Dear Brand,
I’m certain Mother implored you in her letter to come to London, but if Ipswich is making you happy, by all means stay there. For far too long you and I have followed someone else’s orders, both while in the service and beneath Father’s thumb. Now that the war is over, and Father is gone—God rest his soul—we’re done with those chapters in our lives. There is no more need to dance attendance on others’ whims.
Brand’s eyebrows soared again. Now that was a different tack from his brother. What had occurred to change his thinking?
Life is too precious to cater to everyone else—Mother included—instead of your own wishes and dreams. I almost threw away my chance, nearly lost it to depression and my own stubbornness, and no, I refuse to write about it here. If you want to know, come for a visit.
“I’ll be damned,” Brand whispered. “Finn’s found his independence and a backbone.” Curiosity flared again, and he delved back into the letter.
Furthermore, don’t overly analyze your disfigurement or your time in service or anything else that has the tendency to lay you low and cause doubts. They will curtail your growth and stunt every good thing that might come your way. We witnessed horrors, this is true, but they don’t define us. Neither do our injuries. Nor does our position within the Storme family. Regardless of what Drew says, you and I are not his adoring acolytes. It’s my fondest hope you’ll come to believe all of this as truth.
Brand frowned. He once more fingered the eyepatch. The women he bedded never seemed to be put off by his hindered eyesight or the patch, but none of those liaisons were deep or permanent. He flirted and charmed his way into their beds. Once the deed was done, he moved on; he didn’t know of their lives and they remained ignorant of his. With the exception of the woman who’d stolen—and smashed—his heart. She hadn’t been able to move past him having one eye. She wouldn’t fathom a life married to a man without a title or a secure livelihood. Yet… a vague ache set up in his chest. There was a loneliness there that went bone deep. Would he ever know a woman for longer than it took to bring her to release a couple of times? More to the point, would he ever meet—and trust—one who’d love him for the man he was?
“Bah!” Where had those thoughts come from? He needed none of that. Annoyed, he returned to the letter.
No doubt Mother has informed you of my upcoming marriage. Yes, it’s true. I’m set to wed in a few days. I’d love to see you but not at the expense of your wellbeing. I also learned that the hard way. Perhaps we can come together for Christmastide. I’ve overhead snippets of Drew’s plans, which he has neglected to share with Mother for the moment, to spare her emotions. He wishes to repair the Storme family’s connections now that he’s wed, and his wife is increasing. If this is true, it will be nice to see our cousins again.
“What the devil does that mean?” Brand could almost see an eyeroll in the letter, for Finn’s words were that real while his own mind spun at the implications. He hadn’t seen his Storme cousins for more than half his life due to some contretemps between their fathers. No one had ever spoken of what had happened, and eventually, the story was consigned to the past.
Regardless, little brother, enjoy your life and keep scandal to a minimum. No need to upset Mother while she’s busy trying not to worry about you. If you have the chance for a bit of happiness—the kind that’s not found in chasing skirts and servicing your prick—to ease the burdens of the war and its aftereffects, take it. Hold on to it tight, for it’s fleeting, but when it’s right, it’ll knock you on your arse and change your life.
Finn
“That was even more startling than Mother’s letter.” Carefully, Brand folded the missive and tucked it back into its envelope. He glanced at John. “It was interesting to say the least.”
His best friend shrugged. “You know how family is.”
“I do.” He snorted. “Yours too?”
“Not as disparate as yours, but they mean well. My father is…” The bigger man pressed his lips together. “He’s a difficult man. Baron or not, he makes life difficult, but I suppose he can’t help it.” He stared at Brand over the rim of his tankard, his eyes full of regret and sadness. “He’s worried, I suppose. And afraid. Those two things manifest as anger at times. But times weren’t all bad. He’s a good sort when he’s of a mind to remember how things used to be.”
One of these days he’d have his best friend’s story, but not just now. “Do you return to Surrey then?” He’d had no idea John was loosely connected to the ton, but now his refined way of speaking and the elevated cut of his clothing made sense.
“Not soon, but eventually, when I’ve got the courage and the temperament. Ipswich has been my home for a while now, and I’m not anxious to leave the reprieve here.” He shot Brand a wry look. “It seems I’m a coward when not on the sea.”
“Aye, aren’t we all.” It wasn’t a question. While in the Navy or even running supplies up the coast in his sloop, there was nothing he couldn’t do, but on land? Insecurities abounded. He worked hard to never let them show because in the back of his mind, his damned father’s words rang loud.
Englishmen don’t show their emotions, Francis. The moment they do, a man becomes vulnerable and weak; he loses face with his peers. Never give away your standing like that.
John nodded. “The only way I’d leave in the current moment is if you plan to continue your naval career and need a crew. I’d give up a visit to Surrey for that.” A hopeful light gleamed in his tawny eyes.
“My military days are over. Not by my say, that is.” Brand traced the leather eyepatch over his left eye socket. He’d been part of the defeat in Grand Port in August, 1810. God, it seemed both so far away and yet as if it had happened yesterday.
When his ship had been disabled by heavy cannon fire, it had been boarded by the damned French. During the war, the scum had seemingly reached all over the earth. Hand to hand combat ensued, but he’d defended his ship and crew until the very last. Lost his eye from one swipe of a dagger. Nearly lost his life as well but for John Butler’s interference and quick thinking. After that, he’d been rescued with his remaining crew. British reinforcements patched up his wounds aboard their ship. A court martial followed once they’d returned to England, where he’d answered for losing his ship to the French.
Eventually, he and the other captains were cleared of any wrongdoing, but the damage to his reputation and career had been done. He was asked to retire; his days in service over. No commendations, no medals, for the King wouldn’t soon forget such a resounding defeat, especially in the same year as he’d been defeated by America on the sea. Brand had nothing to show for all he’d done except for the bloody missing eye. At least the bastards in charge of the government had let him keep his rank.
Not wishing to bring such scandal to his family’s doorstep, he’d gone to Ipswich, the home of his faithful first mate John. He’d used some of his coin to buy a sloop and then proceeded to enjoy the hell out of his life and keep the memories at bay.
And there he’d remained for three years, content to indulge in scandal, taking odd sailing jobs when he needed coin, doing whatever he pleased, all the while avoiding the life he’d used to have in London.
Damn, but he missed his command and his fellows. “No, my Navy days are done, my friend. I have only boredom and skirt-chasing to fill my days now, but God I miss adventure and daring.”
Murmurs of agreement went around the table. The barmaid returned—Molly was her name, he recalled—with four tankards on a round, wooden tray. Each time she placed one on the table, her breasts were on display in the low-cut bodice of her dress. The men openly ogled her charms. Molly left with a blatant “come hither” stare over her shoulder directed at Brand, which earned him an elbow in the ribs from George.
“She’s a brazen baggage I’ll wager you can find adventure with,” he said with a leer.
Brand rolled his eye. He accepted the cards Philip dealt, for that was how they spent most of their afternoons. “I’m not in the mood.”