Betrayed (26 page)

“She ain't done nothin'.” Notch spoke harshly. “Hurry out that door, my lady. We'll hold him off here till you're back at home, safe and sound.”

“Yes, Sarah. By all means, act the coward.”

The toad. She hoped Michael Elliot fell into a ripe bog and stayed there till All Hallow's Eve.

“Sarah?”

Resigned, she blew out her breath and turned around.

Feet planted, his hands on his hips, Notch bravely faced Michael, whose attention was fully focused on Sarah.

William dawdled at the head of the steps.

Her heart went out to these fearless children. Her eyes locked onto Michael Elliot.

“Notch,” she said. “I'm afraid Lord Michael has a point.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Notch winced in agony. “Sorry, my lady, but he almost run Pic over with his long strides. The lad hadn't time to give me his signal.”

“You both did your best. Thank you.”

“How could you tell 'twas her?” William asked.

Michael's consuming gaze mapped Sarah's form. “I'd know her in a monsoon.”

“What's a monsoon?” Staring at the end of his nose, William puckered his lips around the foreign word.

Disregarding the satisfaction gleaming in Michael's eyes, Sarah said, “A monsoon is a seasonal event, characterized by extended torrents of rain, common in India.”

Notch looked from Sarah to Michael. “Meaning you'd know her anywhere, sir?”

“In the darkest cave on the bleakest night.”

The lad was quick to catch the meaning; his young-old eyes took in the adults and the situation. Sarah was certain he would not desert her, but did Michael know that?

“You've a quarter-hour before the curfew drum sounds.” Michael pointed to the front stairs. “Just enough time to get to the customs house before the magistrate catches you.”

Sarah must find a way to tell Michael that Notch would seek help on her behalf. But how could she without jeopardizing her position?

Finesse was her only option.

Catching Michael's attention, she slid a meaningful glance at Notch. “Notch is a very bright lad.”

Michael studied her. “Very bright,” he said much too confidently. “Notch has
seen
many things in his young life.” He glanced pointedly at the canvas. “I doubt he understands them all, and exposing him to adult matters could prove harmful. To a lad of his age,
seeing
is believing.”

Silent rage stiffened her back. “I understand completely.”

“Well done, Sarah.” He pulled off his gloves and touched Notch's shoulder. “I wouldn't be at all surprised if Notch here dashes down those stairs and summons the magistrate.”

“Don't think I won't,” the lad boasted. “Lady Sarah's suffered her share and more o' trouble 'cause o' the Elliots.”

Michael's reaction was immediate. His eyes narrowed at being grouped with his family. In spite of her situation, Sarah knew she couldn't allow Notch to judge Michael guilty for the crimes of his kin. She'd learned the folly of that early in her association with him.

“I brought this trouble on myself, Notch,” she admitted. Mary should shoulder the lion's share of the blame, but she wasn't here to answer for her part.

Notch stared at his feet. “You cannot be gettin' out of it by yourself, my lady. The magistrate'll take your side when you tell him the truth.”

“The truth,” Michael drawled.

“Aye, general. Lady Sarah wanted to surprise you with a new frame for your favorite paintin'. That's it she's got in her hand.”

“How thoughtful of you, Sarah dear,” Michael began in his courting swain's voice. “I've also heard the magistrate is a great admirer of biblical art. Have you heard that, too?”

Biblical art. Eve in Eden. Sarah's scruples fled. He did not deserve fair treatment from her. In his sly way, he was all but promising to parade the nude before any and every man who came to her aid.

She quaked in shame. “Leave the authorities out of it, Notch,” she said. “No need to trouble them at this hour.”

The lad nodded in acquiescence. “I'll just get Cholly, then.”

“By all means.” Michael declared, laughing. “Summon the streetsweeper. Call up the muckrakers. Invite the carters. Move aside the furniture and open a bloody museum. We'll call it ‘The Great Cultural Experience for the Common Man.' ”

She fumed at his overdone attempt at intimidation. He couldn't possibly carry out the threat. But he'd wreak havoc with his threatening.

