Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (9 page)

He actually felt exhilaration bubble up behind his sternum. “It serves its purpose.”

“If you wish to be underestimated,” she said, “I imagine so.”

She flashed him a quick grin, and his stomach swooped. Her teeth were white, even in the gloom of a dark stable.

“Stay away from my hens,” she said briskly, walking over to retrieve a pitchfork. “I can only explain missing eggs so long. And you will please remain in one place so I can find you. When I have cleaned out the extra stall, you can hide there.”

“Let me help,” he said abruptly, hating the sight of that pitchfork in her hand. “I can clean stalls better than most.”

“Thank you, no. I wish you to do nothing that will delay your departure or imperil my animals.”

She turned back to her work, her drab brown dress swirling gently behind her. Ian couldn’t take his gaze from her. It was because he was sick, he thought again. He wasn’t able to mount his usual defenses. But he suddenly couldn’t bear the idea that after this, he would never see this kind woman again.

When she stepped into an empty stall, Ian noticed that the door was listing. In fact, much of this little estate was listing. Listing and crumbling and faded.

“From what I see,” he said, “you have need of that reward.”

She didn’t hesitate in her work. “Are you asking me to turn you in to be hung?”

“I suppose I’m asking why you don’t.”

For long moments she continued to bend and straighten, her focus entirely on pitching hay. Ian waited, not even sure what answer he wanted. He caught sight of her hands and suddenly felt angry. They were elegant, long-fingered, and lean. They should have been manicured and soft, callused by no more than the keys of a pianoforte. Instead her nails were short and ragged, and he could see scars on her knuckles, as if she were the warrior instead of he.

“I don’t turn you in,” she finally said, turning to gravely consider him, “because no matter what you have done, amazingly enough, your sisters love you.”

Her answer made him feel even worse. She was right, of course. “You are very loyal to them.”

“They are the best of friends.”

“Even Mairead?” he asked, wanting her smile back.

Well, that got her hackles up. “Do not dare disparage Mairead,” she snapped, pointing at him. “Just because she is not exactly like every other primped and pretty miss is no reason to make light of her. Mairead is…special. And she is lucky to have a twin who has sacrificed so much to watch over her. Her brother certainly doesn’t.”

Ian raised both hands in defense. “Guilty. And he knows it.”

It would do no good, after all, to explain exactly why he had been unavailable to be there to help the girls all these years. No woman wanted to hear about scraping for pennies, of surviving great battlefields and small, sordid skirmishes and even more sordid spying just to be able to send more money home for food, of volunteering for every extra duty he could in the chance he could profit. Of always falling short, no matter how he tried. Of being so far away when his mother died that by the time he’d found his way home his sisters had been living in unspeakable conditions.

He had made up for it, though. He had found Drake’s Rakes, gentlemen who helped the government in clandestine ways, and they had led him to Miss Chase’s Academy for the girls, where his sisters should have been safe and happy and carefree, their every want seen to.

But that hadn’t worked out very well either, had it?

“You’re right, of course, lass,” he admitted. “I’ve been a dismal failure as a brother. Please believe me, though. It isna’ for want of trying.”

He would not fail them again. He would not fail anyone. If he hadn’t already made that vow to his grandfather, he would make it here.

Sarah Clarke considered him in silence for a moment, her fingers wrapped around the pitchfork, her color rising. “I fear, Colonel,” she finally said, her voice tight, “that I don’t believe you.” She shook her head. “Three years. If you were my brother I would never let you back in the door.”

A tough critic indeed. “Well, there was a war on,” he reminded her.

“A war that had a year-long lull, if memory serves. A lull during which you spent quite a bit of time with your grandfather securing your inheritance.”

“In Vienna. We were both there for the Congress. I never—”

He was going to say he’d never made it back to England, but of course that would be a lie.

