The Only One (14 page)

“I believe Papa must have spoken with Giles. Everything was wonderful. And then . . . suddenly he was saying goodbye.”

“Pap only wants what is best for you.”

“I know. I also know Papa and you think Giles doesn’t deserve me. You would probably think the same about any man who tried to take me away.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Kit relented. Then he stiffened. “But the duke hurt you.”

“He is the man I chose. I have pledged my love to only one man. Giles is the only one I will ever love.”

Kit grunted what sounded very much like a snort. “Maybe if he had not broken your heart. I might consider your words if you were the same spunky girl as before his arrival.” He shoved to his feet. “No. Nothing ever remains the same. You’ve grown up. But don’t ask me to ignore his actions. I need to give this some thought.”

“What do you have to think about? All I need is your understanding.” She tilted her head, adjusting her gaze to his height. “And maybe a little help.”

“What kind of help?” There went that patronizing brow again. His arms crossed over his chest and his gaze held suspicion. She dearly loved her brother, but he sorely tried her patience.

“Take me to him.”

“Now I know you’ve lost your mind.” He dropped his arms and spun toward the door. She lurched, grabbing him before he could retreat.

“Aunt Cornelia is leaving within a fortnight. I can go with her.”

“No you will
not
,” he thundered. “Listen and listen well. Do not mistake my understanding for surrender. I know you, imp. Your tricks will not work on me. I came to cheer you up. Not to be hoodwinked. And you, my dear sister, need to face a few facts. The duke left of his own free will. What if you hie off to England and he rejects you again?”

Alex shoved back the emotions welling up inside. Doubt burgeoned at the possible truth of his words.

“I’m sorry, Alex.” The look on his face told her he’d rather cut out his tongue than hurt her with the truth. “You must see reason in this.”

She would not cry. Would not. Yet tears filled her eyes and brimmed over to her cheeks.

“Come here.” Kit gathered her into his arms. “You will not go to England.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “But I can carry a message.”

She jerked back. “You would do this for me?”

“Calm yourself.” He wiped a tear with his thumb. “Pen a message. If in a year you still feel the same way, I will take you to him.”

Kit slipped the missive into his coat pocket as he pulled the door behind him.

“Been in there long enough.” Ben shoved away from the wall he’d been propped on. Sam stopped his pacing and spun at the end of the hall.

“Well? What’s the verdict?”

“As I suspected.”

“What did she say?” Ben asked.

“She fancied him. He told her no. He broke her heart.” That about summed it up.

“The Brit will be missing his cods.”

“Do we go after him now?” Sam rubbed his hands together.

Kit hesitated, thinking over what Alex asked of him.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Ben frowned. “You were in there long enough to have Sam here, wearing the shine clean off the floor.”

“He told her she was too young.” Kit had perceived her anguish. He ground his teeth in anger. “Giles said he was a duke and his home was in England.”

“All of that is true.” Ben studied Kit’s face as if searching for hidden truths. “But you seem a mite pensive.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to let the blasted Brit get away with this,” Sam growled.

Ben had too much influence over their younger brother. The boy mimicked his speech as well as his actions.

“Of course not.”

“Then what do you plan to do?” Ben asked straight out.

He gave a shrug. “I simply plan to kill him.”

“I’m coming with ya,” Sam said without any hesitation.

“I’m going, too,” Ben declared. “At least let me get my pound of flesh before you shoot the bastard.”

“All three of us cannot go. Someone has to stay here and keep an eye on Alex.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed. “She just might take a notion to get on a ship and follow him.”

“Over my dead body.” Ben glanced to her bedroom door. Then he gave a meaningful glare to Sam. “Someone needs to stay here and make sure she stays put.”

Sam’s face screwed up the minute recognition dawned. “Why me?”

“You’re the youngest.”

“I get the hind tit all the time.” Sam grabbed his hat and smacked it across his thigh. “Dag blame it. I’m the last to do everything.”

“Well, Brother?” Ben asked Kit.

