by Nichole Van
Both her mother and Mrs. Winters shot a side-glance at Sophie.
Oh, that she could melt into oblivion and never again relive the pain of this moment. The shattering hurt which she strongly suspected was her own naive innocence crumbling. Invisibility had been a protective shield, and she the greater fool for stepping out from behind it.
A scorching heat climb her cheeks. This was the problem with never blushing; when one did, the sensation was horrific.
The pitying look in her mother’s eyes said it all.
Sophie, for all her intelligence, was still an idiot.
Lord Rafe would never be coming for her.
Sophie had been taken for a fool.
How could she have been so featherbrained? So blinded by a handsome smile and charming wit?
Lord Rafe’s behavior at Lady Wishart’s ball had simply been the wiles of a Rakus lasciviosus in his native habitat. A flight of fancy for him that had lasted the length of two sets, a ballroom supper, and several (admittedly spectacular) kisses. A last lark before embarking on a planned journey.
After all . . . once a rake, always a rake.
Sophie was just another name in the long list of women with whom Lord Rafe dallied. She should count herself fortunate that he had only claimed a kiss.
The pain of Lord Rafe’s betrayal scoured her, causing a sleepless night and fuzzy head.
So when Captain Fulstate called the next day, Sophie was less inclined to remain aloof to his advances. He was a kind, decent man, after all. If nothing else, his attention was a balm to her bruised ego. And perhaps her more-restrained feelings toward him were a good thing. Without such heightened emotions, there was less chance of being hurt.
She had only had a taste of Lord Rafe; she had only just begun to think of him as integral to her.
Imagine if their story had continued further, and then he had abandoned her?
How cruel to learn then that a man could feel like home, but, in reality, be so very temporary.
No. She was fortunate, in all truth, to have had a lucky escape.
All that remained was to apply the lesson she had learned, forget about the man, and move on.
Twelve days after being forced from London, Rafe was “escorted” onto the deck of The Minerva moored in Leith harbor to begin the first leg of his voyage to the South Pacific.
One week later, The Minerva docked in Plymouth. Rafe rushed from his berth aboard ship, a letter to Lady Sophie in hand. Andrew met him on the gangplank, a grim expression on his face. Wordlessly his friend handed him a copy of yesterday’s London Times which announced the marriage of Lady Sophronia Sorrow to Captain Jack Fulstate.
After . . .
Four years later
Angus, Scotland
1819
7
The notice in the Edinburgh Advertiser was short and succinct:
To those who survived the wreck of The Minerva: Remember the debt that is owed. You shall not be permitted to forget the one who trusted you. Act with honor before it is too late.
Lord Rafe, as one of the survivors of said wreck, found the notice disturbing for several reasons.
First, only five men had survived the sinking of The Minerva.
Second, those same five men were the only ones who knew the secrets The Minerva had taken to her grave.
Third, the men were close friends, brothers in every way but blood.
And fourth, all five of those men were currently present in the room.
“None of us posted this.” Rafe tapped the paper where it lay on the table beside him. “And we have no suspicions as to who did post it, nor the nature of this so-called debt.”
“Not to mention, what honor is owed.” Andrew Mackenzie Langston, Earl of Hadley, replied, sinking back in his chair before the fire, resting his feet on a nearby footstool. He took a slow sip of whisky.
“’Tis a puzzle.” Dr. Alexander Whitaker propped an elbow on the fireplace mantel, drumming his fingers along the wood.
A fire popped in the hearth providing cheery ambiance and needed warmth. Even in August, Scotland required a lit fire indoors. Rafe was quite sure the Scottish climate existed on a sliding scale of superlatives—cold, colder, coldest—rather than the more traditional summertime heat and winter chill of England.
“A bit disturbing, if ye ask me.” Ewan Campbell reached for another buttery from the tea tray, spreading preserves on the golden bread, the buttery dwarfed by his enormous hand. Ewan dispatched it in two bites before reaching for another.
“Och, I likely just need to knock a few heads together down at the wharf,” Master Kieran MacTavish snorted, downing a healthy swallow of whisky. “See if I cannae shake some answers loose.”
