Lord Of Shadowhawk. Lindsay McKenna

      Chapter One

      March 1, 1798

      Where’s that crippled half brother of mine? Vaughn wondered in irritation, his sensual mouth pursed beneath the full, luxuriant growth of his blond mustache. He gave the docked ship he stood on a negligent look, then walked to the gangway, idly watching as some prisoners from Wolfe Tone’s rebellion, captured in Ireland, were dragged off in chains. The dead and mortally wounded were being hauled out of the hold and carted away to some unknown destination.

      Vaughn hated Colwyn Bay, a wretched port town on the moody Irish Sea. It was too near Shadowhawk, his family’s country manor and hub of their agricultural concerns. Theirs? He snorted, raising a polished, booted foot onto a crate, idly resting one elbow on his thigh. Shadowhawk was his half brother’s domain. Tray was perfectly suited to being a farming clod alongside his beloved Welsh compatriots and the Irish servants he insisted upon keeping at the estate.

      Where in the devil was Tray? He had sent Sergeant Porter on the whip to fetch Tray from Shadowhawk two hours ago, after they had docked. Shadowhawk was a mere hour away.

      A slow anger flared within Vaughn, his blue eyes icy as he contemplated his half brother. Tray might be the eldest son of the Trayhern family but he was least liked, least understood and least a man. A smile twitched Vaughn’s mouth—a mouth used to giving orders and having people obey immediately or face swift retribution. He didn’t wear the red uniform of an officer in His Majesty’s cavalry for nothing. Scanning the busy quayside dock, Vaughn pulled his cloak more tightly against the sharp winds. The clouds that churned above the sleepy village reminded him of Tray’s eyes, light gray among other shades, depending upon his half brother’s many perverse moods. Tray was true Welsh, dark and unfathomable. At least to everyone in the Trayhern family. Except for Paige.

      Paige…Vaughn felt his throat tighten at the thought of his deceased older sister. Beautiful, dark-haired, gray-eyed Paige, who had been beloved by all. Even himself. Although she was only his half sister and slated to inherit the vast Trayhern wealth when their father, Harold, died, Vaughn couldn’t hold that against Paige. She may have been almost pure Welsh, like Tray, but her sunny disposition and gentleness appealed to everyone.

      Vaughn’s eyes narrowed upon the raggedly clothed forms of several dead Irishmen being dragged down the wooden gangway to an awaiting cart already littered with bodies. His lips drew away from his teeth in a bloodless snarl. “We’ve finally avenged you, Paige. I killed five of them myself.” To his great surprise he felt hot, blinding tears, and he quickly bowed his head, not wanting anyone to see them. Damn! Tears? Vaughn rubbed his eyes angrily.

      It was Tray’s fault that Paige was dead. If Paige hadn’t stayed at Shadowhawk that summer, she would never have fallen prey to those bastard Irish brigands. Tray knew attacks by the starving and rebellious Irish happened frequently along the coast. He should have protected Paige. Vaughn snorted violently, dropping his booted foot to the deck. Everything Tray touched died.

      Slight satisfaction lingered in Vaughn’s eyes. At least Tray got some of what was coming to him. Two years ago Tray had married some local Welsh farm girl, and she had died a year later in childbirth. His child was stillborn, and deformed, like him. Pleasure flowed through Vaughn as he savored that low point in Tray’s life. Finally! Tray was being punished for all the deaths, the misery and the unhappiness that had been caused by his ill-fated birth. Served the cripple right. Vaughn watched as two sailors carried the body of another dead Irishman by him. Paige had been properly avenged.

      Vaughn’s eyes narrowed and his blood chilled. There, on a blood bay stallion with black mane and tail, was Tray, making his way toward the ship, the sergeant riding behind him. He glared down at his half brother, familiar feelings of hate stirring in him once again.

      Tray wore a simple white peasant’s shirt, open at the throat, a black coat and a wool cloak around his broad shoulders, canary yellow breeches and unpolished boots with traces of mud on them. The fool couldn’t even dress properly! He wore no white powdered wig, and even his black hair was cut ridiculously short! Tray defied English tradition. He defied everyone, Vaughn thought in fury. He looked like one of those untitled industrialists instead of the eldest son of an earl. The one who would inherit all the Trayhern wealth and privileges someday. Bitterness swept through Vaughn.

      “Country bumpkin!” he muttered beneath his breath. Tray should have come in a coach drawn by at least two horses. Instead, the lover of the Welsh and the bloody Irish rode his spirited Arabian stallion through the shouting confusion as if he were accustomed to the rabble that ebbed and flowed around him. No titled Englishman would be seen in hacking clothes on a dock! Vaughn’s hatred rose, constricting his throat. The less he saw of Tray, the better. His half brother reined his stallion to a stop and dismounted with enviable grace, always having been an excellent horseman. But that was the limit of his grace.

      Vaughn smiled in silent satisfaction as Tray handed the reins to the awaiting sergeant. He watched through slitted eyes as Tray limped through the milling traffic on a clubbed left foot. The wind jerked and pulled at Vaughn’s cloak as he measured Tray’s progress up the ramp. Their mutual father had rued the day Tray had been born with the deformed foot. Among the titled gentry, the deformity was thought to be the mark of the devil or a curse. In Vaughn’s estimation, it was both. Tray looked