“I can bring them back with me now,” he said, his brown-eyed gaze more earnest than ever.

She wasn't accustomed to thoughtful gestures and fought against the sudden ache of tears in her throat. “You'd do that?”

“My dear, my lovely Fiona.” Archie's uncertain smile made her weak in the knees. “I'm discovering there's not much I wouldn't do for you.”

Chapter 31

Cormac turned up the collar of his coat. He'd have preferred wearing his plaid, but a pair of sturdy brown trews was less conspicuous dockside. The afternoon was gray, the sky wishing for rain but unable to muster more than a damp haze, and it was like walking through a cloud.

A new boat had docked — a small, one-mast sloop — just next to the Oliphant. It bore investigating. For the plan he was considering, gaining proximity to the smugglers' ship would be key. If the sloop were used for fishing, mayhap its owner would be amenable to a bit of grease in his palms in exchange for turning a blind eye.

Approaching, he struggled to read the name, painted dark crimson on even darker brown timber. The Journeyman. An odd name for a boat.

Shrugging his chin deeper in the neck of his coat, he strolled closer.

A man sat on the bow, his legs dangling over the edge. Cormac moved closer still, squinting through the mist, some vague intuition pricking the back of his mind.

The stranger leaned back on his hands, swinging his feet in the air, his head canted lazily to the side. And then he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

Cormac's knees buckled.

His mind flashed to a boy. A boy who'd wipe his face with the back of his hand till their mother's voice grew hoarse from her scolds. A boy who'd sneak out with Cormac to talk until the wee hours. Cormac would stare at the stars above, but this boy couldn't sit still. He'd sit on a rock, swinging his legs over the edge, ever moving.

He'd had hair the color of Cormac's but eyes all his own. And he'd hated when he had to play the Campbell.

Aidan.

The stranger was Aidan. Cormac knew in that instant, as surely as he knew his own self. Aidan was alive, and he sat on the edge of a boat not twenty paces away.

Alive. Cormac knew without a moment's doubt. He'd know his twin anywhere. He needn't study his brother's features to recognize him, to know him.

Cormac filled his lungs. He wanted to shout, to run to him, to leap and cry out.

But then Aidan sat up and called to someone. Cormac strained to make sense of details through the fog and the bustle. There was a responding shout from the deck of the Oliphant. Jack appeared.

Cormac held his breath, listening.

The smuggler had a bandage wrapped around his head where Cormac had struck him. Jack nodded at Aidan, shouted back. They shared a laugh.

Black wavered on the edges of Cormac's vision. What did Aidan have to do with a smuggler?

He forced himself to draw breath. Turning on his heel, he walked back up the quay, staggering like a drunken man. Aidan had returned — but how and why? Was he indentured still, or did he return to Scotland as a slaver?

Cormac didn't recall the walk back to Humphrey's. Instinct alone saved him from barreling up to the front door, desperate to go straight to Ree's arms. The world made no sense, but she, she made sense. All he wanted was to be near her, to get his bearings.

His years of training kicked in, and as he approached Humphrey's street, caution and wile returned, as ingrained in him as his other five senses. Cutting down a back alley, he snatched an untended bucket of coal for an impromptu disguise, and snuck in a back entrance.

Marjorie gasped as he stumbled into her room. “Cormac,” she cried, running to him and shutting the door behind him. “What happened?”

How to explain? He stared at her, his mind reeling.

He couldn't tell Ree what he'd just seen. If she knew, she'd only race down to the docks to confront Aidan for herself. His brother might be pleased to see them. But if he'd become a smuggler, might he also flee in panic?

Cormac had lost his twin once before; he couldn't risk losing him again.

More than ever, this godforsaken world confused him. And more than ever, there was one thing he knew: family.

It'd been robbed from him at a young age, but he knew its value now.

He had to find out the whole truth. He had to make sure. And until he did, he'd protect his brother by keeping his existence a secret.

He seized Marjorie's hands in his, and though she drew a sharp breath at the pressure, the grip she returned was just as firm. Marjorie was the only thing that made sense; Marjorie was the only thing that made his world real.

Steadfast and true, she'd been in his heart for as long as he could remember.

He'd make her his in truth. He'd make her family.

But first there was another truth he needed to discover and a secret he needed to guard, because would Marjorie still want him if it'd been his brother — another devil MacAlpin — who'd been responsible for stealing her beloved Davie?

