by Nichole Van
Violet blinked. And then blinked again.
Honestly, no one had ever asked her that.
“I don’t . . .” She paused and then shook her head, neck craning back to meet his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Well, there ye are. I would think that should be your first goal. Discover if ye even like managing crop rotations and researching farm techniques. That’s what I would do.”
He had leaned closer as he spoke, the heat of his body looming larger and larger.
The attraction that had been simmering between them flared, like a spark to dry tinder.
His eyes drifted down her face, as if painting her to memory.
Violet certainly felt touched. Everywhere his gaze landed burned as if scorched. Forehead. Cheeks. Lips.
He might as well have dragged a fingertip across her skin for how it tingled and goosebumped to attention.
Her chest heaved, her heart lurching to a gallop.
“Ye may have been born a countess,” he continued, voice barely carrying to her ears, “but it is a testament tae your sense of self that ye can still feel apart from it. As ye said, ye are Violet Kerr . . . no more, no less. A whole world encompassed in that. Duty and concerns of the estate aside, why not discover what Violet Kerr likes and dislikes? What is it ye desire tae do? From there, ye might be able to suss out the shape of your future.”
Longing clenched Violet’s chest in a vise.
He was right, of course.
It was brilliant advice.
Unbidden, her eyes drifted to the cliffs behind him. To thoughts of falling and chasing what was forbidden.
Because . . . what if, after all that soul-searching, she decided she wanted him to be her future?
And what happened when she longed for a future that could never be?
14
So this is the address ye were given?” Rafe asked, peering out of the carriage window.
“Aye,” Andrew said, brow furrowing as he followed Rafe’s gaze.
Ewan couldn’t blame his friends for being hesitant.
The carriage had come to a stop before a stone cottage on the outskirts of Old Aberdeen, the original medieval town just north of Aberdeen proper. The noon-day sun peeked through the clouds, trying to banish the gloom with only marginal success.
The cottage was a ragged sort of place from the worn thatch of the roof to the oilskin nailed over the small windows. Every line of the structure proclaimed the poverty and pain of those who lived inside.
All in all, not unlike a typical blackhouse on the western isles.
Not that Ewan said as much.
“Perhaps I should have had my Runner actually visit first,” Andrew continued.
Rafe grunted.
The plan had been simple. Andrew’s Runner from Bow Street acquired the address of the witness the magistrate had interviewed—the unknown second crewman who had survived the wreck of The Minerva. The Brotherhood had wished to visit first, fearing too much attention might send their prey scurrying to ground, as Captain Cuthie had done.
Though his friends had not directly said as much, Ewan knew he was along to act as hired muscle. Not that Andrew or Rafe viewed him that way exclusively, but there was no need to shrink away from a bald reality.
Cuthie was a violent, cruel man. His crew had not been much better, particularly the men most loyal to him. If one of those men lived in this cottage, trouble would not be far behind.
And now, staring at the cottage through the carriage window, Ewan could not dismiss the idea that this place was one of violence and hardship. It practically oozed from the dank gray stones, a dark, red-tinged miasma.
But they needed answers. Who was placing the notices in newspapers? How had Cuthie, and potentially others, survived? And, most critically, might Jamie have lived?
Everything pointed to their friend being dead. Jamie’s silence alone confirmed it. But the murkier the situation became, the harder it was to believe that fully.
“I’ll go knock first.” Ewan nodded at Rafe and Andrew seated across from him. “Be the burly manservant.”
Andrew and Rafe frowned, their expressions nearly synchronized.
Ewan leaned away. “What did I say?”
“We did not invite you along to be our bodyguard, Ewan,” Andrew said, voice flat. “Rafe and I are fully capable of defending ourselves.”
“Aye. We asked ye tae come because we value your input,” Rafe seconded.
Ewan raised his eyebrows. His friend’s comments were . . . unexpected.
“I . . . thank ye,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “But truthfully, youse both realize that it makes sense tae send the Highlander tae the door first, right?” He motioned to his great kilt, the plaid a length of Jamie’s tartan today. “They willnae be suspicious of me.”
