by Cheryl Holt
“When will you return?” Emma asked.
“Very soon. The wedding is scheduled for March fifteenth, so if I am to be of any assistance whatsoever, I must get back before then.”
“It doesn’t give you much time,” Emma cautioned.
“A little more than two weeks,” John agreed.
“So you mustn’t dawdle.”
Emma led him out to the drive where his horse was saddled for the fast trip north. She tugged at his coat, tightening it to ward off the chill, and she pulled out a scarf she’d knitted and wrapped it around his neck. John teased her for fussing, but she wouldn’t be denied.
The sky was gray and angry looking, with snow or freezing rain seeming likely, and Jack pondered the wisdom of John riding off in inclement weather. A frisson of worry slithered down his spine, and he said, “Why don’t you send a letter, instead, to see if he’s there?”
“If the answer was slow in coming, and I learned that he hadn’t arrived, what would I do? It would be too late to intervene in the wedding, and Caro would kill me.”
“And she’d be married to Mr. Shelton,” Emma added.
“Which would be a nightmare. I don’t know what her father was thinking in proceeding with such a horrid engagement.”
“Well, he had her betrothed to you for years,” Emma wryly retorted, “but he didn’t seem to notice how awful it was for her.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m glad she’s so devoted to Ian,” Emma mentioned. “He needed someone to love him.”
“Yes, he did,” John concurred. “Whether it’s Caro remains to be seen.”
Emma sighed. “It’s so romantic.”
“Only a female would find it so.”
Emma elbowed him in the ribs, as John grinned over her head and winked at Jack.
The pair said their farewells with a lengthy kiss and much quiet whispering that Jack struggled to ignore. In the days he’d been with them, he was regularly disconcerted by their open affection. He’d never been with a married couple that was so besotted, and it reinforced how lucky he was that Rebecca had refused him. If he was ever to take a bride, he craved what John and Emma had together. He’d hold out for love, for friendship and abiding fondness.
Rebecca would have furnished him with none of those things.
If there was a tiny, idiotic voice deep inside that kept insisting they could have forged a different conclusion, he was an adult man, and he didn’t have to listen.
John gave Emma a final hug, then leapt onto his horse. He leaned down and caressed her cheek, saying, “Don’t you dare have that child without me.”
“I won’t,” she pledged, “and don’t you dare come back without Ian.”
“I won’t do that, either.”
“Be careful. Stay warm. Stay dry.”
“For you, my dearest Emma, I will.”
He straightened in the saddle and vowed, “I’ll meet up with you at Wakefield Manor.”
“I’ll be waiting. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” His gaze moved to Jack. “Watch over my wife while I’m away.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Jack responded, proud to have been entrusted with the important task.
John waved, yanked on the reins, and cantered off.
Long after he’d disappeared, Emma stared down the street, and Jack tarried a short distance off, loathe to interrupt such a private moment.
Ultimately, she drew away, her smile a tad strained, her eyes watery.
“It’s the first time we’ve been separated since we were married,” she explained. “I’ve gotten used to having him around.”
“I can certainly understand why.”
“He can be exasperating, but he grows on you.”
Jack chuckled. “Yes, he does.”
She hesitated, peered down the street again, then nervously asked, “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
“Of course he will. He’s just traveling to Scotland. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It seems like it to me.” She walked over and linked her arm with his. “Let’s go in and eat, and I shall spend the entire meal regaling you with stories of John as a boy.”
“Are you sure he’d want you to?”
“He’d hate it, so we won’t tell him. It will be our little secret.”
They laughed and went inside.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Ian stood on a rocky outcropping and stared down at the small valley, studying the haphazard assortment of sagging huts owned by his relatives. With snow covering the hillsides, and smoke curling from the chimneys, it should have been picturesque, but the view was so depressing.
While scarcely more than a boy, he’d left at his father’s behest. He’d journeyed to England to befriend his half brother, as well as to become a prosperous gentleman and betrayer. He’d shed his accent, his poverty, and rural mannerisms like a snake shedding its skin, as if heritage and tradition meant nothing.
Since then, he hadn’t visited, so his recollections were those of a lad of twenty, who hadn’t known how poor he was, who hadn’t grasped the differences he’d encounter in the outside world.
His kin had once been powerful and wealthy, had owned huge tracts of Scotland, had fought and died for their legacy and customs. But history had worked its toll, and they had so little remaining. His uncles seemed content, but they were all so old!
Poverty and hardship had worn them down early, had them gray and stooped and weary from the struggle of keeping on.
They were all thrilled to see him, and they’d welcomed him like the prodigal son, but he felt so guilty. Over the years, his father had encouraged him to take so much money from John, and he gleefully had, but he’d never sent a single farthing to his family. His childish memory was that they’d been affluent from whiskey and wool, so they hadn’t required any assistance, and he was shamed to be so painfully confronted by reality.
He wasn’t like them, and he didn’t belong, which shouldn’t have hurt or surprised him, but it did. He’d never belonged anywhere. Growing up in Scotland as he had, he’d been an oddity, the bastard offspring of a rich nobleman. In England, he’d been an oddity, too, but snubbed and demonized because of it.
