by Shana Galen
But this was good-bye. This was the end because Draven would be here in a day or so, and then Stratford and the colonel would escort Emmeline to her grandmother’s. Her mother could retrieve her from there. Emmeline would be safe, and that was what mattered.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” Emmeline said, shattering the lingering image of her naked on the soft grass. “How are you unworthy of me? If you do not want me, just say it. Don’t give me silly excuses.” She began to rise, but he caught her arm.
“It’s not an excuse. I am unworthy.”
She crossed her arms. “You are the son of a baron, and my father was not even titled. He was a gentleman, yes, but if rank and status are your gauge, then I am the one who is unworthy.”
“I am not the son of a baron,” he said.
Emmeline’s tight expression softened slightly. “What do you mean?”
But the way she’d said it—he knew she had heard the rumors. “Don’t pretend you do not know. You have heard and you are clever enough to put things together. I am not the baron’s son.”
“Are you certain?” she asked.
“Yes. My mother admitted it, and my father has always made sure I knew it.”
Her hands fell back to her sides. She reached for him, but he moved away. She swallowed and seemed to consider her words before finally speaking. “I often wondered if the rumors were true, and if that was why he treated you as he did.”
“I wondered as well and when I came of age, I hired an investigator to look into it.” He stared, unseeing, at the mountains towering in the distance. “The rumors are true.”
“Who is your father then?” she asked. He did not think many people would have come straight out and asked. But then this was Emmeline, and she almost always said what she was thinking.
“The Marquess of Wight.”
She shook her head. “But he—no one has seen him in more than twenty years. Everyone says he is—"
“Mad?
She pressed her lips together. “I was about to say eccentric.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Now you want to be tactful? Say it like it is, Emmeline. I’m the bastard son of a madman. Your mother surely knows it. Half of Society knows it.”
“And why should they care? How many of them have by-blows walking around?” She put a hand on his arm. “I know that is not the point.”
“No, it’s not. Not only am I not legitimate, if I am anything like my father, I may go mad.”
She gave him a long look. “A little madness might be an improvement.”
He gave her a horrified look, and she squeezed his arm. “You will not go mad, Stratford. You are as sane as the day is long.”
“You can’t know that.”
She lifted her hand from his arm. “No, I can’t, but that is not the real issue, is it? The real issue is that you are illegitimate, and all of your life you’ve been made to feel less than.”
It was as though she had shot an arrow straight into his heart. Her words pierced him, and the pain bloomed, spreading throughout his body. He’d felt so much shame his entire life. He’d done all he could to hide the truth from everyone, even though he knew, every time he walked into a room, that some of the whispers were about him.
“That is why you went off to war, even though your uncle willed you that property, and you could have lived off the income. You had to prove yourself.”
He’d never thought of it that way, but it was true. He had felt the need to prove himself.
“Do you know the terror I felt, we all felt, when we learned you had joined Draven’s troop? By then Lord Jasper and the Duke of Mayne had joined—not that he was the duke yet—and we all knew it was little more than a suicide mission. And when you joined, no one could understand it. I couldn’t understand it. How could you have so little regard for your life?”
The hills in the distance became something of a blur as he stared at them, harder than ever. “Perhaps I valued my country above my life.”
“Or perhaps you felt so unworthy that you needed to do something extreme. Oh, Stratford.” She put her arms around him, but he could not seem to return her embrace. His limbs felt paralyzed. “You are not unworthy. You do not have to jump every time your parents say up.”
“I tried to make myself useful,” he said, though the words sounded thick and clogged in his throat.
“You tried to earn their love, and it’s not something you should have to earn.”
He could not do this. He could not sit here and allow her to dissect his entire life. Stratford rose. “We should go back.”
She rose as well. “Do you see now why I told you, over and over, that I did not want you to come after me? I do not want to be another way you try and prove yourself to your father and mother. I don’t want to be a path they can use to hurt you more. Because Stratford—they will never love you. Not like they love your brothers and sisters.”
He stared at her, knowing it was true. But he hadn’t come after her to prove himself to anyone. He’d come because he cared for her.
“Your mother makes me the angriest. She made the mistake of lying with Lord Wight years ago. Not you. You should not suffer for it.”
He knew the truth of those statements, but hearing someone else voice them brought up all the old pain. He felt the sting of tears prick behind his eyes. “I should go back now,” he said, his voice strangely devoid of emotion, when inside he churned with so many feelings, he could not possibly name them all. He started away and she moved in front of him, blocking his way.
“But I love you, Stratford. I think I have always loved you in some form or another. You can have the love you want, if you’ll just accept it from me.”
“And do you think I feel nothing for you?” he said, his heart pounding and his blood rushing so loudly he could hear it like a waterfall in his ears. “I love you, Emmeline. I always have, and that is why I will not marry you. Do you think I would saddle you with a husband whom no one respects? A man who doesn’t even respect himself?”
She took in an audible breath and stepped away from him. “That’s not true. You think no one can look past the circumstances of your birth? Your true friends do not care. Murray and Mayne and Colonel Draven and I’m sure all the rest of them. They have the utmost respect for you.”
