3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

"A true winemaker doesn’t just savor the right wine—he savors the satisfaction of proving the world wrong." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

B oyd braced his foot against the gangplank, muscles flexing under the barrel’s weight as he grunted, hoisting it into place among the others in the cargo hold.

Elisabeth Arabella Croft. Gracing his humble office. Of course, she’d been poised—women like her were trained from birth to be ornamental. But it had taken courage to stand before him, that absurd feather quivering in her hat, offering her hand in marriage like a lamb to the slaughter. Brave... but foolish.

When the dockworker turned his back, Boyd slipped a hand into his coat and retrieved the feather, holding it close. Beneath the faint scent of hatboxes, her delicate perfume lingered—likely worth a dockman’s yearly wages. Impractical, beautiful girl. Why did your father send you to me? If his aging mind had forgotten the insult he dealt me when I first arrived in Portugal, mine hadn’t.

The mist of port-soaked wood clung to the air, a reminder of everything Boyd had built—not from titles or bloodlines, but from sweat and grit. No pretense here, no velvet gloves or empty compliments. Just barrels, ships, and honest work.

Turning back to the dock, Boyd spotted a familiar figure approaching. Polished boots clicked against cobblestones, a cane gripped casually in one hand. Trust Griffin Maxwell to arrive at the docks dressed in full British finery, top hat gleaming.

“Still doing this yourself?” Griffin raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’ve got half of Oporto working for you now. Couldn’t let them handle the heavy lifting?”

Boyd wiped his hands on the rough cloth hanging from his belt. “Keeps me fit.” And kept his mind off a certain befeathered lass.

“Can’t you keep fit at the tennis club like a civilized man?”

Boyd grunted. The powdered Englishmen at the country club, with their gleaming rackets and idle chatter, were intolerable. A place for men who inherited their lives, not built them.

“The sport I prefer can’t be done in the city.”

Griffin’s smirk deepened. “Since when can’t wenching be done in Oporto?”

“I mean hunting. But you wouldn’t know the difference, would you? Not with the monk you’ve become since marrying Julia.”

“Portuguese women prefer their men to practice sports in public places.” Griffin chuckled, nodding toward Boyd’s barrels. “So, these are the famous casks of Sandeman Port. Couldn’t stay behind Julia’s idea, could you?”

Boyd smiled faintly. Julia, Griffin’s brilliant wife, had pioneered the selling of port by the bottle, not in bulk. Boyd had adopted the strategy quickly, though many still preferred to buy casks. To mark his territory, he branded every pipe with Sandeman’s trademark. Nobody drank his wine without knowing where it came from.

“Indeed,” Boyd said. “But I didn’t call you here so you could steal my superior business strategies.”

Griffin sidestepped a cask as it rolled perilously close to his polished Hessians. “If not to show off your physique, then what?”

“Come spend Christmas with me at my new vineyard. Julia will enjoy the estate, and the kids can run wild in the gardens.”

Griffin tilted his head, skeptical. “What’s this? You never stay here for the holidays. Don’t you usually waste your money in French cabarets and Venetian bordellos?”

Boyd grimaced. His private railcar and all the provisions he’d arranged for a two-day trip to Paris would go to waste. What had possessed him to concoct this scheme? He knew why. Damn it, he knew exactly why. From where he came, humiliation was repaid in kind. And he had been in John Croft’s debt for too long.

“Call it a housewarming,” Boyd replied. That marble monstrosity would need considerable warmth. The last payment to Bernard Shaw, Europe’s most celebrated architect, could have built an entire village.

“If you’re so keen on domesticity, stay with us at Vesuvio. Anne is coming this year, and wherever she goes, Pedro Daun will follow.”

Boyd liked Maxwell’s sister well enough. Until she married Pedro Daun, the Duke of Almoster, and became a duchess. He seldom spoke with Almoster beyond trade matters, but having them at his vineyard would lend heft to his plan.

“Bring them with you,” Boyd said.

Griffin stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “It’s too sudden. Julia already has plans. She won’t agree—”

“Heavens, Maxwell. A soft Englishman who can’t control his own wife? What a disgrace.”

Griffin didn’t take the bait. “Why the sudden holiday spirit? Don’t tell me you’ve been visited by one of Dickens’s ghosts.”

Boyd chuckled, shaking his head. He had indeed received a visitor, though not spectral. More like porcelain. With red hair.

