“For…her alone. She has the key.”
Brock smacked the letters against one of his hands in rage. He was not about to ride all the way to London to deliver to his little sister a set of letters that were likely full of hate and insults from a bitter, dying old man.
His father’s lips twitched in a cold smile, as though he wished to laugh at his eldest son. “If you wish revenge upon me…these are the way…” His eyes fixed on the letters in his son’s hands and he coughed.
“I’m not going to play some bloody game with you, Father. When you’ve passed, I will be master of this castle and things will be different.”
“Brock, don’t,” Brodie warned. None of them wanted to have any more time with their father, but it wasn’t wise to provoke him to an early death. It would be unkind, even though their father deserved no kindness.
But Brock had no pity left. No mercy. Three decades had left him weary and his control frayed.
For the next half hour, he and his brothers stared at the wrinkled visage of their father’s face in the dwindling candlelight. It was close to midnight when the old man suddenly jerked, all of his muscles contracting. Then his gaze drifted heavenward and he exhaled, a weak, shallow breath.
His last. Montgomery was dead. The weight of the letters in Brock’s hands felt as heavy as a mountain of stones. He walked over to his father’s bed and shoved the letters back under the mattress. He could burn them tomorrow if he wished, but he would not give them to Rosalind, not when he was certain whatever was inside would cause her harm.
Brodie leaned over the bed and brushed his fingertips over their father’s eyes and closed them while Brock and Aiden watched.
“What…what do we do now?” Aiden asked.
Brock picked up the sputtering candle, and with one glance at his brothers he blew it out.
“Father is dead. We take back our lives.”
“What of Rosalind?” Aiden asked. “Will she come home now?”
The last that they knew of their sister was that she’d married an Englishman, had been widowed, and was now living in London. They’d learned that much through occasional reports from friends who went to London every few months. But they’d not dared to contact her since she’d left. It hadn’t been safe. They’d feared their father would have gone after her, dragged her back home and punished her, even though he’d never cared about her.
“I want her home,” Aiden said. “I miss her.”
Brock nodded. “I know.” Brodie was thirty, but Aiden was a mere two years older than Rosalind, and they’d been close growing up. All three of them had mourned her leaving, even knowing she had to go for her safety, but Aiden had acted as though part of his heart had been ripped out. He had so much of their mother in him. Like Rosalind, he was all heart.
“We will bring her home. She’s safe now. We all are.”
*****
It was the worst coach ride Rosalind ever had. When she’d made arrangements to leave that afternoon, the skies had been clear and the day fine and sunny. Yet as they’d climbed in the coach that evening to leave, she’d thought she’d smelled rain in the air. About an hour outside of London, storm clouds had gathered upon the horizon, and shortly after that, the skies opened up.
Rain lashed at the windows, and the driver cursed as the horses balked. It felt like her driver was aiming for every hole and ditch in the road.
“Heavens, this is a dreadful storm,” Claire exclaimed, wrapping her cloak about her.
“It would rain,” Rosalind muttered darkly. A wretched day could always turn worse.
“How long until we reach Lord Lennox’s estate?”
“At least an hour or more.”
The coach suddenly dipped. Rosalind and Claire crashed to the floor. Rosalind’s arm stung sharply with pain as she landed awkwardly on it.
“Are you all right, Your Ladyship?” Claire asked.
“Yes. What’s wrong? We’ve stopped.” The coach was no longer moving. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. If her driver was stopping in this storm, it wasn’t for a good reason. She opened the door and blinked against the rain as she sought the driver. He stood beside the back wheel of the coach.
“Mr. Matthews! Why have we stopped?”
“The wheel’s fractured, my lady. It cracked on that last dip. We won’t make it far in this weather before it completely breaks.”
“Oh, heavens.” Rosalind groaned and looked about the rain-spattered road before her heart stopped. A shadow flickered on the edge of the road, drawing closer. Someone was coming toward them from the woods. She ducked back inside the coach.