“We sail with the morning tide.”

Chapter 21

England

Lightning ripped violently across the night sky. The bellowing wind heaved, thunder roared, and rain slashed the windows. A fire burned low in the hearth. Leather and sandalwood drifted among the scent of scorched wood, suggesting warmth and comfort—the furthest thing from reality.

Dark clouds rolled in chaos, matching Giles’ mood. He clutched the glass in his hand as amber liquid glided smoothly down his throat and warmed his belly. He took another swallow, welcoming the burn. With every sip, his determination grew. Blot out his pain. Drown his stupidity. Blur the image of the one he simply could not erase. The one he could not get out of his head.

He dropped the sheer curtain and crossed the carpet in his cherry-wood study, and picked up a packet from the heap of correspondence littering his desk. Perceiving nothing required his immediate attention, he tossed the report from his land agent to another growing stack, then strode to the sideboard and grabbed the brandy bottle by the neck, splashing more liquid into his glass. In an effort to ease the guilt gnawing viciously at him, he took a long swallow. A small coating of amber liquid remained. A self-mocking smile twisted his lips.

He was not used to tucking his tail between his legs and licking his wounds. Venom coursed through his veins. Flames from the fire could not melt the cold rage chilling his blood, nor warm the hollow ache in his frozen heart.

He’d done what he had to do. He’d granted James Carmichael’s request. And somehow in the midst of it all, he’d turned into his own father. The man he hated above all others. A man who lived according to dictates with no consideration for another’s feelings. Emotions were not allowed. Sympathy not tolerated. Transgressions not forgiven.

He glanced at the portrait hanging on the wall above the hearth.

“You’ve won!” he yelled to the man who sired him. Surely he heard, for his ghost haunted these walls. Had haunted
him
for years. Tomorrow morning the bloody painting would come down from that wall if he had to use an axe to do it. Giles tossed the brandy down his throat and slammed the glass on his desk. How foolish to think he’d exorcised the demon from his soul.

As a lad, he’d had no recourse but to follow his father’s wishes. A cane marked his back when he questioned or moved too slow to answer or administer the man’s behest. For years he’d suffered nausea, feelings of fear and even manifested shadows at the corners of his vision. The happenstance of his birth was drilled into him with words of steel and an expectation clad in iron. Giles discerned his duty. And there was no way out.

Until that fateful day. When he’d grown to a decent size, and unable to take any more, he fought back. Where had the gumption come from? Young in years, but old enough to forge a different way of life, one that nearly got him killed. Anything to escape from the hell his sire put him through every day.

Yet hellish did not begin to describe the torment he inflicted on himself. Alex’s pain-filled eyes would haunt him for the rest of his days. Like a moth drawn to a flickering flame, she lured him back to the one place he wanted to be—and could never go.

Nethersall Castle was where he belonged. The land on which he’d been born, birthed to aristocracy. A peer of the realm. He didn’t need the money the estate would provide, as he owned an ungodly amount in his own right.

Taking the bottle with him, Giles leaned back in his favorite overstuffed leather chair, stretching his toes toward the fire in the stone hearth. His future loomed as dark as the blackness beyond the window. He tossed back another drink. The ghost of his father; the saintliness of his mother. He scrubbed a hand over his face and wondered what his life would have been like if she had lived.

The clock on the mantel struck ten bells. Sprawled in his leather chair, Giles stared into the blazing fire. After everything he’d suffered, leaving this mausoleum . . .

“Why the bloody hell did I come back?”

“You know why.”

Years of training to hear even the slightest sound of movement, and Morgan had entered his home without Giles having an inkling. He could blame the brandy, but even drink had not dulled his mind. Haunting specters dominated his focus.

“Taking up old habits of creeping around at night?”

“Has our friendship been restricted to the daylight hours?” Morgan swiped his wet hair from his face.

“Neither man nor beast should be out on a night like this. What brings you here?”

