by Lisa Bingham
Sullivan bent to tuck the sheets more tightly around Richard’s shoulders. “The two of you are vulnerable here. The natives are aware that we sometimes stay at this cottage. They are loyal to us, but I’m not sure if the Englishmen have brought a translator and what lies they might employ to force a confession. Take care of him.”
“I will guard him with my life, if necessary.”
Rupert’s voice was slightly husky, and the evident emotion gripped Sullivan’s own throat, but he swallowed past the tightness and straightened. Unsure of what else to say, he hesitated, then finally held out his hand. “Take care of yourself as well.”
Ignoring Sullivan’s outstretched palm, Rupert hauled him close for a bone-crushing embrace. “You know I will.”
Sullivan walked determinedly from the cottage. At that one instant when his powerful figure was framed in the narrow arch and juxtaposed against the blackness beyond, Rupert believed him to be the savage he intended to play. His long hair, golden bare skin, and brief attire somehow gave him an air of invincibility.
Then he was gone, leaving the house bereft of his vibrant energy. Sighing, Rupert limped toward the hearth and sank into the only chair. He rubbed the ache that lingered deep in his twisted knee and angled a little closer toward the heat of the fire.
Noting the puddle of wax being greedily consumed by the flames, he ruefully admitted to himself that Sullivan had destroyed his taper before the two halves could be compared. Rupert doubted Sullivan’s piece had been shorter than his own, but he’d made no effort to challenge Sully’s decision. Rupert had long since accepted that his younger brother would go to great lengths to protect his family—whether it meant deflecting Gregory’s anger, saving Rupert’s pride, or challenging Richard’s foes. And now …
As of this evening, Sullivan had another, more serious objective to attain. He was about to confront their enemies and demand recompense for three decades of wrongs. His success could mean the life—or death—of the Sutherland heir. It could mean the destruction of the happiness they’d managed to find, or it could be the first seeds of a lasting peace.
A trickle of fear slithered down Rupert’s spine. He didn’t like the fact that Sullivan would be confronting the English bloodhounds without his help. But it was the only option available. Richard was far too ill to be left alone even for a short while. The day had come to discover who chased them.
There was no one better to accomplish the feat than Sullivan. A rage had been burning in him since their father had admitted he was not John Sullivan Cane, but Richard Albert Sutherland III, sixth Earl of Lindon.
Lindon …
Closing his eyes, Rupert tried to sweep his own demons aside. But even Richard’s mumbled groans could not drown out the memories. As clearly as if it were yesterday, Rupert could see his father’s haggard face. He’d drawn his sons near with gnarled, work-worn hands and sighed in remembrance of happier times. When he’d spoken, his last words had carried the sharp sting of warning.
“Richard is heir to the Sutherland estates. Guard him well … guard him well. Treachery has carried me to this island. Although I’ve found a measure of joy, my enemies will not rest …
“Until they find him, too.”
Chapter 2
Firth on Forth, Scotland
June 1835
Whoever had argued that revenge could never be sweet had obviously not tasted it upon his own tongue.
The braid-covered slit of Chelsea Wickersham’s cape flapped beneath a taunting burst of cool, salty wind, and she caught the restless flutter of cloth with a gloved hand. When the gust of ocean air shifted, calmed, she released her grip and tucked a stray strand of red-gold hair away from her cheek. She stood motionless upon the beach, staring seaward into the gloom.
A few yards away, waves bashed and slithered against the shore, their white, effervescent foam teasing the edges of wet sand like a coy maiden’s flounce. Chelsea remained quiet beneath their beckoning rhythm, feeling certain that if she kept still enough, silent enough, she could melt into the darkness. Then no one would ever know she’d been there. Or that Richard Sutherland had arrived.
The heavy night wrapped around her shoulders like a woolen shroud, and she squinted against the mist caused by the crashing breakers to the left. Some hundred yards out to sea, she managed to pinpoint the towering masts of The Seeker as the ship tugged at its anchor. The craft gleamed in the moonlight, obviously as well cared for as it had been when Biddy’s husband had owned it.
