Page 17 of Finding Faith (Seduced in Scotland #2)

A search party to find the shooter had been organized by Graham and the McTavishes, but no one in the search party could find hide nor hair of him. It would seem that a ghost had shot Logan, if not for the stitches in his calf that proved otherwise. Much to his displeasure, he promptly passed out upon his return to Harris House later that same day and did not take part in the search party.

His father and Arabella were shocked to hear about the shooting when they returned from Glasgow the following day. Arabella, in particular, was emotional about the entire thing. She even insisted on inspecting his injury but promptly turned away after just a glimpse of it.

His father had remained quiet. Guessing that the man didn’t know what to say, Logan concluded that his father wasn’t particularly interested until later that night when Logan found him in the family parlor.

Arabella had long since gone off to bed, but their father was seemingly wide awake, pacing before the marble fireplace. Logan hadn’t seen him walk like that in ages. While Arabella had said that their visit to Dr. Hall had been successful, he doubted that his father could have made such a quick recovery.

When the old man noticed he was no longer alone, he paused and looked up at Logan. The two stared at one another for a moment before his father broke the silence.

“You are well?” he asked, his voice shaken.

Logan frowned, unnerved by his tone.

“Of course. I have suffered far worse than this.” He kicked out his leg. “It’s barely a scratch, really.”

His father shook his head and focused on the floor before him. Logan assumed their meeting was concluded when his father spoke again.

“You know, I worried about you in Burma,” he confessed, startling Logan. “Every day, I prayed for your safe return.”

“I know, Father.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” the old man said. “Every day when the mail came, I was petrified to open it. I always made sure to leave before it was delivered so that on the off chance that there was word of your death, I could live a few more hours believing that you were alive.”

Logan stared, almost dumbstruck. Why was he confessing all this now? Unsure how to answer, Logan came to sit partially on the arm of the sofa that faced the fireplace.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t. I never told you.”

“What I mean to say is, Arabella never told me that.”

“She didn’t know either. Or at least, if she suspected it, she never betrayed my confidence,” he said, looking into the fire. “She is the spitting image of her mother, you know. But at the same time, she is nothing like her.”

Logan shifted uncomfortably. They hadn’t broached the topic of Logan’s mother in years. If he had been feeling combative, he might have disparaged her, but his father seemed thoughtful at the moment, and Logan wanted to see where their conversation might lead.

“I remember Mother’s face,” Logan said. “Arabella’s cheeks are rounder.”

“Your mother’s were the same, in her youth.”

“Arabella smiles easily.”

“Your mother did once.”

“Arabella’s here,” Logan said, startling his father into looking directly at him. Shame slammed into him, and he cleared his throat. “But I suppose Mother was once.”

“No,” his father said suddenly, surprising Logan. “Your mother was never here, even when she was. She was always longing for London. I might have kept her, had I gone with her.”

Logan frowned.

“I never realized that was an option.”

“It wasn’t, really. There was no job in the city of London for a man of my abilities. Or even if there was, I didn’t belong in England, so far away from family and friends. I told her so over and over but she couldn’t comprehend it. She had been disowned by her family, you know, for running away with me, but she was convinced her uncle would pay our way, if we asked. Only I couldn’t bear to live on an allowance. I was too proud—and my pride lost her,” he said, glancing at Logan. “She wanted so much to raise you both in London, you know.”

Logan stared at his father, unsure how to continue.

“Did she… did she try to take us when she left?” he asked. It was a question he had always wondered.

His father exhaled slowly.

“No. When she informed me that she was leaving, I begged her to stay. I tried everything—even, as shameful as it is, to use you and your sister as collateral. I told her if she left, I’d never share either of you.” His brow creased as emotion flooded his expression. “I didn’t mean it. I was only trying to hurt her. But then she left and I never saw her again.”

Logan watched his father, unsure how to respond. How was he supposed to handle all this information? And why was his father telling all this now after all these years?

“Did you ever try to contact her?” he asked.

“Yes. Dozens of times, but she never responded.”

Logan nodded absently.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

His father’s eyes met his.

