Romancing The Rake (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  “Is your father . . . cruel to her?” she asked, trying to communicate all her fears with the one word . . . cruel.

  “Does he beat her, do ye mean?” he huffed, sitting back abruptly. “Not often, though he has struck her on occasion. Her wounds are . . . less visible.”

  He paused, a war playing out across his face.

  Sophie remained quiet . . . waiting. Her heart ached for him . . . for his mother. That poor woman.

  Sophie knew only too well the pain of a callous husband. The endless shame. The silent horror.

  Oh, Rafe.

  He sat up straighter. “No one knows. It’s a closely guarded secret, but . . .” He released a breath. “. . . my mother suffers from melancholy.”

  Ah. Many things clicked into place for Sophie. But that still didn’t explain how his father held Rafe hostage.

  “And your father . . .”

  “My father threatens tae place her into a lunatic asylum.” He met her gaze, as if willing her to understand.

  “No! I’ve heard tell that those places are horrific.”

  “They are horrific.” He shifted, coming to his feet, fingers raking through his hair, sending it askew. He paced to the window, looking out over the empty courtyard, hands on his hips.

  “My mother wasn’t always so poorly.” His words floated back to her. “There was a time when she laughed and enjoyed life. But about ten years ago . . . she lost her last child right after childbirth. She has never been the same since. The melancholy that some women experience after childbirth simply never left her.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “My father was an unkind husband before, but with her illness, he has become . . . brutish. He has little patience with her depressive moods. He wishes tae lock her away and be done with it.” Rafe turned around to face her, his eyes clashing with hers.

  How had she ever missed the pain there?

  “Surely your father is only bluffing?”

  Rafe gave a barking laugh. “Oh, I assure ye, Kendall is quite in earnest. He has already locked her away once. He will not hesitate tae do so again.”

  “Pardon?! He locked her away? I heard nothing of this. How was such a thing kept from the gossips?”

  “My father can be excessively discreet when he wishes to be. Power and money will always buy silence.” He braced his hands on the back of the chair opposite her. “I returned from my voyage to the South Pacific tae find that my father had sent my mother to a private lunatic asylum. He gave me his word before I left that he wouldn’t commit her tae such a place, but he broke his promise. I think he wanted to ensure my immediate obedience, and harming my mother was the most effective way tae achieve it. I raced to reach her. That place . . .” He swallowed. “There was no kindness there. Can you imagine how I found her?”

  “No.” She truly couldn’t.

  “They had her chained tae her bed, like a feral animal. She lay in her own filth, bruises and cuts on her body from their ‘treatments.’ She didn’t even meet my gaze when I first found her.” He paused, his jaw tight, grinding against his teeth as he fought back emotion. “That was no cure. It was torture, pure and simple.”

  “Agreed.” Tears stung Sophie’s eyelids.

  And to think, she had spent the better part of the day fuming over his Rakus lasciviosus ways and thinking him a bit of a cad.

  She had been so utterly wrong.

  How am I to protect my heart now?!

  Rafe waved a hand continuing, “I instantly demanded my mother’s release and was belligerent enough that the asylum complied. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being there even one more day. I assumed that despite being an utter blackguard, my father wouldn’t want the scandal of his duchess being treated in such a way.” He gave another bitter bark of laughter. “I could not have been more wrong. I returned home with my mother, placing her feverish and listless in her bedchamber. Kendall merely called me a fool and said he was ordering her returned tae the asylum, immediately.”

  “Oh!”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, of course. I demanded he allow her tae be treated at home with kindness and love.” A moment of silence. Rafe stared ahead, lost in the memory of that moment. “Kendall refused, and that’s when I truly learned the depth of his depravity. He informed me that he had sent her to the asylum because I had returned home. He wanted tae ensure that I fully appreciated the sincerity of his threat.

  “He then gave me a single option—her freedom for mine. Kendall would not send her back tae the asylum as long as I obeyed him. What could I do?”

