Veiled Desires

by Tracy MacNish

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Tracy MacNish's deeply romantic sequel new novel reveals the untapped power of a woman's heart--and how fiercely she dares to protect it. . . Emeline's entire life is controlled by men. She's just been won in a wager by Jeffrey, the Duke of Eton, who keeps her under lock and key. And her cruel stepfather, Simon, wants nothing more than to dominate her entire future. What she wants is a man who'll set her free . . .  and Rogan Mullen, heir to the dukedom, just may be the answer to her dreams . . . Rogan is more than eager to have Emeline in his care, but his urge to protect her grows into a yearning to possess her--body and soul. Surrendering completely to love, they cannot foresee that something very sinister threatens to destroy them, for Simon will stop at nothing to control his stepdaughter's fate . . . and only the most fervent passion can endure against such relentless odds . . ."A lushly written, richly detailed Georgian historical [that] pushes the boundaries of the genre."-- Booklist

Release date: November 20, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 417

Sample

Barbados, 1774

The noise of cannon fire greeted Rogan Mullen and his crew as the Paradise sailed into Barbados’s inner harbor along the peaceful western coast. On his return from the wild shores of the Americas, the island looked tinier than in his memory: the beaches whiter, the water a deeper turquoise. Grasping the ropes of the rigging, he swung down from the mizzenmast, dropped one of the sun-bleached sails and handed over a line to a waiting sailor.

“Find out who knotted that, aye?” Rogan instructed. “If we’d hit a squall, that line wouldn’t have held.”

“Aye, Sir,” the sailor replied, as he wound the rope into a tight, neat coil.

Crewmen shouted to each other, the sounds of their voices punctuated by the shots of another cannon and the cries of seagulls and the crowd that gathered. All the island came alive when a ship returned home, the locals anxious for news from other parts of the world, and also for the goods the ship would bear.

The captain of the ship strode over to Rogan and stood beside him, the stub of an unlit cigar firmly clenched between his teeth. “A good voyage.”

“Aye,” Rogan agreed. He gestured to the rigging high overhead. “I saw sloppy work up there. You’ll need to find the weak link before we set sail again.”

“Will do,” the captain said with a nod. “Other than that?”

“All is well. I’m pleased.” Rogan clapped the man on the back and nodded, his eyes sweeping over the ship, taking in the shiny black paint, the polished brass, the clean, orderly decks. “You’ve done well.”

The crew lowered the remaining sails as the brig coasted to the pier and slid into berth. The anchor dropped with the rattling scream of thick metal links and hit the bottom of the cove. With a heave-ho, ten crewmen dropped the gangplank into position with the resounding crack of wood on wood, and then took to securing the hawses. Within minutes the ship came even more alive, as islanders clambered aboard and crewmen rushed to disembark, everyone milling about chatting and calling out to one another. The din of voices grew louder, mingling with the cries of the seagulls wheeling overhead, the clatter of the rigging being secured, and the creaking of the tall masts.

Rogan leaned against the rail of his ship. He employed his own crew, his own captain, and saw to the trade himself, loving the bustle of the various port Exchanges, the hot feel of trading tickets in his palm, the thrill of barter and sales.

The sun warmed his shoulders with a pleasant heat, and he breathed in the scent of home: the salty fresh air mingling with the food from the docks, the slight reek of rancid fish from the fishing boats docked alongside them, and the sweet odor of fermentation wafting from the vegetables and fruit piled in crates, spoiling in the hot sun.

A few of the pretty island girls came aboard the ship, the sound of their giggles floating around them. They wandered over to Rogan as a tight bevy of four, fetching from heads to heels, their bright kerchiefs tied over their hair and their suntanned, bare feet peeking from their colorful skirts. The boldest of the bunch, Greta, took a step apart from their pack. She breezed a bit closer to Rogan, her color riding high on her cheeks as she approached him.

“Good to see you, Rogan.” Her voice was full of laughter, and her long, thin toes curled against the wooden deck. She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward so she could tilt her head up coyly as she looked into his emerald green eyes. “Where have you been all this long year?”

Rogan grinned down at them, causing a fresh eruption of giggles. He arched a brow. “Oh, here and there, Greta. Now tell me, did you marry the foolish Smith boy?”

A bright flush crept up her neck, turning her pink cheeks a darker rose as indignation crept into her tone. “No. He went to sea, and asked me to wait for him.”

“Well, I did say he was foolish, aye?” Rogan pointed out. “You’re too pretty to be waiting on a boy, Greta.”

