by Nichole Van
Rafe whirled around in the crowd, desperate to track the speaker. He circled a group of sailors fresh into port.
Surely he was simply hearing things.
Surely it was merely the anger over his father bleeding into other aspects of his life.
The sailors parted, almost magically revealing a path that ended in the form of the last man Rafe expected to see—
Martin Cuthie.
Captain of The Minerva.
A man reportedly lost at sea nearly four years ago.
Rafe’s limbs were encased in ice, breaths labored in and out as he struggled to process what he was seeing.
He stared at Cuthie, checking over and over again that this was, indeed, who he thought it was.
The same salt-and-pepper hair.
The same craggy face.
The same voice that haunted Rafe’s dreams.
This man . . .
The cause of so much hurt . . .
A thousand images flashed through his head. The most vivid being Cuthie’s order to his men, lip curling—
Hold him steady, lads.
And then the searing heat of Cuthie’s knife slashing across his upper cheekbone.
To see Cuthie here. Now.
Cuthie had survived. Somehow, someway . . . the bastard had lived.
No need to wonder who had been sending them threatening letters and posting those notices into the Advertiser. It is exactly the sort of cowardly thing Cuthie would do.
Did the captain plan to blackmail them? Did he really think that Rafe and the others were so easily taken down?
Fury was a lit fuse inside him, anger a battle pulse in his ears.
Jamie had died, and despite every damn thing this man had done, Cuthie had lived.
Just like Kendall, Cuthie was a rat. A pestilence. A scrabbling parasite of a man, intent on sucking the life’s blood of everything and everyone around him.
There was no justice in this.
Why?
Why did those who killed and maimed and hurt prosper?
While those who tried to live a virtuous life—like Jamie, like himself—were doomed to be their punching bags? Taking the hits and never having a chance of truly getting free?
Rafe was moving toward Cuthie before consciously thinking about it.
Something in the air must have shifted, alerting the older man to Rafe’s presence.
Cuthie’s head swiveled.
He did not mistake the murderous look in Rafe’s eyes, the recognition there.
If Cuthie had even looked confused for a second, Rafe might have believed him to be someone else, that this man’s survival would have been impossible—
But Cuthie knew him instantly, understanding flashing across his expression.
The man stood taller, gaze wary.
“Lord Rafe,” he began, startling looks from those around him, heads whipping to look at Rafe. After all, lords did not generally stalk along Aberdeen’s wharf. “What a surprise to see ye here.”
Rafe kept coming, closer and closer.
The men around the captain stood back, correctly reading the murderous bent in Rafe’s eye, smart enough to not involve themselves in Cuthie’s business.
Cuthie finally understood that Rafe would not be stopping until he had his hands around the captain’s throat. The captain glanced around, quickly ascertaining that none of his supposed companions would be helping him. There were no crewmen nearby to protect him. No ruffians to do his bidding.
And so, like the inherent coward that he was, Cuthie turned tail and ran.
Rafe was more than ready for it, sprinting after him.
Dimly, Rafe heard someone shout his name, but the blood roaring in his ears drowned out all sound.
Cuthie dashed across the wharf, pushing his way through the crowd, Rafe close at his heels.
The older man didn’t stand a chance. Rafe had six inches, twenty years, and a lifetime of pent-up rage on Cuthie.
He caught Cuthie just as the older man darted into a narrow close beside an inn.
Snatching the captain’s jacket, Rafe whirled him around, slamming his back into the harling lining the stone building, the motion generating a satisfying thwap. The noise was so gratifying that Rafe did it again and again, punching Cuthie in the face and stomach with each thwump.
He initially intended to knock Cuthie’s head about and then demand some answers. Soften the man up so he would talk.
What had happened to The Minerva? What had happened to Jamie? Who else had survived?
But Cuthie struggled away and pulled a wicked-looking knife from his boot.
All questions flew out of Rafe’s brain. Blind rage filled the vacuum.
Cuthie came at him, knife raised. Rafe didn’t doubt that the man knew his way around a fight.
But Rafe wasn’t Scottish for nothing. He side-stepped Cuthie’s swipe and pivoted sharply, hacking an arm across the man’s forearm, sending the knife skittering along the cobblestones behind them.
And then Rafe truly let his fists fly. He danced on his feet, weaving in and out of Cuthie’s punches. Every thrown fist, every grunt was tinder for his anger, feeding the fury that raged within him.
Cuthie had held him prisoner, had hurt those he loved, had hurt Jamie . . .
Just like his father. Just as Kendall cut with his words and manipulative behavior.
And just like Kendall, Cuthie deserved to die for his crimes.
The captain was no match for Rafe’s fury.
Finally, Rafe slammed Cuthie face-first into the wall, pinning him with his body, wrenching one of his arms up between his shoulder blades. Cuthie squirmed and bucked, but Rafe was twice the man’s size and infinitely stronger.
“Did ye think to frighten us, old man?” Rafe shouted. “Did ye think a few letters and a posted advert in the Advertiser would scare us?”
“An advert?”
“Aye, ye eejit.”
