Romancing The Rake (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  Grant’s expression became stonier. “I cannae rightly say about Ross. Alls I know is this—Ross spent some years as Kendall’s personal physician, and Kendall awarded the man a house in Edinburgh in his later years as token of his esteem. Sounds like friendship to me.”

  Sophie darted a look at Rafe. He absorbed Grant’s words with a stoic calm.

  Unfortunately, it all made sense. If Dr. Ross had been a servant of Kendall’s, perhaps one who had his father’s confidence at one time, it made sense that his father had provided the man with a house in Edinburgh. Then, when Ross’ health had deteriorated further, the man retired to Drathes Castle and the care of his sister.

  Rafe shook his head. “I dinnae believe your Bambury tale, Grant. If Ross were dead, if there were nothing to be had for us at Drathes Castle, ye woudnae be here—”

  “Ye should return to London, my lord,” Grant interrupted. “Your father wants ye there, I’m sure. Not here in the wilds of Scotland, chasing after a dead man, where anything could happen to ye.”

  Rafe gave another harsh laugh. “Touching,” his voice so sardonic. “How truly moving for dear old papa to care so about me.” He turned from the men. “I think we’ve gotten all the information we need here.”

  A few minutes later, Rafe and Sophie were back in the saddle, following the road through a thick forest. Rafe had placed the men, still trussed up like pigs, and their horses into the shelter of the forest, out of the elements as much as possible.

  “They’ll get free eventually,” Rafe said. “Until then, they won’t freeze to death. The horses will keep them warm.”

  The attack had terrified him. Rafe’s hands still shook as he gripped the reins. If anything had happened to Sophie—

  He swallowed back the terror of that thought, rage at Beadle and Kendall flooding him.

  How could those men have threatened Sophie’s life like this? How dare they?!

  Harness the anger. Use it for good.

  Hah!

  That was proving easier said than done.

  The snow had tapered at the moment, though a dark bank of clouds roiled on the horizon, promising more before evening. He urged their horses onward, Sophie behind him. They had to make Aboyne and the drovers inn before nightfall.

  Sophie guided her horse around a muddy puddle, nudging her horse forward to ride beside him. “Do you think Grant will continue after us?”

  “’Tis possible, I suppose.” Rafe tugged his cloak closer. Thankfully, the surrounding trees cut the wind.

  Sophie sniffed. “I certainly doubt the truth of what Grant said, that he only wished to warn us. However, the true reason he fired upon us is a mystery.”

  “Precisely. Perhaps Bruiser is simply an opportunist. This pass is the fastest route to Aboyne and Drathes Castle. He could have simply come this way, knowing me to be the son of a wealthy duke and thinking to rob us.”

  “Also possible, but unlikely. I think Grant and Beadle are acting based on something Kendall expects of them. But what? Your death?”

  “I have no idea.” He breathed through the anger in his chest. “My father may threaten, but I do not think he wishes me dead. He prefers manipulation over brute force. Besides, even dukes are not outside the law when it comes to killing others—”

  “But Grant was sent to deter us from continuing onward, and he did shoot at us,” Sophie pointed out. “Is there a reason your father would wish to kill you?”

  “Besides my own intransigence?” he snorted, shaking his head. “There is nothing. My death would be a disaster for him, to be honest. My elder brother has yet to produce an heir. I am Kendall’s best hope of continuing the ducal line.

  “Besides, the bastard takes great pleasure in having me at his beck and call to do his bidding. My death would remove his favorite toy.” His tone so bitter. “The bigger question is this—” Rafe looked at the looming clouds. “Do we continue onward to Drathes Castle?”

  Sophie answered him readily. “Of course, we do. There is a chance that Grant was telling the truth, that Dr. Ross is dead. But it all seems havy-cavy to me. It is just as likely that there is some secret here that Kendall wishes to protect. And uncovering such a secret could be the first step to freeing yourself.”

  “What possible secret could there be, though?”

  Sophie shrugged. “Is it not odd that Dr. Ross knows your father? That Kendall knows the man who is most likely to have the knowledge to help your mother?”

