Charlotte gave Phillip a nod, a silent instruction for him to leave them alone. Phillip didn’t have to be told twice. Justin’s resentment of him was clear. He made himself useful by collecting the lathered and spent horses and cooling them down by walking the perimeter of their little haven.
He could hear Charlotte’s soft words and Justin’s grunt of pain as the knife was pulled out. “Is he going to be all right?” he called.
“I believe so,” Charlotte said. “The wound is clean, and if I can get the bleeding to stop, it should heal quickly. Here, remove your shirt.”
At last, good news.
Phillip set the horses grazing. He used the reins to hobble them and noted with a wry smile that he was becoming quite adept at being his own groomsman.
He heard a footstep behind him and turned, expecting to see Charlotte. He was surprised by his brother.
Justin stopped. In the moonlight, his homespun shirt was dark where the blood had stained it.
“Is Charlotte as good at tying a bandage as she is everything else?” Phillip asked, wanting to keep the tone light between them.
Justin would have none of it. “They will come after us.”
“I’m not afraid of MacKenna or any of his men,” Phillip said. “Not now. We are well out of the reach of his petty fiefdom, and I know we both plan on staying ahead of him. I say we head to Edinburgh and turn him in to the garrison there.”
“Turn him in?”
“We have no choice, Justin. He’s built an army. He plans insurrection—”
His brother cut him off by punching him right in the jaw with a doubled fist.
Phillip stumbled back.
“Don’t call me that bleeding name anymore. I’m not Justin. My name is Tavis, and I’m not your brother.”
But instead of anger, Phillip felt pain—his brother’s pain. He was keenly aware of the turmoil inside Justin.
Wives’ tales and superstitions about twins flashed through Phillip’s brain. He grabbed his brother’s arm to prevent him from charging off, well aware he might be repaid with another hard right to the jaw. “What was my wife’s name?”
“What?” Justin asked, irritated.
“I’m thinking of my wife’s name. Tell me what it is.” Phillip focused on the word Elizabeth.
Justin looked beyond him to where Charlotte stood, and then back to Phillip. “You are balmy.”
“What is her name?” Phillip insisted.
“I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn.”
Now Phillip had a strong urge to punch his brother. “Don’t believe me,” he shot back. “However, let me assure you, you are as obstinate as our father was. Stubborn beyond reason as well you should be because whether you like it or not, you are Justin Robert Maddox born at Darnal Abbey in 1775. You were the firstborn of William Maddox, fifth Duke of Colster. Your mother was Rosemary who died shortly after giving birth to the two of us, believing you were dead. Your grave is beside hers in the family plot at the Abbey and every month on the first, flowers are placed there at my order and have been for ten years or more.”
“You don’t understand, do you, duke?” Justin said with some of Charlotte’s irreverence. “I don’t give a damn. I don’t have what I want. I don’t have Moira. She was the only decent thing that had ever happened to me. And she’s gone. That bitch that attacked me is not the woman I once loved. They’ve changed her. And I want her back.”
“It’s not in your hands,” Phillip said soberly. “You can’t change the minds of others.”
“Aye. Others. I’m always living to please others.”
Phillip hated the derision in his voice. Charlotte approached, she held in her hand Nanny’s Frye’s letter. He took it from her gratefully. “Then live to please yourself. But before you refuse any of what I’m offering you, read this. You have been robbed, but only if you let yourself be abused in this manner.”
Justin didn’t make one move toward the letter. “You and your letter. I believe it all sounds like bollocks.”
“I didn’t travel all this way and put my life in danger for bollocks,” Phillip answered.
“I don’t know why you’re here,” Justin flashed back. “But I was better off when I’d never laid eyes on you.”
“Better off?” Phillip’s temper snapped. “They were using you. They sought to destroy us.”
“Us?” Justin snorted his thoughts. “It’s me everyone wants to destroy. Me that has had to carry the brunt of things. Me who has paid.”
“That’s not true—” Phillip started.
“Of course it’s not true, not to you, who has been living your fat and easy life—”
Phillip hit him. It was a reaction, a way to make him stop spouting anger, of saying things that twisted Phillip’s insides into knots.
Justin’s head snapped back from the force of the blow, and Phillip came to his senses. What the devil had he just done? He’d never struck out in anger. He was the diplomat, the negotiator.
His brother raised the back of his hand to his lip. It was bleeding. He looked at Phillip with undisguised disgust. “You would have thought we had enough beating up on each other for one night.” He shook his head. “Well, I’ve had enough. I hope our paths never cross again.” He turned and began walking toward his horse.
Shaken, Phillip took a step after him. “You can’t leave.”
“I’m not staying around.” Justin tried to un-hobble his horse with one hand, a difficult task at best.
His attitude didn’t make sense to Phillip. Why was he so angry? “You’re walking away from a dukedom.”
“So you say.” Justin straightened, his task only half-accomplished. “Or perhaps I’ve decided the price of being your brother is too bloody high. Lass,” he said to Charlotte, “hand me that sword.”
