Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

“ Y ou have a lot of explaining to do, brother,” Rafe declared. He sat down beside Ashton at a table on the back terrace that faced the south lawn of Lennox House. A footman stood in attendance and offered Rafe refreshments, which he politely declined. If he and his brother were going to argue, he didn’t want to be full of tea and cakes.

Ashton continued to peruse his newspaper and didn’t even look at Rafe as he turned the page.

“What, pray tell, must I explain?” Ashton asked after a moment of silence.

“It seems that dear old Uncle Ash has been suggesting to Isla that I find a mother for her.” Rafe watched his sister-in-law, Rosalind, playing badminton with Isla on the bright-green lawn in front of them. The pair batted the shuttlecock about with no real intention of the rules being followed, laughing all the while. Rafe thoroughly approved of that. Rules were made for fools.

The newspaper that blocked his brother’s face wilted, exposing Ashton’s usual solemn face, but today there was a hint of mischief behind it.

“And if I had suggested such a thing?”

Rafe arched a brow. Two could play this game. He knew he looked like his older brother so much that they were often mistaken for twins, which meant he could usually read his brother’s expressions because it was like reading his own face in a mirror.

“Then I would suggest you take your meddling elsewhere.”

Ashton’s lips twitched, but his unshakeable self-control prevented any smile from showing.

“Well, in that case, I’d have to regretfully inform you that I’ve been tasked with such meddling by our dear mama.”

“Mother? What has she to do with this?” Rafe dropped the hypotheticals. What had he done to attract his mother’s attention? There was no way this would end well. When Ashton had been caught in their mother’s sights, she’d tried to match him with every eligible woman within fifty miles.

“She believes that because you are now a father, you need a suitable young lady to marry. She says Isla will need a mother figure in her life. And even more unfortunate for you, Rosalind especially agrees with her. She grew up with a cruel father, and while her brothers are fine gentlemen, they certainly weren’t motherly. There was no one who understood what her struggles were, especially when coming into womanhood. She would have given anything to have had a mother during such pivotal times in her life.”

Rafe’s gaze strayed to Rosalind, who had tossed her racket away and was chasing a squealing Isla about the well-cut lawn. Finally, she captured the little girl and swung her up in her arms. Something clenched in Rafe’s chest, and his fisted hand pressed against his heart as if somehow that would ease the pain there.

“For a man who loves to gamble, you certainly cannot hide your feelings well.” Ashton folded his paper and set it down on the table, a sure sign that Ashton was committed to this uncomfortable discussion.

Blast and damn. Rafe turned away from him. Damn the man for being right. Rafe did want a woman in his life, as a wife, as a lover, and Isla needed a mother. It took him a moment to compose the thoughts that ran about in his mind before he spoke.

“It cannot be just any woman, Ash. Whoever it is, she must be exceptional. Brilliant, beautiful, kind, brave, and loving.”

“Expecting perfection is a dangerous thing,” Ashton warned.

“It never stopped you.” Rafe’s shoulders dropped. “Besides, I don’t desire perfection. Heaven knows I don’t deserve it. You and I know that few people can offer you everything.”

And I offer so little as it is. The grim thought made his world bleaker than he knew it should feel given that it was a bright and sunny day.

“True enough, but you must also ask yourself what you would offer this woman in return? A good marriage is a marriage between equals. If you find this truly exceptional woman, what will make you worthy of her?” And there it was, Ashton, ever the soothsayer reading Rafe’s deepest, darkest, most shameful thoughts.

“Never good enough, am I?” Rafe muttered, unable to hide the bitterness in his tone. “No title, no money, no home of my own. Perhaps you and Rosalind should take Isla and?—”

“Rafe,” Ashton growled in frustration. “You and I both know that Isla is your child—she could not live without you. And as to the matter of possessing a title or money, none of those things matter to the right woman. What she needs are the very same things you desire of her—bravery, kindness, and most importantly, love.” His brother’s eyes softened. “You will know the right woman when you meet her. Perhaps not love at first sight, but you will feel something beyond words, something that pulls you into her. Even when Rosalind and I were fighting over shipping companies when we first met, there was this wild spark that made it impossible for me to stay away from her. I could not erase her from my mind. Some men mistake lust and obsession as the signals to look for, but it must be deeper than your body’s impulse to possess her. It is the difference between simply wanting to bed a woman and wanting to be there for her afterward, eager to listen to her whispers as she shares herself, her thoughts, her dreams, and her hopes with you.”

How insufferable it must be to always be correct about everything, Rafe thought. He saw Rosalind and Isla collapse onto the grass. Isla raised her little hand, pointing at the clouds above their heads. It made Rafe’s thoughts drift back to that night in the hunting lodge, to the woman who had given him her trust and held her soul in her eyes.

