by Nichole Van
“Lord Rafe—”
“Lennon, lass. The name is Lennon. Lennon Robert Gordon.” He glanced down at the valise at his feet, nudging the LRG initials there.
Sigh.
“Lennon Gordon. Of course—”
“Is this your maid?” He interrupted, shooting a glance at Martha, who sat watching the entire exchange with bulging eyes.
“Yes.”
“The one that—”
“Yes.” She changed the topic. “Why the disguise?”
Was it her imagination, or did his expression freeze?
A small pause.
“Sometimes I like to keep my movements . . . secret . . .” was his reply.
Which was less of an explanation and more of an obvious statement. Clearly, he wished to travel north undetected. The son of a duke didn’t take a public stagecoach because he enjoyed rubbing elbows with the masses.
“Secret? But why? There is no inherent shame in traveling to Edinburgh,” she said.
“No, there is not.”
The maddening man said nothing more, though something hard and unyielding flashed in his eyes.
Foolish Lord Rafe. Did he not know that tenacity was her one and only power? If she had been born a sorceress, tenacity would be her signature enchantment.
She would uncover his reasons.
“Hmmmm. Allow me to guess.” She tapped her lips. “You are set to meet with a paramour and don’t wish to upset her husband?”
It was a standard Rakus lasciviosus maneuver.
Jack had been particularly fond of it.
“Ah, no.” He shook his head. “Permit me to say that I do not, as a general rule, consort with married women.”
Sophie sat up straighter. That was . . . surprising.
Again, how little she actually knew him.
She glanced at the battered case emblazoned with his initials. The bottom of his kilt rested on it.
“Any other guesses?” he asked.
“Hmmm. You have an unnatural love of the works of Sir Walter Scott and decided to re-enact Rob Roy?”
“Nae, though I’m no’ opposed to the thought.”
“You wished to test my primus theories as they pertain to a Scottish Highlander?”
He grinned, that confusingly intense warmth in his eyes. “Nae, lass.”
“Well, you have confounded me.” She rested her hands on the table. “Aside from an irrational attachment to wearing a kilt and riding in public stagecoaches, I cannot think of another reason.”
“Ye cannot?”
“No. Why not travel in your own carriage? Or via horseback, at the very least? I am sure your father’s stables are impressive. The servants of the Duke of Kendall would never tell tale of your destination. I warrant your father hires men of discretion.”
“Aye, of a surety.” Was that bitterness in his tone? “But those same men will always report my goings and comings to my father.”
Venom laced his words, that same steely glint flashing in his eyes.
Now that was interesting.
Fascinating, really.
She was unaware there was a rift between Kendall and Lord Rafe. She had never heard mention of such a thing and, given the tension between Kendall and Mainfeld, she would definitely have heard if anything were amiss in the Duke of Kendall’s household. Lord Mainfeld would chuckle with glee over it.
Against her better judgment, she felt Lord Rafe drawing her in.
She leaned farther forward. “And so when you wish to avoid notice, you pretend to be Scottish?”
“I am Scottish, lass.”
Oh. “From your mother?” Belatedly, Sophie remembered her taxonomic entry about him. His mother hailed from Ayr, south of Glasgow.
“Aye. I wear my heritage proudly.”
“That is fairly obvious.”
She struggled to see the gentlemanly Lord Rafe in his current attire, to find the English duke’s son underneath it all.
But the opposite effect kept occurring. The more she looked, the more she felt like she was finally seeing the true Lord Rafe Gilbert. As if the London rake was nothing more than a polished veneer, but the Highland kit revealed Lord Rafe in his true form.
Why was that? And why did she care?!
“Do you often wear a kilt and all the . . .” She motioned a hand to indicate his attire. “. . . rest?”
He had to wear it often. What else could account for his ease in inhabiting it?
“Only when I want the lasses to notice me.” He shot her a wink and a grin.