She leaned closer and touched his arm, placing her hand on the large bulge of his muscle. “Maybe I was waiting on a man, Rogan.”

Rogan laughed easily at her lack of subtlety and reached down to tuck a stray curl into her kerchief. He knew her parents, two quiet, hardworking Germans, and had known Greta since she was born, well enough to know she was a hopeless flirt. “You’d only break my heart.”

“That might be so, but you would enjoy the process.”

“I likely would,” Rogan agreed, glancing around at the throng milling on and off the ship, saw that it was thinning. It was time to disengage himself and be on his way, now that the bulk of the crowd had died down a bit. He grasped her hand and bowed over it, pressed a light kiss against her warm skin. “But I’m afraid I cannot risk it.”

He turned and walked away, heard a whisper and a fresh round of girlish giggles, and he grinned. It was good to be home.

Greta tore herself from her group and ran after him, reached out and tugged at his sleeve. “Oh and Rogan, do tell me what’s in the letter.”

“What letter is that?” Rogan asked, distracted. His attention caught on a cracked keg leaking rum onto the deck. He gestured for a mate to attend to it and then met Greta’s eyes once again.

“Only the talk of the island after Kieran did nothing but boast of it for months.” Her eyes grew sly and her lips drew into a smirk. The rivalry between the two girls was epic, and Greta found herself in the position of being first to dispense the information. “The finest vellum, a bold red seal, and the crest of the most powerful duke in England.”

A mate called out to Rogan from high in the rigging, stealing his attention once again. Rogan gestured to the pier and then back to the forecastle, using sign language to answer the man’s question before addressing Greta. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it. Nothing stays quiet on this island for too long.”

He took her hand once again and brushed his lips over it as his eyes saw to it the man in the rigging got his instructions right. “Good day.”

Dropping Greta’s hand he turned once again. This time he managed to escape.

One of the old men on the pier spied Rogan. He gripped his cane and called out, “I’ll send word you’re here. They’ll be chomping to see you, son.”

Rogan waved down at him from the ship’s deck. “No needs, Harry. I want it to be a surprise, aye?”

Harry nodded and waved him along, grinning toothlessly. Rogan grabbed a trunk from his cabin and hoisted it onto his shoulder, making his way from the ship, greeting people as he passed them, shaking hands, thanking them for the welcome. As much as he had needed to get away, it felt good to return. Better than he’d thought, as he saw the familiar faces of the islanders, the rugged limestone cliffs of the landscape, and heard the cries and noises of the docks.

Rogan made his way down the gangplank, worked through the throng to where Julius was hunched over an open pit, roasting a young boar. The man had done so every day for as long as Rogan could recall, wrapping the meat in sugarcane strips and basting it with a sauce of coconut milk, rum, and secret spices until the outside was charred black, the meat inside so succulent it melted in the mouth. He shook Julius’s hand and gestured to the meat, the rich scent making his mouth water. “Is it ready, I hope?”

Julius grinned wide, his teeth blinding white against the black of his skin, and took out a huge knife, cut a slab and set it on a plate with a piece of bread and a helping of the sauce. He handed it to Rogan, who set down his trunk and accepted it gratefully, along with a pint of warm ale. Standing in the shade of a huge palm tree, he drank deeply and ate the meat, then set the dirty glass and plate into a crate set aside for that purpose. He leaned against the tree and sighed deeply.

“My thanks.” He reached into his purse for a few coins. “A year is too long to go without your cooking.”

Julius waved away his payment. “Missta Rogan, ya put that beck, now.”

“Thank you, Julius,” Rogan replied, regretting the manners that prevented him from pressing money on the man. The islanders were as warm and gracious as they were poor, but to insist on paying would be offensive. So Rogan opened his trunk and pulled out a long scarf he had purchased in a coastal town of the Carolinas. Made of fine cotton, it was so soft and sheer it felt like silk, dyed pale pink and embroidered with silver thread. There had been a lovely woman selling them, and Rogan had purchased one in every color to give as gifts. “For your wife, then.”

Julius accepted the scarf, his wrinkled face beaming. “She’ll love it, Missta Rogan. Thank ye.”

Rogan shook the man’s hand and picked his trunk back up, hoisted it once again onto his broad shoulder. “Now don’t mention you saw me, aye? ’Tis a surprise.”

Julius nodded and set to wrapping the scarf in a banana leaf where it wouldn’t get splashed or ruined, and sent Rogan on his way with a promise of silence.

