Rexanne Becnel (10 page)

The older woman’s face creased once more in worry. “Did he say he had proof that Cameron Byrde married his mother?”

“No.” Sarah shook her head, trying to remember every word that had passed between them. “He didn’t say he had proof, like a marriage certificate or anything.”

“All right, then. Let’s think. How about I go visitin’ today, reminiscing with my oldest friends? Maybe I can learn if there’s ever been any MacDougals ’round here.”

“That’s good. As for me…” Sarah trailed off, intimidated by what she knew she must do. “As for me, I believe I will pay a call on Mr. MacDougal.”

“Oh, but I don’t think that’s wise, child.”

“How else am I to learn anything? I need to discover whether he has any proof, don’t I? He slipped up last night and revealed more to me than he had intended. Perhaps I can get him to reveal something more today.” She stood up and spread her arms wide. “What other choice do I have?”

M
ARSH
grimaced as he rubbed his eyes. He’d been up all night sitting by the river, with only an empty bottle of whiskey to show for it. His stomach roiled, his head pounded, and his eyelids felt like sanding grit. Even worse, however, he was no more settled on his next line of action than he had been when he’d stormed away from the mayor’s house.

He’d been a fool last night: fighting over a woman he should not care about; revealing information he should have kept private; then getting drunk. As if that had ever once improved a situation.

He hadn’t even been smart enough to take advantage of the buxom charms that had been so blatantly offered by that woman Estelle.

He rode slowly toward Kelso, painfully aware of every jarring thud of his animal’s hooves upon the hard-packed road. Like echoes of his miseries, they pounded the ugly reality of his life into his mind. His mother was dead. His father was dead. His nearest relative was a woman who would be ruined by his appearance in her life.

But at least that sister wasn’t Sarah Palmer.

Not that it mattered, he told himself bitterly. Yet all night that had been the central issue his lunatic mind had returned to time and again. Sarah Palmer was not his sister. He did not lust after his own flesh and blood.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered, prodding the horse up to a canter. He grimaced at the rocketing pain it sent shooting through his head. Yet it seemed a fitting punishment. How much bigger a fool did he intend to make of himself?

It didn’t matter that she was not his flesh and blood. The plain truth was that Sarah Palmer was not the sort of woman he was interested in. And he had better remember that. She was a wealthy British snob; he was a hardscrabble American businessman. Besides that, she hated him now that she knew he meant to ruin her sister and mother. Lusting after her was madness. Worse, it was pointless.

He massaged his throbbing temple, wanting that last thought to sink in once and for all. Lusting after her was pointless. Better to seek out the willing Estelle. A good tumble with a clever, knowledgeable woman had never failed to improve his outlook in the past.

No sooner was Marsh resolved on that, however, than his first test presented itself to him. For standing outside the inn was a horse he recognized as Sarah Palmer’s, the leggy mare she’d ridden the day he kissed her beside the river.

At once his loins tightened. Bloody hell! She was the last person he wanted to see!

He started to turn his mount, to slink away like a coward. But Duffy called out to him. His nosy manservant lounged in the shade of a chestnut tree and, as usual, chose to assist his employer at the one moment Marsh least required his presence.

“Say, guv’nor. It seems you’ve got a caller. A lady caller.” He waggled his bushy brows. Beside him the ostler smothered a laugh. “It’s relieved I am to see you,” Duff continued. “Another hour an’ I would’ve assembled a search party to seek you out.”

“And I would have fired you for the effort,” Marsh growled. “See to the horse,” he added as he dismounted. In focusing his ire on Duffy Erskine he managed to banish his initial reaction, which was to flee. Better to face the interfering woman and be done with her once and for all, he told himself. He could lust after her all he wanted, but it wouldn’t amount to anything. Not now.

But as he strode into the front room of the inn, he girded himself as if for battle. Sarah Palmer was going to make his life miserable. And unfortunately, there was not one thing he could do about it.

Sarah fixed Mr. Halbrecht with her sternest lady-of-the-manor gaze. Behind him his wife practically cowered. And why not? Sarah had dressed very carefully this morning, every garment selected to convey power and rank. A rich burgundy riding habit with a march of gold buttons up the bodice and a cunningly made cap with a curving ostrich feather. She’d dressed to intimidate Marshall MacDougal, and impress him. The fact that he was not here was both a disappointment and a relief.

But her ploy was working exceedingly well with the eager-to-please innkeeper, a blessing she’d not counted on. So she kept her features haughty. “He’s paid up a month in advance?”

“Aye, miss. A gold sovereign, don’t ya know.” He nodded his head continuously. “A very fine gentleman he is, to pay in advance that way.”

“An’ a separate room for his man,” the wife piped in.

Damn, damn, double damn!
He was here to stay long enough to wreak utter havoc on her family. But though she wanted to rant and rave, Sarah held her emotions strictly in check.

“A month,” she managed to say in a reasonably calm voice. “And yet he is already gone.”

Mr. Halbrecht shrugged. “He didn’t sleep in his room last night. But that doesn’t mean he has left for good.”