Notch headed for the stairs.

Michael stopped laughing and held out his hand to her. The challenge in his eyes was undeniable. “Tell the lad you're perfectly safe with me.”

Only a fool would believe that. Yet she must convince Notch that it was true.

“Notch!” She laid her palm in Michael's. “Come back.” Her voice warbled, and she cleared her throat. “William, you come, too.”

Notch stopped. William climbed onto the bannister to wait.

Averting her eyes, Sarah fought the trembling that promised to shatter her composure. She could not
quail before Michael Elliot. She'd been caught. Bully for him. The canvas was in her possession. She hadn't had the heart to pitch the painting onto the banked fire in his room moments ago. But she would if he refused to let her keep it.

“Notch, William, you mustn't worry over my safety or seek help for me from any quarter.”

“You're just sayin' that 'cause he's got you scared as a goose on the eve o' Christmas.”

Michael's brows rose. The wretch was enjoying himself.

Responsibility for the evening's work was hers. She'd gotten the lads into this mess; she'd get them out. But Michael was making the situation worse, and for that poor behavior he would pay a price. But in the process she'd prove to him that Sarah MacKenzie was no goose awaiting the ax.

Moving the canvas behind her back, she gave Notch her kindest smile. “I know you are concerned about me. You are a true champion and a truer friend.”

He stood taller. “Gentlemen don't take ladies behind closed doors, not if they're quality to the core.”

“Do too,” said William. “That fancy wee-wee spark with his mah cherries takes Lady Winfield upstairs every night.”

Laughter danced at the corners of Michael's mouth.

Sarah longed to cast off her manners and slap him. Instead, she sought a different sort of revenge. “Notch, will you be satisfied if Lord Michael gives you his oath that he will comport himself as a gentleman?”

Notch said, “He'll have to swear on his honor.”

“Or his gentleman's box,” William put in.

Turning to Michael, she said, “Perhaps you'd care to make that pledge now.”

Humor drained from his expression.

Sarah rejoiced in the small victory. “Let's see. It must be a sincere oath. Something to the effect that you will not seek retribution against me for anything that has occurred here tonight.”

“What's retribution?” William queried.

“A season in Tolbooth,” Notch supplied with authority.

“We'd better be after fetching Cholly.” William slid down the bannister, stopping at the turn of the landing.

Turnbull appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“We're drawing a crowd,” Michael announced, casually shifting his weight to one leg. “What will you do, Sarah?”

Despise him for the rest of her life, she silently swore. To her dismay, she murmured, “Have Turnbull get them out of here.”

“Turnbull,” Michael said. “See the lads home and have a chat with the Lindsays.”

“A lengthy chat, my lord?”

“Just so. I'm sure you have much to discuss.”

Turnbull smiled affably. “Indeed we do.”

Michael added something in a language she did not understand. Turnbull's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly regained his composure.

“What about his oath?” Notch said.

“He didn't swear on nothing,” William grumbled.

Sarah relaxed. “I seem to recall hearing it said that chivalry was a way of life for you, Michael.”

Grudgingly, he turned to Notch. “I swear on my
honor that I will forgive Lady Sarah her botched ruse.”

Sarah thought his cunning knew no bounds. “You'll also add the part about not seeking retribution.”

In a voice meant only for Sarah, Michael murmured, “You're pushing your luck. Tell your friends good night.”

She did as he said.

Turnbull motioned for the boys to follow him.

Sarah hurried into Michael's room.

Was it a lifetime ago that she'd crouched on the floor here and pried nails from the painting? Now she examined the room in earnest. For rented quarters, the rooms were spacious and well furnished. A door to the left led to the bedroom, but she could see only the edge of the blue velvet coverlet.

In both rooms, the walls were roughly plastered and the ceiling beams recently polished. Matching high-backed chairs framed the square hearth. An array of brass and wooden boxes flanked the mantel clock. The timepiece was one of Nathaniel Hodges's more ornate designs.