“Did you do it?” she whispered, brow furrowed with her intensity.

“We can't, Ree. I'll not destroy the ship.”

Chapter 32

“What did you say?” Marjorie pulled her hands from his.

“I said… Ree… “ Cormac raked a hand through his hair, fumbling for words.

She tamped down a surge of angry impatience. Now was not the time for the man to return to his silent ways. “Do you mean, we're going to destroy the Oliphant in a different way?”

“No,” he said, his voice flat. “We'll not be destroying anything.”

“Help me understand, love.” Surely he didn't mean what he'd just said. He'd made her a promise. “Is it that you've found a different way to save the men?”

He shook his head mutely.

“Just tell me what you mean. What are you planning to do?” Her heart began to pound in her ears. Cormac just stood there, grappling for words. She read the regret on his face, and it spoke volumes.

The truth of it hit her: he wasn't going to do anything.

“There are men still on board,” she said, incredulous. “Scotsmen, imprisoned. We'll save them, right? You must agree.”

“I… I'm sorry, Ree.” He reached for her hands.

“Sorry?” She pulled away from him, feeling numb, unreal. “Are you saying you'll do nothing?”

“Aye, Ree. I'm sorry.”

Frustrated, she shot him a look. “Stop saying sorry. Tell the men in shackles, Cormac. Tell the men imprisoned on that boat, who'll never see Scotland or their families again, tell them you're sorry.” He stood silently, buffeted by her angry words. It only piqued her anger more. That he didn't argue back meant he wasn't going to do anything to help.

“I thought we were of the same mind,” she said, edging away.

He stepped closer to her. “We are of the same mind.”

“Then why?” She paced to the hearth, staring blindly at the fire burning in the grate. “Don't you have any explanation? More than no, Ree, sorry?” Her voice rose, anger, confusion, and betrayal all roiling inside her. He was completely closed off from her. “Has it become impossible? I'd understand, Cormac, just give me a reason.”

“I think… I think we should investigate further… “

“Investigate? Investigate what? The Oliphant has a load of prisoners in her hull, their only crime that they're too poor to matter. They'll set sail any day. What more do you need to know? Just give me a reason why.”

“I can't. I just… I no longer want to destroy it, Ree. That's all I can say.” He came up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

His touch was tentative, and she was too numb to move away. “You promised me,” she said bleakly. “I should've done it myself. I'll need to do it myself.”

“You'll do no such thing,” he said, outrage in his voice.

She spun to face him, galled that he'd use such a tone with her. “You can't order me about.”

“I'm sorry, Ree,” he said, and the look on his face was one of helpless anguish.

Men. She was the one who was helpless, she the wronged one. Men were such inexplicably foreign animals. She'd prick his male pride, she decided, and perhaps that would get at the truth. “I don't understand,” she said coldly.

“Help me understand. Is it that you're unable to do it? Afraid, even?”

“Of course I'm able. It's just that… “ He hesitated, perhaps realizing he'd just admitted he could help her if he wished.

The breath whooshed out of her, as another answer occurred to her. “It's because you don't love me enough.”

“That is not the reason,” he said vehemently. “Not nearly. I want us to be married.”

“You want to marry me instead of destroying the slave ship?” She put her hands on her hips, trying to discern truth from invention. “Is that a marriage proposal?”

“Aye, Ree, it is.” He opened his arms before him as though entreating her.

She no longer knew what to believe. “Are you asking me to marry you because you feel guilty you won't do this for me? Or perhaps it's simply to divert my attention.”

“Of course not,” he said quickly.

He was acting guilty, and her stomach turned. “Do you speak of marriage because you feel guilty you've taken my virginity? Is that it? Is this proposal merely your mislaid sense of duty?” The truth of things came to her in a rush of clarity. Cormac had never told her he loved her. She'd been the one to speak the words. What he felt was simple attraction — his passion for her didn't extend from his body to his heart. He'd surrendered to his passions, and now he acted merely from a sense of duty.

Horror and embarrassment overwhelmed her. She was an obligation to be minded.

She'd fooled herself all this time — she'd never be his. She could accept his proposal, make Cormac lawfully hers. Unutterable sadness filled her — she ached with it — because she knew she couldn't say yes. She'd always dreamed of being Cormac's wife, but she had her pride. She needed to be the bride of his heart, not simply his bride in name. “No, Cormac. I cannot marry you.”