“I know you think I’m ready to die. That I’ve moped about this house for too long, wallowing in my own self-pity. And perhaps I have. But to learn that you were shot at, seemingly on purpose, after I thought I had been freed from the fear of you being killed on the battlefield, well…” He shook his head, seemingly uncertain. He took a deep breath and continued. “You’ve come through so many battles, scratched and bruised, yet you never seem willing to give up.”

Logan felt the back of his neck warm up. He hated praise, which nearly always felt insincere to him… but coming from one’s father, it seemed entirely different.

“I just wanted you to know that the day you came home from Burma was the greatest day of my life.”

Logan’s entire body stiffened, not used to the expressive words from this man who had ignored life for so long. His throat constricted as he tried to respond.

“Thank you,” he said pitifully, but his father only smiled.

“Arabella tells me that you’ve given up on me. It’s all right. I don’t blame you. I’ve not given either of you any reason to believe in me. But I think, I’d like to try and live a little bit longer, if only to see if I can.”

Logan nodded, rife with emotion. He was suddenly eternally grateful for being shot if it meant his father now wanted to live.

“All this, because I was shot at?” he asked, unbelieving.

“Well, that and your sister told me while we were in Glasgow that if I insisted on dying a pitiful death, she’d toss me into Loch Fyne.”

Logan let out a startled laugh.

“She did not.”

“She did. Evidently, our sweet Arabella has a temper.”

“If she does, I’ve never seen it,” Logan said. “And she must have the longest fuse known to man.”

“Well, it seems it’s solely reserved for her father,” the old man said with a chuckle. He shook his head. “Now, may I ask you something?”

“By all means.”

“Why is there a portrait of Miss Sharpe in your room?”

Logan’s entire being stalled, as if he had just been caught doing something wicked. His eyes met his father’s. The older man was giving him an unreadable look.

“How do you know about that?” he asked numbly.

“One of the servants mentioned it to me, not long after it arrived. I believe it came to light during Miss Sharpe’s illness, while you were away. It seems the sheet that you’ve been covering it with had slipped and before they could recover it, it was noted that the piece looked rather like Miss Sharpe.”

“So, one of the servants thought she looked like the model in the painting. That is their opinion. Art is subjective and there are only so many ways the Lord can arrange two eyes, a nose and mouth,” Logan said, his tone defensive.

“I see,” his father said, which for some reason, irritated Logan.

What did he possibly see? Nothing, to be sure, yet Logan wished to hear his opinion on the matter for the first time in a long time. But in the same breath, he wouldn’t betray Faith’s confidence.

What was he to do?

“Well, it has been a trying day. I think I’ll try to get some rest tonight,” his father said, moving around Logan. “You should try and sleep too.”

Logan nodded as his father patted his shoulder. Then, abruptly, he turned and spoke.

“Would you have forgiven her anything?” he asked. His father turned back, a questioning look on his face. “Mother, I mean. If she deceived to you, would you have forgiven her?”

“I would,” he said slowly. “Even now, I think I might forgive her after all these years.”

“Because you love her?”

A gentle, near heartbreaking silence followed before his father nodded his head.

“Yes. Because I love her,” his said. Glancing up, he gave Logan a small smile. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Logan said as his father moved passed him.

For a long time, Logan didn’t move as he absorbed his father’s confession. Even now, after all these years, the old man was still willing to forgive his wife everything. Logan couldn’t decide whether he was a romantic or a fool. Deciding on neither, he exited the room and climbed the stairs toward his bedchamber.

Upon entering his room, he saw the painting, shrouded in a sheet as it usually was. Stalking toward one of the chairs, he began unbuttoning his vest when his foot landed on some object.

Stepping back, Logan looked down to see a near-black stone laying on the ground. A piece of debris tracked in on his boots, perhaps? He almost ignored it, but then he noticed that it was almost perfectly round.

Reaching his hand down, he picked it up. The light of the fire caught on it, causing a honey glow to shine in his hands. Instantly, his body froze.

No. It couldn’t be.

A small hole had been carved in the middle, perfect for stringing it on a length of leather. It was impossible. How in the world had his piece of amber, lost with Duncan in a river in Burma, found its way back here?

Picking up his head, he looked around the room, almost expecting Duncan to appear. But he was alone. As he inspected the stone once more, he noted a series of scratches and even a little chunk missing. Perhaps this wasn’t his stone.

But a part of Logan seemed so sure about it, that he kept it on his nightstand all night.