He stared at her. She was right, but he couldn’t seem to let himself accept it. He could not believe himself worthy of it.
“I respect you too. I love you, but I’m beginning to agree that we should never marry.”
Stratford didn’t think he could be wounded again, and yet her words were a sword to his gut.
“If you really know me so little—if you really believe that the circumstances of your birth matter to me...well, then you do not know me at all. After all we have been through. After all the years when I have never once treated you as anything less than a friend and equal, if you really believe that I wouldn’t want you because your father was not married to your mother, then you are correct. You are not worthy of me.”
And with that final twist of the sword, she walked away.
Stratford let her go, though some part of him screamed to go after her. But he couldn’t. Because she was right. He’d thought her just like everyone else, when she, like he, had never fit in. Of all the people he knew, she was one of the few—outside of the Survivors—who knew him and saw him for who he really was.
And now he had lost her, and it had nothing to do with the Marquess of Wight or his mother or the goddamn baron.
This was all on his shoulders.
Nineteen
DUNCAN
His brother James came for dinner. Duncan and James had their share of fisticuffs as lads, but they got along well enough as adults. Of course, James was far more pleasant than Duncan would ever be. He always had a ready smile and an amusing story and made everyone feel at ease.
Duncan appreciated those qualities immensely this evening when the table felt like a heavy shroud had been l
aid over it. Ines sat quietly at one end, hands in her lap, saying nothing. Duncan assumed she’d finished the lace cuffs this afternoon, but he did not yet think she’d given them to his mother. Miss Wellesley and Stratford sat across from one another, but they tried so hard not to look at each other it was almost painful to watch.
Duncan didn’t know why Stratford didn’t just propose to his cousin and have it over with. It was obvious to Duncan, whenever he’d seen them together, that Stratford cared for her. Watching them over the course of their travels to Scotland had only made it clearer that Miss Wellesley felt the same way about Stratford. The two of them seemed a perfect pair—friends since childhood, close families, and an obvious attraction.
Duncan and Ines had attraction—they had more than attraction. Ines loved him, and he—Duncan would not allow himself to think too much about what he felt for her. He’d wanted to avoid the pain of loss. It was a pain he knew well from losing his father. But try as he might to keep Ines at arm’s length and far from touching his heart, she’d found a way in. Duncan didn’t know how she’d done it. No other woman had ever even breached the drawbridge of his heart. If a woman drew near his fortifications, it was easy to scare her away with gruff words or an outrageous act.
Ines had seen him at his best and his worst. His most outrageous—well, perhaps not his most outrageous—and his most gruff. And she still wanted him. But the fact was Duncan could not have her. Even if Draven agreed to allow them to marry, Lady Charlotte would never accept her. And how could he go against his mother? Hadn’t he caused her enough pain in her life?
“Isnae that right, Duncan?” James said, and Duncan realized his brother had been telling some anecdote in which he played a part.
“I would caution the party nae tae believe everrathing my brother says,” Duncan said, feeling that was the safest response.
“Dinnae believe everrathing I say?” James countered. His eyes were bright and his cheeks ruddy. With his beard, he looked very much like Duncan remembered their father. Duncan glanced at his mother, and saw she wore a wistful look as she listened to James entertain the party. He knew she was thinking of her late husband too.
“Och, well, Duncan is the war hero. But do ye think we can get even one story oot of him? Nae. He’s like my oldest son. He goes tae school all day, and when I ask what he learned at the evening meal, he says nothing.” James looked at Stratford. “But perhaps ye have a story tae tell us of my brother’s bravery.”
Stratford looked at Duncan, and it was easy to read Stratford’s expression. They had lost eighteen men of their troop. Eighteen brothers. Nothing they had endured was fodder for dinner conversation. Stratford could undoubtedly tell stories of Duncan rushing into a fight. Of course, if Duncan had saved one man, there was another story of when he had not been fast enough. The Survivors had an unwritten rule that they did not tell each other’s tales.
Stratford cleared his throat. “Duncan and I had very different orders,” he said. “We didn’t work together often enough for me to have any stories about him. I’m sorry.”
The shroud James had been trying so hard to lift descended again. The footman came in with a plate of candied and sugared nuts, and Duncan breathed a sigh of relief that dinner was almost over.
“I have a story,” Ines said.
Everyone looked at her. She’d said only a few words at dinner and then only when someone had spoken to her directly.
“I am not a storyteller like you, senhor,” she said, looking directly at James. “But I do know your brother is brave. He saved my life.”
Duncan felt heat climb up his neck to the freshly shaved skin of his jaw. He knew what she would say, and he wanted to take her arm and pull her out of the room—anything to stop her from telling this story in this place to these people.
“Och, do go on,” James said, motioning for the footman to fill his wine glass. “I would like tae hear this. Dinnae ye want tae hear, Mama?”
“I do.” Her eyes shone with mirth. She did not know what was coming.
