Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (10 page)

“Any word from Belgium?” he asked, just as he did every time he passed.

Sarah shook her head, wishing she could reassure him. “Nothing.”

He absently nodded. “Got some…acquaintances go over. I asked ’em to look. They heard nothin’ either. It’s like Boswell just disappeared.”

“Things are still so unsettled over there,” Sarah said, looking away. “We
will
find him.”

George gave her a tilt of his head. “We better. I’m thinkin’ Martin Clarke won’t be held off much longer.”

For that Sarah had no answer.

“He c’n be taken care of, you want,” George said, leaning closer. “Prob’ly should anyway. Ole George isn’t happy with Martin Clarke these days.”

Sarah let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, George. Don’t tempt me. But thank you. I’ll think of some way to hold him off.”

This time George looked her square in the eye. “You don’t, then you call George. Hear?”

She wouldn’t. Too many people depended on George to put him at risk. It cost her nothing to nod anyway.

He gave another quick tilt of the head, George’s version of a nod. “There’s somethin’ else. Somethin’ queerish.”

A
frisson
of portent slithered down her back. George was slapping his hat against his leg, a sure sign he’d waited to bring her trouble. “And what is that, George?”

“Martin Clarke,” he said, looking down at her. “Who else? He been by here?”

“He has. Yesterday.”

Another nod. “He bring anybody with him? Soldiers an’ the like?”

“And the squire,” she said, wishing George would get to the point. “They were looking for a vagrant who has evidently been in the area. Why?”

He nodded. “Says he be huntin’ that soldier went in the water over to Exeter. The one tried to kill the Duke of Wellington. But it’s not the water nor beach he be searchin’. Only the farmland beyond the cliffs.”

She shrugged. “They mentioned that. But I wouldn’t worry.”

“He also been talkin’ to all the men what work with me at night. Makin’ sure they knew he had his eye on ’em.”

Sarah frowned. “What could you all have to do with such a thing?”

“We could be scapegoats, comes to that. It’s no secret Martin Clarke has done his share o’ dabblin’ in brandy and lace. Word is he’s decided to help himself to our territory.” He kept turning his hat in his hands.

Yet another stone of worry to add to her load. “I wish I could disagree,” she mused. “But I have a feeling that might be the reason he is so anxious to acquire Boswell’s land. His own estate is much finer. But it has no coastal access.”

George nodded. “Might be time to worry. Especially since he brings help.”

Sarah huffed impatiently. “Oh, lord, George, that motley crew couldn’t find chickens in a henhouse.”

“Not that lot what’s been followin’ him around,” he corrected. “Regulars. A whole troop of ’em, taking their orders from Clarke and some prissy little toff named Stricker. Showed up this mornin’.”

George was right. That was definitely queerish.

“You’re quite certain they have been searching for the dead man?”

“Hear they be goin’ house to house from Exmouth to Charmouth offerin’ a reward for that Scotsman dead or alive. I b’lieve they be comin’ back this way. And I don’t think they be in a mood to be told no.”

Sarah thought George must have heard the sudden thundering of her heart. “I don’t suppose they are all moving together.”

“So that maybe you could get around ’em somehow? No. They be spread out like a flock of sheep in a high wind. Mighty convenient, you ask me.”

“They’re really spending all that effort to look for a dead man?”

“I be thinkin’ they ain’t so sure he be dead. And I’ll vow Clarke means to find him with one of my lot holdin’ his hand. Arrestin’ us’n would make it real easy to get us out of the way, give him the whole coast.”

Sarah’s stomach clenched into a knot. “That would be terrible.”

“More’n you know, ma’am. Martin Clarke has taken to runnin’ with an evil crowd. Bad reports comin’ from over to Torquay. Coercin’ men to work for ’em, threats, fires, witnesses disappearin’. Evil.”

She briefly closed her eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

“A shifty one is your cousin.”

She couldn’t help a smile. “Not my cousin, George.”

He should have looked more amused. He merely gazed at her, his soft brown eyes troubled. “We might should make sure he’s got no reason to worry, m’lady. Ya think? Be right sad he was able to bring down one of our own.”

George’s words almost stripped Sarah of control. There wasn’t another argument George could have made that could have caused more havoc.

Our own.
He was including her, which was the greatest honor any Dorsetman could give her. Especially since she wasn’t a native.

Tell him about Ian Ferguson. Let him share the burden. Better yet, let him take it off your hands.

She only needed to look at George to know she couldn’t. If George were caught with Ian Ferguson, far too many people would suffer. Not just a few poor gentlewomen, who might be excused a mistake. Entire families. Villages. Martin would use that excuse to wipe out every man who participated in the trade and usurp what they left behind.

“Might be good to make sure they got nothin’ ta find,” George said gently, his eyes on the clothing. “Ole George don’t hold with traitors.”

It was all Sarah could do to keep from flinching. If she couldn’t convince George to leave well enough alone, they could all be in the suds. She prayed George didn’t see that she trembled.

“I don’t hold with traitors either, George,” she said, meeting his gaze. “You have never had reason to question my judgment before. I hope that has not changed.”

Again, George held his answer a bit too long, the silence punctuated by the lowing of a cow and the chatter of birds in the spinney. But just when Sarah had given up hope, he smiled. Not a big smile, like he gave to the barmaids down at the Three Tuns. A small, knowing smile that spoke volumes.

Plopping his hat on his head, he nodded. “Well, then, I be off to find me a new mare. I’ll be back on Tuesday next to finish puttin’ up that hay.”

“Thank you, George. For everything.”

He threw her an offhand wave and ambled off down the drive. Sarah remained where she was, clutching the roughspun clothes to her chest as if it could help bolster her courage.

