Betrayed (14 page)

Michael moved closer to the wrapped painting. “Given a choice between that list you cannot seem to find and Mary's gift, which is at hand, I choose this.” He tapped the package. “But I will not do the unveiling.”

“Here it is.” Holding up the papers, she smiled triumphantly. “I'll look at that later.”

He'd carted the damned bulky painting all the way from London, and now she was excluding him. Mary had predicted Sarah's reaction to the gift. Michael was anxious to see if she were correct. “Mary also sent a verbal message to you.”

Tried patience glimmered in Sarah's eyes, and she sighed again but with great drama. “Michael, I prefer to leave my family out of our . . . association.”

The estrangement was of deep concern to her sister,
and Michael had given his word. “I prefer to fulfill my promise to Mary.”

“Oh, out with it, then.”

“She pleads with you to write to your father and patch up your differences. If you do not, within a fortnight, she promises to copy a certain nude of Eve, paint your face on it, and deliver it to the lord protector of Edinburgh.”

Sarah turned her attention to the windows, and in profile she looked more beautiful and feminine than any depiction of the mother of mankind. The estrangement obviously troubled her, too.

“You sound as if you and Mary have become the dearest of friends.”

She can cloak a scathing insult in the prettiest of words
, Henry had warned.
Be careful you do not fall into her verbal traps.

Mary had said,
She's too smart for that witless, shiftless brother of yours.

Michael rather liked the idea of being snared by Sarah MacKenzie. He only wished his brother hadn't found her first. “Your sister, Mary, is the second most interesting woman I've met since leaving India.”

That put a little color in Sarah's cheeks. “You are not concerned about the work I've done on the orphanage?”

Had he hurt her feelings? Odd, for he hadn't considered that, not when faced with the bigger issue of her separation from the family that loved her deeply and worried about her welfare. He wanted to see the MacKenzies reconciled. He wanted harmony among the Elliots. But foremost on his list of wants was the desire to satisfy his own curiosity about the lovely woman before him. Ah, well, if the conversion
of a tumbledown building was his only positive link to her, Michael would take it. “Yes, I'm very interested in the progress you've made, but you haven't asked what Henry thought of the idea.”

She grew distant, as if wrapped in a cloak of privacy. “I expect you convinced him to do the charitable thing and release the property.”

Charity
was not a word Michael readily associated with his brother or any of the men imprisoned in King's Bench Prison. But Michael wasn't prepared either to share his opinion of his brother with Sarah or to defend him. The discussion on the sale of the customs house had been brief. At the prospect of receiving 1,500 pounds, Henry couldn't put quill to ink fast enough. With the proceeds, he'd purchased private quarters in the prison and furnished them with everything from woven rugs to a willing woman.

A slight prevarication presented itself as Michael's best alternative to the full story. “Henry was glad to be rid of the building.”

“Good. He needs the money. Did the two of you talk about me?”

A half-lie came to mind. “We have not seen each other in many years. We spoke of a number of things.”

“Well said.” She picked at the bandage on her thumb. “I'd prefer that Henry, and his mother, ignore me altogether.”

She hadn't included Michael. “Am I to assume that you've found one Elliot whom you do not hate?”

“I do not hate them, Michael,” she said plaintively. “They lied and blackened my name because I was bastard born. I am curious about one thing.” She walked toward him. “How long must Henry stay in prison?”

“Until Richmond is paid.” To Michael's dismay, Henry had accumulated more debts since his incarceration.

Sarah sat down in one of the two overstuffed leather chairs, the papers in her lap. “Will you pay him?”

Michael grew uneasy. “Do you think I can afford it?”

“What an odd question. Your personal wealth, or lack of it, is none of my concern. But were I you, and I had earned the money honestly, I wouldn't waste it on someone else's gaming debt. I was referring to the family coal mines in Fife. I thought you would take money from there.”