“Never in England?” she retorted. “Nonsense. You were here several times. Fiona mentioned seeing you in the society columns. Let me see…‘that rascally Scot with a temper managed to delight the very weddable Lady A L at Almack’s last evening.’”

“You memorized a newspaper clipping?”

“I remember when someone has so hurt my friend. Fiona wanted desperately to see you that summer, but your grandfather would not allow her to leave Yorkshire, and you refused to travel that far. London seemed much more to your taste.”

He wanted to snap at her, to tell her she was being unrealistic. To make her understand how hard he had worked in the last two summers coming to peace with his new future as heir to a British marquess. Working with both his grandfather and Drake’s Rakes to cement his position so he would never again be helpless to protect those who depended on him. But to his shame, he had been so determined to indelibly secure his family’s comfort that he had mistaken their happiness.

“I promise,” he said. “First thing after this, I will see my sisters and beg their pardon. And explain who Lady Ardeth Langstrom is.” Another flash of guilt, an unfamiliar need to justify himself. “My grandfather introduced me to Lady Ardeth in Vienna. She and I are to marry next summer.”

A sensible lady with a sensible eye to marriage. Far more beautiful than Sarah Clarke. The perfect wife for a future marquess with big plans, even though he had never once reacted to her as he had just now to Sarah Clarke.

“My sisters dinna know yet,” he said. “Lady Ardeth has been in mourning, so the official notice has nae been sent out.”

He wasn’t certain in the half-light of the barn, but he thought Sarah Clarke went suddenly pale. She opened her mouth. Shook her head. Instead of answering, though, she spun back to her work, forking hay with the determination of a zealot, her body unyielding, her slim arms strong with muscles she’d built while protecting this little estate on the edge of nowhere.

Somehow, with only that silence and industry, she made him feel even worse.

Chapter 5

By the time Sarah finally approached the stables again, her carefully collected supplies hidden in her bucket, the sun was fairly high in the sky. She had attempted to return twice before, but her courage had failed her. It threatened to again, right where she came to an uncertain halt mere feet from the stable’s stone side.

Everything had been so clear last night. Because of her friendship with Fiona and Mairead Ferguson, she had committed herself to help their brother on his way to London. Nothing more.

She had even remained calm this morning when she had walked into the stables to be surprised by the morning sun washing over Ian Ferguson as he sat against the stone wall, his long legs stretched out and that ridiculous eggshell cradled in his hand. The sight of him had been a surprise, certainly, but it hadn’t leveled her. She had been more concerned with the pulled, pale cast of his features, not the way his auburn hair turned to dark fire where it curled at his neck. She had, of course, noticed his body, bold as a stone castle defending a hill, his square face carved from the same granite. But that was only to evaluate his weight, so she would know better how to help him. She swore it.

But then he had smiled, and everything changed. Sweet heavens, that smile should have been painted into every Bible in the kingdom as a warning against sin. It was the kind of devilish, boyish smile that took the strength right out of a girl’s knees and demanded a smile in return. It was a smile that forced one to admit that her feelings for him were far more complicated than anger and jealousy.

Oh, she was angry. She was jealous. But that smile had done something far worse. It had resurrected feelings she swore she’d packed away where they could never be found; the unformed yearnings of a young girl.

The first time Sarah had heard of Fiona’s notorious brother, she had been twelve, freshly exiled to the cold stone halls of Last Chance and aching for comfort. Mail call had been announced, which did nothing but make Sarah feel more alone. She seemed to be the only one without a letter or package. Rather than admit it, she’d tried to sneak out.

Pippin had intercepted her with her hand on the door. “Come on, then,” she’d urged, pushing Sarah toward her bed. “Lizzie has biscuits.”

She did indeed. After the roommates had congregated on Pippin’s bed, she passed them around. Pippin showed off the lavender soap her sister had sent. That scent could still make Sarah smile. She remembered so clearly the comfort of it, the scratch of wool beneath her knees as she curled up next to Pip, the sharp tang of ginger biscuits on her tongue. She remembered the crisp crinkle of paper as Fiona unfolded the letter her brother had sent.