So what was he to do now?
He couldn’t return to London. With Caro having married Edward Shelton, there was nothing for him in the city. Neither was there any reason to keep on in Scotland.
His uncles had begged him to stay, but he wasn’t a farmer and couldn’t see himself engaged in the toil it took just to get by. Should he move to Edinburgh? To do what? For how long? And if he didn’t go there, where should he go?
He had no answers. Everything seemed futile, and his emotions were at their lowest ebb.
A brisk wind blew past, the cold making him shiver. He trudged down the trail to the hovel where his bed and bag were located. A hot fire burned in the grate, and he hung his coat and hat and went to sit in the chair by the hearth, his shoulders draped in a shawl an aunt had woven, when someone pounded on the door.
He frowned but didn’t budge. He didn’t want to chat, but his caller didn’t realize that he was sulking and in no mood for company.
The intruder knocked again, and again, and finally, Ian cursed and stomped over and yanked on the knob. Though it was mid-afternoon, the sun gave off a pitiful bit of light. The sky was leaden, and with him standing in the dim cottage, he could barely focus.
There was a man on the stoop, and it seemed to be John, which was impossible. He was wrapped from head to toe against the bad weather, his face partially concealed by a scarf, but it had to be John. It couldn’t be anyone else.
Was he hallucinating? Had the isolation driven him mad?
“There you are,” the vision muttered, “and about bloody time, too.”
“What?”
“Have you any idea how difficult it was to find you?”
“John?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s me. What do I look l
ike? A ghost?”
“Yes.”
“Since I’ve just ridden from one end of this godforsaken country to the other, might I suggest you invite me in?”
“John?” he said again, astonished and certain he’d lost his mind.
The apparition stamped snow from his boots and snarled, “And if you still have a stick up your ass about that fight last summer, and you decline to grant me some of your supposed Scottish hospitality, I can’t predict how I’ll react.”
In a daze, Ian stumbled out of the way, and the man entered. Ian watched, stupefied, as he shucked off his heavy garments, regally tossing them in the middle of the floor, expecting a servant to magically appear and pick them up.
It really and truly was his brother. At least, Ian thought it was. Perhaps it was a Scottish fairy, playing some terrible prank.
“What in the hell are you doing in Scotland?” he demanded.
“Hello to you, too, Ian. I’m pleased to note that you haven’t been kidnapped or murdered.”
“Murdered!”
John glanced around the tiny space. “Where do you keep the liquor?”
“In the cupboard in the corner.”
Ian gestured to it, wondering if he might blink and John would vanish. But no. John marched over, rummaged for a glass, and poured himself an ample quantity of Ian’s uncles’ finest brew. Then he proceeded to the fire and stood, letting his backside be warmed by the flames.
Ian stated the obvious. “It’s the dead of winter.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Yet you’re here.”
“And I should receive a medal for a job well done, too.” He gulped the whiskey and poured himself another. “It’s a lucky thing this bottle is full, and I hope you have more than one. While I’m away from home, I like to catch up on my ration of vice.”
“Why?”
“I can’t drink a drop in front of Emma. It’s the kind of wicked behavior that sends a vicar’s daughter into a righteous frenzy.”
Good for you, Emma! Ian mused. John had spent most of his adult life inebriated. Any person who could convince him to get sober and stay sober was a miracle worker.
“You poor, poor man.” Ian oozed sarcasm.
“I admit that being married has its disadvantages”—John wiggled his brows and laughed—“but it has its advantages, too. Especially when your bride is as humorous and entertaining as Emma. You should try it sometime.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The moment was so bizarre. He couldn’t remember when he’d last heard John laugh. Maybe he never had. In all the years they’d lived together, his brother had always been so despondent.
Now he was smiling and making jokes. If he’d suddenly sprouted a second head, Ian couldn’t have been any more stunned. John was carrying on as if they hadn’t been separated a single day, as if Ian hadn’t irreparably damaged their relationship.
“Aren’t you still angry with me?” he had to inquire.
“Yes. I’d like to beat you to a pulp, but I think the icy trip has frozen my temper. And my hands. If I struck you just now, my fingers would crack into a dozen pieces.”
Ian slumped into a chair. Was he dreaming? He’d pondered a reconciliation with John so often and with such intensity that it was entirely possible he was imagining the scenario all over again, with the difference being the precise amount of detail.
“Why are you here?” he queried.
“I’ve come to fetch you to London.”
“But I don’t wish to go.”
“You have to. Caro needs you.”
Once, he’d have been thrilled by the news, would have instantly raced to England to assist her, but he was wiser now. The summons was nonsense.
“No, she doesn’t. She made her opinion very clear: She’s married her Mr. Shelton, and I’m certain she’s happy and settled.”
“She hasn’t married him yet,” John maintained.
“Yes, she has. The wedding was held on the twenty-fourth. That’s why I left. I couldn’t bear to watch it happen.”