Ian didn’t mean to frighten her. It was just that it had been three hours since he’d last seen her, and he was growing anxious. When he finally ran out of patience, he dragged himself to the stable door and held on for dear life as he took a peek outside.

He reached the door just in time to see a behemoth striding toward her with a bundle in his arms. A behemoth who seemed to behave with far too much familiarity, to Ian’s way of thinking, especially considering the fact that the man had the rough looks of a first-class rake. Black hair, dark eyes, and a smile Ian recognized for the deadly weapon it was. Christ, the bastard even had a dimple in his chin.

“
That
is Old George?” he demanded the minute Sarah stepped through the door.

She shrieked and jumped back, the pail she carried clattering to the ground and spilling out sticking plasters and jars and scissors. “What in blazes are you doing?”

“Protecting you, it seems. You can’t mean to tell me you trust that lummox.”

She was standing there, a hand to her chest as if holding in her heart, her eyes wide in the gloom, and suddenly he had the most irrational urge to kiss her. It would have been easy. She was no more than a few feet away, her face tilted back to berate him, her lips parted. He swore he could taste them, plump and sweet as strawberries. He could feel the soft comfort of her in his arms.

“I beg your pardon?” she demanded, shattering the fantasy.

Ian almost grinned. She deliberately turned away and bent to pick up her supplies.

Ian knew he wasn’t acting the gentleman, but he couldn’t help watching the pull of her dress across her bottom. Predictably, his own body tightened and warmed. “You didn’t answer. That was Old George?”

“It was.”

“Just how old is
young
George?”

She actually grinned over her shoulder. “Four.”

Ian scowled. “You deliberately led me to believe the man was…was . . .”

“Old enough to have a young child?” she asked, and stood. “Why, so he is. It is Young George who insists on the names. Now, come along,” she said, standing to wrap her arm around his waist. “You need to sit down before you break something and I find myself stuck with you forever.”

She was right. His head was spinning like one of Whinyate’s rockets. Her breast was pressing against his chest, and he could smell fresh lavender soap on her hair, which made the dizziness worse. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe; his body was no longer merely warm. Every inch him that touched her seemed to be on fire. He wrapped his own arm around her and swore he felt her tremble.

She couldn’t be unaware of that odd, enervating heat that flared between them. He wouldn’t allow it. Surely her nostrils flared, just a bit. He swore she stumbled, just a little. Just enough that they both had to hold on to each other more tightly.

In the end, he wasn’t quite certain who dragged whom as far as the little milking stool against the wall.

“Let go,” she told him the minute he plopped down. Her voice sounded a bit breathless as she bent over him, caught in his hold. Her body was stiff as starch. He was certain that she sounded breathless, as if her heart were beating as quickly as his.

“Then you do feel it,” he muttered as he nuzzled her neck. “I thought so.”

“
Colonel
. . .”

“Ian,” he corrected, right there into the tender skin of her throat. “Call me Ian.”

She knelt, her hands behind her neck to try to peel his fingers away. “I’ll call you toothless, if you don’t stop.”

He couldn’t bear to release her. He felt as if she were the only true thing he could find. As if the smell of soap was a reward for bravery.

“Let.
Go,
” she demanded, her brisk voice perilously close to his ear.

He did. Eventually. But for that long, heart-stopping moment, he held onto that soft, sweet-smelling, stalwart woman and wondered if this was how a man rested.

“Colonel!”

He let go, only to start swaying again, his balance quite lost. He didn’t really mean to do it. But somehow as she tried to catch him, their mouths met. Ian’s reaction was instinctive. He wrapped his arms around her and held on.

Sweet Jesus, he was dying. He couldn’t remember a kiss tasting so sweet. So soft and tender and delicious. She tasted like coffee and cinnamon. She felt like silk against his tongue. He wanted to devour her.

For an inexcusable length of time, he thought she was as stricken as he was. She leaned into him, opened her lips, moved with him as he tasted her. He could feel her heart thrumming and swallowed her gasp of surprise. He wanted to let a hand go to explore her contours, but he had enough sense left to hold still. He didn’t want this moment to end, this astonishing, hot, hungry meeting that should never have happened.

She was the one who jerked back. Her eyes were stark, appalled. Her mouth was open, as if she couldn’t find the words to express her anger.

But she wasn’t angry; he could tell. She was hurt, and he’d never meant that.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he apologized, even more ashamed because he wasn’t. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“I think you might do better on the ground,” she said, her voice as suddenly brisk as her actions, once again immersing him in her scent as she pulled him off the stool and plopped him on the hard ground.

Ian still couldn’t catch his breath. There was something tight and urgent in his chest, as if he were balanced on the edge of a sharp precipice and looking down.

“Don’t let go,” he heard, and couldn’t believe it was his own voice.

The ache in his chest sharpened. What was he doing? He knew better. He had learned a long time ago never to hold on to any person, even his sisters. People left. They died or they disappeared, and the heart could only stand so much.

But he wanted to hold on to Sarah Clarke. He wanted it so badly it robbed him of breath and crowded his throat.

This time there was no answer from her, only a quickening of her breath. Did she hold him more tightly? Was she as upended as he was?

“Colonel, I . . .”

He shook his head hard, as if he could reorder his thoughts. It did nothing to ease the fire in his chest. “My apologies, lass. I seem to be all about in the head.”

Kneeling, she carefully separated herself from him, her chest still rising quickly, her soft mouth swollen. He swore he could still taste her.

“In my defense,” he said, not having even enough courage to meet her gaze, “you do smell wonderful.”

She smelled like open fields and soft summer evenings.

“I smell like soap,” she said, and lurched to her feet, her hand brushing against her lips, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what happened. “Something with which you appear to be quite unacquainted.”

He couldn’t help a quick grin. “Only recently…well, to be fair, it
was
quite precious on the battlefield, but I swear I made amends the moment I could.”