by Nichole Van
Peter scuffed the ground again. “It didn’t initially. But then the old earl had his first stroke. I wanted to help out with the estate, so I started reading through the old earl’s papers. I discovered his correspondence with a man, Wilson, about Mackenzie. I found it incredibly odd that my father showed such an avid interest in a Scottish stranger, more interest than he had ever shown in me, to be honest.
“So, I dug further. That led to his letters with Thomas Madsen and how my father went about investing with Mackenzie, using Madsen as a go-between. The monies from that investment were the only thing keeping us afloat. I did not, at the time, realize that Mackenzie was Andrew Langston, the earl’s grandson and heir.”
Peter ran his hands through his hair, before placing them back on his hips.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I used the business shares as an excuse to ask my father about Mackenzie. Why not correspond with Mackenzie directly, at the very least? The arrangement with Madsen seemed cumbersome.” He swallowed. “But when I asked Father about it, he smiled, proud as Punch. And then proceeded to tell me all about Andrew Mackenzie Langston, his grandson and heir. He explained hiring Madsen to pose as an investor, allowing my father to do business with his grandson anonymously. The old man had thoroughly doted on Andrew from a distance . . .”
Peter’s voice trailed off.
A nightingale sang somewhere in the trees. Leaves rustled.
Jane closed her eyes, heart in agony.
“In thirty minutes, my father lavished more praise on Andrew than he had on me in a lifetime of living under his roof.” Peter paused. “And I hated him for it.”
“Andrew? Or your father?”
A beat. And then his answer:
“Both.”
More silence.
Jane absorbed his words, shock rooting her in place.
“And then Father had another stroke, nearly incapacitating him. By that point, I had seen a copy of Father’s will. He had cut me out entirely, Jane. Andrew had to inherit the title—that I accepted—but the estate wasn’t entailed. Father could have left something to me. But he didn’t. Can you understand how that f-felt?” His voice broke. “I was his son. The one who had stayed, who tried to earn his love—”
Jane ran a hand down Peter’s back, desperate to soothe him. She had known that Peter harbored pain over the old earl’s cold emotional distance, but she had not realized how profoundly deep the wound cut.
How could she have failed Peter like this?
He continued on, “My father cast me aside and, instead, left everything to Andrew Mackenzie Langston—money, lands. Worse, Father was insensible by that point, so there was no way to convince him to alter the will.” He snorted. “It seemed so bitterly unfair. I had my name. Nothing more. But if something were to happen to Andrew . . .”
“Oh, Peter. How could you wish a man dead?”
“Judge me, if you must, Jane. But many a man in that position has done the same thing—”
“That hardly excuses your behavior, Peter—”
“I was seventeen, Jane, and desperately angry. I knew if something were to happen to Andrew—before my father died—I would inherit everything attached to the Earldom of Hadley—the title, the estates, what money remained. In my seventeen-year-old head, it seemed the perfect solution. And so I wrote to Madsen, offering him more money to ensure that Andrew never returned from this trip he was planning.
“Madsen and I discussed ways to . . . remove . . . Andrew without anyone the wiser. A ‘convenient accident’ is what Madsen promised me. I never dreamt that others would pay the price, too. I knew the boat went down. But I didn’t know why. The entire crew was lost?” Peter asked, strain in his tone.
“That’s what Andrew reported.”
“And Cuthie wanted to take a whole village as slaves?”
“Yes.”
“That—” His voice broke, head shaking. “All of that . . . it was never my intention. I would never have agreed to slavery and the sinking of a ship and her crew. You have to believe me, Jane—”
“I do, Peter. I do believe you.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. He returned her embrace, holding her for a moment.
“What are we to do, Jane?” he asked, pushing out of her arms.
“I don’t know,” was her honest reply.
That same nightingale sang again.
“I haven’t been good at keeping my promises to you,” he finally said. “I can’t save you from Wanleigh—”
“No, Peter, I should have thought of you more. I should have realized how deep the old earl’s lack of affection cut. ’Tis I who have failed you—”
“Never, Jane.”
“Allow me to talk to Andrew. You aren’t guilty of the choices Madsen and Cuthie made. Let me fight for you.”
“Jane—”
“Please? Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” she said.
“Anything stupid?”
“Yes, like challenge Andrew or run off. Let me see what good I can work first.”
“Jane—”
“P-promise me, Peter.” Her voice broke. “L-let me see what good I c-can do. I c-can’t l-lose you.”
He paused.
“I promise you, Jane.”
She hiccupped, a sob nearly working its way free.
Launching herself forward, Jane wrapped her arms around him, the familiar feeling of his hug almost overwhelming her.
How could her life have come to this? To lose Peter?
Oh! The pain of it . . .
It was a lash worse than death.
She refused to let this be the end of the story. She would not give up. She would fight for them to be together, as she always had.
Even at the risk of losing Andrew? a small voice in her head asked.
She cried harder.
Heaven help her.
Because she couldn’t answer that question.
Andrew spent hours riffling through the letters and other papers in Peter’s private study before leaving it to Peter in the early morning hours. The evidence Andrew found was thoroughly damning.