Her eyes were wide in her pale face as she handed him the Sword of the MacKenna. “Where are you going?”
“I’m returning the sword. It belongs to them. To my clan,” he answered.
“If you return to Nathraichean, they’ll kill you,” Phillip said.
“We’ll just have to bloody see, won’t we?” Justin answered. He used the sword to slice off the other end of the rein still tied to the horse.
Awkwardly, he climbed on Butter’s back, grabbed her mane, and rode off into the night.
Chapter 14
Stunned not only by the violence between the two brothers but also the outcome, Charlotte stared in disbelief after Tavis—
Justin, she amended. His name was Justin. If she was confused, she could only imagine how he must be feeling.
Phillip whirled to face her, his eyes glints of moonlit anger. “The bloody fool.”
“It’s been a hard day,” she said. “His whole life, everything he’s believed about himself, has suddenly turned out to be a fabrication.”
“Do you think it has been any easier for me?” But Phillip didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he took a step after Justin as if he would chase him—then stopped, his body rigid with tension.
“He’s nothing more than a dumb beast anyway,” he muttered, speaking more to himself than to her. “He can’t be the duke.” He turned to Charlotte. “Can you imagine him in a meeting with the king’s counselors?” He gave a bitter laugh. “He’d embarrass us all.”
Charlotte heard beyond the angry words. She heard the disappointment. The guilt. She wanted to do nothing more than to wrap her arms around both him and Justin and pull them close—and yet, she couldn’t. She was the outsider.
Instead, she crossed her arms against her chest, holding herself tight…and finding herself unable to not at least offer a comment. “It’s not your decision, Phillip. It’s his.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed, stepping back, his hands forming hard fists. “And he made it, didn’t he? He’s going to get himself killed.” He shook his head. “I am the duke. He could never be me. He runs at the first challenge. And what is back there for him? A wife who would kill him for her own gain—?”
>
“They are divorced,” Charlotte corrected.
“What?” Phillip barked as if deliberately not comprehending.
“I said they were divorced. She’s not his wife. Not any longer.”
Phillip pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “Divorced? How do you know this?”
“I overheard her talking to him earlier today. I don’t believe it was by his choice.”
“The Duke of Colster can’t be divorced. It’s unacceptable. No one divorces.”
“Your brother Justin is,” she replied, losing all patience with him. “Moira left him for Bruce. From what I understood, Laird MacKenna literally handed Moira to his favorite. Justin didn’t want them to separate.”
“Does it matter?” he asked derisively. “Look at him. He’s taken off at a tear. The next time we see him, his head will be on a pike.”
Charlotte’s own temper started to swell. “Yes, it matters. It matters to him. And if you are thinking to belittle me into not speaking, or want me to stand here like some mute minion while you rant, you have the wrong woman, Your Grace.”
He swung his gaze around to her. She braced herself, certain that once his mouth opened, his words would be razor-sharp.
Instead, in a complete about-face, the tension left his shoulders. “You’re right,” he admitted. He looked back in the direction his brother had left and stood there for a long moment in silence.
Charlotte took a step toward him. “You want him back in your life.”
Phillip drew a deep breath and released it before saying, “Of course I do. I’ll forever be the duke if he doesn’t return.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” she asked, uncertain of the answer.
“Yes. No.” He drew a shaky breath and released. “What happens to me if he takes it?” He paused, and said, “What happens to me if he doesn’t?”
His stark honesty humbled her. “You are a good duke, Colster.”
He mocked her with a snorted opinion. “Are you coaxing me out of my black mood? A second ago, I was arrogant.” He sounded tired, disappointed.
She took a step toward him. “You are always arrogant, Colster, duke or no. You are also honest, loyal, and really quite wonderful for leaving everything you had behind to come find your brother.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.”
Charlotte nodded agreement. “Please, listen to someone who has suffered siblings for years—they rarely do what you wish they would. They do what they must.” She placed her arms around him, letting her body say what she dared not speak aloud—I am here, let me comfort you, let me love you.
“I’ve made it worse,” he whispered. “I thought to save him, and, instead, I’ve made it worse.”
“I thought the same with Miranda. But once I let her free to make her own choices, she found her happiness.”
Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around her and held tight as if he dared not let her go.
A sense of rightness filled her. In his arms was where she wanted to be, where she needed to be. She craved his touch, his warmth, his very being.
Tears came to her eyes. She struggled to hold them back, but Phillip felt her slightest movement. He leaned back.
She feared looking at him. Feared him knowing what was in her deepest heart. Feared being so vulnerable. But Phillip knew. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for knowing me better than I know myself…and still liking me.”
She more than liked him. She loved him with a fierceness that grew with each passing moment.
He leaned his head close to hers. “And you’re right. I must let him go. I need to take care of you, and I need to inform the proper authorities that MacKenna has built an army.”
He wanted to take care of her.
Phillip stepped back, lacing his fingers with hers. No gesture could have commanded her attention more. She could feel the energy radiate through his fingers and into hers. “Are you all right to ride?”
“I’m tired,” she admitted, “but I know we must keep moving.”