“Miss Elisabeth Croft will spend the holidays with me,” Boyd said casually.

Griffin froze, his blue eyes narrowing. “Why?”

Boyd rolled another cask into place, his muscles straining. “Because she’s courting my hand in marriage.”

Griffin grabbed Boyd’s arm, his expression incredulous. “She’s what?”

“Her father sent her. The old man’s terrified of dying without securing Croft & Co.’s future. And they say I’m the savage.”

Griffin fell silent, his gaze heavy. Boyd’s throat tightened under the weight of it.

“The girl isn’t to blame for her father’s faults,” Griffin said at last, his tone surprisingly sharp.

Why the defense? As far as Boyd knew, Griffin hated John Croft as much as he did. But to make the father pay, Boyd wouldn’t spare the daughter. Once society learned Croft had begged Boyd to marry her, and Boyd refused, the humiliation Croft had once served him would be repaid in full.

“Did you know Croft’s been buying wine on credit,” Boyd said, “spreading word that his daughter will marry me? Imagine their surprise when they find out I won’t.”

Griffin’s jaw tightened. “And wound Miss Croft in the process? That seems ruthless. Even for you.”

Boyd lowered the barrel and studied his friend. “Do you still have feelings for her?”

The thought of Beth with Griffin sent a wave of heat coursing through Boyd, sharp as whiskey straight from the distillery.

“I never had feelings for her,” Griffin snapped. “When Croft arranged the marriage, she was eighteen—not even out. I was relieved when her reputation didn’t suffer. She seems like a good girl.”

“Of course. Society’s crystal princess.”

Griffin frowned, his tone wary. “What do you plan to do with her?”

Boyd flashed a grin, all teeth. “What do you think? Eat her as the main course at Christmas dinner?”

He’d do something better. He’d show Beth that she wasn’t cut out to be a winemaker’s wife. Prove how shallow high society was, once and for all.

“If this is your idea of revenge for something that happened sixteen years ago—”

“Never mind the invitation,” Boyd interrupted. “I’ll hire someone from the village to act as a chaperone.”

Griffin grunted. “Don’t bother. We’re coming.”

“Mr. Sandeman, I present the Quinta do Sussurro. If I may say, it’s a mansion that rivals any estate in Europe. Italianate in design, yet softened by local stonework.” Shaw made a sweeping gesture.

Boyd paused outside the courtyard, his eyes trailing over the manicured bushes, lavender tufts, and the impressive facade adorned with arched windows and marble statues. The house lorded over the Douro River as if it owned it—the kind of house he’d once dreamed of possessing. Now it was his. For a moment, he hesitated, almost afraid of dirtying the pristine white Portuguese stones lining the path.

He had to admit, the architect had done a superb job. The sun was setting beyond the hills, painting the vineyards in gold and red. His chest swelled with the sweet scent of the river and a sense of pride he rarely let himself feel.

He doubted Miss Elisabeth Arabella Croft would find fault with it. Her brilliant green eyes would no doubt widen at the display of his wealth. The house was grand enough to impress even her shriveled mother, with all her notions of grandeur. And the local dignitaries? They would flock to his door like dogs sniffing for scraps around a trestle table.

For once, no one could call him uncouth or unrefined.

This was it. The summit of all he had fought for. No more freezing winds off the loch. No more ragged shoes trudging through dirt roads.

He closed his eyes, but the memory clung to him like the dampness that had seeped through the walls of their stone cottage. The howling wind, the barren land refusing to yield. The blight had taken what little they had, and the rest had been fenced off, leaving his family with nothing but stones. He could still see their pale, hollow faces as they boarded the ship to America, leaving him behind.

Boyd opened his eyes and squared his shoulders, imprinting his vision with the luxury before him. He wasn’t in Scotland anymore. That life was buried.

“Note the proportions, Mr. Sandeman,” Shaw continued. “A broad central building, with symmetrical wings extending on either side, crowned by corner towers high enough to catch the river breeze and command views of the valley. The entrance—grand yet restrained—features Doric columns.”

“You’ve put thought into this, Mr. Shaw. I’ll give you that.” Boyd adjusted his collar, his tone even. “Well then, show me this mountain of marble that cost me more than a king’s palace.”

The architect dithered, but led him inside.

“Notice how the skylight floods the grand hall with light, casting a golden glow on the arches. Pure Italianate design—a marvel of symmetry and grace.”