Rafe shook his head and sent his eyes skyward. “Such lack of suspicion comes from your uncanny ability tae put others at ease.”
“Aye,” Andrew agreed before waving him on. “Out with ye. Go be your gentle Highlander self.”
Ewan huffed a laugh and saluted them before stepping out of the carriage. The cottage was only one of several houses down this wee lane. He could feel cautious eyes peering out of doors and windows. Fortunately, Andrew had the good sense to bring a plain black carriage instead of a gilded one decorated with his coat of arms. But still, a private coach of any sort was certainly unusual in these quarters.
Ewan knocked on the cottage door. He could hear the wail of a babe and the scuffling noise of children beyond.
No male voices, at the moment. Thank goodness.
Just because Ewan could fight, it did not therefore follow that he relished the prospect.
The door creaked open.
Two wee brown eyes set in a wee dirty face stared at the bottom of his kilt and then traveled up, up, up to finally lock eyes with him.
Ewan smiled.
The eyes widened and the door slammed shut.
“Ma, there’s a giant on the stoop!” a child’s voice rang out.
Mmmm, perhaps he should have allowed Rafe to come, after all.
Frowning, he leaned forward and called through the door, roughening his accent. “I’m no’ a cruel giant. More of a friendly one, if ye must know.”
That may or may not be true, Ewan supposed, depending on who else was behind the door. He wasn’t always gentle, no matter what his friends said.
“I simply wanted tae ask youse a question if ye wouldnae mind opening the door,” he continued.
Another scuffle. The hiss of voices back and forth.
The door creaked open.
This time a woman’s wary eyes met his. She was thin and haggard, a child on her hip.
“How may I help ye?” she asked, licking her lips nervously.
He recognized the expression in her face. He had seen it countless times growing up.
Despair. Desperation. Defeat.
Mhairi would look like this. If she yet lives, that is.
The thought flitted through before he could bat it away. And on its heels that salmon-colored feeling scoured him . . . the lingering anguish and anger, all laced with his own impotence and cowardice—
Ewan swallowed.
“Ewan Campbell, at yer service.” He nodded at the woman, pasting a placating smile on his face. He spared a glance at the children behind her, their eyes wide as they scanned his bulk.
“Ye said ye have a question for me,” the woman replied.
“Aye. I ken that ye have some connection tae the men on The Minerva.”
Ewan may as well have slapped her. The woman’s head went back and her nostrils flared.
Her wary expression increased a hundred-fold.
“Did the magistrate send ye?” she hissed, leaning forward. “I already told ‘em all I know.”
Ewan held up his hands. “I’m no’ from the magistrate. In fact, I was on the ship, too.” There was no reason to hide the information. “I lost a good friend when The Minerva sank. I just w
anted tae know who else had survived and how.”
Her expression relaxed slightly. She glanced behind him. Ewan followed her gaze and noted that Rafe and Andrew had stepped out of the carriage.
“They were on the ship, as well,” he said, turning back to the woman.
She hesitated, obviously wary of inviting three large men into her house.
Ewan pulled a half-crown from his pocket and extended it to her. “For your time.”
She looked at the coin. Ewan knew full well it was probably more than she saw in an entire month.
Finally, she nodded and snatched the coin. “Very well.” She opened the door wider.
Ewan stooped down and entered the cottage.
The interior was just as mean as the exterior. Bare, unplastered walls. Sparse furniture. The stench of unwashed bodies and rotting straw on the floor. His head brushed the low wooden ceiling.
Nothing about this scene was new for him. It was as if he had stepped into his own childhood.
He counted three other children, all several years older than the babe. Two sat on the solitary bed in one corner. The other stood against the opposite wall. A weak fire flickered in a fireplace at one end of the single room.
At least the house had a fireplace. The house he had grown up in only had a fire-ring in the middle of a hard-packed dirt floor.
Rafe and Andrew stepped in behind him, nodding at the woman in greeting.
