.”

  Emmaline again rested her ear upon the cradle of her knees.

  “And that he left rather hastily and seemed to be quite upset.”

  Emmaline chewed her lip, her heart tripping painfully at the horror Drake had worn blanketed across every crease, every line of his face. The horrified jade pools of his eyes were testament to the fact he’d stared down the bowels of Hell and lived to speak of it.

  Except he didn’t speak of it.

  Society had no idea that the carefree, elegant lord sought after by every lady, was in fact tortured, and battling demons no one could ever suspect.

  “Emmaline, my dear. What happened today?”

  Emmaline opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. This was her mother. The woman who had given her life, who’d cradled her close after numerous scrapes. She wanted to discuss the scene in the gardens, but even as the words were poised on the tip of her tongue, she bit them back. To air Drake’s secrets would be a betrayal. He’d spent these past years cultivating an image of himself for Society, and she’d not rob him of that—not even for her mother.

  Her mother wrinkled her brow. “Emmaline?”

  Emmaline settled for a meager explanation. “I believe there is more to Lord Drake than anyone truly sees.”

  Her mother’s probing stare bore into Emmaline and she resisted the urge to fidget like a little girl who’d been caught sneaking away from her governess.

  “Does this—” her mother paused, “more, merit your waiting for him to finally make you his wife?” Her mother continued. “I spoke to Sebastian. He only wants you to be happy. I am of like mind.”

  Surely her mother wasn’t saying what she thought she was? “Mother?”

  Her mother stroked the crown of her head. “You know my dear, even as I respected your father’s commitment to the betrothal contract, there has always been a part of me that has ached for all the opportunities you missed.”

  Emmaline made a dismissive sound. “I haven’t missed anything.” She strove to reassure her mother, but they both knew Emmaline wasn’t being truthful.

  Mother went on like Emmaline hadn’t spoken. “Oh, at the time, the arrangement between our families made tremendous sense, and I respected your father’s meticulous planning of your future. It had seemed right at the time, safe…” She paused. A sigh escaped her. “I have watched as the years slipped away, Emmaline. Watched you grow and mature and have felt a longing for you to have a real, un-entangled Season. I’ve wanted the pleasure of seeing you courted, of seeing suitors arrive with bouquets of flowers, and penning sonnets lauding your beauty. How selfish is that of me, my dear?”

  A wave of guilt swept over Emmaline for silently agreeing with her mother’s words. Nonetheless, she shook her head emphatically. “You have never been selfish.”

  Mother’s throat worked, bobbing up and down.

  Oh, please don’t cry. I cannot bear it when you cry.

  “I have deprived you of those experiences that by rights should have been yours. And should you so desire them, I will see that they are made available to you.”

  In other words—her mother would support a termination of the contract. The thought of her betrothal being severed caused Emmaline’s chest to constrict painfully in a way that made breathing difficult. “Thank you, Mother. I—I am not yet certain.”

  Her mind steeped in logic told her to simply state the words her mother had given her leave to speak. Her heart, at that precise moment, called them back, froze them on the tip of her tongue.

  Soft hazel eyes caressed her face. “Just say the words. You will be freed.” She pressed a kiss to Emmaline’s brow, stroking back the tendril that had escaped its chignon and dangled over her eye. “Shall I remain with you?” The strand again sprung loose.

  Emmaline shook her head, brushing it back behind her ear. “I am fine, Mother.” The last thing she wanted was company.

  So of course at that moment Sebastian strolled into the room.

  “What’s going on here?” he drawled lazily. He dropped into the mahogany rose-velvet sofa adorned with winged lions and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  God, she hated that sofa; those nasty lions were all the rage. The beastly piece of decor rather ruined her favorite room in the house. In fact, she might have sought out another room, if it weren’t for the view of the gardens.

  “Are you almost ready? We’ll be late to the hospital.” she asked, desperate for escape. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to hurry him out. “Let’s go.”

  “We were discussing Lord Drake,” their moth
er explained.

  Emmaline wanted to stamp her foot. She handled them quite well on her own but when Mother and Sebastian were together, they were quite grating. “Can we do this later?”