Her brows drew down. How instinctual was this man’s need to flirt?
“Lord Rafe—”
“Lennon, lass.”
Grrrr.
“Lennon—is that truly the case? You don Highland dress as a form of mating plumage? Display your colors like a Pavo cristatus?”
To his credit, Lord Rafe scarcely blinked at her comment. Instead, he lounged back in his chair, eyes laughing.
“Are ye calling me a peacock, lass?”
“Your plumage is quite colorfully loud.” She permitted herself a small smile.
“Careful, lass, or I might take tae calling ye my bird.” He winked again.
Oh!
His words crossed a line from charming flirting to something . . . weightier. He did not actually wish a future with her, as his words implied.
And yet, his eyes were warm, deep pools of soothing chocolate. He tilted his head, giving her that signature slow-burn smile which caused his dimples to pop, everything about him saying quite clearly, I am overwhelmingly attractive. How can you not adore me?
Much to Sophie’s eternal annoyance, she did find him overwhelmingly attractive.
Fortunately, his overly-flirtatious behavior was a brisk dowsing of much-needed Reality.
He did not mean his words. He never had.
She broke away from his gaze, clearing her throat.
Just because his plumage had changed colors, she couldn’t allow herself to forget that his behavior likely had not.
He still saw her as a plaything.
When would she ever learn?
Once a rake, always a rake.
Like the primus tomcats she had studied, a Rakus lasciviosus liked to play with his food. Lord Rafe endlessly toyed with her, pulling her near in one moment, and then pushing her away the next.
Just as Jack had done . . . ignoring her for long stretches of time, to only come begging when he needed something.
“I need you to speak to your father,” Jack said, opening a conversation without any preamble, despite the fact that Sophie hadn’t seen him in days.
“My father?” She looked up from her seat before the parlor fire.
Her husband swayed in the doorway, his blond hair rumpled and askew. His bleary eyes scanned her up and down.
“I need some blunt.” He walked a crooked line into the room.
She stilled, the words a lead weight in her stomach. Had he been racking up debts again? After he promised he would stop?
“If you need blunt, then I suggest you speak with Lord Mainfeld yourself—”
“If you possessed an ounce of wifely feeling, you would assist me in this!” he snapped, slumping onto the sofa before the fire, head lolling back, eyes shut.
The scent of brandy and cheap perfume eddied into the room behind him, leaving little doubt as to his activities.
Sophie bit back angry words—
If you were any sort of husband, we wouldn’t be in this mess.
Nausea clawed up her throat. Was this what her life had become? Tolerating a husband who spent his nights carousing around London? Begging her father for funds on his behalf?
Perhaps a legal separation between them would be for the best. Her father had suggested it last time they spoke.
Jack cracked a bleary eye, not misunderstanding her stony expression.
“Perhaps I should do more than simply speak with my father, then,” she countered. “Perhaps it’s time I returned to his household—”
“Ah, love. You are my wife. My dearest heart.” He smiled, strained, as if professing his affection were physically painful. “You don’t mean that—”
“I most certainly do—”
Sophie shook off the memory.
Never again.
Her heart and affections were not toys to be used and discarded at will.
“My lady? Are you content to leave? I have settled our bill.” Sophie’s footman, James, stood before the table, eyes darting between Lord Rafe and herself, clearly trying to determine if he needed to do something about the imposing Scot.
Lord Rafe raised an eyebrow at James in his livery before turning his gaze back to Sophie.
Yes, her eyes said. I did listen to your advice.
“Thank you, James,” she replied, standing up. “I am quite ready to depart.”
Lord Rafe lurched to his feet, his manners as a gentleman too ingrained to change as easily as his clothing.
“Good day, Mr. Gordon.” She nodded her head, sweeping past Lord Rafe.
She felt his gaze follow her as she crossed the public dining room.
She did not look back.
She had already traversed this path with Lord Rafe, purchased a season subscription to the Heartache and Stupidity Revue.