His mother and Henry called Sarah peasant-minded. To Michael, she was practical and forthright. He had asked Henry about the estate. Henry voiced the same complaint as their mother, profits from the mines were at an all-time low due to the high export tariffs. At least that was the explanation the estate manager had given them, for neither actually took part in the operation of the family business.

Sharing his thoughts on the matter with Sarah felt natural. “I'll look into it. The duty on shipping coal seems unnaturally high.”

Her expression turned serene and her tone sugary sweet. “But King George must get his money from somewhere. Even you said as much.” She smiled and handed him the papers. “Now will you look into this?”

At a loss for a reply to her clever rejoinder, Michael settled into the other chair. The springlike fragrance she wore blended wonderfully with the smell of fine old leather and aged books. It was a heady mixture,
distracting and alluring to a man who wanted her madly.

“You haven't taken offense, have you, Michael? I was only jesting.”

“No, I took no offense.” Scanning the well-organized lists and neatly set out work schedules, Michael remembered another of Henry's disparaging stories about her. As a birthday gift for the duke of Ross, Sarah had designed a system to pipe water into her father's favorite hunting lodge. She had even commissioned local craftsmen to do the work and supervised it herself. She'd been five and ten at the time.

Henry had been scandalized by both the tale and her pride in the telling. To Michael it was admirable and very thoughtful.

He couldn't help but smile. “You're very resourceful, Sarah MacKenzie, and thorough.” She had included a map of the dock area. “You've even added a small stable at the back, although the horse looks a bit out of shape.”

She chuckled. “It's supposed to be a cow. I told you Mary received the lion's share of talent.”

Delightfully put, Michael thought. He envied her easy affection for the sibling who'd offended half of Parliament and charmed the other half. “I wonder how Mary put her talent to work on this piece.” He tapped the wrapped painting.

“Later.” Leaning forward, Sarah clasped her hands. Her injury did appear minor. Even so, Michael vowed it would be the last she suffered at the customs house.

“My lack of talent aside, the children will need a ready supply of milk,” she said. “The cow can graze
there”—she pointed to a spot on the map—“in the field near Anderson's Foundry. Squire Anderson has also promised to provide new hinges for the doors and grates for the hearths. I think it will be good for the children to share the responsibility of taking care of the cow.”

She had been busy. But to Michael's delight, she'd found the time to end her association with a certain Count DuMonde, if the doorman at the Dragoon Inn were to be believed.

“Don't you think the children will benefit?” she asked.

Michael harkened to the subject. “Yes, but when did you purchase the cow?”

She looked pleasantly puzzled. “I haven't, nor will I. Sir Gilbert Gordon offered to provide us with a healthy cow. William swears he knows how to milk it.”

“And if he does not?”

She shrugged. “Then I shall teach him and the others.”

An image of the stately Sarah squatting beside a cow made Michael smile.

Her chin went up and her voice purred silky smooth with challenge. “You find that humorous?”

“Yes. I've yet to see a duke's daughter labor in the stables before sunrise.”

“Then you do not know the duke of Ross. He does not consider himself or his children above honest work.” A fond memory captured her, for her eyes glowed with joy.

“Tell me,” he said, eager to know what made her so happy.

“We were raised in the country. Lachlan did not
marry until we were six years old. He taught us to ride and to care for our own ponies. We each had responsibilities, and if one of us failed to complete her chores, we all were punished.”

That brought to mind yet another oddity surrounding Sarah and her unconventional family. “Is it true that you have three half sisters, and you were all born on the same day to different women?”

“We were born to different women, and we share a birthday for the sake of convenience and for our own protection. Lachlan MacKenzie was a bit of a rogue. He feared that our mothers or their families would try to take us away from him or use us as pawns. He's very possessive.”

Michael already liked the duke of Ross. “Do you know your mothers?”

As if she had recited the answer hundreds of times, she stared at the stuccoed ceiling and said, “Only one of us does. Agnes and her mother are congenial to each other. Lottie and Mary do not care to know. They're very stubborn. My mother died giving birth to me.”