  Sebastian’s dark green eyes narrowed to unreadable black slits. “What about him? What is there to discuss, other than whether or not you want to end this farce of a betrothal?”

  She probably had the only guardian in the entire Kingdom this eager to sever ties with one of the most powerful titles simply because his sister was not happy. Sebastian seemed to take Drake’s disinterest as a personal slight. And Emmaline loved him for that.

  Mother’s gaze alternated between Emmaline and Sebastian. “I’ve already spoken with Emmaline on the matter, Sebastian.”

  They both ignored her.

  “I asked you to trust me,” Emmaline snapped at her brother.

  He sprung from his leisurely pose; his spine stiffened as all feigned attempts at nonchalance disappeared. “And I told you yes, but with limits. You have been making a fool of yourself, Em. This is what you expect me to trust? You want me to blindly look away while you arrange your schedule to—”

  This time she couldn’t help it…she stamped her foot. “I certainly don’t want you confronting him and trying to force his hand!”

  A slight knock and the sudden appearance of a servant at the door cut off Sebastian’s diatribe. Emmaline was never more grateful for the sudden appearance of another person in her life.

  A liveried servant came forth with a silver tray bearing an envelope. He cleared his throat. “Pardon, the interruption. You have a note, my lady.”

  She accepted the envelope, aware of her mother and brother intently studying the parchment in her hands.

  Recognizing the dark, strong scrawl at the front as distinctly different from Sophie’s wide, flowing letters, Emmaline turned the thick ivory envelope over in her hands. She noted the lion-emblazoned gold seal and trailed a fingertip along the raised surface. She hesitated and lifted the blade from the servant’s tray. Her fingers trembled as she slid the tip under the seal and withdrew the note.

  “My Dear Lady,

  I cannot believe you enjoy reading this drivel. I am writing to inquire as to your progress with your copy. And of course, to ask after your well-being.

  —Drake

  All day she’d been consumed with anxiety of how Drake would address what had transpired in the gardens. Her greatest fear had been that he would humble himself with an apology he need not make.

  A burst of relieved laughter escaped her.

  Sebastian had been the Duke of Mallen for almost three years, and most of the time epitomized the role to perfection. This time was not one of them. In his haste to sit up, he almost slipped off the sofa. “What does it say?”

  Maybe if she’d been weaker she would have given him the information he sought. But this was still the same brother whose steps she’d dogged, the same brother she’d played pranks on as a young girl, and to her, he would always fit that role.

  She waved the note in the air. “It says you’re a nosy busy-body who can’t mind his business.”

  The Duchess of Mallen looked to Sebastian. “Perhaps he has finally come to his senses?”

  Sebastian snorted. “I’ll believe it when she’s marching down the aisle on my arm,” he said.

  A smile played about Emmaline’s lips. If she had her way that was just how it would be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dearest Drake,

  I wonder if you even know my middle name. As my betrothed, I rather feel you should. It is Rose. I’m not much of a rose. Sebastian forever tells me I’m more of a thorn upon the rose. I would like to tell you what I call him, but that wouldn’t be ladylike.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Drake had convinced himself to send ’round a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, offering up his regrets for their annual ball. After what had transpired earlier that morn, coward that he was, Drake had wanted to avoid his betrothed.

  He’d sat down to dash a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, making his excuses. For the better part of an hour, he’d stared down at a blank piece of parchment. In the end, all he’d done was drip black all over his desk.

  Lady Emmaline was some kind of enchantress who’d managed to weave a magical spell over him, depleting him of his wisdom, leaving him well and truly—bewitched. For at that moment, in spite of his intentions to avoid her, Drake stood behind the Earl of Mooring’s pink marble pillars and studied Emmaline.

  He’d known Emmaline since she was a small girl and had only ever seen her as a bothersome child, the daughter of his father’s very good friend. Then she had become a responsibility…well, a future responsibility, anyway. But sometime, Drake didn’t know when, she’d changed from the little girl who’d been perched on the chair opposite him in her father’s library to a headily desirable woman.

  He hadn’t thought of her as a responsibility in a long time. Instead, she’d become a mischievous young woman who defended those in need of defending, who talked to her plants…and of course, liked a good Gothic novel.