If nothing else, Sophie learned from her past mistakes.
One painful lesson at a time.
13
The following afternoon, Rafe was trying to remember why he had chosen to take a public stagecoach instead of simply riding a horse north.
Ah, that’s right. He enjoyed having every bone in his body jarred loose.
He grunted as a particularly deep rut jolted the carriage.
At least he rested atop the coach at the moment, escaping the stuffy confines of the interior for the crisp autumn weather outside. A mother and her two children sat on the bench in front of him, the woman crooning a lullaby.
Rafe leaned his back against an obliging traveling chest strapped to the roof, watching the landscape bounce past.
He tried, yet again, to tamp down thoughts of Lady Sophie—her expressive eyes, the keen sharpness of her intellect. His heart had nearly stopped beating when he spotted her sitting alone with only a maid in the crowded public dining room in Stilton.
Thankfully Lady Sophie had listened to his advice and had at least a footman and likely a coach and coachman with her, too. His concern had dropped dramatically as he had watched her leave the dining room, her footman glaring at people to keep their distance.
If only his own troubles were so easily sorted. He had no idea how he was to escape marrying Lord Syke’s daughter before Christmastide. Unless Dr. Ross could offer solutions for the duchess, Kendall’s stranglehold on Rafe’s future felt absolute.
Furthermore, the letter about The Minerva and his supposed crimes weighed on him. It was the sort of thing that gave a bit of a jolt when first received, but as all the implications of it sank in, the entire situation became more of an earthquake than a simple tremor, threatening to upend his life entirely.
The largest question? Who knew about the events of that day three and a half years ago?
They had long assumed everyone involved—except for the Brotherhood—had perished. It had seemed impossible to think otherwise. Surely if some of the crew had survived, they would have heard tale by now.
So either the letter and notice in the Edinburgh Advertiser came from a friend or family member who knew of the events—and there were a few of those, though why they would threaten the Brotherhood was a mystery—
Or . . . someone, against all odds, had survived.
Could Jamie have survived?
The thought would not be silenced.
And yet . . . if the youth had survived, Jamie would have found a way to contact them. It was impossible to think otherwise. The carpenter’s mate was too loyal, too stubborn.
“Try again,” Rafe called, lifting his rapier into a standard en garde position. Jamie matched his movements. “Ye’re not keeping your weight properly balanced.”
“Balance isnae the problem, I ken,” Jamie replied with a helpless grin, trying to swipe the blade and failing miserably. The blade tip sank downward. “I’m too small, and my arms are just a wee bitty too weak.”
“Nonsense. Ye have plenty of strength, Jamie. Ye simply need to practice. Try again.”
With a toss of the head, Jamie lifted the rapier, despite sporting an arm nearly shaking with fatigue. Jaw clenched in determination, steel in the eyes—
Rafe shrugged off the memory.
Jamie had been fencing like a master by the time they reached Sydney. The youth was resourceful, tenacious, and infinitely clever. If Jamie had survived the wreckage of The Minerva, the Brotherhood would know. There was no other explanation.
The stagecoach jolted again, causing Rafe to grunt. The children sitting in front of him laughed, climbing on their mother.
Rafe settled further into his seat, pulling his kilt tighter around his shoulders to block the chill autumn breeze.
Thoughts of Jamie and the rocking of the stagecoach called to mind the rocking of a ship. Memory took Rafe back to the South Pacific. Images floated through his mind—the village children racing Jamie and Kieran down the beach in Vanuatu, Ewan hunched over his sketchbook sketching Jamie laughing as the villagers looked on in wonder. Somewhere in his musing, Rafe drifted off to the children’s chatter.
A bullet whizzing beside his head shattered his sleep.
He lurched upright as a second bullet flew past.
What the hell?!
In his disoriented state, for a brief moment, he thought he was still aboard The Minerva.
A pounding on his cabin door. Gunshots above deck.
