Page 3 of Rose
Chapter One
Tristan Thatcher once again read the saccharine words scratched by his father’s hand on the rumpled missive delivered that morning when his ship pulled intoPort Rìghon Skye.
Dear Tristan,
I have the most joyous news to share with you, my son.
“Joyous, indeed,” Tristan muttered angrily, his brow furrowing deeper still.
With regard to procuring for you a wife, I have made the most propitious match.
“Favorable for all involved accept me,” he scoffed and lunged to his feet, continuing to read.
Prepare yourself, my son, for good tidings.
Tristan skimmed through the next several paragraphs summarizing Baron Roxwell’s poorly managed estates and dwindling coffers, for which Tristan’s father could not be more delighted—the reason for his glee was where Tristan started to read more closely.
Baron Roxwell’s daughter, Abigail, is a comely enough lass.
“What does it matter when her heart’s as black as soot,” he snapped angrily at the parchment, which refused to satisfy his temper with a reply he could shoot down. Resisting the urge to crumple the already abused paper in his fist, he read on.
“Baron Roxwell has consented to a betrothal between you and Abigail. Thus, uniting our families and making you Lord Tristan Thatcher. It is a dream come true.”
A sharp rapping sounded at the door the instant before it swung open and a tall, slender man entered Tristan’s cramped quarters.
“This is a nightmare, but one from which I cannot wake,” Tristan growled to his quarter master.
Philip leaned against the door. “Can I assume you have not figured a way out of your betrothal?”
Tristan held up the parchment. “I have read my father’s letter countless times, hoping I somehow missed the jest.”
Philip shook his head. “I believe your father is gravely serious. Unfortunately for you, he means every word. I’m sorry, Captain, but you’re as good as married.”
Tristan sat down at his small desk, determined to read the letter again. “We must have missed something. My father cannot mean to have betrothed me without my consent—while I’m leagues away. I am five and thirty. Fathers do not betroth their grown sons.”
He had no wish to disrespect his father, but he also refused to be a pawn in Owen Thatcher’s pursuit of something that was contrary to Tristan’s beliefs. It was not marriage itself that he opposed, although as a sailor he never fancied the idea of marrying a woman only to leave her alone most of the year. It was his father’s desire for an aristocratic title that Tristan fundamentally opposed.
He had never understood his father’s fascination with the peerage. Tristan saw the lot as lazy and entitled leeches who thrived off the labor of others. Unlike the Thatcher family, Baron Roxwell had not earned his esteemed position in society. He had simply been born to it. In contrast, Tristan’s father had started out a penniless London dockhand. Over the years, Owen worked his way to Captain. And when Tristan came of age, he had propelled the family business forward. Now, they were some of the most successful merchants in Christendom with fleets of ships that traveled from the North Sea to the Mediterranean. Still, somehow this wasn’t enough for Owen.
Another knock sounded. “Enter,” he barked.
A thin, freckled face slowly peered around the door. “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Tristan took a deep breath. He could tell his brash tone had startled his cabin boy. “You needn’t apologize, Simon.” He held up the letter in his hand. “A matter of grave importance has vexed me, but it is my problem, not yours. What do you have to report?”
A smile replaced Simon’s frown. “Nelson has spotted something drifting toward us.”
Tristan dropped the letter on his narrow bed. “Let us go see what he has found.”
Both Simon and Philip backed into the hallway, allowing Tristan to take lead up the stairs. Stepping onto the main deck, Tristan scanned his ship. His crew lined the starboard side, clearly struggling to see what Nelson had spotted from his high perch.
Tristan cupped his hands around his mouth. “What do you see, Nelson?”
A thin, grizzly face with a nearly toothless grin smiled down at him over the sides of the crow’s nest, but, an instant later, his smile vanished as the line he held slipped from his gnarled fingers. Quickly, Nelson scampered from his perch and nimbly crossed the yard, seizing the line before he climbed back into the lookout. Tristan grinned up at the ancient sailor whose wiry body moved like a man a quarter of his age.
Again, the weathered face peered down from above. “Can’t say for certain yet, Captain, but there’s something adrift out there.” Then he pointed up to the twilight-blue sky. “’Tis a blessing it be summer, and the moon is full. Whatever sails this way will not be able to sneak up on us. I’ll see it first.”
“Good man,” Tristan called. “Keep your eyes starboard. I wait for your report.”