He’d wanted to tell her his name, wanted to tell her about Isla, about his family, about everything. He’d wanted to ask her a thousand questions about her own life. He’d craved to know her, but he couldn’t. The more they knew about each other, the more dangerous it was for both of them, and he could not risk that young woman’s life. His little fire drake... his cunning little thief. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Now that is something I haven’t seen in quite a while,” Ashton mused.

“What?”

“You smiling with, dare I say, mischievous delight?”

Rafe leaned back in his chair. “I smile. I smile quite often.”

“Yes, you have smiles for Isla, smiles for Rosalind, and even a smile for me on occasion. But that particular sort of smile... It’s been years since I’ve seen that. Since before...” Ashton paused. “Since before Father died.”

Rafe said nothing. Thinking about who he used to be before that terrible night was too much to bear.

“Right, well.” Ashton cleared his throat. “You can begin wife hunting tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening?” Rafe didn’t particularly like his older brother’s amused expression, or the fact that he’d come to this conversation prepared for the outcome.

“Yes, we’ve been invited to a ball. I have accepted your invitation on your behalf.”

“Ash, I am not in the mood to put on bloody knee breeches and run about fetching drinks for young chits for several hours on end.”

His brother’s brows rose. “Would you prefer to hunt for someone in London? I could easily send you off to stay with Mother. I’m sure she would be more than happy to take charge of such a noble mission herself.”

Rafe shot to his feet, scowling. “Good God, man! You are a heartless devil.”

Ashton’s laughter followed him as he stalked across the lawn toward Isla and Rosalind, who were now examining a ring of toadstools at the edge of one of the flower beds.

“Look, Papa, we found fairies!” Isla proclaimed as she pointed at the ring of mushrooms.

He crouched down beside her, smiling. As always, his daughter had managed to restore the sunshine on his most cloudy days. “Well then, we must be sure to leave them a tea cake tonight, or else they will creep into your bedchamber and take you away to their magical realm.”

Isla’s eyes widened. “Please dinna let them take me, Papa!” Isla leapt up, exposing her grass-stained pinafore, and latched herself onto his leg.

“Hello there, what’s this? My daughter’s turned into a tiny little monkey!” He gasped dramatically and looked upon her with mock terror. “The fae folk have already bewitched her! Whatever shall we do?”

Rosalind tried not to laugh, her gray eyes sparkling with delight. “Oh dear, I think you must take the monkey to the kitchens and feed it tea cakes at once!”

Rafe carried his little monkey, still wrapped around his leg, for several steps before he pried the little creature off and swung her into his arms. They headed straight inside to find the magical cure of the tea cakes. Isla giggled the entire way, and the matter of a dreaded country ball was, for the moment, forgotten.

Ashton drummed his fingers on his folded newspaper as Rafe carried the little orphan inside. He corrected himself. No, she wasn’t an orphan any longer. Isla may not have been Rafe’s child by blood, but she was his child in all the ways that truly mattered.

Ashton had been concerned when Rafe had returned from Scotland and declared his intention to adopt an orphan. Ashton assumed Rafe had found some wayward boy, but when Rafe had shared it was a girl and told Ashton the child’s sad history, Ashton had been even more puzzled about his younger brother’s fatherly response. Rafe had taken no interest in children before. But when Rafe asked to have Brodie and Lydia bring Isla to meet Ashton, he had finally seen what had so captivated Rafe’s heart. Isla turned out to be bright, brave, and so utterly innocent that it was impossible not to adore her. Simply being around her had set off Ashton’s already protective instincts. He’d become “Uncle Ash” to her nearly overnight.

Yet what had convinced Ashton to consent to Rafe’s desire to adopt Isla was the moment the little girl had been reunited with Rafe. How she had clung fiercely to his neck, her face stained with tears. Her tiny nose had been red from crying, and Rafe had held her tight, one hand cupping her gleaming russet curls and his other hand supporting her little body as he closed his eyes and whispered something to the child that only she could hear. Ashton had seen something he’d never seen on his younger brother’s face before.

Peace .

How could Ashton even consider denying his troubled little brother that peace? Lord knew that Rafe was owed it after all these years, given the demons that had haunted him. And damned if Ashton wasn’t to blame for part of it.

“You’re frowning,” Rosalind said, joining him. Ashton curled an arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her onto his lap. His Scottish wife gasped and clutched his shoulders. She was a strong woman, but Ashton took pleasure in making her feel precious and desirable. She especially liked his dominating side when it came to their intimate moments. Even though Rosalind had given birth to their son, Malcolm, earlier that year, the passion between them hadn’t ebbed at all; if anything, sharing a child together had only deepened their love and their passion. As much as he adored his son, he was glad the babe was asleep for his afternoon nap so he could enjoy this moment with his wife.

“Wicked man,” she said before she kissed his cheek. Heat flashed in her eyes and the fire in her kiss burned his skin. Christ, how had he lived more than thirty years without this woman in his life?