“I dinnae know anything about any notice in the papers—”
“Shut it.” Rafe didn’t believe Cuthie, that the man knew nothing of the notice in the Edinburgh Advertiser. It was simply more of his lies.
“’Tis truth. I sent the letters—”
“Did ye? Why? Hoping tae scare us? Ye should’ve known we dinnae scare so easily. Ye were better off with us thinking ye dead.”
“I’ll see ye pay—”
“For what?! For trying to save our own lives? For saving the lives of those villagers?”
“Ye deserve it—”
“Like hell, we do. Andrew’s a wealthy earl. I’m the son of a powerful duke. Despite your legal technicalities, slave trade is a nasty, foul business. Do ye think ye can touch us now? We have the law and public opinion on our side.”
“I wouldnae be so sure as to what ye know, lad.”
“Where is Jamie Fyffe, old man?” Rafe hissed in Cuthie’s ear.
“J-Jamie?” Cuthie grunted. “I’ll n-never tell ye.”
“Ye will!” Rafe pulled harder on the old man’s arm.
Cuthie yelped in pain.
“D-dead,” the man spat. “Jamie is dead.”
“You lie!”
Cuthie grunted again but remained mum.
Rafe dug his elbow into the man’s spine, causing him to cry out. “Perhaps another round will loosen your tongue.”
Rafe shoved Cuthie’s face into the stone, punching him in the kidneys. The man twisted away, but Rafe was on him in an instant, taking them both to the ground. Rafe straddled the captain, pounding fists into the man’s face.
After a moment or two, some sense of rational thought broke through his blinding anger.
Cuthie was no longer fighting back. The man was whimpering, hands up to protect his head.
Rafe was pummeling an older, weaker man. It was anything but a fair fight.
When did Cuthie ever fight fair with you? When he chained you in the hold of The Minerva? When he had his men hold you down so he could slash your face?
Cuthie deserved
this . . . his past behavior, his cruelty needed to be avenged. Rafe may not be able to attack his father directly, but he could mete out punishment to Cuthie.
It was Rafe’s right.
Jamie was dead.
But . . . Sophie’s words floated through him.
Harness your rage and mold the energy into determination for good. Otherwise, I fear the power of it will destroy your soul. You will burn on the pyre of your hatred.
Abruptly, he saw the scene through her eyes—
Rafe beating an older man within an inch of his life, anger and hatred in his fists.
This wasn’t the man he wanted to be.
This wasn’t the man he wanted Sophie to love.
Rafe pulled away from Cuthie, standing up. The captain lay still. Unconscious.
What had Rafe done? The man still breathed, so Rafe hadn’t killed him, but what—
A whistle sounded from the harbor.
Dammit!
The packet boat!
But he couldn’t leave now, not with Cuthie here. They needed answers—
A hand wrapped around his elbow, pulling him backwards. Rafe went to shrug it off and looked into the eyes of Captain White.
“Ye bloody eejit, picking a fight at a moment like this. And with Cuthie, no less. His men will be here any moment,” the captain growled, turning away, half-dragging Rafe with him.
Rafe pulled on his arm, but White was determined, his grip a vise.
“I should let them beat ye senseless. That might cool yer anger, but Kieran would have ma hide,” White continued. “You will board my ship now if ye value yer own life!”
Some sense trickled through to Rafe. He knew first-hand how vicious Cuthie’s men could be.
Rafe finally noticed the crowd of people watching the scene from the mouth of the close, grim-eyed and wary. He saw the scene through their eyes . . . him bloodying an older man, being hauled off like a madman.
Nausea clawed up his throat.
He could run from Sophie. He could run from his father, from his past with Cuthie, from his responsibilities to his mother.
But . . . he could never outrun himself.
If he allowed Kendall and Cuthie to turn him into a monster, how was Rafe any different from them, in the end?
He allowed Captain White to lead him, the need to get away nearly suffocating.
Sophie’s words from days before cut into him.
Hate is a shield. A dam holding back a tidal wave of other, more painful emotions.
He had rejected those words.
But now . . .
Now . . . he felt them, viscerally, a raw twisting in his gut.
Emotion pounded through him . . . scouring, cutting, caustic.
Later Rafe would wonder how he managed to hold himself together as Captain White led him across the dock, as he was rowed out to the ship, as he was led to his private berth, the door slamming behind the captain.
Once there, Rafe lowered himself onto the small box bed, his shoulders crumpling, his body curling around itself. His fists ached, bruised and scraped. There was a twinge in his ribs where Cuthie had landed a lucky punch.
But with a heaving sob, he looked further inward.
And . . .
. . . there it was, behind his rage, behind his hate . . .
The promised tidal wave of pain and grief.
A veritable ocean of hurt, so deep and fathomless, its existence threatened to drown him.
Sophie had been so very right.
Just the thought sent a torrent of emotions flooding him.
How could his own father treat him with such cruelty? How could Kendall—the one person who should love and protect him above all else—treat Rafe with such brutal callousness?
The dam burst.
For hours, Rafe sobbed his grief.
Crying for the little boy who had been desperate for any scrap of attention from his father, who had sought the duke’s approval despite Kendall’s harsh words and biting disregard.