Jamie screaming, “Hurry, my lord! Ye must get out tae save yerself!”
Fully awake an instant later, Rafe had his pistol in his hand and had ducked down behind the bench when the third and fourth bullets struck the side of the coach.
A single thought pounded through his brain:
They’ve come for me.
Whoever was behind the threatening letter and post in the Advertiser had decided to take matters into their own hands.
But as quickly as the idea floated through his head, Rafe kicked it away.
Focus, man.
He was no longer in the South Pacific.
He was on a stagecoach somewhere between Newark and Doncaster, being fired upon by brigands, most likely.
Rafe turned and peered through the bench slats, assessing the situation.
Yes, there hadn’t been a stagecoach robbery along the Great Northern Road in quite some time, particularly in broad daylight. The age of highwaymen had passed nearly half a century ago. But it would be absurd in the extreme to think these bandits had anything to do with Rafe specifically, much less the recent threats he had received. He was in disguise, after all.
Besides, hadn’t there been rumors of highwaymen in this area? He had said as much to Lady Sophie, hadn’t he?
The mother atop the coach with her two children had ducked down—the bairns screaming hysterically—giving Rafe a clear view of the road in front. The coach lurched and bounced. The driver whipped the horses, sending the coach careening down the road, trying to outrun the brigands. A passenger seated beside the driver bent down to retrieve a rifle.
Trees whizzed past, the stretch of road ideal for lurking highwaymen. Shots rang out from the trees. The passenger beside the driver took aim and fired.
Spinning in his crouched position, Rafe scanned the forest, finally seeing the shadows of horsemen there. He counted four of them.
Damn and blast.
As irrational as it seemed, his first thought wasn’t for his own safety, but that of Lady Sophie. There was no telling which route she was taking, not to mention where she was at the moment—she could be behind or in front of him for all he knew—but he immediately wished her far away from this chaos.
Glancing ahead, Rafe could see a narrow
bridge over a river. The driver was clearly racing for it. Smart man. If they could make the bridge, the brigands wouldn’t be able to surround the coach, allowing them to make a proper stand.
Another shot rang out.
Rafe whipped around.
A rifle cracked from below, another passenger inside the coach also returning fire. One of the brigands fell off his horse. The bouncing of the coach along the rutted road made aiming difficult, but Rafe took aim with his own pistol and squeezed off a shot, winging another rider.
The rifleman atop the coach reloaded, firing again. Another would-be highwayman toppled.
More shots rang out, this time coming from behind the brigands. Another coach appeared on the road, two gentlemen in a curricle, one brandishing a pistol. The remaining highwayman scattered into the trees, melting away.
Rafe should have felt elation, but instead unease threaded through him.
Had that been too easy? Had the would-be robbers given up too quickly?
Are you sure this isn’t related to that letter?
He grimaced.
No. No, he wasn’t sure at all.
Rafe turned around, yelling at the driver that the threat had been neutralized, but the man couldn’t hear over the rattle of the coach.
Ahead, the bridge drew closer, arching over a rushing river. The carriage turned slightly to careen over it.
But the stagecoach was traveling too quickly and the edge of a wheel caught on a groove in the uneven stonework. The coach tipped precariously to the left. The vehicle was so top heavy with luggage and people that it didn’t stand a chance of remaining upright. With a creaking crash, the stagecoach sloped sideways onto the bridge railing.
People screamed. Horses whinnied.
The mother and her children tumbled to the side, jarring the younger child from her grasp. Without thinking, Rafe caught the wee girl before she could tumble off the coach and pushed her back into her mother’s arms.
But in doing so, he lost purchase on the bench, upsetting his balance. He scrambled for a hold, but his hands came up empty.
He barely had time to snatch a breath before crashing into the chilly water below.
Sophie was resting comfortably in her coach, tucked beneath a warm wool blanket, reading a treatise about the habitat of the American turkey, when she heard gunshots.