  And he had fast become enraptured.

  The irony was not lost on him; he’d gone to bloody war to avoid the very woman he now so desperately ached for but couldn’t have. This morning’s episode only cemented that truth.

  Someone in the ballroom stepped between Drake and his direct line of vision, temporarily blocking Emmaline from sight. “Move,” he whispered, willing the matron away. Drake sidled to the left and peered around the pillar just in time to see Emmaline throw her head back and laugh at whatever Miss Winters had said.

  Her smile transformed her.

  Then, as if she felt his gaze caressing her, she froze and surveyed the room, until her eyes landed on the pillar that hid his frame. She tilted her neck to the side and her lips turned up in secretive smile as if she knew he was there.

  He needed to see her. Not in this clandestine manner, but up close. Suddenly, of their own volition, his feet were leading him from his spot behind the column and carrying him over to her seat.

  All day he’d debated what he would say to explain the incident in the gardens. Even as his long strides carried him across the ballroom and to her, he realized he’d run out of time to come up with excuses, but didn’t care. All he cared about was being with her.

  “Lady Emmaline, may I have the next set?”

  Emmaline’s mouth formed a small moue of surprise and Miss Winters nudged her in the side.

  “Ouch,” Emmaline exclaimed.

  Miss Winters colored and grasped her elbow. “Oh, dear. I fear I must have done something to my elbow. It seems to be moving erratically.”

  Drake arched an amused brow at the young lady, who must have felt she needed to throw in further proof for good measure, because her elbow jerked again.

  “See? Why, there it goes again.”

  Emmaline glanced down at the card hanging from a string on her wrist. “Although hesitant to leave Sophie in her present condition, I will make an exception and abandon her to accompany you in the next set, my lord.”

  She shivered when his hand touched hers.

  They took their place at the dance floor for the next set.

  The musicians began to play a waltz.

  Now that he held her, Drake, who was usually so urbane, didn’t know what to say.

  “My lord, are you well?” she inquired haltingly.

  He could have pleaded ignorance to what she actually referenced, but he wasn’t that much of a coward.

  “I wanted to apologize for…for what happened,” he fumbled, faltered through the apology. “I do not know what overcame me,” he lied. He did know exactly what had overcome him. “I have worried over your welfare.”

  Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. “There is nothing to apologize for,” she said. “You forget I have an older brother.”

  Drake would wager that her older brother had ne
ver put his hands on her and if said older brother did, then Drake would beat him within an inch of his life.

  Emmaline said nothing else for a moment. “Does…this…happen to you frequently?”

  Drake swallowed, and wished for the first time that they’d danced anything other than a waltz, because then there would be a natural separation, and he’d have time to craft a vague response. He fixed his gaze over her shoulder. “It has gotten better, though there are moments when I am…when, it still occurs.” Surprisingly, he felt oddly freed by the admission.

  “Do certain things trigger these episodes?”

  For the first time in three years, Drake wanted to confide in another human being. He hadn’t shared any part of his transformation with his father or Sin, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of fear that they would realize he had a touch of madness. Something about this small slip of a woman, made him want to share this part of himself with her. “Certain noises startle me. The sound of a gun will sometimes trigger a reminder of the war.” He smiled wryly. “Needless to say, I no longer attend hunting parties.” He shrugged. “That is all.”

  *

  That is all.

  Oh, Drake. Her heart bled. How had he dealt with this alone for all these years? Why didn’t you come back to me? Why didn’t you let me be your wife, and help you heal?

  But he was here before her now. And that was enough. She wanted to remind him life could be uncomplicated and peaceful.

  “It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  The muscles beneath his midnight black jacket tightened under her hands. “No, of course not. Every gentleman has bouts of madness,” he replied sardonically, an edge to his words.

  “You are not mad,” she said vehemently.

  “How do you know? How do you know the man you have made it a point of pursuing this Season, the man who is to be your husband, is not a madman? How can you trust I won’t hurt you?”

  “You would never hurt me.”

  “Never intentionally. But what if I didn’t realize what I was doing? Like….like…” The incident in the gardens.