The day gleamed brilliantly, the afternoon sun hot and bright overhead, the songs of the wood doves a melody in the white cedar trees as Rogan followed the familiar paths to his home. The trails undulated, hilly and uneven, with winding rough walls of coral rising around him like a medieval stronghold in places, spreading back out in others. Hibiscus, frangipani, and jasmine grew in tangles of bushes and vines, their scents heavy in the salty air. Shade and sun dappled the path as he walked in the shadows of palm trees and huge ferns. Vines draped gracefully from the bearded fig trees, dangled to brush against his arms as he passed.

Rogan looked at the flowers that clustered around him, the blue lotus, begonias, and desert rose, but he scarcely saw their untamed beauty. He saw flowers twined in the hair of a woman with skin the color of toffee, seductive amber eyes that promised, a sultry body that delivered. He remembered soft dark hair, long and tangled from a swim in the ocean, spread out to dry on the sand as she lay naked in the mouth of a secluded limestone cavern, and her mouth, curled at the corners as she dared him to make love to her right then, right there. His muscles tensed, bunched, and his blood heated. But it was not remembered lust for the woman he felt. That had faded. Changed into something completely different.

He kept going. Just as he’d done for the year past. Kept going, pressed forward. No looking back.

The thick growth hedged in on him, darkening the trail for a few yards. He needed to lower his trunk and duck down as the vines draped thickly from the fig trees, the fecund scent of earth blending with the fragrance of the flowers and ripening fruit. He emerged from the vines, parting them like a curtain as he stepped out into the bright sunlight, the trail open and maintained now, the house in sight.

The Mullens’ home rose up graciously from the lush foliage that surrounded it, a large, sprawling home of sun-bleached woods and creamy limestone, the orange tile roof gleaming under the glaring sun. The wide verandah in the front was welcoming, bordered with flowers and shaded by trees. Birds darted all around, wood doves, bananaquits, and finches, the soft sound of their flapping wings mingling with their songs. And there on the verandah, rigidly formal in a high-backed chair, sat his younger sister, Kieran. She sipped a cup of tea as she read a book.

Rogan set down his trunk and crept around the house, careful to not make a sound. He drew closer to her, his footsteps as quiet as a cat’s, came up near enough that he could smell the fragrance of her tea and the scent of her perfume, sandalwood and jasmine. She lifted her cup and brought it to her lips slowly, completely absorbed in her novel. He crouched down and picked up a pebble, tossed it high so it landed in her teacup with a plop, sending a tiny geyser splashing on her face.

Kieran gasped, dropped her book and tossed her cup, which upended, causing the tea to slosh all over her gown as the porcelain smashed on the wooden floor. She turned to face the intruder, her eyes wild. “Rogan!” she half yelled, half choked.

Rogan bounded up the steps and picked up his sister, twirled her around once and then grasped her by her shoulders, held her out for inspection. With her shiny auburn hair, stormy blue eyes, and the fine, fair features of her mother, she was even more beautiful than his memory of her. “Look at you, Kieran. Just as pretty as ever.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped the tea from her face. “Where’s Mum and Da?”

Kieran snatched the cloth from her brother’s hand and began blotting the tea from her gown, muttering something about silk and stains and childish men, and then gave up, too happy to see her brother to pretend annoyance with him. She handed back the square of linen and answered him, her English as precise as the king’s court. “I believe they are in town. No doubt they already will have heard you’re home by now.”

“I swore everyone to secrecy, though we both know how well a secret is kept on this island.”

Kieran stood back, looked her brother up and down, from his wavy black hair, to emerald green eyes made even brighter by his darkly tanned skin, to his tall, rugged build. He looked different to her, rougher, leaner, his nose slightly crooked as if it had been broken and mended. His skin had grown tougher, leathery, and a few skinny scars gleamed whitely on his jaw amidst the burnished shades of skin and stubble. “You’re as dark as a savage. Did you not wear a hat even once?”

“Admit it, Kieran. You missed your only brother.”

Kieran pointed to the splotch of tea on her elegant bodice of lace and buttery silk. “I admit nothing.”

“Admit it, or I won’t give you your presents.”

“Presents?”

Rogan laughed at her sudden change of demeanor. “What kind of brother travels for a year and does not return bearing gifts?”

“Not my brother,” Kieran replied happily. “Come inside, Rogan, and I have missed you. We all have.”