Less than a week had passed since Chelsea had been notified of the clipper’s imminent arrival. Less than a day had passed since she’d journeyed to Firth on Forth. Less than an hour had passed since the vessel had struggled against the tide and taken position ten miles north of the actual wharf. But to Chelsea, each second had stretched into an eternity.
“Shall I go and retrieve him, mum?” The hushed, worried tones melted from the blackness.
Chelsea’s lips softened into a hint of a smile as she acknowledged the portly, balding man who waited next to the battered skiff. “As soon as they signal, Mr. Smee.”
“Yes, mum.”
The curve of her mouth faltered, then faded. A knot of expectancy settled in her chest. Chelsea searched the water, fear and hope warring for supremacy in her breast.
To think that for months she had been dreaming of this night. It seemed like only yesterday she’d begun to believe in the impossible. She clearly remembered the afternoon when Dowager Lady Beatrice Sutherland had appeared to disrupt the tedious rote of habit Chelsea had begun to call life.
Chelsea had been walking with the Barrinshrop children in Hyde Park when her elderly friend had stepped from behind the gnarled vines of a wisteria plant that wound about an arbor support. It had been more than a year since they’d visited last, but so much had changed in the interim. Chelsea’s heart ached when she saw the gentlewoman wearing a threadbare gown that was so patched and faded that the stamp of haute couture had long since disappeared into obscurity. Her hair—which had once been the luxurious color of gold and as thick as the pelt of a fox—had grown snow white, its texture fine and thin. Despite the definite nip to the prewinter day, she’d worn no hat, no coat, merely a wisp of a knitted shawl clutched tightly around her neck. The inappropriate covering had underscored a once-beautiful face lined with worry and regret.
Beatrice hadn’t approached Chelsea directly. Beckoning to the younger woman, she had waited, her expression haunted, until Chelsea found some diversion for her charges. Offering the twins a bag of bread scraps from a nearby peddler, she’d sent the children in search of ducks to feed. Then, making her way beneath the frost-withered vines covering the pergola, she settled on the worn bench beside the dowager.
So small, so frail, Beatrice Sutherland should have been unable to inspire anything more than pity, compassion, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude. But leaning close, Beatrice had whispered one word in Chelsea’s ear and thereby instinctively touched the embers of a long-buried need.
Justice.
The event had occurred more than three years ago. Since then, the two women had plotted and fretted and dreamed—until this very night, when all of those machinations were about to come to fruition.
“Look, mum! I see something!”
Chelsea noted the arc of a lamp being swung back and forth from the deck of the distant ship, and her pulse beat a little more quickly.
“That’s our signal, Mr. Smee,” she concurred, her own voice ringing with excitement. “Be as swift as you can. We must be at the inn before midnight.”
“Yes, mum.”
Smee hurried toward the boat and pushed it into the surf, leaving Chelsea to wait. Alone.
The sea breeze that skimmed her cheek was balmy, but Chelsea grew stiff with anticipation as she watched Smee row into the blue-black water. Even at this late date, so much could go wrong. When a British sailor had come to Beatrice with the fragment of a letter from her son and
the portrait of a young boy he proclaimed to be her heir, she’d immediately sent an investigator to find her family. The man had been able to determine that Richard Albert and his wife had died and that her grandson had been living on the island where her son had made his home.
Upon hearing that news, Biddy had immediately hired a pair of men to rescue poor Richard. Calling upon the good graces of the captain of The Seeker—who was an old family friend—she had implored the gentleman to fetch Richard. But months had passed since then. Long, endless months.
In all that time, they’d received only one message. A few weeks ago, a crew member from a swifter vessel had delivered a brief missive:
Prepare payment. Richard, Lord Sutherland, found. Evidently raised a heathen and a savage. Make necessary arrangements.