His teeth flashed in his smile of approval. “That’s my darling,” he said. “Come. The horses are rested enough. Let’s put as much distance as possible between Nathraichean and ourselves.”
He didn’t have to make the suggestion twice although she was weary of riding. Her bottom was numb and yet, what choice did she have?
Phillip knew what she was thinking. As he gave her a leg up onto the bay’s back, he said, “You’ve been so good, Charlotte, over these past days. Just a bit more, and then you’ll never have to get on the back of a horse again.”
“Promise?”
He laughed. “Promise.” He mounted Homer, and they set off in the opposite direction Justin had taken. Fifteen minutes later, they came upon a good road running southeast. Phillip decided to travel east. “They won’t be expecting that,” he assured her. “We can go south later, after we are certain we are far away enough to lose them.”
Charlotte didn’t argue. She was too tired to waste energy on words.
The road began following the winding curve of a rushing stream. The sound of running water was a potent lullaby, and dawn was only the matter of a few hours away.
Charlotte had just yawned for the seventh time when they rounded a curve and came upon a bridge over the stream. On the other side was a nestled group of cottages around the rambling building of a small inn. A sign hung over one of the doors. Phillip dismounted and started for the door.
“Perhaps we should keep going,” Charlotte said. “There can’t possibly be anyone awake.”
“I’ll wake someone. We can’t continue traveling, not without sleep. Do you have my coin purse?”
She pulled the embroidered purse from its hiding place and removed the silk cord from her neck before handing it to him.
Phillip pounded on the door. He had to do it a third time before someone finally came. The door opened a crack and a man in a nightcap stuck his head out. “Yes?” the sleepy innkeeper inquired.
“We need rooms for the night,” Phillip answered.
“The night’s almost over,” came the response.
“I know,” Phillip said.
“I only have one room.”
“’Tis all we need,” Phillip said, and he named a price he’d pay for the room that was enough to make the innkeeper throw aside caution and open his doors.
She should protest, her common sense told her, while another part of her was perfectly amenable to the arrangement. After all they’d been through, sharing a room with him was the least of her worries. And, the truth be known, she wanted to lie beside him. Even just for one night.
The innkeeper lit a candle and led them up the stairs to the first room at the top. Charlotte was so tired all she could do was put one foot in front of the other. “What are your names?” innkeeper asked.
“Smith,” Phillip said. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
He didn’t look to Charlotte for permission, nor did she challenge him. It was easier this way.
The room they were shown was built under the eaves of the roof. A narrow bed took up most of the floor space, and there was one window, shuttered closed against the night air.
The innkeeper lit a stub of a candle on the room’s only other piece of furniture, a bedside table.
“The privy is outside in the back,” the innkeeper said. “I don’t do pans. We passed the back door on the way up the stairs. There’s a rain barrel next to it for washing.” With those words, he and Phillip’s money were gone.
Phillip looked around, and said, “Well, it’s serviceable.”
Charlotte nodded, and crossed her arms, very aware that they were alone. Mr. and Mrs.
Phillip was completely at ease. He nodded to the bed with its sagging mattress and chuckled. “The mattress has seen better days, but if it had been fluffed goose down a mile high, I couldn’t be more happy to see it. I have to see to the horses. Do you wish to go outside now for the privy accommodations?” He acted as if the two of them alone
was the most natural thing in the world.
Mr. and Mrs.
But it wasn’t. Charlotte knew that…and, standing in this room with him, knew she was accepting it.
This was a complete reversal in her life, a defiance of her moral code. She’d been the guardian for her sisters. Especially in later years when their father’s drinking had made him incapable of protecting them. Her life’s mission had been to regain the heritage her mother had tossed aside for love. Charlotte had been the one to remind her sisters that they were ladies, granddaughters of an earl. They had a birthright, and they weren’t going to compromise it by giving their virginity to any frontiersman or hapless soldier. They were going to marry dukes.
And here, she’d given hers up for a duke.
Mr. and Mrs.
Charlotte forced herself to set aside pretenses. There would be a price for her actions. She did have the power to end this now.
At her continued silence, he offered, “If you don’t want to come out now while I take care of the horses, I’ll come back and take you downstairs later.”
He smiled, and her heart skipped. Any protest died. It was as if he cast a spell around her. He was her dreams come to life. He was so handsome, even in shirtsleeves and several days’ growth of beard shadowing his jaw. Few men were as masculine as Phillip—and was it so wrong to live the dream…or to want to believe there was more between them?
“I’ll go down now,” she murmured.
“Come along then.” He held open the door.
She practically ran out of the room.
Phillip knew Charlotte was tense. He thought he knew why. He picked up the candle stub and followed her.
In the few days they’d been together, she had challenged, defied, and tested him in a way no other in his life had, male or female. Only she had the courage to speak up to him when others would be silent…with the notable exception of his brother.
But now, she hurried down the dark stairs as if being followed by the devil—and, in a way, he was. She had a moral code. He’d taken her innocence and sooner or later, they’d have to discuss the future.
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