  “Have ye always been this clever?”

  “Oh, aye, laddie.”

  Rafe chuckled, but it quickly faded. “I have thought that, yes. My father knows Ross well enough to give the man use of a townhouse in Edinburgh. Surely he knew that Dr. Ross might be able to assist his duchess. And yet . . . I had never heard a whisper of the man until Alex mentioned him.”

  “If you ask me, it’s all the more reason to continue on to Drathes Castle.”

  “Agreed.”

  They rode in silence for a while, side-by-side, Rafe trying to curb his wayward thoughts, to stem the habitual anger and helplessness he felt whenever pondering his father.

  But so many questions loomed.

  What was truly going on between Kendall and Ross?

  Was there possibly a link between his father and the mysterious letters sent to the Brotherhood? It seemed almost farcical to think that, and yet, it was impossible to dismiss.

  Though Rafe believed what he said. Kendall would not kill him. To injure Rafe would be to lose his favorite pastime—tormenting his second son.

  But by sending Grant after them, his father had taken the gloves off between them.

  Harness the rage. Use it for good.

  Perhaps it was time to rebel more earnestly.

  How desperate was his father to have a grandson? Desperate enough that Rafe could hold it over the man’s head? And if Rafe could prove that Kendall had hired Grant to fire upon him . . . even dukes were not immune to prosecution for attempted murder . . .

  And if Dr. Ross were able to improve his mother’s health even partially . . .

  Mmmmm.

  “You’re smiling,” she observed. “I take it you have found some hope?”

  He bent in the saddle and kissed her lush mouth, unable to stop himself.

  “Aye, lass,” he vowed.

  Somehow, he would make this come aright.

  24

  Drathes Castle emerged from the sleet and fog in jagged bits. A tower first, then a crumbled bounding wall, the side of a fractured turret.

  A broken fairytale.

  Ahead of Sophie, Rafe guided their horses along the rutted path barely visible through the snow.

  After leaving Beadle’s men at the bridge, they had reached Aboyne without further incident and stayed the night in the drovers inn there, a spartan but clean place.

  But when they had asked the innkeep in Aboyne about Drathes Castle, he had crossed himself before saying he did not meddle in the affairs of his betters and then refused to say another word on the matter.

  That was ominous.

  Fortunately, an ostler had given directions to Drathes. And so at first light, they had traveled the last three miles to the castle, eyes peeled for ambush, turning down smaller and smaller tracks until following a battered sign across an old stone bridge to the castle itself.

  Drathes Castle came more fully into view, emerging from the mist. The building rose as a single rectangular structure from the base, branching to cantilevered turrets supported by impressive corbels on the upper floors.

  Nudging her horse forward, she pulled alongside Rafe. He shot her a glance, face wet from the weather.

  “So this is Drathes Castle, is it?” Sophie pulled her earasaid and cloak tighter around her.

  “Aye.”

  “It doesn’t appear very . . . castle-like.” She had to say it. Though it had several fanciful turrets, it looked more like a single keep than a typical walled castle, as if someone had begun a castle and then petered out after only constructi
ng the central tower.

  Rafe surveyed the building, squinting as if to see better through the sleeting rain, before shrugging. “Eh, it’s a Scottish castle. Unlike castles in England, the Norman motte-and-bailey construction never reached this far north. And we Scots are a practical lot. We don’t waste time on embellishments that do not contribute to survival. Only an eejit spends money on bonnie bits and bobs instead of gunpowder, lead shot, and more manpower. Scots built their castles to allow a handful of men to withstand marauders with only a single door reinforced by a yett. Most are more multi-storied tower house than castle in any real sense.”

  Sophie nodded at his explanation. They rode into the large clearing before the castle, bringing the entire structure fully into view.

  “Is it . . . Am I . . .” She started, stopped, and then turned to him. “Is Drathes Castle . . . pink?”

  He nodded.

  It was, indeed, pink. A mottled, splotchy pink.

  The color stood in stark contrast to the barren hills behind it.

  “Why . . . pink?” Her tone was utterly baffled.

  Rafe smiled. “Pink castles are not as uncommon as ye may think.”