Ashton sighed and cradled Rosalind close. “I am wicked, and for once I am not proud of it.” He couldn’t avoid what had riddled him with guilt, but he knew he could speak with her about anything and get her advice.

She lifted her head and studied him. She was beautiful, with gray eyes and gleaming dark hair, loosely gathered at the nape of her neck and tied with a persimmon ribbon that matched her gown. But his wife’s beauty on the outside didn’t even come close to the beauty within. He tightened his hold on her and let out a slow breath. He was a damned lucky man.

“Tell me what’s bothering you,” Rosalind said. Her Scottish accent was lighter than little Isla’s because she tried so hard to blend into English society. Perhaps that was why he wanted to protect Isla, because she reminded him of his wife. Both had experienced terrible tragedies at a young age, but Isla still had a chance for a happy childhood, and if he could give her that and see to his younger brother’s happiness at the same time, he would do whatever he had to in order to help them both.

“I suppose I’m at that age where one looks back on one’s life, and I only see my mistakes. They play before my eyes like a dreadful performance on Drury Lane.”

Rosalind stroked her fingers through his hair. Falling in love with her had made him realize how cold and aloof he’d become over the years. Slowly, little by little, her fierce love had fired cannon blasts through the walls he’d made to keep others at bay. Someday his fortress would be nothing but dust and he’d be laid bare for the world. But Rosalind would be by his side, and he could survive anything so long as she was with him. She kept touching him, her love making this moment less agonizing.

“What mistakes have you made?” she asked.

It wouldn’t be easy to tell her what he was feeling, but he had to try.

“I was just a young pup when my father died. I was dreadfully lonely, and the world was a cold and wretched place for me until I was able to leave for Cambridge. I was deuced glad that I met my friends at university.”

“You mean the League?” Rosalind asked.

He smiled. “Indeed.” If it hadn’t been for his friends, Godric, Lucian, Cedric, and Charles, he would have been lost to his rage and grief after his father died. The League of Rogues had become his brothers even as he’d lost his connection with Rafe. “But it didn’t change the mistake I made that night my father died. I let Mother think that Rafe was to blame, that it was his fault our father died.”

“To blame how?”

“That he was the reason Father had been trampled. But I don’t believe it was Rafe’s fault. It was such a mess that night; I’d gone after Father to bring him home, but Rafe must have followed me. He was injured and across the street when Father and I came out of the gambling hell. Father had been struck in the head, and he wasn’t steady on his feet. He just stepped out and... Christ, so much of that night is still a blur. When Rafe and I returned home with the constable, I was so angry, so... hurt that I didn’t correct Rafe when he blamed himself, and Mother heard him take the blame. I should have said something to correct her impression, but I didn’t. I was furious he’d followed me when I told him to stay home. And the next day, I learned our family was in dire straits. Worse than I’d suspected. We were deeply indebted to several banks, and everything was heavily mortgaged. It was...” He struggled for words but found none.

He couldn’t describe the way panic had gripped his chest, and he’d had trouble breathing for months. He would go into shouting rages at Rafe just to find a way to clear his lungs so he could breathe again.

And his brother had taken all of that rage and absorbed it with quiet, pain-filled eyes, but Ashton hadn’t been able to stop. He couldn’t yell at his mother or his two sisters; they hadn’t been to blame for his father’s death. Rafe was the only one strong enough to bear it, but that hadn’t made it right, even if Rafe was possibly at fault for what had happened that night.

“I took out all my anger on him, as did Mother. Thomasina, bless her, she never blamed Rafe the way I did. And little Joanna too often bore witness. She loves Rafe dearly, but she’s never been able to trust him. That is most certainly my fault.”

Rosalind kept silent, letting him puzzle through his feelings.

“The truth is... I was too much of a coward to ask Rafe what really happened that night with our father. And Rafe bore too much guilt for me to think him blameless. Mother still won’t speak of it to me or anyone. She only said that Rafe was involved in the incident, and she only said it the night I returned to bury my father. After that, we used that silence as shields and flung barbed arrows over them.

“All I know is that my father was killed leaving a gambling hell, run over by a carriage. There’s more to that night, but I cannot bring myself to ask either my mother or Rafe. I allowed my own weakness to break my family apart, even as I struggled to save it.” Ashton held his breath, waiting for Rosalind to pass judgment. But his wife continued to run her fingers through his hair, soothing him.

“Rafe needs that little child in his life, but he is still broken,” Ashton confessed. “I cannot see a way to fix him.”

Rosalind smiled, the expression soft and tender. “You do not fix those you love. You help them heal. Tend to the wounds of his heart, Ash. Tell him all that you’ve told me. Apologize. Ask for his forgiveness. You might be surprised how far that alone will go.”