Michael felt awkward. Henry had said nothing on the subject, reinforcing Michael's conviction that his brother and Sarah were more strangers than a couple. “I'm sorry that she died.”

Without emotion, she said, “Do not be.”

Dozens of other questions came to mind. “Who was your mother?”

Smiling, she toyed with the bandage on her hand. “Shall I give you the customary answer? The one we were schooled to say?”

“It obviously humors you, so, please, share it.”

“When asked, I and my sisters were taught to reply,
‘I am not at liberty to name my mother, except to say that she is not an . . . ' Elliot or MacGregor, or whatever the person's family who was inquiring.”

The duke of Ross had obviously taken precautions on every front to protect his beloved daughters. Michael wondered about the two women he had yet to meet. “Are Lottie and Agnes as outspoken as you and Mary?”

She shook her head and ruefully murmured, “Mary and I are rank amateurs compared to them.”

Michael pictured the four young women setting the court on its heels with their wit and independence. “I'm delighted to know that you are not an Elliot. I would feel guilty about kissing a relative.”

Her steady gaze held a reprimand. “That's all behind us, Michael, and now that I've told you something about me, will you please tell me if you are married?”

He sprang to his feet, pulled her up and into his arms. “Had I pledged my troth to another, I would not have kissed you.”

Her pretty lips quirked in apology. “I should have known. The upright, upstanding, and stalwart Michael Elliot would never act in an unchivalrous manner.”

“You make me sound horribly predictable.”

“If you're predictable, the king is a Turk.”

Warmth pooled in his loins. “If you're seeking my forgiveness, you're likely to get it.”

Suddenly she grew shy. Michael would have none of it. Lifting her chin, he looked deeply into her eyes. Honesty and affection looked back at him. Even had he tried to deny his desire for her, he knew he'd fail. So he heeded his heart and kissed her.

She languished in his arms, and her lips grew pliant against his own. As naturally as taking a breath, he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. As eager as he, she met his passion and inspired him to greater intimacy. He caressed her arms and her back when he wanted to run his fingers through her hair and kiss her every curve and hollow. Desire turned to lust, and with sad acceptance, he knew he must step away or take her here in the library.

Summoning a monk's will, Michael broke the kiss and stepped back. Surprise shone in her eyes and her lips glistened. “Damn!” he cursed.

Her smile turned knowing. “Disappointed?”

Just when he opened his mouth to dispute her, Rose came into the room, a tea tray in her hands.

“I've just put it to steep,” the maid said, setting the tray on the low table.

“Thank you, Rose.” Sarah moved farther away from him. “I'll give it a little time. How is Turnbull coming along with the coal box?”

Michael almost groaned in frustration.

Rose almost wiggled with excitement. “Fixed that box in a trice and moved on to sorting out the clutter in the stable. But not before he ate three of my scones.”

Sarah's sly glance spurred Michael on. If she could discredit the kiss, who was he to argue? “You have a mount here?” he asked.

“Yes.” She glanced at the maid. “Thank you, Rose.”

The maid curtsied and hurried out of the room.

“When your hand is healed, I'll take you riding.”

“What an interesting way to phrase an invitation,” she said, meaning the opposite.

Michael returned to the matter they had been discussing before Rose brought the tea. “Had I a wife, Sarah, I would not have kissed you.”

She wore bruised pride like a mantle. “Perhaps you have an intended?”

“No. I haven't one of those, either, and I'm sorry I stopped kissing you. It won't happen again.” He gave her an evil chuckle. “Forget any notion that intimacy is
behind us,
because you enjoyed it, too. Does that answer your question?”

She flustered beautifully. “I asked only because I'm seeking volunteers to serve on the governing board of the orphanage. I thought your wife or your betrothed might be interested in helping out.”

He wondered if that was the real reason she had asked. He liked to think it wasn't. He hoped she was actually inquiring, for personal reasons, about him. “If I
had
a wife or a betrothed, would you be interested in meeting her?”