Rafe smiled. The answer was so . . . Kieran.
“I’m no’ sure violence is the answer here,” Ewan said to Kieran, licking his fingers and reaching for a shortbread round. “The tone of the notice isnae specifically threatening.”
“Aye, but it isnae friendly, either,” Alex said.
They were assembled together, the Brotherhood of the Black Tartan. Rafe and his four best friends, Scotsmen whose lives had become intertwined during their voyage of scientific discovery to the South Pacific. Four years ago, they had left Leith, mostly strangers to one another. Three years ago, their bond as brothers had been sealed in blood on that fateful night in the South Pacific. Two years ago, they had finally returned to Scotland and resumed their respective lives.
The voyage had certainly altered Rafe’s life for both good and ill.
The ill, of course, was the manner in which the journey had begun for him—dragged from London, forced to abandon his courtship of Lady Sophie.
The good, naturally, was this group of loyal, steadfast friends.
Andrew Mackenzie Langston, Lord Hadley, had been Rafe’s closest friend for nearly a decade, since their days studying together at St. Andrews. They had planned and discussed the trip for years, until Andrew had taken steps to make it a reality. To Rafe’s delight, Andrew had inherited an English earldom about a year earlier, putting them firmly into the same social circle in London. Not even Kendall could find fault with Rafe’s friend now.
As for the other men in the room . . .
Dr. Alexander Whitaker had come aboard ship as a physician for the gentlemen, as well as a botany consultant.
Ewan Campbell, a talented artist, had been hired to document their finds through his drawings.
Master Kieran MacTavish had been The Minerva’s sailing master and their trusted liaison with the ship’s commander—Captain Martin Cuthie—and her crew.
All four men were like brothers to him.
They were seated in Andrew’s impressive library in Muirford House, his friend’s sprawling estate near the coast north of Dundee, Scotland. The Brotherhood always gathered at least once a year in March, to commemorate the dark day that had changed them all forever.
But this was a sunnier occasion. Andrew was to marry Lady Jane Everard in the morning, and they had naturally come together to celebrate. The evening promised to be a merry one.
The notice in the Edinburgh Advertiser had been an unexpected jolt.
Rafe swirled his own tumbler of whisky, pondering the ramifications of the notice. “The problem, of course, is that we five are the only survivors of the wreckage. We were at the ends of the earth at the time. It wasn’t as if we had regular postal service to send information home.” He downed a healthy swallow of liquor, wincing at the burn in his throat. The motion pulled at the scar on his cheek, a souvenir of the events in the South Pacific.
“True,” Alex agreed. “How would anyone else have learned about a debt? Moreover, beyond our immediate family and friends, who even knows we were on The Minerva?”
“There was the crew of the Portuguese whaler that rescued us,” Ewan said, reaching for the pile of warm bannocks in the center of the tray.
Rafe nudged a pot of honey toward him. Ewan smiled in return.
Ewan was a giant of a man—well over
six feet tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested—and had an out-sized appetite to match. Fate had a sense of humor, Rafe supposed, to have housed such a gentle, soft-spoken, artistic soul in a prize fighter’s body. Watching Ewan’s large hand draw a delicate flower was always a fascinating study in contrasts.
“The whaler?” Kieran said. “They didnae speak English.”
“Aye,” Rafe agreed. “My French was the only language we had in common. More to the point, I don’t see why any of them would post such a notice.” He waved a hand over the paper beside him.
“Agreed.” Andrew downed the last of his whisky in one gulp, face pulling into a grimace.
“The newspapers mentioned the wreck a time or two, did they not?” Alex said.
“Aye, but it passed quickly, and I ensured that our names were never mentioned specifically in print.” Andrew ran a hand over his face.
Silence hung for a moment. Kieran let out a long gust of air.
“Why are none of ye eejits saying the obvious? Ye dinnae need to spare my feelings.” He drilled them with his pale eyes. “The bloody advert talks about us forgetting the one who trusted us. There is only one person who fits that description.”