Rogan jogged to where he had left his trunk, picked it up and rejoined Kieran as they went indoors. The house hadn’t changed in the slightest since the year before, the spacious rooms decorated in the tones of the beach itself, warm browns, pinks, and creams, with quiet shades of blue in the paintings on the walls, and potted plants splashing dark, glossy green boldly against the walls. A huge Persian rug of the same hues graced the pale wooden floors, an invitation for one to remove one’s shoes and be comfortable.

Just as he had feared, Rogan couldn’t avoid seeing his wife everywhere. She was there, on the settee, laughing with Kieran. At the dining table, gesturing with her soup spoon as she told a crazy story from her gypsy childhood. On the floor, wiping up a drink she’d spilled because she’d been laughing so hard it had tipped from her hands, the tears of her laughter still leaking from the corners of her eyes as she sopped up the wine.

Mentally shaking off the memories and the compulsion they created, he opened the lid of the chest and began to rummage through the contents for his sister’s gifts. Kieran took the seat left out especially for her, high-backed and stiff, as the proper corsets and stays she insisted upon wearing did not permit her to sit on the soft, upholstered pieces. He handed her one bundle at a time, and she opened chocolates from Belgium, soaps from Paris, a bolt of soft blue silk from England, and finally a necklace of finely made gold links that suspended a beautiful sapphire pendant. She held the riches in her lap, her eyes round and wondrous.

“I thought you were in the Americas.”

“I was. ’Tis an amazing place, Kieran. Wild but civilized, with towns that have imports from all over the world, both goods and people.”

“I would love to see it,” she said wistfully, touching the necklace. “There is a whole world out there, Rogan. I would like to see even just one part of it.”

“England.”

She looked up to him, her face sharp and pained. “Yes. England.”

“Perhaps one day.”

Kieran lifted the soap to her face and inhaled its fragrance, then touched the silk, so fine it felt like a cool breath on her skin. “I have dreamed of running away.”

Rogan felt his body tighten. He left his seat, came and knelt in front of his sister. “Kieran, you will listen to me. You will not run away.”

“Of course I would not,” Kieran assured him, trying to feign nonchalance. “’Twas a jest.”

Rogan took her by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “I’ll tie you up and lock you away first. A city is not a place for a woman alone, and a ship with two hundred sailors aboard it is even less so, aye?”

Kieran opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted as her mother, Camille, rushed in. “Kieran? Is all well? There’s a smashed teacup on the verandah and your book—”

She gasped and ran to her son, threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking both of them to the floor, tears of joy instantly flowing. She pulled back, looked at him, and then squeezed him again, tight. Finally Camille let go a bit, leaned back and regarded her son. She took in his every detail, from the face that was like her husband, Patrick’s, the look of an ancient Celtic fable, to the green eyes that were the mirror-image of her own.

“I have missed you, Rogan.” Fresh tears sparked in her eyes. And then she swatted his arm gently. “You could have sent word that you were coming home. You’re like to kill an old woman with this sort of surprise.”

He grinned down at his mother, the reckless grin so like his father’s it had helped him escape a scolding countless times while growing up. “You’ll never be old, Mum.”

Camille reached up to smooth her hair, as dark as Rogan’s but for some streaks of silver. “’Tis nonsense, of course, but my vanity appreciates your effort.” She reached out to touch his hair, her fingers lingering on the black waves, before she cupped his cheek tenderly. Her thumb brushed over the scars, but she would not inquire. He was his own man, and she’d long ago learned to let him be. “So good to see you, Rogan.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be a good son if I didn’t come home in time for my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary.”

She smiled at him, her face soft with love for her husband, her son, and her daughter, the family they’d become, the family she had always longed for. “You remembered.”

“Of course. I have gifts, too.”

Camille held up her hand. “No gifts until Patrick is home and we’ve heard all about your travels. Right now, though, I’ll make tea and we’ll talk.”

“Where is Da?”

“He is still in town; he had a meeting with the governor regarding some new trade laws. He’s due home soon, though.”

Suddenly, as if stung by a bee, Kieran leapt to her feet. “The letter!”

A frown touched Camille’s brow. She’d been uneasy ever since that letter had arrived months ago. “Not now, Kieran. Rogan has not even had tea, yet.”

“I don’t need tea, Mum, thanks.” He turned to Kieran. “What letter?”

“’Tis from England, and it bears our uncle’s ducal crest. I will get it, Rogan. Wait here.”