  He looked at her then, eyes so anguished.

  “Nothing,” Sophie whispered.

  She knew only too well how complete a husband’s control was over his wife. Only Jack’s death had freed her.

  But for Rafe’s mother . . .

  “There is nothing you could do,” she said. “No one would doubt your father’s right to control his wife.”

  “Precisely. I had no options. There was no way tae free her from my father. He knew it. And so I agreed.”

  “Oh, Rafe.”

  “The man has owned me ever since. He is exceptionally clever in his cruelty. He lets me go days and even weeks without summoning me for a task, allowing me the sense of freedom. But then he will tug on the leash and snap my chains, reminding me that I am nothing more than his dog. And I allow it.”

  He bit out those final words as if they scoured his soul.

  “I have to, you see,” he continued. “If I do not acquiesce, Kendall will send my mother back tae the asylum. I cannot leave and consign her tae such a terrible fate. She is much improved, but I feel most of that is due tae the comfort of my sister and her grandchildren. Therefore, stealing her out of the country isn’t an option.”

  “So . . . what do you do?”

  “I search for a cure for her melancholy. If my mother improves, if she is seen healthy and hearty about Town, my sire has less reason tae confine her. I would perhaps be able tae rally public opinion to her side. But until she is well . . .”

  Abruptly everything made more sense. “Dr. Ross?”

  “Yes. His area of specialty is illnesses of the mind and emotions. If anyone can help, it would be him.”

  Sophie’s heart ached in her chest. That poor woman, trapped in a callous marriage. No wonder she suffered from melancholy.

  And then Rafe, chained to his father’s cruelty . . . grasping at such a thin thread of hope, not unlike herself.

  Both of them, off to find Dr. Ross, as if he were some wizard in a tower who could grant both their wishes simply for asking.

  Though Sophie felt some embarrassment over the superficiality of her own request. No one’s life or future hung in the balance. Hers was merely a fanciful wish.

  Rafe fought to protect one he loved. Because he had someone to protect, someone to love.

  She swallowed. All the unbidden attraction she had felt toward him rose to the surface, flooding her, nearly overwhelming in its force.

  She had one last question, however.

  “Kendall hates Lord Mainfeld. He hates the entire Sorrowful Miscellany,” she said. “Was Kendall angry that you had . . . danced with me that night?”

  A long silence and then one word—

  “Yes.”

  Ah.

  “Would you have called on me, as you promised, had Kendall not been angry?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation.

  He did not look at her, however. He remained standing, eyes trained on the window and the dark world outside.

  But his next words reached her nonetheless: “Never doubt the sincerity of my intentions that night, Sophie.”

  Something hot and painful lodged in her throat. She heard his unspoken words clearly.

  Never doubt that you were wanted.

  Rafe had not been untrue.

  Sophie had not been naive or delusional in her understanding of the events of that evening.

  He had wanted to spend more time with her, to get to know he
r.

  But Kendall had come between them.

  Sophie pressed a hand to her chest, anything to stem the tide of so much . . . feeling.

  She didn’t need this.

  She didn’t wish to like him.

  She didn’t want these feelings of tenderness and care. She did not need her heart to be reconstructed and resurrected from the dead.

  But then Rafe turned back to her, pinning her with his dark eyes.

  Their gazes held and lingered. The darkness of the night wrapped around them, promising comfort and anonymity. Coals in the grate settled, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

  Sophie rose slowly to her feet, thinking to tend to the fire, but his eyes held her in place.

  Attraction fizzed through her blood, pounding in her ears.

  He took a step toward her. And then another.

  She had to raise her chin to continue to meet his gaze, his wide shoulders blocking the firelight altogether. Her heart pulsed in her throat, threatening to escape her body entirely.

  Another step.

  She could feel the heat of him, the warmth of his sandalwood scent surrounding her. How she longed for the comfort of his touch . . .

  It would be so easy to fall. To tumble all the way into love with this man.