The woman darted a glance at them, surely noting the fine cut of Rafe’s coat and the winking silver of Andrew’s buttons.
She turned back to Ewan in his humbler great kilt and simple coat. Just as he would have, in her place. Talk with the man who was someone more like herself.
“I suppose ye be wanting tae know what I told the magistrate,” the woman began, licking her lips. “It isnae much, unfortunately. My husband is Robert Massey.”
Ewan sucked in a breath.
Massey.
Captain Cuthie’s first mate. A brute of a man. Whereas Cuthie had an almost preternatural ability to inspire loyalty in his men, Massey’s only talent was sowing fear and administering pain.
Mrs. Massey shifted the baby to her other hip, bouncing him as he fussed.
One of the children grabbed a polished stick and handed it to the bairn. He snatched it and began to gnaw, drool dribbling down his chin. Likely teething, the poor thing.
Mrs. Massey shot them a nervous look. “We was told Robert had died, ye see . . . drowned in the wreck. But then he showed up last summer. Just walked through the door, as if he had only been out for a pint at the pub.” She darted a glance at the other children and then back at the babe in her arms. “But . . . Robert had been gone for nigh upon four years by that point. I thought he was dead. We didnae have any way tae care for ourselves with Robert gone, as he was. And so I had tae find a way tae . . . provide for my bairns.”
Ewan looked again at the baby.
Ah. Yes, that math wasn’t hard to do.
Mrs. Massey met his eyes, intuitively seeing him as someone who had to make similar choices.
Ewan nodded. He well understood the desperation of impending starvation.
“Ye can imagine how Robert took tae finding wee Samuel here. He was only a month old at the time. Robert wasnae understanding of the . . . decisions I had made, thinking he was dead. He had a lot tae say about it.”
Ewan mentally winced. He was quite sure he understood exactly how Robert had expressed his anger over being cuckolded. He had seen too many bruises on women growing up.
What compromises had this woman had to make over the years? Could this be Mhairi’s lot, as well?
A sick sensation coiled in Ewan’s stomach, cold and clammy and pink.
Why hadn’t he tried harder to reach her? Why?
Though . . . he had returned, just once, had he not?
But to no avail.
I’ve already cast ye out once. Ye need to stay gone, Ewan. I dinnae ever want tae see ye again.
Was he right to not have pushed harder? To have resorted to a letter to the vicar instead of traveling back to Loch Carron himself?
Or were these just excuses he told himself, to justify running from the pain of his past like a coward?
Mrs. Massey swallowed. “Finally, after he had said his piece, Robert calmed down and told us the tale of his shipwreck. He claimed that only he and Captain Cuthie had survived. The ship had been nearly obliterated in the explosion—”
“Explosion?!” Andrew said, his voice a little too loud.
Mrs. Massey flinched, raising her arm up to shield her baby.
The motion broke Ewan’s heart.
Andrew stared at the woman, eyes wide with horror, reading her reaction just as Ewan had.
“No one will hurt ye,” Ewan held out a calming hand.
“Aye,” Andrew said, tone much quieter. “My sincerest apologies. I didn’t mean to startle ye.”
Mrs. Massey relaxed her arm and nodded, cuddling her babe tighter.
“Please continue, Mrs. Massey,” Ewan said. “We hadnae heard anything about an explosion. We thought the ship dashed upon a hidden reef.”
She shook her head. “The magistrate asked me the same question. What did Robert mean by an explosion? But Robert didnae say anything else beyond that. Just that he and Cuthie were thrown clear of the boat in the explosion, as they were standing on the quarterdeck at the time. Them’s were his exact words. I suppose it could just mean that the ship hit the reef with an explosion or somesuch. I dinnae ken what he meant exactly by an explosion.
“The crew were killed, Robert said. Every last one of them. Robert and Cuthie managed tae gather together enough boards from the wreckage tae fashion a wee raft. They sailed for two days, following the currents, until they reached an island. There was a small village on the island, and they lived there for two years until an American ship visited. It took them a good while tae work up the money for passage back home. That’s alls I know.”