“It’s late,” Duncan said, standing. “The ladies must want their beds by now.”
“Sit down,” Lady Charlotte said. “We have time for one story.”
Duncan looked at Ines, but she did not return his gaze. He knew what she was about. She wanted to say something about him that would impress his mother and brother. She wanted to boast about him. That was the type of person she was—kind and giving. She couldn’t know this story would not have the effect she anticipated.
“Ines,” he said.
James waved his wine glass. He was half-drunk or he might have caught at least one of the cues Duncan was sending. But then James had always been a bit of an arse, so maybe he would not have cared. “Let’s hear the story, lass.”
Duncan glared at him and James smiled, knowing exactly what he had done to raise his brother’s ire. “Forgive me. Miss Neves, proceed with the story.”
She gestured to Miss Wellesley. “We had stopped for the day near a river, and Miss Wellesley and I had gone to wash our hands and faces. We had taken the dog with us...”
She went on, telling the story of how Loftus had chased after a noise and how the ladies had followed and thought it might be a wolf. Duncan sat stiff and straight-faced while his mother and brother smiled at the idea of wolves and then watched as their faces slowly drained of color as they realized what the ladies had thought were wolves were actually reivers. Ines noticed, of course. She was used to watching people closely as any good merchant was. She obviously thought his family’s reaction was one of concern, so she hurriedly told them how Duncan and Stratford had ambushed the men and saved her. She gave Loftus praise as well, but when she had finished, no one spoke or smiled.
Miss Wellesley tried to fill the silence. “Thank goodness for Mr. Murray and Mr. Fortescue’s quick thinking else we might not all be here.”
“And I’m certain you were terrified, Miss Neves,” Stratford said. Duncan winced as his two friends dug his grave deeper.
“Não.” Ines said. “I knew Duncan would come for me.”
“Of course, he would,” James said. “He’s always looking for trouble, aren’t ye, brother?”
Duncan said nothing.
“Ye see, this isnae his first experience with reivers,” James went on, his face red now, but not from drink. “Years ago, he decided tae run away and had a run in with a group of reivers. He soon found himself their prisoner.”
“That’s enough, James,” his mother said, but her voice was barely a whisper.
James did not seem to hear her. “My father went after him, but he was nae as lucky as ye were. He was killed in the skirmish.”
“Excuse me,” Lady Charlotte said, rising and leaving the room.
Ines looked pale. “I am so sorry. I did not know—”
James waved his cup before refilling it. “Why would ye, lass? Duncan likes tae play the hero. He doesnae like tae talk aboot the time he got his own father killed.”
“Now wait a minute,” Stratford said, rising.
Duncan shook his head, and Stratford frowned at him. But why should his friend defend him when everything James said was true? Duncan was the reason his father was dead. His stupidity, his impulsiveness—traits that had earned him the playful sobriquet Lunatic in combat—were also the reason his father was dead.
“Nae worries, brother,” Duncan said. “I willnae stay home long. I dinnae want tae be a constant reminder of the worst day in yer life.”
“Yer such an idiot,” James said. “Ye think any of us want ye gone? It only hurts her more when ye leave.” James pointed to the ceiling, presumably indicating his mother’s room above. “But then ye always were a selfish bastard.”
Duncan did not even realize his feet had moved until he was on the other side of the room with his hand wrapped about his brother’s neck and James’s head pushed against a wall. For all his strong words, James was not a fighter. He had always been the diplomat of the family. Undoubtedly that was
why their uncle valued him so much and why James was always at the laird’s castle. Now James struggled under Duncan’s grip, and as much as Duncan wanted to slam his fist into his brother’s face, it would not make his father come back.
He stared at James, and James stared back at him, and then Duncan felt a warm hand on his arm. He looked down, and Ines was there. “Não,” she said. And then, “I am so sorry.”
The look of true grief on her face all but undid him. Duncan dropped his brother as the pain tore through him. He felt as though he were being ripped apart. And how could he stand here, in the dining hall, and allow everyone to see his insides spill out? That was how it felt, as though someone had taken a blade and cut across his chest and now his heart was exposed and vulnerable.
With a growl, Duncan stalked out of the room, not seeing where he was going or caring. He just needed to get away. And then he just needed air, to fill his lungs with something other than pain and grief and, yes, guilt.
He stumbled into the night. Even though it was summer, it was still cool in the Highlands, and the chilly night was like a slap in the face. He did not know where to go so he made his way through the courtyard to stand at the edge and look up at the rising mountains and the blanket of stars above. He’d missed this in London. Once he’d been away from the city, he could see so many more stars, but he hadn’t taken the time to look at them until now. He remembered all the times he and James and Moira sat outside on a summer night and looked at the stars, the sweet smell of his father’s pipe tobacco drifting around them.
How many times had Duncan wished he could bring those moments back? How many times had he pushed the pain of loss away by running into danger? He’d loved his father, loved him as he’d never loved anything or anyone else, and he’d killed him.
The sound of a shoe crunching on a leaf made him turn. “Go back inside, Ines.”
