Betrayed (4 page)

P
oised on her threshold, the first officer of the king's Complement now wore a brown velvet coat over an Elliot tartan plaid, pleated and belted in kilt fashion. His sporran even bore a silver crescent, the heraldic symbol of a second son.

She instantly revised her opinion of him. She also knew why he'd looked familiar. Unlike his older brother, this man bore the true face of the Elliots, the same virile image she'd seen in paintings in the halls of Glenstone Manor.

He was Michael Elliot, Henry's younger brother.

Henry. Her pride rebelled at the thought of the scoundrel she'd intended to marry. If this second son had come to Edinburgh to attend her wedding to his brother, he'd wasted a very long journey.

“You're Michael Elliot.”

He nodded and clasped his hands behind his back, drawing attention to the breadth of his shoulders and his thickly muscled neck. “So my nanny told me.”

An odd answer and much too personal for Sarah to address. Besides, she'd had enough of the deceitful
and greedy Elliots. She was surprised that Henry had not told her of his brother's respected position in the Complement. According to Henry, Michael had merely made a career in the army of the East India Company.

She didn't care if he owned every trading ship in the fleet. “Why have you come here?”

“For two reasons, actually.” He eyed her up and down.

Without the helmet and the fancy trappings, there was something rugged about him, something Highland-like, something dangerously appealing to Sarah.

But he was an Elliot. “And the reasons are?”

“I simply had to meet the woman who preferred to wed a toothless and blind draft horse, rather than marry my brother.”

Sarah had said that, among other disparaging remarks, to Henry's mother. The wicked Lady Emily had bullied and insulted Sarah, who replied with logic and sympathy as long as possible. When her patience fled, Sarah had abandoned polite conversation.

Lady Emily had gotten precisely what she deserved. “I do not regret my rudeness to your mother.”

Laughter played about his mouth, softening the stern line of his jaw. “At least her memory is better than her manners. My sainted mother also said you were a troublemaker.” His voice dropped. “But she hesitated to mention how beautiful you are.”

Was the subtle sarcasm in his tone meant for his mother or for Sarah? Probably the latter, considering the poor behavior of the rest of his family.

Bother the Elliots. They could spout compliments until the coal ran out. Sarah was done with them.
“You are too kind,” she said, meaning in effect that he was a troll to darken her door. “You said you came here for two reasons. Beyond repeating my wish to never set eyes on an Elliot again, what is your purpose?”

Michael felt like a footman sent to settle the butcher's account. Ignoring her surprised gasp, he moved past her and headed for the hearth. Over his shoulder, he said, “To change your mind, of course.”

An ambitious by-blow of the duke of Ross, his mother had said of Sarah MacKenzie. Michael had expected a ruddy-complexioned country lass with backward manners and a sharp tongue. He'd been partially correct, but by the saints, she was a joy to look upon. Gowned in a concoction of saffron-colored velvet and her golden hair glistening like sunshine, she appeared a picture of feminine grace. In opposition to current fashion, her dress was laden with only modest panniers. Her waist was exceedingly trim, so much so the gown fit loosely. He'd stake his share of the next China silk run that she didn't wear a corset.

“Do not expect me to welcome you, and stop staring at me.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. You gawk like a shepherd down from the hill in spring.”

Michael chuckled, but inside he struggled for something intelligent to say.

Cool disdain gave her a queenly air. “Do you find me entertaining?”

He turned to give his right side a chance to thaw at the fire. “Not at all. I've a Brodie under my command. His Highland speech is not so refined as yours, but the flavor of it is the same. His mother's brother
was a shepherd. Brodie tells stories about his uncle's less-than-decorous behavior after a winter spent in isolation.” Turning, he treated his left side to a delicious wave of heat. “So I have a basis for comparison of your remark, and I found it humorous.” Humor was actually the last trait he had expected to find in Sarah MacKenzie.

“Oh.”

Michael nearly preened. “So, if I may respond to your observation, I stare at you because you are uncommonly lovely, and I have been in India for the better part of two decades. Comely Scotswomen are a rarity there.” That flattery should melt her reserve and put her on the path to yielding her considerable dowry.