When morning came, Logan tucked the piece of amber into the pocket of his vest and wrapped up Faith’s painting with brown paper from the kitchens where Jaco had been sleeping. The dog stretched and followed Logan to his room, where Logan tied the paper around the painting with twine. He ensured it was doubly secure, even though it would only have the short journey to Lismore Hall.

He’d intended to give it to her since she’d first asked him to destroy it. While it was a masterpiece, he knew it could never be truly his. It should belong to no one but her. And if she chose to destroy it once it was in her possession, that was her right.

He wrote a quick note, and upon daybreak, he and the dog found Evans.

“I want it delivered to Miss Faith Sharpe first thing this morning,” he said. “No one is to see it and you are not to leave until it is in Miss Sharpe’s care. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” the butler said as they exited the front door.

Several servants had been instructed to carry the heavy work of art into the carriage. Logan had instructed four servants to help bring it to Lismore.

“Will you be coming, sir?” a footman asked. “I brought your horse around.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said.

Logan noted that Evans was staring off into the distance, apparently distracted. He called out to him.

“Oi, Evans,” he said as the butler turned. “Do you mind?”

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just… There’s a man on a small horse over there,” he lifted his index finger to the tree line. “Watching us.”

Logan approached the butler, staring in the direction he was pointing at. There, sat on the Connemara pony Sweetness, was a man wrapped in a black overcoat and battered hat. He was too far away to make out his face, but Logan felt the sick tickling of instinct in his stomach. He knew this man, somehow.

The grave warning of Jaco’s growl reverberated throughout the small group. The man on the horse turned abruptly, hurrying away up the path that led around the northern route of Loch Fyne. Jaco started barking, jumping back and forth between the runaway and Logan as if waiting for his response. Instinctively, Logan turned and jumped on his own horse.

“Deliver the painting to Lismore Hall at once,” he said before taking off, with Jaco close behind.

“But, sir!” Evans called after him, yet Logan was already halfway across the field.

Whoever this man in black was, Logan knew that this was the man who had shot him. As the sting in his calf throbbed, Logan increased his speed. The forest-carved path weaved in and around pine trees as the ground turned steep. The Connemara was too small a horse to outrun him, and he was hot on the trail, coming up toward an open field beneath the mountain.

The assailant turned back momentarily before steering his steed to the right, heading for the old, abandoned stone crofter’s house—the perfect place for a crook to hide.

All too quickly, the man jumped off his horse and ran around back. Sweetness took off briefly before circling back, unsure where to go. Logan was quick to jump off his own horse. Stalking toward the back side of the cottage, he’d just stepped through the doorless walkway when the cocking of a gun echoed around him.

Logan froze as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. It was empty, save a few knocked-over chairs and a broken table with a stack of stones used for one leg. In the corner near the hearth were some rags, possibly being used as a bed? But who would choose to live in such a place?

“By the grace of God and Her Majesty,” a dark, eerily familiar voice sounded behind him. “Sir Logan Harris.”

Cold dread slithered down Logan’s spine at the sound of that voice. It was impossible. Outrageous, even. Only in his dreams had he heard that voice.

It was the voice of the dead.

Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hands, aware that a gun was most definitely pointed at him. Turning as slowly as possible, Logan tried to ignore the erratic thumping of his own heart. His eyes landed on a disheveled mess of a man. His red hair had been cut unevenly as if done with a dull blade. His clothes were filthy and torn, and upon closer inspection, weren’t black at all, only covered in dirt and grim. A white scar cut up across his left eye, down his cheek, but as the man sneered at Logan, he saw the man he once knew.

“Duncan?”

“Didn’t expect to see me again, did you?” the raspy voice spoke, chilling Logan.

Jaco’s growling drifted in from one of the broken windows. With a single, smooth motion of his arm and a dead stare, Duncan turned the pistol out of the house and pulled the trigger.

A piercing boom echoed throughout the tiny space, and Logan instinctively covered his ears, but not before the faint whimpering of a dog caught his attention. Turning on the shooter, he nearly attacked, but then he saw that he’d missed his opening, for the gun was once more pointed directly at him.

“Now,” Duncan began, leaning back against the stone wall, “I have several things I want cleared up before I shoot you dead.”