In a rare display of undignified enthusiasm, Kieran raced from the room, and returned moments later, breathless from running while wearing a corset, brandishing a creamy envelope of thick parchment, the waxy seal a bold red circle pressed with a crest. She handed it to Rogan and took her seat again, leaning forward, her eyes intent on her brother. “Open it,” she urged.

Rogan broke the seal and unfolded it, read it through, and looked at his mother. “You haven’t heard anything else from your brother?”

“No. This arrived for you, and I set it aside. What does it say?”

Rogan read it again. “It says my cousin, Kenley, Lord Jeffrey’s son, has died.”

Camille let out a little sigh of sadness, that her only remaining brother had lost his only son. And just as quickly, she said a quick prayer of gratitude that both her children lived and thrived when so many others did not.

“That’s not all it says, is it?” Kieran pressed, knowing the look on her brother’s face meant there was much more to the letter.

In answer, Rogan handed the letter to Camille. She reluctantly took it and sat across from Rogan. She looked at the letter, frowning slightly as she saw the impression at the bottom, the Bradburn ducal crest. She shivered, and as she read the letter, she felt her legs and arms go heavy with shock, her heart a thick thudding in her chest. Camille looked back up to her son, his green eyes as verdant as her own, the Bradburn eyes.

“What does it say?” Kieran demanded.

Rogan tore his eyes away from his mother’s, not wanting to see the fear and denial evident on her face. “It says that by the laws of primogeniture, I am next in succession.”

Silence hung over the three of them like a storm cloud until Kieran broke it, stating the obvious, but what none of them had yet absorbed. “You will be a Duke.” She looked dazzled, in near-breathless awe. She stood in a flurry of silk. “And I will be a Lady.”

Camille leapt to her feet as well, the parchment still in her hands. A quick vision of London flashed through her mind: the darkness, the decadence, the depravity. “No. No!”

“Yes,” Kieran insisted. Her small white hands smoothed her fine English gown. “Primogeniture.”

“No,” Camille repeated, her voice hard even though she spoke quietly. She knew precisely where her daughter’s ambitions lay, and she rushed to disabuse Kieran of any illusions. “ ’Tis male primogeniture. You are still the daughter of a disgraced lady and a commoner.”

“I am the niece of a great duke, and someday I shall be the sister of the Duke of Eton. If I go to London with Rogan, who would deny me the respect due such a position?”

“Everyone,” Camille said flatly. “You deceive yourself, Kieran. The memory of Londontown is long amongst the peers, and though they might be kind to your face, they would mock you behind your back. Make no mistake: No peer would deign to marry you. No matter who your brother is, you are still the granddaughter of a hanged duchess and the daughter of disgraced lady. You bear my ignominy.”

“You don’t even sound sorry for it,” Kieran accused bitterly.

Camille smiled then, her eyes going soft with the memory of herself and Patrick when they were young, the love that had been like life itself, so urgent and necessary. Of what they had found in the most unlikely of circumstances, their splendor among shadows. “No, my Kieran,” she said, unable to keep the wistfulness from her tone, “I am not sorry for one minute of it.”

Kieran turned to her brother, her face earnest, her eyes bright. “Rogan, what will you do? Will you go to London?”

Rogan shrugged carelessly. England’s manners and mores did not appeal to him. The wealth did, however, and his curiosity had certainly been piqued. And no matter where he decided to go, he needed to go to sea again, away from all the memories that the island bore like stigmata. “I don’t know, Kieran. Maybe.”

When Kieran failed to get a suitable response from her brother, she turned back to Camille, taking a different angle. “Mummy, please. You know how much this would mean to me. If Rogan goes, may I please go with him?”

“You don’t understand, love. It isn’t as you think, all glittering parties and masquerades. It is open, stinking sewers, disease and darkness, crime and corruption. I would not lie to you, Kieran. It is as I say.”

“Just because you were not happy there doesn’t mean I shall not be.”

Camille felt the stirrings of real anger at her daughter’s stubbornness. “It is a parent’s responsibility to provide what is best for her children.”

“I am no child!” Kieran shouted, unable to rein in her frustration.

“You certainly sound like one, raising your tone to your mother,” Patrick commented as he entered the room. And then his eyes lighted on Rogan, and he grinned. “So, the rumor is true.”

He rushed across the room and grabbed his son, pulled him into a strong embrace, and clapped him on the back. “Good to see you, son.”

“Da.” Rogan gripped him hard in response. Patrick was over sixty, but still fit, his muscles roped and hard from physical work and good health. Rogan hugged his father solidly, not letting go. “Good to see you, too.”