Several times, Chelsea had wondered what “necessary arrangements” they were supposed to have made, but the strange content of the note was of no consequence now. Richard Sutherland had finally arrived in England. Although Richard Albert and his wife, Julie, had presumably died since no trace of them could be found, the boy had been freed from the horror of his parents’ exile. With education and nurturing, he would soon become the refined gentleman he’d been born to be. Chelsea would see to that herself. It was something she’d become very good at doing.
For some time, she’d been one of the most sought-after women in all London. Not because of her supposed breeding but because of her reputation as a governess. She had cared for the youngsters of earls and dukes, foreign dignitaries, and royalty. After a brief sojourn as companion to the Princess Victoria, she’d been able to select her positions from a plethora of offers, even though she’d grown to abhor her work.
Chelsea’s clear blue eyes surveyed her surroundings with an innate restlessness developed by years of begrudged privacy. She’d grown to hate the word governess and all it entailed. She hated the pranks, the long hours, the snobbishness. But most of all, she hated the men who’d thought she’d been free for the taking. Titled “gentlemen” who’d believed that because she educated the children of the manor, she must have something to teach the master as well. She’d become so skilled at rebuffing their inappropriate attentions that not one of them had ever guessed how close they’d come to the truth.
Chelsea would have left them all—the children, the sour-faced mothers, the lecherous fathers—if not for the fact that she had no other means to support herself. Her father had died just weeks after Chelsea celebrated her thirteenth birthday, leaving her destitute. Only one man had been drawn to her beauty and spirit and stepped forward to help her. Nigel, Lord Sutherland, the seventh Earl of Lindon.
Completely naive, shy, and astounded that such a great man would deign to serve as guardian to the impoverished daughter of an Irish ferryman, Chelsea had allowed him to sweep her away from her home …
Into the very depths of hell.
It had taken her three years to escape. Three years of imprisonment behind the sugared bars of pretty clothes, the finest of private tutors, and a pink marble manor. Only when she’d begun to realize that Nigel was grooming her for the position of his mistress and not for a place in society had Chelsea found the courage to leave.
Within days of fleeing her guardian, she’d found herself embroiled in an untenable situation. Penniless, she’d searched for some means of support, only to discover that even with her extraordinary education, there was a dearth of employment opportunities. The only positions she’d found available to women were those of dressmaker, prostitute, or governess. Since Chelsea had shown no skill with the first two choices, through Beatrice Sutherland’s help she’d accepted the third. But she’d never forgotten the man responsible for her plight.
The wind lashed the smooth contours of her profile, but she remained immovable, the fiery heat of her determination burning even brighter. She knew her actions over the next few weeks would threaten her very existence. If things went awry, she would never find employment in England again. Nigel Sutherland would see to that. She had changed her name and her identity since that morning she’d run away from Lindon Manor, a home hidden deep in the Earl of Lindon’s Scottish estate. But Chelsea knew he was quite aware of where she’d gone and what she’d done. He dogged her every step like an ominous cloud. Her current position in the community remained secure only because of the things she knew about him, the intimate, awful details. He had chosen not to challenge her—yet.
But the thought of possible repercussions did not dissuade her. She would see to it that Nigel paid for his indiscretions. He had hurt so many people, ruined so many lives. She wanted him to admit his sins to all the world. Then, if she went hungry for the rest of her days, her triumph would amply feed her.
Mr. Smee approached The Seeker. She could see by the faint trail of phosphorescent bubbles left in the wake of his skiff that he’d pulled abreast and had taken hold of the cargo ladder draped over the ship’s side.
Soon. Soon.
Any minute now, Lady Sutherland would have her grandson. Her heir. Nigel Sutherland—the usurping cousin who had taken the titles—would have to crawl back beneath the rock from whence he’d come. He would be defeated without ever knowing how close he had come to destroying Richard Sutherland IV.
