With a tired sigh, James turned to Andrew. “Come here.”
He did as he was told, stepping forward to stand near to his father. Andrew wisely remained just out of arm's reach. James’s temper had a short fuse, and he never held back when a clip over the ear would add weight to his words.
“Andrew, this is your uncle William. Otherwise, known as his grace, the Duke of Monsale. He has come for you.”
Andrew’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “What? No.”
His father had just shot him a warning glance, when a second explosion tore through the night.
Hezekiah Frith wouldn’t have to bother about trying to repair his ship. There wasn’t going to be anything left to salvage.
James beckoned Nevis to come forward. Nevis handed him a small chest, which James then passed onto his brother’s servant. “This should cover the cost of raising the boy.”
What is going on? He can’t be sending me away.
“Father, I want to stay here with you. To fight. I am prepared to die if I have to,” said Andrew.
The two McNeal brothers exchanged a knowing look. William’s gaze then landed squarely on Andrew. “I take it you are as stubborn as your father. Good. You will need all that steely spine in the years to come. But tell me, are you also quick of mind boy?”
Andrew reached into his jacket pocket, then held his tightly fisted hand out in front. He slowly uncurled his fingers.
William McNeal glanced down at his nephew’s hand and swore. “That’s my bloody pocket watch. How the devil did you get hold of it?”
“You asked if I was quick. There is your answer.”
There came a roar of gunfire and more loud shouting from up on the road above them. It clearly hadn’t taken long for Frith’s men to realize who had been behind the attack, and they were now bearing down on the McNeal house. Once they discovered no one was at home, they would more than likely head for the beach, following down the same path that Andrew and the rest of the small group had already taken. A violent mob, hell-bent on revenge would soon be bearing down upon them.
James grabbed a hold of Andrew, pulled him into a fierce hug, then shoved him into William’s arms.
“Your grace, take the boy.”
“But father, we need to fight!” Andrew pleaded.
His father closed his eyes and for the one and only time in his life, Andrew McNeal sensed James was suddenly unsure of himself.
But the moment passed all too quickly.
“If you die, the McNeal bloodline will fail. This is bigger than any of us,” said James.
Hot tears sprang to Andrew’s eyes. He hated them. Only women and small children cried. “But I don’t want to go. Please.”
His uncle slipped an arm around his shoulder. He pushed it away, refusing the offer of comfort.
As the noise of the mob grew louder, Nevis and the other men, raced back up the path in the direction of the road. James sucked in a deep breath. His face was a study of conflicted emotions. Of deep, regret-filled pain.
“I failed your mother. I will not fail you. Now go.”
The man accompanying the duke, took a hold of Andrew’s arm and pulled him away. Andrew glanced back over his shoulder, catching the words and sight of his father for what he feared would be the last time.
“Nihil necesse est cedere,” said James.
He pulled his pistol out of his jacket pocket, cocked it, then gave Andrew one final nod. He took off after his men, back toward the house, and straight into the fight.
The Duke of Monsale, grabbed Andrew’s other arm and between the two men they dragged the reluctant boy down the path, in the direction of the beach.
He fought them the whole way, desperate to go back to the house and help his father. “Cowards why are you running away from the fight?” he taunted them.
“Because your death would be an empty gesture. Your father is buying your life with his, now come on,” snapped the duke, his voice heavy with emotion. The pain in his uncle’s words shocked Andrew into silence.