Rafe met Kieran’s gaze, the name unspoken between them all.
Jamie Fyffe.
The sixth member of their band. The one who, despite the notice’s accusation, would never be forgotten.
Jamie had been hired as the carpenter’s mate aboard The Minerva as a favor to Kieran’s former mentor, Charles Fyffe. Clever and good-natured, Jamie had helped them over and again, quickly earning all their loyalty. Tragically, when events turned deadly about a year into their voyage—when Captain Cuthie had betrayed their trust—Jamie had paid the ultimate price.
Tellingly, tonight they all sported the same dark tartan in some fashion or another.
Jamie’s Tartan, they called it—bands of cross-hatch color against a black ground. Red for blood spilt. Yellow for hope. Green for growth. And white for the purity of their hearts.
Rafe, Andrew, Alex, and Ewan had wrapped lengths of the tartan around their chests as a sash. Kieran wore his as a great kilt, the plaid draping his body. Tomorrow, Jamie would be there in spirit, a silent witness to Andrew’s marriage. Always with them, always remembered.
“Jamie’s sacrifice will never be forgotten,” Rafe said, voice low. “Ye know that, Kieran. Jamie set us all free—”
“Aye,” Andrew agreed. “And we’ve sussed out those ultimately responsible for the situation in the South Pacific, for all the events that led to Jamie’s death.”
“Damn Captain Cuthie and his machinations,” Kieran spat. “I know it’s no’ Christian of me tae say, but I’m right glad that bastard is at the bottom of the ocean somewhere. Drowning was too quick a death.”
Kieran shook his head, a familiar bleakness in his eyes. Rafe knew his friend blamed himself for Jamie’s death. Even several years on, Kieran’s grief was ever-present.
Rafe had hoped that bringing those responsible to justice would ease his friend’s suffering. This past spring, they had finally done just that, but Kieran was still lost in his pain. Justice for Jamie had been Kieran’s lodestar for three years, his overarching goal. But now that it had been achieved, Kieran had been cut adrift. The man was awash in a sea of anguish and guilt, no shore in sight.
“Cuthie is gone, thank goodness,” Andrew agreed, “but someone outside of ourselves clearly has some knowledge of what happened that night. I cannae think what debt is still owed.”
“And what, if anything, we are tae do about it,” Rafe said, his accent slipping from the crisp, aristocratic tones of his father to the soothing Scottish vowels of his mother.
Their voyage to the South Pacific had been uneventful until leaving Sydney, Australia and sailing for the New Hebrides. Once there, they set anchor near a village in the islands. Captain Cuthie had called a meeting and informed them that he had orders to take a group of villagers captive, to be sold into slavery on the voyage back to England. The Treaty of Paris, signed just two years before, had begun the process of abolishing the slave trade in the Atlantic, but the Pacific islands were outside the reach of any European government, as Cuthie well knew.
Naturally, the Brotherhood had categorically refused to allow Cuthie to enslave the villagers. Rafe and Andrew had borne the brunt of Cuthie’s anger, leaving Rafe with a scar stretching from his right temple across his cheek. Kieran and Jamie had saved them, but at the cost of Jamie’s freedom. Cuthie had taken Jamie captive and marooned the Brotherhood in the New Hebrides, sailing away. The Minerva—with Cuthie, Jamie, and her crew aboard—had wrecked on a reef shortly thereafter.
No one had survived.
“Like I was saying to yous,”—Kieran clenched his jaw—“let me knock some heads together down at the docks and see if I can shake anything useful loose. Sailors like the sound of their own voices. My ship is for New York next week. I’ll let yous know if I find anything afore then.”
“Perhaps we should also contact the newspaper and see if they will share who posted the notice,” Rafe suggested.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Alex nodded. “Their offices are not too far from my surgery. I can call on them when I return tae Edinburgh.”
“Regardless, we need to get tae the bottom of this.” Andrew waved a hand. “It troubles me.”