The absence of a display of family miniatures on the mantel or any of the small tables strewn about the room struck her as odd. But if she had relatives like his, she wouldn't exhibit their portraits either.

According to the clock, the time was just before 10. She remembered Michael's comment about the curfew.

The door closed. He strolled toward her, the top of his now-bare head only a palm's width from the ceiling. “Make yourself comfortable.” He dominated the room.

Sarah stood her ground. “I'd have to go elsewhere to do that.”

“But I want you here, and we have a number of important matters to discuss.”

Sarah sighted the hearth. She held up the rolled painting. “I'll destroy it.”

As if he were settling in for a pleasant evening, rather than a forced seduction, he hung up his hat and tossed his gloves onto a table. “Not tonight, Sarah.”

She dashed for the fire.

He dashed for her.

He was too close and too quick, and his arms were like bands of steel.

Twisting, she tried to break free of his hold. “You cannot stop me.”

Releasing her, he held up his hands and gave her a bland smile. “Nor will I try. Go ahead. Do what you must.”

The canvas trembled in her hand, but she could not move her arm to throw the painting in the fire.

“Mary swore you would retaliate,” he said reasonably. “And after hearing her tell the tale of Lottie and a dozen fresh haggis in her marriage bed, I believe Mary. But I do not think you will destroy her beautiful painting.”

Sarah couldn't. For reprisal, she'd have Mary's face painted over her own and display the scandalous canvas at London Bridge. The idea soothed her, and she smiled. “You can be sure that Mary will get fitting wages for this shoddy work.”

All patient man, he shook his head. “If you call that shoddy, the king's a MacKenzie.”

Ignoring him, she asked the question foremost in
her mind. “What language were you speaking to Turnbull, and what did you say to him?”

Ignoring her, he removed the glass top from a dish of candy. The smell of ginger filled the air. When she refused the offered sweet, he took one and replaced the lid.

“What possessed you to foul Lottie's marriage bed?” he asked.

How did she explain a life of caring closeness? What words could convey the unity of four siblings who constantly battled the stain of illegitimacy?
Loyalty
seemed too ordinary a word for the unique ties that bound the four half sisters.

She settled for the oblique. “The same sort of prank that led Lottie to dose my perfume with bitters.”

He pulled off his neckcloth and unfastened the top button of his shirt. “Is that what she did to earn your wrath?”

Trying to stay calm in the face of a disrobing man, she put the canvas on the seat of the facing high-back chair, then moved around behind it. For something to do, save gape at the black chest hair that peeked from the opening in his shirt, she examined the doily on the chair back. She found no grease on the cloth; he obviously did not pomade his hair.

The clock struck 10 o'clock. At least Notch and William were safe with Turnbull.

Michael reached for the canvas and laid it across his lap. “Did Lottie foul your favorite fragrance?”

She couldn't help looking at where the canvas rested. His snug-fitting breeches accented his wellmuscled legs. No wonder he controlled his spirited horse with ease.

“Did she?”

Sarah swallowed back shame but couldn't fend off peevishness. “Living in the same house with Lottie is reason enough.” Hearing her own testy words, she softened her tone. “But I did not act alone, and Lottie deserved it. Mary and Agnes helped me. That's generally the way it was in our youth, three against one.”

He raked the ribbon tie from his hair. The long strands fell to his shoulders. “I'm not surprised Notch and the other orphans take to you. You're more adept at conspiracy than they are.” Easing down in the chair, he propped his booted feet on a tasseled footstool. “But you plunder badly.”

His comfortable pose drove her to boldness. “Five minutes more, and I would have made good my escape.”

“Five minutes later, and I would have come after you.”

As if she would let him in. “You cannot keep that painting. 'Tis wrong of you in every way.”

He waved it at her. “You've looked at it?”

Sarah glared at him. “You lied about the freckles.”

Resting the tube on his legs, he unrolled the painting. “Do you say so because Mary didn't paint them on your likeness, or because your skin is unblemished?”

She huffed in disdain and fought the urge to look away. “As if I would tell you.” If he could be secretive about his exchange with Turnbull, she could be evasive too.