Peter may have been hazy on the precise details, but he clearly understood the consequences of his actions. He knew he was signing a death contract with Andrew’s name on it.
Peter had intended to murder Andrew just as surely as if he had pulled the trigger on a pistol.
And now, in the early morning light, Andrew was unsure what to do.
Of all the possible scenarios he had outlined in his mind when thinking about bringing Jamie’s killer to justice—when he finally contemplated an end to his guilt and a balm for his grief—this had not been it.
He had always imagined a hardened criminal, someone with malicious eyes like Captain Cuthie. A man who cared naught for all the pain and suffering he had caused. Someone like Madsen, whom Andrew would have sent to the hangman’s noose without flinching.
But now?
Accusing the beloved brother of the woman he thought to marry? Sending his own heir to the gallows? Condemning a young man he had helped and guided?
How could this be their victorious retribution? Their vengeance?
But Jamie . . .
Jamie’s face rose in his mind’s eye, green eyes guileless and cheery. And then those same eyes, sightless and empty, drifting into an obscure grave in the South Pacific—
No, he owed Jamie justice.
He owed justice to them all.
For Kieran’s endless grief and the white scar tracing Rafe’s cheek. For Kieran’s screams piercing the inky night. For Andrew’s own months of recuperation and agony.
For all their guilt and pain over the past three years.
There was no easy path out of this.
And in the end, the choice would not really be Andrew’s to make. Kieran, in particular, had the most say as to what would happen to Peter.
Andrew wrapped Jamie’s tartan around his shoulders before seeking his bed, curling into the plaid like a blank
et.
Let nothing be forgotten.
He managed to sleep a few fitful hours, but as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, Andrew rose. He dressed quickly but still took time to wrap Jamie’s tartan around his chest.
He penned urgent messages to Kieran and Rafe, who were both yet in London, asking them to join him with all haste. He also wrote to Alex and Ewan, telling them of the change in events. They would not have even received his letter regarding Madsen yet, much less this one about Peter. What would they say?
He then set two footmen to guarding Peter’s bedroom door, not wanting to give his heir a chance to flee. He left strict orders to inform him once Peter arose and wished to leave his bedroom.
As he was walking back to his study, his butler handed him a note from Montacute.
Hadley,
I expect an answer from you soon regarding the Mackenzie shares. Do not delay, as I am currently displeased with your obduracy and offensive behavior. I am extending an olive branch of diplomacy, offering you a way forward, both financially and socially.
Do not be a fool.
Montacute
Andrew longed to slowly beat his head against a stone wall. The reality was simple: he would not be selling those shares to Montacute.
Andrew had already mentally reconciled to having the duke as an enemy, as he intended to thwart Montacute’s efforts to marry Jane off to Wanleigh—
He winced at the thought of Jane.
Ah, Jane.
His sweet Jane.
Jane whose brother had hired a man to kill him.
There was no harmonious solution to this.
Could their fragile affections survive Peter’s betrayal?
His stomach knotted.
As if hearing his thoughts, Jane appeared. She stopped Andrew as he crossed the entrance hall.
She was so lovely, his Jane. The morning light tangled in her auburn hair and the blue of her simple morning gown lent her gray eyes a bluish cast. Andrew’s heart burned in his chest, the pleasure and agony of simply staring at her almost more than he could bear.
However, the dark circles under her eyes spoke of her own sleepless night.
“A word, my lord,” she said, tone stern.
My lord?
That did not bode well.
He nodded and led her into the library, leaving the door ajar.
The memories of their time together assaulted him. Jane, laughing and pliant in his arms. The soft touch of her lips.
“I trust you found all the proof you needed last night,” she began. Her tone was tight, her face expressionless.
Prim Jane.
“Aye, I did,” he replied.
Her eyes flicked to Jamie’s tartan wrapped across his chest. Jane hugged her arms around her waist, as if trying to hold herself together through sheer will.
A stone settled on his chest.
Ah, Jane.
How was he to resolve this? Had she retreated into Prim Jane because she accepted the impossibility of their situation? Tight bands constricted his lungs at the thought, choking his breathing.
Please, no.
“And what will you do now?” Jane kept her arms across her stomach, refusing to meet his gaze.
“I’ve sent for Kieran and Rafe from London. We’ll decide together what course tae take.”
A pause.
“You haven’t summoned the magistrate?”
Andrew tapped his fingers on one of her mineral cabinets. “I am the local magistrate, as it turns out, but I haven’t brought charges as of yet.”
“Oh.” She lifted her gaze to his, hope abruptly lighting her eyes. “So you are contemplating mercy, then? Peter was so young—”
“Jane—”
“He was only seventeen, Andrew.” She rushed toward him, placing a hand on his arm. “That’s hardly old enough to understand the ramifications of his actions.”
“Jane, please—”
“He was young and stupid. Is he to die for that?”
“Jane, please! Stop!”
She froze, eyes still wide and so bloody hopeful.
“Jane, I am so sorry.” Andrew forced the words through stiff lips. He pulled his arm from her grasp. “I cannot remove the consequences of Peter’s actions.”