“Well, my good man. Quaint you should ask.” Morgan removed his gloves, jerking on every finger as if each tug gave significance to his words. “When my good friend returns from a voyage, an extended voyage, one I sent him on . . .” He tossed the gloves on a table and swung his topcoat from his shoulders.

“Where is Cuthbert? Did he not relieve you of your coat?”

“Blood and the devil. Forget the bloody coat.” Morgan smacked it down on top of his gloves. “Why did you not send word of your return? You’ve been gone a long time. Kat was beginning to worry. And I’ll not have my bride worried.”

“You think you do not worry your bride venturing out in this storm? I am surprised Kat allowed it. How is wedded bliss?”

“Wonderful. Now, what the hell happened?”

“Tuck away your boorish behavior and sit down. I don’t care to peer up at you at that height.”

Morgan studied him. Taking no notice, Giles turned back to the fire.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Is this the same man who not so long ago entered my house and gave me a trouncing for putting my head in a bottle?”

He smiled in remembrance. Yes, he had enjoyed seeing Morgan sputter around like a fish out of water. And he’d been furious the man had allowed self-pity to drive him to such lengths. What irony that he once saved Morgan when he sat in his study in the same sorry state. Galling as it was, he had to admit he cared not a whit if he drowned himself in drink. Although it gave him little comfort.

“I plan to get drunk. But, unlike you, I am not sinking myself in a bottle to the point of oblivion.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You have no idea of my thoughts.”

“Salient point.” Morgan shrugged, uncaring of his intrusion. “If they pertain to the question I’ve heard countless times, you came home to face the devil.”

“A pity he took so long to die.” Giles tossed back the contents of his glass and hoped his sire writhed in the pits of hell.

“I thought you’d conquered those demons.” With his hands braced squarely on his hips, Morgan glared down at him.

“Hard to conquer what you live with every day.” Holding the bottle by the neck, he swung his arm toward Morgan. “Feel free to get one of your own.” Amusing to think how in the past he’d been the one to divert Morgan from submerging himself in spirits. One would imagine they’d had a reversal of roles.

“Care to enlighten me why you’re sitting here in a very near replica of me when I once endeavored to drown my sorrows?” Morgan pulled another bottle from under the cabinet and seized a glass. Leather creaked as he sat in a matching chair. “What eats at your soul?”

“What eats my soul?” Giles’ harsh laugh gushed forth.

A spitfire of a girl with long, sun-kissed curls.

“The ghost of my father haunts my soul,” he mused instead. “His blasted constitution. The title alone decrees the path I must follow. Responsibility, duty, honor—millstones I am required to do by moral obligation.”

“This is an old issue.” Morgan’s brow furrowed. “I remember a man who once spat in the direction of duty. He carried his honor like a weapon.”

Giles leaned his head back against the leather and closed his eyes. “How foolish we were then. My life was worth nothing, so I cared not.”

“When I reflect back, I sometimes wonder if I wanted to meet my maker.” Morgan gave a laugh which held more sorrow than humor. “I had no fear of death. I welcomed it.”

“Two sorry lots. An angel of mercy watched over us.” Giles stared at the amber liquid in his glass. “We each were hell bent on self-destruction."

“High-and-mighty overweening cocks.” Morgan lifted his glass and took a healthy swallow.

“Rebellion was the only thing on my mind.” Giles emitted a hard sigh. “Every mission meant more than a challenge. I looked at each as an adventure to slay my dragons. The ones I carried in my soul.”

“Did we really think we were indestructible? Untouchable? It’s a wonder I am still alive. Of course, if not for you . . .”

“Wasn’t about to leave you in that hell hole.” Giles extended the empty bottle toward the light, confirming what he already knew. Without a word, Morgan offered the one in his possession.

“You always were the calm one. The more levelheaded.”

He shrugged. “Cunning and planning are my attributes.”

“Others commented on your patience. Not envious. More watchful. Respectful of your calculating mind and your diligence. Yet aware.” Morgan quaffed a hefty swallow from his glass. “Think of a powder keg waiting for a lighted fuse to blow.”