Her hand slipped into the pocket of her gown, closing over the miniature portrait that had been brought to Biddy. Richard Albert could by no means be considered a master artist, but the likeness of the painting should be near enough for her to recognize a dark-haired, hazel-eyed youth. There was no telling when the painting had been done, but she estimated young Richard would be somewhere between the ages of five and fifteen.
Chelsea peered into the ebony stillness around her to ensure that no one had noted the unusual activity on the deserted stretch of beach. Perhaps she’d grown overly suspicious in the past few years, but she couldn’t ignore a chance that something had gone amiss—a shadow out of place, a flutter of movement Nigel Sutherland could not be completely unaware of their activities. She had heard that the same seaman who had come to Biddy for a reward had gone to him as well. Chelsea could only hope that Nigel was not yet cognizant of how close they had come to retrieving the heir.
In order to keep Nigel from discovering that Richard was being brought to Britain, she and Beatrice Sutherland—Biddy, as her friends called her—had taken a great many precautions. Lady Sutherland had hired a coach and had gone to London as a diversion. Chelsea had come with Biddy’s servants, Smee and Greyson, to Scotland. There, they had opened Bellemoore Cottage and prepared for Richard’s arrival before riding on to Firth on Forth to retrieve the boy.
A threat of danger still remained, despite their careful arrangements. A single mistake could alert Nigel Sutherland to Biddy’s grandson’s arrival. If that happened, Chelsea had no doubts Nigel would do all he could to prevent Richard from inheriting—even going so far as to kill him. Nigel had gone to great lengths to guarantee that Lady Sutherland’s lineage would forfeit the title so that Nigel could inherit and pass the estates on to his own son. He would not allow the interference of another Sutherland male.
Far away, Chelsea heard the slap of oars. She watched the swell of waves and prayed she could spirit Richard away before anyone realized he’d been there. They must be on the first leg of their journey to Bellemoore and reach the inn at Dungetty tonight.
The rowing noises grew steadily louder as the little vessel bucked its way through the surf, then hurtled to shore. As the hull scraped across the sand, there was no more time to think or to worry.
Chelsea rushed forward to help secure the boat, then stood beyond the hungry lap of water as a pair of shapes disengaged from the bulk of the skiff and stepped onto the ground.
Immediately, she recognized the two men Beatrice Sutherland had hired to retrieve her grandson. Chelsea felt, rather than saw, their slick perusal and greedy smiles. She could not deny the warning rash of gooseflesh that raced over her arms as they approached.
Motioning
for Smee to remain with the boy, she approached the investigating duo. According to their agreement, no real names had been exchanged, no records kept. Chelsea had never seen their faces in daylight, but their effect on her was so instantaneous, she was sure that she could have picked them out of a score of similarly clad escorts.
“Gentlemen.” Knowing she must keep in control of the situation, Chelsea was the first to speak. “I trust you’ve brought the boy?”
The taller man, who went by the name of Smythe, stopped mere inches away. Of the two, he had always presided over the business transactions. His dark eyes, long, equine face, and receding hairline should have exuded an aura of trust; but after each encounter with him, Chelsea had the incredible urge to wash her hands.
He insolently dragged the cloth cap from his head. Chelsea had the feeling that the action had not been performed so much out of courtesy as because the jut of his visor had blocked a silver beam of moonlight from falling across the curves of her bosom.
“Yes, m’dear. ’E’s in the skiff.”
“We ’ad to put ’im there ourselves, we did,” added his companion, a man known only as Jones. In Chelsea’s opinion, he was a nasty, ill-featured ruffian—the sort proper women avoided by crossing to the opposite side of the street.
Noting her scrutiny, Jones stretched his lips into a suggestive grin that revealed cracked and blackened teeth. “When ’e ’eard we was bringing ’im to England, ’e put up a royal fuss. We ’ad to offer ’im a bit of … persuasion.”
“What did you do?” Chelsea drawled in her most forbidding tone.
Jones chortled in delight. “Now, missy. Don’t be gettin’ your pretty ribbons in a bunch. We was only followin’ what you tol’ us t’ do.”