“But . . .” Her voice drifted off. She stared at him, clearly noting the resolve in his eyes.
She took a step back.
And then another.
But his Jane was no coward. She was an Amazon, born to fight for those she loved.
And so, she rallied, head shaking.
“No,” she said . . . and then more firmly, “No. I refuse to accept this.” She threw back her shoulders. “I have fought to be with Peter since the day he was born. I will not stop now.”
Her courage nearly unmanned him. How could he hurt her so?
But to deny Jamie justice . . .
“Jane, there is nothing tae fight for.” He tried to make his tone kind, but nothing could remove the sting of his words. “Peter ordered my death. He wanted me dead. That order had devastating consequences—”
“You don’t have to do this. You could grant him clemency—”
“Jane, ye know I cannot do that.” He laid the words down as gently as he could, his hands shaking from the effort. He ached to comfort her, to save her from this. “Ye must ken this. Jamie and all those others deserve justice. Peter must atone for their deaths—”
“No! He may have agreed to your death, but you cannot place the actions of Madsen and the ship’s captain on Peter’s shoulders. He never agreed to their decisions—to take the villagers as slaves, to kidnap Jamie and sail off into treacherous waters. Peter was guilty of one crime. But Madsen and Cuthie committed many, many crimes—”
“I ken all this, Jane. But ye were no’ the one there.” Emotion thickened his voice, deepening his accent. “Ye were no’ the one beaten and left for dead. Ye didnae see the village in flames, the women crying because they didnae have wherewithal tae feed their bairns. Ye didnae hear the ghastly description of the wreckage of The Minerva, the bloated bodies floating in the ocean, being feasted upon by sharks. Jamie . . .” He sucked in a fortifying breath. “Jamie was one of those bodies. And that is one wrong—” His voice broke. “—one wrong that must be brought tae justice. Ye ken what I’m saying, Jane?”
She stifled a sob, palms pressed to her face.
“Peter may not have foreseen or sanctioned everything that happened,” he continued, tone emphatic, “but he set it all in motion. None of the horrors would have happened if Peter hadnae instructed Madsen to ensure I met with an accident.”
“You cannot know that!”
Andrew clenched his jaw, chest heaving.
She was not entirely wrong . . .
But . . . actions had consequences, even if the outcome had been unintended.
Jane sensed his inner struggle.
“You cannot know that, Andrew,” she repeated. “You cannot lay the repercussions of other’s actions at Peter’s feet.”
“Peter meant to kill me. Me!” He tapped his chest. “And that led to the events that caused Jamie’s death—”
“Peter was so young and foolhardy, Andrew! Show mercy!”
“Jane, you dinnae—”
“No!” She took two steps toward him and placed her hands on his chest, peering into his eyes. “Jamie is dead, Andrew. You will never get his life back.”
Silence. His lungs heaved under the heat of her palms.
“Jamie is lost forever. It’s done,” she continued, tears tumbling. “Your guilt c-cannot save him—”
“But I can bring justice—”
“No. You cannot.” She shook her head. “All you can do is sacrifice another young life. Destroy another family—”
“Actions have consequences, Jane.”
“Yes, but you can choose how far those consequences rage, Andrew.”
A pause.
She licked a tear off her lip, gray eyes glistening and pleading.
<
br /> “Have mercy, Andrew,” she whispered.
“Jane, please do not ask it of me—”
“Justice cannot save those who d-died.” She hiccupped. “But m-mercy . . . mercy can save the living.”
His lungs seized. How could he even contemplate granting Peter clemency?
She pressed her advantage. “Nothing can bring Jamie back. Nothing can save his life. But you have a chance here to save another young life, another young man, like Jamie. A boy who led a blameless life up to the point that he made one foolishly rash decision. Have mercy.”
Andrew pushed away from her.
Have mercy?
Memories washed him. Jamie’s laugh. The screams of the villagers. Kieran’s raging grief. So much pain and endless guilt—
No. Justice had to be served. Mercy wasn’t possible. Not in this.
And yet . . .
How could he do this? How could he destroy her heart?
And more importantly, perhaps . . . “Mercy isnae my decision alone, Jane.” He turned back to her. “There are five of us, four other men and their guilt and grief. I cannae speak for them. Kieran, most of all, has much reason to seek vengeance. And none of this takes into account legal issues. English law must have some say, too.”
Something in his tone reached her. A sense of his own turmoil, of the weight of knowing he caused her pain.
Jane chewed on her lip, blinking furiously, head in profile to him. The morning light washed over the contours of her face, rendering her in painted shades of gold, red, cream, and finest gray.
She turned to him, eyes bright. “But will you fight for Peter? Will you be a voice for him?”
He paused, struggling.
His silence was her answer.
“B-but he’ll h-hang,” she gasped.
She was right.
Peter could hang.
He held her gaze, forced her to read the truth there. He would seek justice. Peter’s actions had consequences.
Andrew saw it—
The moment hope died.
Her eyelids dropped. Her shoulders crumpled, followed by her knees. All of her rolling downward like a marionette doll, tumbling into despair.