Boyd stepped into the grand hall, waiting for satisfaction to settle over him. The echoes of their footsteps faded, leaving only silence. No crackling fire. No hum of bustling servants. Not even the creak of wood settling. Just... emptiness.

The silence seemed carved from the same marble—cold, slick, and unyielding. It left a raw bite in the air, a snowless winter, grinding between the teeth like the sound of distant shivers.

Boyd clenched his jaw, his chest tightening. Boyd was suddenly fourteen, back in Glasgow, in January. Nights awaiting to stow away on a ship, when the streets lay dead and everything, everything—rats, insects, even the shadows—slept, paralyzed by the cold. Only he remained, his body shaking, his fingers numb inside his coat pockets, the last soul awake.

He shifted his stance, the soles of his boots echoing across the room. The sound was swallowed immediately by the void. His gaze drifted to the polished walls, the untouched furnishings, and the vaulted ceiling above. The house felt like a stage—built for admiration, not for living.

“Not a stitch of wood to warm the place,” Boyd muttered, his arms crossed.

“Ah, yes, the marble. Quite the contrast to, shall we say, more rustic materials. Perhaps the second floor will be more to your liking.”

They ascended the grand staircase, Shaw leading with a practiced air of pride, Boyd trailing with an increasingly sour expression.

“Here is the master bedchamber. Positioned to capture the morning light, as requested.”

Boyd stood in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, inspecting the high ceilings, the chandelier, and the intricate moldings. It was the epitome of modern luxury, just as promised.

Shaw gestured toward the far wall. “And—behold—the marble pool. Heated, an extraordinary feature. The tiles are a nod to Portuguese design.”

Boyd’s mind conjured an image of Beth’s gleaming white skin as she luxuriated in the bath. What sounds would she make while the water lapped at her breasts? But alas, he would not see her in there. Not unless he wanted to put that noose around his neck. Still, the room felt more suited to her than to him.

“Marble again,” Boyd said. “Thought this was supposed to be a place to live, not a blasted museum.”

Shaw clasped his hands, his expression unruffled. “A masterpiece is sometimes... an acquired appreciation. Perhaps the landscape will be more to your liking.”

The architect led him onto the veranda, where terraces blended the natural beauty of the Douro with cultivated gardens. Native plants flowed into the vineyards, seamlessly merging art and nature.

Shaw pointed toward the riverbank. “The property’s crowning piece—a fountain from Dunkeld, Scotland. We restored it.”

Boyd’s gaze fell on the marble bears frozen mid-hunt in the circular pond. In Lochaber, bears had been everywhere: carved into stone, etched into wood, painted on doorways. Guardians. Threats. Allies. Symbols of a land that gave nothing freely.

“The bears symbolize your roots, your heritage.”

Boyd’s laughter was mirthless. No matter the wealth or distance, he could never truly escape his past.

“From Dunkeld, you say?”

“Yes, Dunkeld.”

“Tear it down.”

Shaw sputtered as Boyd strode back inside. The marble walls, the gilded hall—it was all pressing in, threatening to bury him alive.

Midway down the stairs, a middle-aged woman stepped into his path.

“Mr. Sandeman, welcome. I’m Mrs. Abernathy, the housekeeper. Whenever you have time, I’d like to discuss menus. The staff is wondering how long—”

“My secretary will send you the guest list for Christmas. Expect thirty guests, plus my friends and Miss Croft, who will stay for the holidays.”

Mrs. Abernathy stiffened. “But the decorations—”

“Do as you please. Spare no expense.”

“The master bedchamber is ready, sir. Your luggage arrived this morning, and dinner—”

“I’ll be staying at the hunting lodge tonight.”

“As you wish, sir.”

As Boyd advanced toward the exit, a wiry lad materialized from the shadows, his coat a garish display of brass buttons and tartan trim. The poor soul looked like a peacock forced into a kilt.

“Mr. Sandeman, this is Reginald, the footman in charge of the doors,” Mrs. Abernathy introduced with a faint sigh.

Boyd groaned. “Mrs. Abernathy, remind me to shoot the devil who chose the servants’ livery.”

Reginald, wide-eyed, bowed. “Welcome, sir. It’s my honor to... open the door for you.”

Boyd grabbed the handle before he could. “Not this time, Reggy.”

“It’s Reginald, sir.”

“Of course it is.”

Boyd crossed the threshold, the night air far more welcoming than the silence inside.