Ashton pulled her head down to his, cupping the back of her head. “What he truly needs is a wife like you.” He nuzzled her nose with his and then kissed her, letting her feel all that lay within his heart, a heart that belonged fully to her.

Rosalind made a little sound of pleasure against his lips and chuckled. “Wicked rogue.” She pressed her forehead to his. “You do realize how fortunate you are to have me?”

He laughed, showing her the smile meant for her and her alone. “I do. You are a gift I shall never deserve but will endeavor to earn every day.”

She kissed him, her tongue flicking playfully against his in a way that always set fire to his blood. But he still had more to say.

“Does that mean you agree to help me play matchmaker?” he asked.

She bit her lip, pretending to consider it carefully. “We need to find a very clever, very bright young woman who can handle a former highwayman.”

Ashton groaned. “Do not remind me. I am lucky you didn’t kill him that night you first met.”

“I certainly tried,” she admitted. “And at the time, I was more than happy to shoot someone who I was convinced was you.”

Damn that uncanny resemblance to Rafe. Despite the difference in years, they had been teased by many for being able to pass as twins.

“At least he’s pursuing more respectable activities these days,” Ashton said.

“Indeed.”

Ashton’s thoughts returned to matchmaking. “I was thinking. The Merton girl. Mother was always trying to match me with her. She might do well for Rafe.”

Rosalind’s dark brows arched in surprise. “Rachel Merton?”

“Yes. From all accounts, the young woman is intelligent, self-possessed, pretty, and possesses quite the fortune. I met her two years ago but didn’t give a damn for marriage then and therefore I paid her little heed. Now I wish I had.”

“Oh?” Rosalind arched a dark brow and gave him a mock frown.

“For Rafe, of course.” He chuckled and squeezed her bottom.

“Hmmm.” His wife finally smiled as if she approved of where his hand was and what it was doing.

Then Rosalind considered his suggestion. “I met her a few months ago when I was in London. She is very amusing, but kind too. I would certainly enjoy having her as a sister-in-law.”

“Then it’s settled. We will push them together at the ball tonight.”

Rosalind stroked a hand down Ashton’s chest, her lashes lowering. “Our son won’t be up for another hour. I believe you can entertain me in the meantime, my wicked baron.”

“Wicked wife,” Ashton said with satisfaction as he kissed her again.

He stood and carried Rosalind into the house. He most certainly would entertain his little Scottish hellion, until she was hoarse from screaming his name and had left nail marks all down his back.

The sweet symphony of screams was interrupted when Mr. Phelps opened the door to Andrew Caddington’s private pleasure room.

Phelps’s eyes were carefully averted from the young man strapped to a rough-hewn cross with iron chains. “My lord.”

Andrew scowled as he lowered his birch rod and waited for Phelps to explain his interruption. He knew better than to do that unless it was important.

“There’s been another robbery. Three gentlemen were traveling on the same road where our coaches keep getting waylaid. It was by all accounts the same three highwaymen: Tyburn, Oxford, and Cambridge.”

Andrew rested the birch in his palm and gazed at the labyrinth of pain he had carved in the young footman’s flesh, allowing the pleasure to zing through his veins, soothing him when Phelps’s news would have normally put him in mind to kill. There were already two graves deep in the woods because he had lost control. Too many more and people might start asking inconvenient questions.

“Back, are they? Double the guards on our next money transport to London,” Andrew ordered. “And tell them to kill the moment they are stopped by anyone wearing a mask. I want those thieves dead.”

“Yes, my lord.” Phelps backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving Andrew to stare at his latest toy.

The young man had broken too soon, had wept at the first strike on his flesh. Tapping the cane irritably against his palm, Andrew closed his eyes and summoned up the image of the Lennox boy from so many years ago. Such a pretty young face, such strength and defiance in those blue eyes. Andrew had been filled with a desire to plunge a knife into the boy’s chest, to see if he would wail or fight in silence up until the moment the life faded from those eyes. Was there nothing sweeter than taking a young, pretty creature and destroying it inside and out?

He had hunted the lad in his own fashion, but the boy had avoided the gambling hells that his father had frequented. Rafe had danced around every trap, every clever snare Andrew set. He’d left no debts to be bought. He was too quick to be abducted, although attempts had been made several times over the years. Rafe was harder to catch than any fox, but he was worth the hunt, because his pain was exquisite to see, and Andrew couldn’t get Rafe’s pain out of his mind.

Who could have known that killing the boy’s useless father would have woven such a stunning tapestry of suffering? It was his dream to wound someone so deeply, and he hadn’t even had to touch the boy. It made him want Rafe all the more, and what he wanted he always got, even if it took years. Like a spider perched at the far corner of his web, he couldn’t wait to feel that first tremor as his prey stepped onto the sticky strings of his trap. The mere thought of it made him glow inside with excitement.

Soon .