It ignited her temper. Skirts rustling softly, she marched up to him. “Take your pretty words and speak them at a shrine to Siva. I am not for sale.”

Good Lord, this MacKenzie lass had a fire in her, and intelligence, too. How else would she know about Hindu goddesses? She'd have her man shirking his duty to find ways to ignite her passions. Never one to shy from a challenge, Michael eagerly moved closer to her flame. “I take it you told the countess as much.”

“And more. Good day, sir. I'm sure your regiment misses your guidance.”

“You refer to the Complement.” Ah, yes. Now he knew where he'd seen those blue eyes. “You were standing beside that young street reiver who asked me if the king were dead.”

She gripped his arm just above the elbow and moved to show him to the door. “Notch is not a thief; at least I don't think he steals now. Either way, it's none of your concern. The Complement, however, is,
and I wish you well of it, although I'm deeply sorry you brought them here for nothing.”

Her hand was surprisingly strong, and Michael planted his feet. He must stall for time, then get back to the business of convincing this woman to hand over her dowry and marry his brother—either one first. “Then this outspoken fellow named Notch did not rob you.”

She sighed noisily and withdrew her hand, crossing her arms at her waist. “Of course he did not rob me. Will you please leave? Your brother deserves the disgrace he suffers, and I want nothing more to do with the Elliots.”

A belief Michael tended to share, after the brief audience with his mother. But this occasion did not require truth from him. Sarah MacKenzie had made a contract. He would convince her to honor it. Then he'd get on with his new life as a civilian.

If his mother and brother had blackened the family name, Michael would do what he could to rescue them, but he would not allow Sarah MacKenzie or anyone else to question his character. “How can you be certain that you want nothing to do with me when you don't even know me?” A bit of verbal finesse might win his victory. “ 'Twould seem my mother was correct, though.”

Anger simmered in her eyes. “The only thing the countess of Glenforth excels at is her high opinion of herself and her devotion to a worthless, deceitful son.”

The room grew warmer, and Michael intended to savor it. He'd been cold to his bones since the ship sailed into the Firth of Forth. India's sunny clime was
a lifetime away. “I quite agree and couldn't have said it better myself.”

That put a kink in her plans. She leaned against the high back of a tooled leather chair. “You expect me to believe that you dislike your own brother?”

Michael hadn't seen Henry in so long, he wouldn't know him from a well-groomed doorman at Trotter's Club. “Not on our first meeting, of course.” He walked around the small sofa and sat down. “But given the chance . . .” He left the vagary to hang in the air while he removed a glove. Patting the place beside him, he finished with, “. . . unless I am convinced that you are a light-headed chit who has committed fraud against the Elliots. In that case, the countess of Glenforth would have just cause to sue for forfeiture of your dowry.”

She looked beautifully baffled. “Dementia is an Elliot family trait.”

As affable as a merchant on allowance day, Michael reached into his sporran and pulled out a pouch of his favorite treat. Extending it, he raised his brows. “Candy?”

She didn't move. Her expression said, “Get on with it.”

After popping a small piece of sugared ginger into his mouth, he stretched out his legs. “If we are demented, then your Highland blood will surely serve us well.”

“How many times must I say it? I refuse to wed your brother.”

“You could do worse than Henry in a choice of husbands.”

“I'm sure I could—in a Turkish debtor's prison.”

Michael almost choked on the candy. Beyond curiosity, he didn't care why his brother couldn't meet his financial obligations. He'd simply agreed to this meeting to placate his distraught mother. But he was growing intrigued with Sarah MacKenzie.

“Come now,” he began expansively. “My brother withers for want of your affections. He loves you well.”

“I do not care a tin farthing what your brother wants or whom he professes to love.”

“But you did at one time, else you would not have pledged to become his wife and bear his heirs. Given the smallest chance, he will rekindle your affections. Mother worries that you have simply fallen prey to missish behavior.”