“Aye.” Kieran rose and poured himself another finger of whisky. His third, if Rafe remembered correctly. The man was well on his way to becoming roaring fou—drunk as a wheelbarrow, as his English friends would say. Worse, given his current mood, Kieran would not be a cheerful drunk. And seeing as this evening was supposed to be a happy occasion . . .
“How goes the work with your patients?” Rafe asked Alex, attempting to change the subject.
“I have no complaints. Though I did make inquiries for ye, as ye asked.”
“Inquiries?” Andrew asked.
“Aye.” Rafe nodded. “For my mother.”
“Ah.”
No more needed to be said. The Brotherhood were well-aware of Rafe’s difficult history with both his parents. Though Rafe wondered—would Kendall have forced him to go on the voyage if he understood the support Rafe would draw from his friends?
“How is your mother?” Andrew asked, voice quiet.
“The same.”
“The draught I recommended didnae help?” Alex asked.
“Not significantly, I’m afraid tae say.”
“A pity, as I had researched it thoroughly. There is so little written on the subject of chronic melancholy and even less that is practical.”
“Aye. Though ye were correct—ceasing the repetitive bleeding has improved her color and physical energy.”
Alex shrugged. “I have long thought that the black bile of melancholy cannae be balanced by bleeding the body.”
“Aye. My mother is not quite as listless, at the very least. Visits from my sister, Kate, and her wee bairns help, as well.”
Silence hung in the room for a moment. Rafe swallowed the rest of his whisky in a giant gulp, the liquor burning his throat.
His mother had not always suffered from such a depression of spirits. Though Kendall had forever been a menacing figure, the mother of Rafe’s childhood had been a loving, doting presence. And as Rafe was the second son, not the heir, his father had more readily ignored him back then. Little had the man known how loved Rafe had been in his mother’s gentle care.
“Come here, my wee love.” His mother set aside her sewing and opened her arms to him. “Did ye have another nightmare?”
“Aye, Mamma.” He scrambled onto her lap and snuggled into her arms, reveling in the warm familiarity of her. Mamma always smelled like Scotland, heather and pine and something else uniquely her.
“There, there, my wee boy,” she murmured, rocking and stroking his hair. “I’ll keep all the scary beasties away. Sleep now.”
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. If Nanny found him out, he’d be in trouble. But
he always slept better when Mamma snuggled him first.
Of course, all that had changed when Rafe was a teenager.
After years of believing herself past child-bearing years, his mother had fallen pregnant. Despite Kendall’s caustic words and controlling behavior, Rafe’s mother had been jubilant. She viewed the life growing within her as a glorious gift.
Unfortunately, the infant girl had only lived a week after birth.
Kendall had been unaffected. The baby was “merely a girl, after all, and hardly worth mentioning” as Rafe had overheard his sire say to the vicar.
But no words could capture his mother’s desolation. Her distraught weeping still haunted Rafe’s dreams on occasion. The baby’s death had, understandably, sent the duchess into a deep depression of spirits. The Duchess of Kendall had always been prone to the occasional melancholic spell, but this one had simply never lifted.
Rafe would never know if it was the death of her baby or Kendall’s endless cruelty that finally broke his mother’s spirit. Likely both had played a part. Regardless, the cheery, loving mother of Rafe’s childhood vanished overnight.
Though before Rafe’s voyage, she had still participated in Society, making morning calls and accepting invitations. But the duchess had been markedly worse since his return from the South Pacific, Rafe’s absence and Kendall’s cruelty taking their toll.
Vividly, he saw his mother in his mind’s eye, the scene ten days earlier as he left London for Scotland.
“I will return soon, Mother.”
“Of course.” She nearly whispered the words, her voice quiet in the hush.
She sat before a roaring fire, a shawl around her shoulders despite the summer heat beating on the window panes. She stared sightlessly into the flames, head slightly bowed. Even though she was well into her fiftieth year, his mother still retained a delicate beauty, a decidedly feminine version of his own face—dark eyes under a pile of dark hair only starting to gray at the temples. But her gaze was distressingly blank.
“Please keep hope,” he begged her. “I will find a solution, something to ease your melancholy.”