  She turned and fixed him with a look. “Surely you jest. Scots are supposed to be fearsome warriors, inspiring terror. A pink castle is more merry than intimidating.”

  “Nae, ye have it all wrong, lass. We’re practical, remember? Most Scottish buildings are covered in harling—”

  “Harling?”

  “Uh . . .” He mentally searched for the English word. “. . . roughcast, the lime plaster that keeps the damp out of the stones. Many of the hills in this part of Scotland have red-tinted soils. So when the harling is mixed, it creates a pink color. ’Tis nothing more than that.”

  Sophie absorbed his explanation with a raised eyebrow. “The pink is practical, then? How disappointing. I wanted to find it amusing.”

  “Amusing?”

  She shot him her primmest look. “I have bravely refrained from making a scathing remark about men who wear skirts and live in pink castles. You should appreciate my forbearance.”

  Rafe laughed.

  Of course, the closer they came, the more dilapidated the harling appeared, crumbling in places, revealing rough, gray stone underneath. A single trail of smoke drifted up from only one of the many chimneys.

  No one was about as they circled to find the door. No groom or stable boy came to snatch their reins.

  The place felt abandoned. In fact, if the chimney smoke didn’t indicate someone was in residence, Sophie would have thought the structure derelict.

  None of it boded well. Perhaps Grant had spoken truth, after all. Dr. Ross was dead, and the castle was barely inhabited at the moment.

  They stopped before the entrance, a solitary step leading to an imposing-looking door, an iron grate before it ajar—the yett, she supposed.

  Frowning, Rafe dismounted and then helped Sophie down. The misty sleet was rapidly turning to snow. If this entire journey had been for naught, they faced a cold ride back to the inn in Aboyne.

  Rafe knocked loudly with the affixed rapper, the sound echoing beyond the door.

  Nothing.

  Sophie looked to him, arching an eyebrow.

  He rapped again, more vigorously.

  Nothing.

  “Truly?” he muttered. “We have come so far.”

  Just as Sophie considered actually trying the door handle, they heard the sound of shuffling feet, then metal grinding as the lock was thrown.

  The door creaked open.

  A wizened elderly manservant peaked out, a shock of white hair sticking from underneath a blue bonnet. He wore old-fashioned knee breeches and a frock coat, but a length of green-and-brown tartan circled his chest almost like a blanket.

  The old man was a wee bit worse for wear. He looked at them, eyes blinking against the light, and then shook his head.

  “I dinnae know yous.” The man waved a gnarled hand. “On yer way.”

  He turned and slammed the door shut.

  The lock engaged with a loud sha-shunk.

  The sound reverberated up the entire structure.

  Sophie was quite sure it knocked the air out of her lungs as well.

  Of all the—

  After everything—

  She shot Rafe a glance. Was her expression as outraged as his?

  Rafe studied the door before him, struggling to rein in his temper.

  They had come so far, been shot at (twice!), suffered cold, wretched food, and snowy mountains. Not to mention the snow that had commenced falling, yet again.

  Someone would damn well answer this door!

  Rafe would learn if Dr. Ross lived. He would have some reasonable explanation as to why his father wished to warn him away from this place.

  He rapped again, louder and longer than before.

  The same shuffling sound, the same lock being thrown.

  The door opened again to the same elderly manservant.

  “We are here to see Dr. Ross,” Rafe said before the man could say anything.

  “Who?” the man blinked. “Who did ye say?”

  “Dr. John Ross. We would like to speak with the good doctor.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Aye, Dr. Ross. We’ve come all the way from London, in this weather—” He waved a hand to indicate the falling snow. “—with an urgent matter for him.”

  “Who?” the old man scanned Rafe from head-to-toe, brows puzzled.

  “Dr. John Ross,” Rafe repeated, enunciating each word clearly.

  I . . . I . . .” The man froze, that frown still in place. “I dinnae ken anyone by that name.”

  Sophie gasped at Rafe’s side. Or perhaps it was only his own sense of surprise.