“Let me be sure I understand. Your mother, the countess, expresses true concern on my behalf?”

Michael felt a prick of conscience. He did not envy this entertaining and beautiful woman her plight—marriage into the Elliots. But he was only the appointed courier of ill news. Except for funerals and christenings, he'd probably never see her again.

“My mother is ever solicitous of your well-being.” For good measure, he embellished the lie. “And she apologizes most sincerely for the cross words you exchanged.”

“Cross? She called me an ill-bred, uncivilized ne'er-do-well.”

Oh, to be a beetle in the rug during that exchange of feminine fury. “And your reply?”

Color blossomed on her cheeks and she busied her hands pressing out the folds of her skirts. “I called her a pinched-mouth crow.”

An apt description,
he thought, remembering how
his mother's lips had thinned with scorn at the mention of Sarah MacKenzie. “She's deeply sorry for the remark.”

“I don't believe you. Had she been sincere, she would have come herself.”

A weak truth came to mind. “I offered to come. I wanted to meet the woman who has captured my brother's heart and agreed to wed him.”

“She's using you.”

That painful reality struck him a blow. He should redeem his brother's gambling markers himself and put Edinburgh behind him. Michael could easily afford it, but he'd sacrificed women and sport to save enough money for his first share in the East India Company. Even in the prosperous years that followed, he'd managed his fortune wisely. Handing even a tuppence of it over to the family that had forgotten him and now used him as a messenger rankled his pride. But it was a small price to pay to be rid of them; the MacKenzies had given their word, and Michael had promised to remind them of it.

“My mother is concerned about her son's happiness.” The use of the singular
son
described perfectly his own lack of position in the family. Michael wasn't sure he cared anymore.

“How generous of her.”

“Indeed, and you needn't deal with her at all, if you so choose.”

“Meaning that I can just hand over my dowry to you.”

“And then wed my brother as planned.”

“No. Lachlan MacKenzie worked hard to earn my dowry. I'll not see it wasted in the name of male pride.”

His respect for her trebled, and he suddenly had a craving to know more about her. “You do not consider the betrothal binding?”

“You mean as a contract?”

She radiated self-assurance. Perhaps Henry had not fallen to misfortune, as Mama had said. Perhaps pride had brought him low. But how, then, had he wooed and won this strong, enchanting woman? “It is a legal document.”

Amid a soft rustling of velvet, she strolled to the hearth and stoked the fire. “The law will not enforce it.”

A fresh blast of heat warmed his bare knees, and he smiled. “Why ever not? Dowries have been forfeited for lesser reasons than a bride's change of heart.”

Replacing the fire iron, she dusted her hands. “Ah, but my reasons adhere to the principle of the maxim.”

Maxim? Michael knew little of betrothal laws. Calcutta was hardly a marriage mart for British nobility. But surely a contract was a contract. “Are you certain you've been given good advice by your father's solicitor?”

As if she were a governess addressing an naive charge, she patiently said, “The maxim in both courts and chancery states that a contract that opposes sound policy and is of dangerous tendency to the community is void. I assure you that fulfilling my betrothal to your brother flies in the face of sound
policy
and is fraught with dangerous tendencies to any
community
he inhabits.”

Shocked by her passionate and learned discourse on the law, Michael lamely said, “Surely that law applies only to the lower classes.”

“Precisely the station of the Elliots.” Her smile was pure sarcasm.

Stung and amused at once, Michael didn't know whether to laugh or protest, so he took the soldier's part and challenged. “You cannot swear duress. You chose him freely.”

“If you or any of the Elliots try to hold this troublemaker to the agreement, you will all suffer duress. I shall not be taken lightly.”

Michael believed her.
Formidable
perfectly described Sarah MacKenzie. He recalled another of his mother's condemnations. “My mother swears you have a head for manly concerns.”

“How delightful,” she said, laughing. “Your apologetic mother continues to overstep herself.”

Familial loyalty waned and a retreat beckoned. Michael grasped it. “You know her far better than I, but my ready inclination is to agree with you. How did you and the Elliots come to this dreadful pass?”