She turned to the babe again, bouncing him.
Andrew cleared his throat. “There have been notices published in papers in Aberdeen and Edinburgh. Do ye happen tae know anything about them?”
She shook her head. “No. Robert certainly isnae behind them. He isnae the sort to waste coin on such a thing.”
Two hours later, Ewan sat across from Rafe and Andrew in the private dining room of an inn in Old Aberdeen. The remains of haggis with mashed neeps-n-tatties sprawled across the table. Ewan relaxed back, relishing the feeling of a full stomach. It never lasted long, unfortunately.
“I’m going tae send my steward to Mrs. Massey,” Andrew said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I reckon there is a wee cottage on my land that could benefit from a tenant to tend the garden there.”
“That’s right kind of ye,” Ewan replied. “She shouldnae be left tae pay for the sins of her husband.”
The fire popped in the grate.
Rafe took a sip of his whisky. “What do we do with her information?”
“We’ve been saying for months now that Jamie’s silence is the only proof we need. That Jamie has tae be dead.” Ewan reached for his own glass. “But Massey and Cuthie took over three years tae return to Scotland—”
“—so possibly, Jamie is alive and has simply taken longer to return to us,” Rafe finished the thought.
“Precisely.”
None of them wanted to maintain false hope. Nothing led them to believe that Jamie yet lived.
And yet . . .
“Will ye still count me a friend when we’re old and gray, Ewan?” Jamie laughed, leaning against the railing of the ship.
“Aye, Jamie,” Ewan smiled. “That I will.”
“How do we tell Kieran about this?” Andrew let out a heavy sigh. He raised his eyes to meet Ewan’s.
Ewan shrugged. “In his last letter, Alex said Kieran was somewhat improved—or, rather, had at least stemmed the tide of his drinking.”
“Do we have tae tell him?” Rafe countered.
“Aye.” Ewan said. “I think we do.”
“It won’t go well.” Andrew scrubbed a hand over his face.
Rafe nodded in agreement. “Kieran seems to be . . .”
“On a razor’s edge?” Andrew offered, reaching for the whisky bottle.
“Aye,” Rafe said. “I sometimes think that his grief feels . . . disproportionate.”
Ewan squirmed, the secret he held pulsing in his chest.
Kieran’s grief is well-founded, he longed to say. Any of us would behave similarly, given the same situation.
Instead, he bit his tongue to keep from spilling secrets that weren’t his own.
Andrew stared glumly into the fire before swallowing back the remainder of his whisky.
“How go things with Sir Joshua?” Rafe asked.
“Excellent.” Ewan eagerly embraced the change of topic. “The painting is going well.”
His friends stared at him.
Rafe cocked an eyebrow. Andrew sighed and made a beckoning motion.
Right. They wanted more.
Ewan rubbed the back of his neck. “Sir Joshua has been encouraging me to submit to the Royal Academy Exhibition.”
“Hah! We’ve been saying the same for years now.” Andrew slapped his hand on the table. “Have ye begun the painting ye will submit?”
“I cannae say for sure,” Ewan replied.
Andrew and Rafe poked and prodded until Ewan told them all about Sir Joshua’s comments, his own sense of indecision, and the challenges facing him as he worked—namely assisting Sir Joshua and painting the portrait of Lady Kildrum.
“Lady Kildrum, eh?” Rafe tapped his chin. “Seems like I have an acquaintance with her. Tall? Brownish hair?”
“Aye, that would be her. Painting her portrait has been an honor. Her ladyship has become something of a . . .” Ewan drifted off, trying to think of the right word. Confidant? Pal? He finally settled on, “. . . friend.”
Friend.
The simple word felt too small and yet, somehow, too intimate. Who was he to claim a friendship with the Countess of Kildrum?
He thought back to that last conversation in his greenhouse studio. Lady Violet facing him, washed in light pouring through the skylights overhead, the vivid blue-green of her eyes mimicked in the ocean behind her.