This was a disturbing development. Would this be the thing that tipped Kieran over the edge? Being charged with mutiny because he attempted to save his wife?
That night always hovered at the edge of Alex’s dreams.
“Alex! Help! Cuthie has her!” Kieran screamed.
Alex looked up as Kieran, wet and bleeding, raced uphill from the harbor. Flames leapt from the island village below them, the fire being Cuthie’s final act of cruelty.
Under Alex’s hands, Andrew groaned, still bleeding profusely from his wounds. Rafe lay beside him, his cheek sliced to the bone. Cuthie and his crew had beaten them nearly to death.
“Help!” Kieran staggered closer. “We cannae let Cuthie take her!”
Ewan caught Kieran in his enormous arms before their friend could jostle Alex’s work.
“The ship has already weighed anchor, Kieran,” Ewan began, pointing toThe Minervasailing out of the harbor.
“We have tae try. Cuthie captured us, but we fought our way free. I nearly had Cuthie, but then Jamie . . . she stabbed him—”
“Who?”
“Massey! Massey grabbed me from behind as I fought Cuthie. Jamie stabbed him and then pushed me overboard, thinking to save me, theglaikitlass. But now they have her!”
Kieran had been inconsolable, unwilling to face what they all already understood—
Jamie likely would not be coming back.
Worse, Kieran was guilty of openly mutinying against his captain.
It had taken over three years to find and bring to justice the men behind Cuthie’s vicious actions—events which had helped assuage Kieran’s pain.
But Fate simply would not let their friend go.
New evidence kept coming to light, sending Kieran off on one wild-goose chase after another, hoping that the new information might lead him to Jamie. And then when it all came to naught, he sank once more into despair.
And now this . . .
Kieran had promised not to return to the bottle, but how many times had Alex’s brother sworn something similar? And in the end, Ian had given in to his demons. Their father had too, for that matter.
Alex stared at his own leg in the bone box, recognizing how easy it would be to request a bottle of whisky and pass the next month in a blissful, alcohol-induced haze.
He swallowed the acrid taste of panic in his throat.
He would not end up like Ian.
Kieran would not either.
Alex would fight for them both.
He rifled through the remaining letters.
There were a few from friends and patients—Mrs. Hammond had much to say about the diet of her cat.
The Duke of Ferndown had sent a polite missive—or rather the man’s secretary—wishing Alex a speedy recovery. It was distant and polite and rimmed all around with condescension. His Grace also invited Alex to dine once he arrived in London. The duke wished to further discuss his proposition regarding the marquisate.
But toward the bottom of the pile, Alex found a letter that had arrived at Frome Abbey directly.
The mysterious Mr. S. Smith had replied.
I am pleased that you will be in this area within the week as you return to Edinburgh. Please call upon Mr. Bennion, the innkeep at The George Inn in Wetherby. He will give you my direction.