And she remembered that letter, word for word.

Dear Brat,

Well, we’ve made it to Bombay. What can I say about India? It is a cacophony of sound, of color, of smells. A teeming, steaming, whirling madhouse of life. I think I’m going to like it here . . .
And from that moment, Sarah had dreamed of a different life. She dreamed of adventure, travel, challenge. She dreamed of fording rivers, facing implacable enemies, discovering new worlds. And she would do all of those things by the side of Ian Ferguson. He would teach her to laugh, and she would make a home for him.

It had been a lonely girl’s dream, nothing more, put away with her school jumpers and French primer, good for nothing but measuring the confines of her prison. That deadly smile had resurrected it. Worse, it had imbued it with color.

Did he have to be so bloody handsome? So vital that even ill and injured, he fairly pulsed with life? Did he have to be even more magnificent than her younger self had imagined, tucked away up in that cold dormer?

Again her gaze drifted over to Boswell’s arbor, whether for apology or permission she wasn’t certain. She was being disloyal. Worse, she was being unfair. Poor Boswell. How could he ever compare to Ian Ferguson? Boswell had tried so hard, but he was a small, soft man with no real sense of himself. Sarah had the feeling that even feverish and wobbly, Ian Ferguson knew exactly who he was.

It might have been different if her marriage had been different. If she hadn’t been foisted on Boswell as much as he’d been foisted on her, the only option offered for a bleak future. For both of them, really. She had brought Boswell money and he brought her respectability. Only Boswell had spent the money with nothing to show for it, and she was still a bastard. And no matter how they’d tried, they had neither known how to keep resentment at bay.

She took one last look at the arbor, where she had replanted Boswell’s rosebushes. She could so clearly see him standing there the day he’d gone to war, a thin, pale man clad in the perfectly tailored, unblemished uniform he had spent the seed money on, his gold braid gleaming as brightly as the untested sword that rode his thin hip. He had looked as out of place in the crimson and gold of the 35th as he always had in work boots and broadcloth. Not a man with a purpose. A boy playing dress-up and hoping this latest costume fit. She wished, for his sake—for both their sakes—that the last one had.

That quickly her outrage died, and she was left with nothing but the same gnawing regret and grief she carried to bed with her every night. He had tried. They had both tried so hard. But only one of them had meant it.

There were no more answers here. Lifting her bucket, she continued on to the stables. She had just reached for the door when she heard boots crunch on the path.

“Milady!”

She whipped around to see Old George striding toward her, a bundle under his arm. Forcing a smile, she went to meet him. “Good morning, George.”

Standing even taller and broader than Ian Ferguson, Old George pulled off his crumpled slouch-brim hat to reveal the strong, handsome features and thick, curly black hair that made all the local girls sigh. Only a few years older than Sarah, he carried himself with an oddly formal dignity. He was in his town clothes, black broadcloth and heavy shoes.

“You were askin’ f’r these,” he said, holding out the parcel. “You said old ones.”

She held out her free hand for the bundle. “Thank you. I believe I owe you.”

Handing it off, George grinned, showing big white teeth. “No you don’t. Seems to me as how I been owin’ you for a while now, haven’t I?”

In all truth, he had. Old George was the land agent for the smugglers hereabout. It was George who crept across the back acres of Fairbourne with pack ponies on moonless nights, sometimes using her outbuildings when authorities came too close.

Old George knew that Sarah couldn’t actively participate in smuggling. Boswell hadn’t stood for it, what with the war on and all. But neither could Sarah turn against her neighbors who had for so long depended on the gentlemen to survive. So when she saw the thin white ribbon tied onto the old oak by the barn, she kept away from the path through the far woods.

It was one of the reasons she trusted George to keep quiet about the loan of his clothing. That and the fact that George had always watched out for the tenants of Fairbourne, especially since Boswell had left.