  But . . . even if Rafe decided to pursue her in earnest now . . . his decisions were not his own.

  Kendall hated Lord Mainfeld, and therefore, by extension, Sophie herself.

  She and Rafe would never become . . . us.

  But that didn’t stop her from leaning toward Rafe, rising slowly on tiptoe, canting her lips upward.

  She felt his breath on her mouth—

  Ughmmm!

  Martha snorted from the adjoining room.

  Sophie jolted back to reality with a gasp, nearly jerking away from Rafe.

  She turned to the fire, snatching up the poker and stirring the coals to life.

  Heavens! Had that truly almost happened? Had she nearly kissed Lord Rafe again?

  She stabbed at the fire, desperately shaking the lingering effects of his spell from her head.

  She was a mature woman. She would to be stronger than her biology.

  “What time do we leave in the morning?” she asked, deliberately changing the topic.

  A moment’s hesitation. “Sunrise.”

  She nodded.

  Swallowing, she set down the poker and dared to turn back to face him.

  His expression appeared just as muddled as hers.

  Finally, he shot her a wan smile and turned for the door, listening before opening it.

  “Lock this behind me.” He jiggled the handle. “A ruffian might burst in unannounced, ye know.”

  He bowed, oddly formal and very English—at utter odds with his rumpled kilt and semi-dressed attire—and then was gone.

  Sophie considered traveling with Lord Rafe—or rather, Lennon, as he continually corrected her—to be a tortuous delight.

  This was amply proved over the next two days.

  They did not return to the quiet confessions of the inn in York, to the stretched tension of their almost-kiss.

  But something had shifted in their relationship.

  All her previous feelings of hurt had fled. The ball, so many years past, was not a scene of humiliation and naivete, as she had previously supposed.

  For his part, Rafe remained the man she had seen that evening in York—a thoughtful scholar, intent and earnest. There was no more outrageous flirting with every barmaid and pretty woman. His attention was solely on her.

  The quiet scholar, Sophie realized, was the true man.

  As was the man who, twenty miles outside York, immediately hopped out of the chaise to help push a mired coach out of the mud, uncaring as to his status or the cleanliness of his ghillies. He saw a need and helped where he could.

  Not that she was above using his charming prowess to her advantage.

  They rolled into a busy inn yard outside Newcastle on a brisk afternoon. The autumnal weather had decided to hint at winter and a chill wind blew from the east. Every time they stopped, Sophie would insist on heated bricks for their feet inside the chaise, as well as for James and Martha outside.

  But of course, as Sophie sat contemplating a hot cup of tea and perhaps another pair of warm bricks, Rafe turned his charming smile on her. It was his rake smile. His eyelids dropped, gaze hooded and flirtatious.

  Sophie lifted an eyebrow in return.

  “Yes?”

  “I just realized something.” He leaned toward her. “Your name is Lady Sophronia Sorrow Fulstate.”

  He grinned, pleased as Punch, dimples popping in his cheeks.

  Sophie stared him down.

  “My name, as ever, is a cautionary tale,” she sighed. “’Tis almost mind-boggling in its mawkishness.”

  “It’s hilarious, is what it is.”

  “Are you quite through?”

  He smiled wider. “I could be. What did ye have in mind?”

  Sophie leaned away from him. “Are you . . . are you flirting with me?”

  “Possibly,” he shrugged. “I have tae keep my skills sharp, ye know.”

  A pause. “Well, they are a weapon of sorts, I’ll give you that.”

  “Thank ye.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop in the inn yard.

  “Don’t thank me just yet.” She smiled and patted his shoulder. “How about you take some of that Scottish charisma into the inn there and charm the innkeep into selling us another hot brick or two?”

  True to his abilities, there were three hot bricks waiting for her when she returned to the carriage a half hour later.

  The man truly was a menace to her heart.

  18

  Here we are.” Rafe stretched his arms as the chaise rolled to a stop outside Alex’s surgery in New Town in Edinburgh.

