Before he could flee to the dock, wind gusted. His hood flew back. A most inopportune time for the next flash of electric white to paint the world in stark relief.
The sailor’s scream was brassier than the approaching tempest.“Lawks a-mercy! A bleedin’ monster!”With a flail of hands and no doubt trousers freshly soiled, the man tore off in the opposite direction.
Colin huffed as he yanked up his hood. The sailor’s words were nothing but air and vibrato. He’d heard them all and more. What annoyed most was the flare of the man’s nostrils. The terror widening his eyes to an unnatural proportion. And worse, the accompanying gape of maw and twisted mien. Gripping his travel bag with whitened knuckles, he stormed down the gangplank, the thick board threatening to break with each step. Man’s inability to see past fault never failed to irritate him—which irritated him even more. He should be used to this by now.
He strode along the darkened wharf towards the twin lights of a carriage and the silhouette of a gown standing beside it. The closer he drew, the greater the snarl of emotions knotting in his gut. Disappointment. Sympathy. Longing. Love. How many years had it been? Six? Nay. Seven. He’d been on the cusp of manhood the day he’d last embraced his sister, the only one save God with whom he’d ever bared his soul.
Grabbing handfuls of her skirts, she scurried towards him. “Colin?”
Another blaze of lightning lit the night. Dark eyes. Pixie nose. Red lips and the strong Balfour jawline. Yet more than that. Time had been overly gracious, softening what had been angular lines to feminine curves. This woman washissister? They were yin and yang. Beauty and beast. Why in all of God’s green earth had no man laid claim to her?
“Yes, Amelia. It is I, at long last.” He hesitated a moment, then set down his bag and opened wide his arms. It was a gamble, this vulnerability. One that could sting. Would she consent to the touch of an ogre as she had all those years ago?
A garbled cry came out throaty, and she flung herself into his embrace, nestling her face against his waistcoat. The intensity of her reaction caught him off guard. If she’d missed him this much, then why the sporadic and ofttimes absent correspondence?
She nestled all the closer with the next outrageously loud peal of thunder, and he wrapped his arms tighter, protecting her from the sound. She was naught but a twig against his ungainly trunk as he rubbed one big hand along her back. What a change of roles, when as a child she’d been the one to comfort him during storms. Ahh, but it was good to love and be loved, a balm to his soul, healing wounds that he’d not realized still bled.
After a last shuddering breath, she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “Thank you. I don’t deserve such a warm welcome.”
Remorse? Apparently there had been more behind the scarcity of her letters than a lack of love for himself. Though he knew the effect to be hideous, he couldn’t stop a huge grin and sank all the farther inside his hood to prevent her from seeing it.
“We are family, are we not?” He picked up his bag. “Though I didn’t like it, I understood your need to be away from Father. God knows I’d have left if I could.”
“I have missed you, Brother, more than you can possibly know.” She stepped closer as the next white zigzag cut the sky. “Let me have a look at you, then.”
No. Immediately no!
He bit back the words and turned away. He could barely keep from shuddering any time he chanced a look in a mirror.
“Time for that later,” he explained—though even to his own ears it sounded false. “A storm brews, and I would not have you catch your death.” There. That was better.
Yet a surprisingly strong grip pinched his arm. “Don’t forget I outrank you seven years, three months, and a day. I will not be moved until I assure myself the brother I love stands before me.”
He clenched his jaw, stopping a profanity he’d heard aboard ship. Stubborn woman! The Balfour curse.
After a glance to be sure no one else could see, he pulled back his hood. “Satisfied?” The question flew out harsh and bitter.
“Oh, Colin.” Rising to tiptoes, she cupped his cheek, her fingers barely spanning the curve. Nothing but love burned in her gaze. “You are all grown now, the handsome man I’ve kept in my heart suddenly come to life.”
He snorted. “Liar.”
“Well, I am a writer, after all.” She withdrew, mischief quirking her lips.
“And about to be a very wet one. Shall we?” He swept his hand towards the carriage.
She dashed to the coach and pulled herself up, then paused on the stair. “Oh, I forgot to say—”
Thunder cracked.
The horses spooked.
Amelia’s body jerked and, though she flailed for balance, she tumbled to the ground, skirts splaying—where the turn of the wheels would easily crush her leg.
Graham loved it best when night brooded stormy at the midnight hour. There was something wild about the twangy scent and bass rumbles that crawled inside the bones. He leaned over the harbour-side wall, filling his lungs with the approaching squall. Filling his soul. Some of his best—and few—moments of glory on the sea had been during such evenings as this, when the greatness of the One who ruled the heavens raised a mighty arm and revealed His strength.
A pity He didn’t always do so.
Raking his hand through his hair, he briefly lamented that he’d forgotten his hat at Peckwood’s surgery. But no wonder. Fatigue hung on his frame like a sodden wool blanket; he was lucky he’d thought to grab his coat. Now he knew exactly why Peckwood absented himself every Thursday. It was the busiest shipping day of the week, pouring a glut of sailors into Bristol who required care that ship surgeons had either neglected or hadn’t the knowledge to tend. Owners were notoriously lax in hiring skilled onboard doctors. The more proficient, the higher the wages—and the less profit. Peckwood ought to have cautioned him, but the man had been curiously absent since the day they’d come to terms. Were Graham a wagering man, he’d bet ten guineas the surgeon was engrossed in his research at the asylum. He’d see him tomorrow though, when they attended a patient together—which was a strange change of Peckwood’s habits. Was the doctor hoping to pawn him off on some peevish old rheumatic?