“You know, you might have told me how much you cared for her. I could have helped the two of you. We could have avoided this whole mess.”
“I tried to tell you—that one time. You didn’t seem inclined to listen.”
They both flushed, recollecting the night at Wakefield Manor when John had stumbled on Ian as he’d been kissing Caro. A brawl had ensued, and before it was concluded, they’d both been bruised and battered, their friendship ruined by harsh words and bitter revelations.
“We were pathetic, weren’t we?” John mumbled.
“Pathetic doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“Afterward, I was so sorry.”
“I knew you were. So was I.” Ian went over so that they were face-to-face. “Our father was an ass.”
“He definitely was,” John enthusiastically concurred.
“I can’t figure out why I agreed to work for him to your detriment.”
“You were young and stupid and destitute.”
“That pretty much covers it.”
“Yes, it does.”
“I hated taking your money—I hated it every day—but Father said I should, and I forged on, even though I knew it was wrong. It’s been an albatross around my neck. I want to return it to you. I want to return every penny.”
“I wasn’t upset about the money.” John waved away a decade of duplicity as if it had been of no consequence.
“You should have been upset. You’re being too kind to me.”
“You were the eldest,” John stated. “I always thought you deserved a share. If you’d simply asked me for a portion, I’d have filled a bank account for you. I still would.”
“If you persist with this casual attitude about your fortune, I can’t see how you’ll remain a rich man.”
“Neither can I. Between you and my wife—with all the charities she makes me fund—I’m surprised I have a farthing to my name.”
“You love her, don’t you?” Ian murmured, amazed.
“More than my life.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“I think she saved me.”
“I think she did, too.”
As easy as that, they were friends again, the squabble of the previous summer swept away as if it had never been. Ian was so relieved he felt dizzy.
Why had they fought? He could scarcely recall. In hindsight, it all seemed so silly.
John was blushing, embarrassed at having confessed his fondness for his spouse, and he switched subjects.
“Now, about London…”
“What about it? What has brought you all this way?”
“Caro’s wedding has been rescheduled for the original date.”
Ian’s pulse pounded with joy, but he tamped down any elation. What was it to him if she hadn’t followed through? What was it to him if she’d altered her plans?
She was the most fickle female he’d ever met, and it was typical of her to change her mind. He’d have expected nothing else. Her future had no bearing on his. Whatever she elected to do—or not to do—she’d made it very plain that he would have no role in how events played out.
He was over it. He was over her! When push had come to shove, when she’d been forced to choose between himself and her parents, she’d cast him aside like a worn pair of slippers.
As he’d stood in her father’s library, being dragged out by burly servants, as he’d bellowed her name and pleaded with her to pick him over them, she hadn’t bothered to take a final glance in his direction.
“So she isn’t married,” Ian cautiously ventured. “How could the delay possibly matter to me?”
“Caro begged me to find you for her.”
“She did?”
“Her mother claims she’s had you kidnapped and that you’ll be killed if Caro doesn’t marry Mr. Shelton.”
“The Countess said that?”
“Caro is extremely frightened. She insisted that—if she knew you we
re all right—she’d defy her mother and refuse the match, but if there was a chance the Countess might harm you, she’d have to proceed.”
“She’d wed Shelton to keep me safe?”
“Yes, and you can’t let her sacrifice herself like this.”
Ian reflected, then blew out a heavy breath. “I don’t want to be involved. This is none of my affair, and I can’t believe she’s requested my assistance.”
“Why wouldn’t she have? You’re smack in the middle of it.”
“The Countess is such a witch!” Ian seethed. “I’d love to see her get her comeuppance.”
“So would I. You could make it happen by coming to England with me.”
“I don’t know.…”
“Won’t you help me redeem myself in Caro’s eyes? I hate that she has such a low opinion of me.”
“If you cajole me into going with you, are you supposing she won’t detest you quite so much?”
“Precisely.”
“Her loathing is fairly intense. You’re hoping for an awful lot.”
John shrugged. “I promised her I’d bring you home, and if I have to, I’ll bind you, gag you, and throw you over my saddle like a sack of flour.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would, but I’d rather you agreed on your own and came without all the fuss.”
“To do what?”
“To prove that Britannia is a lunatic and a liar, which will keep Caro from a hideous marriage.”
“That’s worth something, I guess.”
“And I have to admit”—John grinned from ear to ear—“that it will be hilarious to see Britannia’s expression when you foil her by showing up alive and unscathed.”
Ian spun away and went to the window, staring out at the snow that was drifting down.
He’d gone to Caro like an adoring fool, and with hardly a thought, she’d tossed away what he was offering. If he rushed to London and she spurned him again, he didn’t know how he’d survive her rejection.
Still, when John had braved such a distance, Ian couldn’t imagine declining to accompany him, and in consenting to go back, Ian didn’t have to do it for any emotional purpose. Obviously, Caro was a damsel in distress. He could steel himself against heartbreak, could aid her because she needed him to, then he could be on his way, with his sentiments in check and his detachment visible and firm.