“Ahh, but what drove me.” Giles measured the amber liquid flowing smoothly into his glass while the image of his father’s harsh features stabbed his focus. “Bitterness of the man who sired me drove my passion. Like you, I cared not about death. Only to strike at my father. Each mission was a blow against him. I fought for my freedom. And look where it landed me. Right back here in the bosom of my prison.”

“The man is dead and gone.” Morgan’s words seemed far away.

“But his mastery over me remains.”

Damn the man!

Even from the grave the wretch controlled him. He drained his glass, poured more, and reached an arm to Morgan, handing him the bottle.

“You allow it.”

“Leave off, Morgan.”

“You continue to allow your father dominance. To govern your life.”

A sharp sting of acknowledgement targeted the truth of Morgan’s words. Giles disregarded them. “I trusted very little in my life until I met you. We became friends. I grow weary of repeating myself.”

Morgan’s brow rose in skepticism. “As your friend—”

“As an earl,” Giles interrupted, “you know the dictates of your station. I am a duke. A duke must cleave to the strictest rules of society.”

“Rules instilled by your father. You can do any bloody thing you set your mind to.”

“As it happens, I cannot escape my nobility, or what is expected of me. I will marry and produce the required heir.”

Morgan shoved out of his chair and trudged to the hearth. With an arm braced on the mantel, he stared into the fire. Flames blazed, sparks popping from the burning wood. He swung to Giles with narrowed lids. Oft times his friend would do that. Study, dissect, speculate—an indication he had an inkling of someone hiding a secret. His mind was a well-oiled machine and once Morgan had the idea between his teeth, he would gnaw away like a dog with a large bone.

“Give it up, old man,” Giles said with a disheartened sigh. “This is my life. You have a wonderful marriage with a lovely woman.”

His own future loomed dark and empty. He wished, resentfully, he could slide into blessed unconsciousness. Suddenly aware of how much he’d imbibed, he reached for the bottle beside Morgan’s chair. The little amount remaining confirmed his suspicions. “Think we need another bottle.” He rose and took a moment to steady his legs. “Bloody hell. I must have consumed a good amount before your timely arrival.”

“No more for me. Kat will have my hide if I go home foxed.”

“You can handle your whiskey, my good man. I’ve seen you drink me under the table.”

“Do you think perhaps you should conquer your demons before you bring a woman into the mix of things?”

“A duke must have a proper wife. I’ll ask Katherine to help me with an assortment for my selection.”

“You jest.” Morgan grunted his astonishment.

“Why would I quip about something so serious as a wife?” Giles held a new bottle aloft. “See what I mean. You have a bride to keep you on the straight and narrow. Do I not deserve the same thing?”

“You deserve to be happy. Maybe take some time in choosing a woman to spend the rest of your life with.”

“Not all men marry for love, my friend.”

“I once felt the same as you. But life with the right woman can be fulfilling indeed.”

“For God’s sake. You’ll find no pulpits in this dwelling. And if they are, I’ll burn them along with my father’s portrait in the morning.”

“The devil you say.”

“I do say.” Giles swung his gaze to his sire’s painting and held up his glass in a toast. “Enjoy your last night as oppressor. For tomorrow you go to a fiery grave.”

Morgan shoved from the hearth and took the brandy from Giles’ hand. “I think we’ve had enough of this.” He placed the bottle on the table along with his glass. “I’m off.”

“Are you seriously taking my drink away from me in my own home?”

“Go to bed, Giles. I’ll be back in the morning. I want a clear head for our discussion.”

Giles angled a brow. “Am I to presume you are suggesting a reason other than a friendly visit?”

“There is more than just your father haunting you this night.” Morgan gathered his coat and gloves and strode through the door.

God’s blood.

Galling as it was, Morgan would probe and press until Giles revealed all. Yes, they were more than friends. They’d survived countless missions where each had depended on the other for their very life. Tomorrow morning, the man more important to him than an arm or a leg, would split his heart open and make him bleed.