“John.”
“Yes. Sir Rafe had crouched down and spoke gently with the boy. I will never forget Sir Rafe’s expression when he lifted his head and noticed me approaching. He went deathly still . . . and then smiled—the warmest, kindest expression. No one ever smiled at me like that . . . as if my very existence were a delight. At first, I wondered if he consideredme a stranger. Surely, he would not smile so brightly at the boy who took his birthright. But then Sir Rafe stood and bowed, greeting me as Lord Hawthorn, before turning to introduce me to his son, Mr. John Gordon.”
The moment seared into Tristan’s memory . . . shaking hands with John for the first, and nearly the last, time. This boy who looked so much like himself—his nephew, but more like a long-lost brother. Unlike Tristan, who had been so ecstatic to be at Eton, John’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he kept wiping his nose with a handkerchief as he leaned into his father’s side.
All will be well,Rafe had whispered to John.I love ye, son, and your mother and your siblings love ye. You will be back home with us before ye know it.
“Sir Rafe obviously doted on John,” Tristan said, “just as John adored him. The sort of father-son relationship that I had read about in Mr. Dickens’s novels.”
“Aye, Rafe is a loving father and husband tae his family. Though I am unsure, given all this, how ye came tae dislike Rafe so.”
“Patience, Wife.” He jostled her shoulder. “I expected Sir Rafe to dismiss me out of hand. Instead, he invited me to join John and himself for luncheon at a nearby inn. The entire experience was . . .” Tristan sighed. How to explain this? “You must understand. My mother and sister had been ripped from me. I had spent six months chopping wood with Auld Graeme and trying to avoid my father’s angry fist. And now, I found myself seated beside my much older brother—a cheerful, kind replica of my father who asked me about myself and matched every youthful ideal of what my sire should have been.
“It is petty to say now, but I was jealous of John. Impossibly jealous. Here, John had a father—one who looked like my own—and yet was warm and caring and so unbearably gentle. And I wondered, why couldn’t Fate have made me Sir Rafe’s son, too? We inhabited the same family tree. I was merely attached to it at the wrong place.
“I made it my goal to become friends with John. He was sunny and outgoing, but I had hopes. In my foolish dreams, we could become like brothers. Perhaps, I could return home with him to Scotland over the long breaks. Perhaps, if I proved myself, Sir Rafe would adopt me as a sort of surrogate son.”
“Oh, Tristan,” Isolde breathed, her eyes glittering in the soft light. “Ye break my heart.” She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I am sure that Rafe would have accepted ye in a trice if he could have.”
Tristan shrugged, the pain of old memories numbing his limbs. “Perhaps. I will never know. Regardless, the dream was short-lived. I had been at Eton for merely a month when my father’s personal secretary abruptly arrived with orders to collect me. I was not permitted to say goodbye to anyone, particularly not to John. When I arrived home, my father met us in the entry hall, face red and eyes gleaming with rage. I was hauled into his study and thoroughly beaten with a cane.”
“Tristan!”
“Allie has told you how he was, Isolde.” He fixed his wife with a steadfast look. “Such behavior should come as no surprise. After battering me, my father stood over my body as I coughed blood on the floor and dispassionately relatedwhyI had been so punished. Apparently, Old Kendall had occasion to visit London and had there encountered Sir Rafe. My foolish older brother had boasted to our father that I had dined with him. That I was becoming friends with John. That my loyalties were already more tied to Sir Rafe than our father and would only become more so over time. I cannot imagine what possessed Rafe to goad Kendall in such a manner. Perhaps he thought to taunt our sire or to draw blood in their endless war with one another. Who knows. He clearly was unconcerned with how his words would impact me.”
Isolde pushed off his chest, sitting upright. “Have ye told Rafe this?”
“Of course not,” Tristan scoffed. “He is an intelligent man. I am sure he has put the whole together.”
“But . . . had he known what the outcome would be for yourself, surely Rafe would have said nothing to your father.”
“We shall never know. The event proved a pivotal one in my life and not for the better. After that, my father tightened the bars of my cage. A strict tutor was hired, and I was educated at home, my every move monitored. As I grew, I was required to take a protection officer along for any excursions outside our estate.”
“A protection officer? Like the Queen herself?”
“Yes. Mind you, the men were less concerned about my own personal safety and more invested in relaying my every word and action back toKendall in exchange for a handsome wage. Eventually, I did convince my father to let me attend Oxford. Of course, the protection officers dogged my every step, making it difficult to form friendships.”
And even in that, I fear my father interfered, Tristan did not add.
Isolde pressed her cold nose to the side of his throat, relaxing back into his arm once more.
“Could ye ever forgive Rafe for betraying ye? His actions might have been accidental.”
Tristan ran a hand up and down her spine. “That is a difficult question to answer. Sir Rafe’s careless, taunting words utterly altered the course of my life. Without his interference, I might have remained at Eton. I might have made friends.”And known camaraderie, he did not add. “As such, I do not care to associate with Sir Rafe or welcome him into my circle. He shattered any goodwill there might have been between us. I think tolerance might be all I am ever capable of.”
And yet, even as he said the words, Tristan recalled Sir Rafe’s last visit.
I have always looked upon ye a bit like a son . . .
The problem, of course, had always been the same.
Tristan still wanted to like Sir Rafe. He truly did.
But he didn’t trust his brother.
After all, were it not for Old Kendall’s bigamy, Sir Rafe would be the Duke of Kendall now. Surely, that had to chafe . . . the thought of all the power Rafe might have had if their sire had not been such a despicable human being.
How could Tristan ever believe that Sir Rafe’s motives were as altruistic as he claimed? That there was no sense of wronged vindication in his actions?