Crying for his mother and her pain and Rafe’s helplessness to stem it, the years of inaction and simply allowing Kendall to control them all.
Crying for every cruel and cutting remark, for every gleeful order.
Sophie was right.
Kendall might have been the catalyst, but it was Rafe’s own rage and hatred that were destroying him. He might be limited as to how he could respond to Kendall physically, but he could stop allowing his father to control his thoughts. Rafe could stem the hatred eating away at him.
Sophie cared about the welfare of his soul. Maybe he could harness his love for her and allow it to save him, to carve new paths into his thinking, turning his rage into a power to save himself from the drowning ocean of his hatred.
Finally—finally!—Rafe saw the Duke of Kendall for what he truly was:
A petty, small-minded man who had to prey upon others in order to feel some self-worth. A man who was incapable of love.
And in that realization—in the cleansing wake of his pain, in his soul-deep understanding of how to harness his hatred for change—Rafe knew his life would never be the same.
29
Sophie moved through the next several days as if in a fog.
Rafe had left. Part of her longed to race after him, to force him to battle for a solution.
To fight for them.
But no matter how many hours she spent thinking through possibilities, there simply wasn’t a solution for his mother without Kendall relenting in some way.
And, heaven knew, there was nothing she, Lady Sophronia, could do to force the Duke of Kendall to relent.
And so, instead, she did what she had set out to do when she left London—
She returned to her origin, her natural father.
John.
The man spent his days lost in his dementia, curled into a chair before the fire in the great hall, tartan wrapped around his shoulders and chest for extra warmth.
Sophie sat at his side.
Why had her mother never told her about John? Why the secrecy? Surely it wasn’t just his station in life. Sophie’s other siblings had similarly non-aristocratic fathers, and her mother spoke of them on occasion when Lord Mainfeld was not about.
But even an oblique reference to Sophie’s natural father would send her mother into panicked hysterics. Why was Dr. Ross a banned topic of conversation? Had their love affair ended badly?
But even that theory didn’t seem quite right. Lady Mainfeld clearly felt something for John, as she had gifted Sophie the chatelaine and watch he had given her in Naples. Her mother had kept the memento all these years, so it followed that she didn’t hate John.
Sophie could make no sense of it.
Instead, she spent time each day mentally cataloging the numerous ways she and John resembled one another. Their hands were eerily identical, the same long fingers and narrow fingernails, the same protruding bony wrists. She shared his ears and hair, the general structure of his face, but her eye shape and overall body structure belonged to her mother.
How she longed to learn more than surface, physical things about him.
Sophie would have liked to know her aunt, Catharine, better, too. But after their dinner together that first night, her aunt had retreated.
Oh, Catharine was polite and kind when Sophie did speak with her, but the woman gave every appearance of stringently avoiding Sophie’s company.
When John decided to nap, Sophie wandered the castle, just her and the whispered ghosts of the past.
What had her father been like twenty-five years ago? Who was the man that her mother fell for?
Catharine merely smiled sadly when Sophie asked her about it during the rare minutes that her aunt appeared.
“John was obsessed with the mind, with all the ways it can betray you,” Catharine said, watching John awkwardly dangle a bit of yarn to entice a kitten who had sneaked up from the kitchen. “It was as if he saw his own future and spent a lifetime kicking against it. All to no ava
il.” She waved a hand toward the back of the great hall. “There is a small study across the landing that houses all of John’s books, if you are interested.”
Sophie was very much interested. Perhaps there was something in John’s books that could help Rafe’s mother?
She spent an entire day closeted in the study, poring over the books that were important to him. John had liked to write comments in the margins, arguing with the authors. His intellect sparkled and shot off the page.
She went to bed that night unsure if reading her father’s comments had helped her to know him better or only deepened her sorrow over his current mental state.
Moreover, there had been nothing in John’s writings that outlined ways to treat melancholy.
John himself was no help, either. He was in an advanced stage of dementia. He remembered little from minute to minute. He would ask who she was a hundred times a day and each time Sophie would tell him—
“I’m Sophie. I’m here to call upon you.”
Sometimes he would respond. Often he would forget, only to ask her yet again.
Every now and again he called her Catharine, thinking her to be his sister.
Occasionally, he would become agitated until Sophie placed her chair beside his and wrapped his hand between hers. The simple human touch calmed him, grounded him.
Sophie didn’t mind the silence.
It gave her time to think, to realize that this was all she would ever have of her natural father.
There would be no joyous reunion, no homecoming.
The pilgrimage to piece herself together seemed to have gone all topsy-turvy.
She was supposed to go back to the beginning, to find herself there . . .
But like John, she feared she had gotten lost along the way. She had been sent down unexpected paths, losing her heart to a man she could not have.
And now, her search ended here, in a lonely castle buried in the Scottish Highlands, watching John struggle to remember people, to gather the scattered shards of himself . . .
Ironically, it all felt too much like herself.
Lonely. Lost. Unsure of where she had been.
Her current destination unknown.
Four days after leaving Aberdeen, Rafe stood in the hallway staring at the door to Kendall’s study, steeling his resolve to face his father.