  “At last,” Sophie replied beside him.

  He darted a glance at her. She returned a soft smile.

  Finally, they had reached their destination—the townhouse of Dr. Alex Whitaker, one of the Brotherhood.

  They had spent the last hour of the drive maneuvering through the labyrinthine medieval streets of Old Town before skirting Calton Hill and arriving on King Street in New Town.

  As they wove through the tedious traffic, Rafe gave Sophie a brief history of Edinburgh. As the name implied, Old Town represented Edinburgh in its medieval incarnation—overcrowded, ancient tenements stretching nine stories or more into the sky, all clinging to a rocky mount capped by the crenelated Edinburgh Castle. A loch bounded Old Town on the north, cliffs on the east, and Arthur’s Seat (another large mount) on the west. The city could only spread south, which it had. Unfortunately, a landscape that had effectively protected a medieval population from English invasion, did not fare so well in a more modern age. The ancient city was desperately over-built and over-crowded.

  About fifty years prior, the town council had decided that enough was enough with the medieval city. Instead of tearing it down, they simply drained the swampy land to the north, built a bridge over the marshy North Loch, and constructed New Town on the flat stretch between the castle mount and the Firth of Forth.

  New Town with its honey stone, wide boulevards, and pedimented architecture looked more like Mayfair or Bath in England. Naturally, any gentleman who could put forth enough guineas moved from the crowded city center to New Town.

  Which also explained why Alex had placed his physician’s surgery there, positioning himself as a doctor to the elite of Edinburgh. Though Alex greeted patients and such on the ground floor, the remaining three floors of his town house were dedicated to living space.

  For obvious reasons, Rafe knew staying in the Duke of Kendall’s townhouse in Charlotte Square—a mile to the south and west—was utterly out of the question.

  And why stay in a hotel when Alex had perfectly comfortable bedchambers just waiting for guests?

  “Rafe, ye scoundrel!” Alex burst into the drawing room mere minute
s after a maid showed Rafe and Sophie in.

  Alex enveloped Rafe in a back-slapping hug before pushing back to survey him from head-to-toe.

  “Playing at the Scot, are ye?” Alex winked.

  Rafe tugged his great kilt into place. “I wear it better than most, I suppose.”

  Alex laughed and turned to Sophie, his grin stretching wider, eyes lit with interest.

  Rafe did not like that interest, not one little bit.

  Educated, charming, and handsome, Alex was exactly the kind of man Sophie should marry. Not that the daughter of an English earl aspired to be a Scottish physician’s wife, but Sophie was not your typical, English aristocrat. Moreover, she appeared to be regarding Alex with similarly keen interest.

  Rafe barely stopped himself from frowning. “Lady Sophronia Fulstate, may I present Dr. Alex Whitaker?”

  Sophie curtsied. Alex bowed extravagantly over her hand as he murmured a greeting. Sophie did nothing to discourage his friend’s attentions, blast it. Instead, she smiled that warm, open smile that Rafe adored.

  Voices sounded in the hallway and Ewan burst in, his large frame dwarfing the elegant furniture in the room.

  “Rafe! Ye scoundrel!” Apparently, his friends had a theme when greeting him.

  As usual, Rafe felt nearly small exchanging a warm embrace with Ewan, his friend having several inches on him in all directions.

  The entire scene repeated itself. Introductions. Pleasantries.

  Alex’s sister, Catriona, arrived and they repeated everything once more.

  Sophie begged leave to a hotel.

  Catriona would hear nothing of it and went off with Martha to ensure the housekeeper prepared the necessary rooms.

  They all sat in the drawing room, chatting about their journey and the changeable October weather. Another maid brought in a tea tray piled high with shortbread and bannocks. Sophie situated herself behind the tray, pouring tea. She fit easily into the room, appearing more comfortable here than in London. Ewan helped himself to several biscuits. The man was perpetually hungry; feeding his large body was an endless task.