  “Is this not Drathes Castle, sir?” Sophie leaned in. “We were told that Dr. Ross lives in Drathes Castle.”

  “Drathes?”

  “Yes.” She gave the man a dazzling smile.

  The poor old chap didn’t know what hit him. He blinked and stared at her, instantly enraptured.

  Rafe could hardly blame him. Sophie’s smiles did have a tendency to dazzle the senses.

  “Is there anyone else we could talk to?” Rafe asked.

  The elderly man jolted, looking away from Sophie, eyes confused. He shuffled sideways and glanced at their horses, standing before the door. But like a compass finding north, his eyes swung back to Sophie again, staring at her intently.

  “Horses shouldnae be left in the snow, Cat,” he said to her.

  Before Rafe could reply to that bewildering statement, the man turned and yelled, “Boy!”

  A scuttling noise and then a lanky young man popped his head out from a side door.

  “Horses!” The old man snapped his finger.

  The lad took in Rafe, and then gave a start when his eyes landed on Sophie, jaw dropping slightly—again, Rafe couldn’t blame the lad, Lady Sophie was rather alarmingly pretty—before touching a forelock and racing into the snow to take their horses toward the dilapidated stables.

  Rafe turned back to find the old man still staring at Sophie.

  “Come,” the man said, turning away.

  Rafe waved Sophie inside before closing the door behind them. They stood in a small vestibule that sported a pair of doors on two sides and a staircase on the third. The old man was slowly climbing the steep stairs, obviously expecting them to follow.

  Hanging their dripping cloaks on a pair of convenient hooks and setting gloves and hats on a side table, Rafe and Sophie followed the old man deeper into the castle, quickly catching him as he reached the top of the steep staircase.

  Turning to his left, the man walked through an arched doorway, leading them into what had to be the great hall, a standard feature of all Scottish castles.

  In medieval times, the great hall had served as a dining room for the clan, a gathering place in times of war, and a municipal hall when the local laird had to mete out justice. Nowadays, it was demoted to a grand sort
of drawing room.

  This particular great hall appeared to have been untouched over the centuries. A large table dominated the center of the room, flanked by windows on one side and an enormous fireplace on the other. A low fire smoldered in the hearth.

  Snowy sleet continued to lash the windows, rendering the room dim and gloomy despite it being only midday. But bits of the room came into shadowed focus. White-washed walls soared two-stories up to a decorative plasterwork ceiling, the walls dotted by paintings and the odd piece of medieval weaponry. Chests and chairs lined the perimeter, giving the space a hodge-podge, lived-in feel.

  Rafe’s eyes followed the old manservant. The man muttered to himself, slowly shuffling into the room, Rafe and Sophie forgotten.

  Now what were they to do? Was Dr. Ross even among the living?

  “Sir?” Rafe said. “We need tae speak with Dr. Ross. Do ye know where we might find him?”

  The man turned around, eyes slow to focus on them. “Eh, what did you say? Dr. Ross?”

  This again?

  “Aye,” Rafe answered.

  The old man blinked. “Why do ye wish to speak with Dr. Ross?”

  Ah. Perhaps there was hope here after all.

  “We seek his medical advice on a matter of some urgency. Is he at home?”

  The old man laughed in reply, turning toward the fireplace, probing it with a convenient poker.

  Rafe grimaced, exchanging a glance with Sophie.

  “Perhaps there is someone else we can speak with,” he muttered. Surely there were more people about than just this old man and the lad who took their horses to the stables?

  The old man shook his head, reaching for a brick of peat from a basket beside the hearth. He tossed it on the fire where it hissed and popped.

  “Will the boy return from the stables soon, do you think?” Sophie murmured at Rafe’s side. “This poor old man is clearly doddering.”

  “Aye, that he is. Would it be too much tae hope that Dr. Ross still lives and takes on men like this as charity cases? Diseases of the mind are his area of specialty, after all.” Even to Rafe’s ears, this idea seemed far-fetched.

  “Or perhaps this man was a loyal retainer at one point, and the doctor hasn’t the heart to turn him off?” She shot Rafe a wan smile, as if to buoy his own flagging optimism.