Patrick pulled back, held his son by the shoulders and met his eyes. “We’ll talk later, aye? It’s going to be a good night for it.”

Rogan nodded once, looking forward to the evening when he and his father would sit on the verandah with a glass of whiskey and conversation. Such talks had kept them close, and across the past months, Rogan had missed them.

Kieran sat back down, unwilling to put a further mar on the day. She could not, however, prevent herself from staring at the letter in her brother’s hand. She caught her mother looking at her and registered the meaningful glance that meant they would discuss it later.

The rest of the afternoon was whiled away with laughter, memories shared and stories told, past and present. Patrick opened a bottle of wine as the sun lowered, and then another with dinner. They dined on turtle soup and fresh bread, fruits and cheese, and when Rogan sat back, his hunger for food and family had been sated. He took his time giving them their gifts, watching Camille’s eyes light up with every bundle she opened, pleased with Patrick’s delight in the gifts Rogan’d brought for him.

And when night fell Rogan joined his father on the verandah. The stars sparkled and the moon hung plump and low in the sapphire sky. All around them the air breathed, soft and warm and fragrant.

Patrick took a small sip of the mellow whiskey before he set it aside, leaned back in his chair, and stretched out his long legs. “’Twas an interminable year without you, lad. Fine to have you home again.”

“I wouldn’t have missed your anniversary.”

“And that touches your mother’s heart, for sure. I haven’t seen her so happy in a long while.”

“I’m glad for it.”

Patrick leaned over a bit and placed his hand on Rogan’s shoulder, his long fingers gripping tight. “You won’t be staying long, will you.”

It wasn’t a question, because both men already knew the answer. “I can’t, Da.”

“Aye, I understand. She was a good girl, and we all miss her.”

Rogan fell silent, took a deep draw of whiskey. His blood sang a song he could not respond to, his body tense with urges that would have to be controlled. Another gulp of whiskey slid down his throat, burning, warming, loosening.

“You’ll go to England, then?” Patrick asked.

Rogan shrugged. “’Tis good as anywhere. I admit, I’m intrigued.” He turned to his father, saw the reflection of the moon in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I suppose, aye. I’ve a favor to ask of you.”

“Anything, Da.”

“Take Kieran.” Patrick cocked his head, sighed. Pain touched his features and he shook his head slowly. “She is restless here, and isn’t like to be happy if you go without her. It will be incredibly hard, letting her go, but I worry she’ll take matters into her own hands and run off.”

“Aye,” Rogan murmured his agreement without giving away his sister’s confidence. But he worried about his own secrets coming to light. He’d have to be careful, he told himself. “I worry for that, too. Better to send her with me where I can watch over her, than to have her buying passage on some frigate. She’s stubborn. Too stubborn.”

“Indeed,” Patrick agreed, and then he laughed. “So much like your mother, she is. Strong, with minds of their own. No wonder they butt heads, aye?”

“But don’t tell Kieran she’s like Mum, eh? She’s like to bite your head clean off.”

Both men chuckled and then fell silent. Rogan sat back, cleared his throat. “Will Mum be all right, then?”

“In time. Truth is, Kieran is two years older than Camille when she knew her own mind so well. She’ll not like it, but she will understand it. And aye, she’ll be fine.” Patrick smiled, a bittersweet expression. “I can see you both as you were as children, clear as yesterday. And look at you now. It isn’t easy letting your children go, but ’tis a pleasure like nothing else to watch them become themselves.”

Rogan reached out then and touched his father’s arm. “You could tell me I’m like you, Da. I’d take it as the compliment it is.” He asked for approval, wanting it, even though he knew it was not entirely deserved. He should be stronger, he admonished himself. Better able to cope.

Patrick covered his son’s hand with his own, gave it a hard squeeze. “You’re a better man than me, laddie. Such strength and grace you’ve shown in the face of what you’ve lost. I’m proud of you, Rogan.”

Rogan looked up again to the sky, and was grateful for the darkness that his father couldn’t see the expression on his face. Memories of the year gone by tore through his mind, split-second images, of blood, sweat, and pain. Things he could not speak about, that would not be understood. His father’s pride burned like a brand on his soul, undeserved, unwarranted. What would Patrick really think if he knew, Rogan wondered.

As if reading his thoughts, Patrick spoke.

“I know you’ve changed, lad. I see the differences in you.”

“I’ve not changed more