We should be so lucky
. But what did his absence mean? Then all at once she knew.

Estelle Kendrick.

Something very like nausea rushed over her. He’d spent the night with that hussy Estelle. She could almost see it. Him wrapped in her arms. Smothered between those monstrous…those monstrous…

Again came that sickening rush and she had to swallow hard to quell it. When she spoke, her voice sounded choked. “Well. When he returns, would you please tell him I would like to speak to him?”

“Speak to me? About what?”

Sarah spun about at the hard, accusing voice behind her. Marshall MacDougal stood in the low doorway, his brows drawn together in a thunderous expression. “What is so important, Miss Palmer, that you come here with your imperious manner, questioning Mr. and Mrs. Halbrecht about my private comings and goings?”

He glared daggers at her, and for a moment Sarah was completely nonplussed. Had she truly thought that
she
could intimidate
him
? He was too ruthless for that, and too sure of himself. And unlike her, he had nothing to lose.

Fortunately, pride rushed to her defense and she drew herself up to her full height, and her fullest hauteur. She glanced at the wide-eyed Halbrechts. “You may leave us.”

They scurried away at once, leaving her alone with Mr. MacDougal in the empty dining parlor. She cleared her throat before she spoke again. “Well, Mr. MacDougal. I had hoped to discover this morning how sincere you were last night in the matter that brought you to Kelso. I had hoped it was only too much spirits that had you flinging such wild accusations around. I see now, however, that you have not yet recovered from last night’s debaucheries.”

She wrinkled her nose and folded her arms across the front of her chest. “Did you sleep in those clothes?”

“Last night’s debaucheries?” For a long, stretched-out moment he only stared at her. Then he smiled, that faint but annoyingly smug smile that always managed to unsettle her. “You are partially right. I did spend the night in these clothes. But I did not sleep.”

A new wave of nausea rushed over her, stronger than before. It was just as she had guessed. He’d spent the night in Estelle’s arms. Though Sarah fought to control any outward expression of her horror and dismay, she must have failed, for he chuckled at her silent struggle.

“Come, come, Miss Palmer. You of all people should understand just how far a woman will go to secure the man she sets her sights upon.”

Though she wanted to slap him—indeed, to claw his amused eyes right out of his head—Sarah buried those murderous impulses beneath an expression of cold contempt. “I’m sure I am not interested in what hole you wallowed in last night.”

He laughed out loud. “How witty you are today.”

“Witty?”

“You made a joke, didn’t you? A rather risqué double entendre about what hole I wallowed in.”

“What?” She stared at him, baffled, which only increased his laughter.

“Tell me,” he finally managed to say. “Why have you sought me out, Sarah?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But we are family. Not blood, perhaps, but we do share the same half-sister. Surely you are not formal among your own family.”

“You are not my family,” she swore. “And you never will be.” She cut the air with one hand. “I don’t believe one word of your story.”

“You’d better. It’s true.”

“And no one else will believe you either.”

“Yes. They will.”

“Really?” She tapped her riding quirt against her gloved palm and glared at him. “What proof do you plan to offer?”

He spread his arms wide. “I am the proof. I was born in 1797. When was your sister—our half-sister—born?”

When she only stared coldly at him, unwilling to admit he’d been born before Olivia, he grinned. “So it is as I told you. I am Cameron Byrde’s eldest child.”

“So you say. Who’s to prove when you were born?”

“I have my birth records with me.”

Damn
. “And your parents’ wedding license? That is the key to your accusation, not your birth records.”

He paused and studied her. “So that’s why you’re here, to ferret out whatever information you can. It seems I have shaken your faith in your family much more than you want to admit, Sarah.”

“I have absolute faith in my family.”

“Even Cameron Byrde?” He raised his brows in a taunting manner.

Sarah tugged angrily at the hem of her short riding gloves. How galling, to be forced to defend Olivia’s father, a man she knew only by his reputation—his bad reputation. “I don’t know how you came up with this fabricated tale you tell. But I assure you, it will not work. You have no proof of anything you say, and if you persist in spreading ugly tales about Livvie’s father, then I will…” Her mind searched for an adequate threat. “I will have our solicitor sue you for slander.”

He shook his head and stepped further into the room, studying her all the while as if she were some tasty bit of prey he meant to consume. A shiver of apprehension—or was it anticipation?—slid down her spine. If he meant to intimidate her he was doing a masterful job of it.

But she refused to back down. She lifted her chin to an arrogant angle. “You have no proof and you never will, because it does not exist.”

“Oh, it exists, all right. My mother married Cameron Byrde. On that fact she was always very clear. And since she never told a lie her whole life, I believe the proof exists. And I won’t leave here until I’ve found it. As for your solicitors, bring them on. But be careful, Sarah. The more people you involve, the more who will learn all the ugly secrets your family hides.” He grinned. “Are you certain you want to do that?”

Sarah wanted to slap that smug expression off his face and scream her frustration. He had her there. No denying it. The conniving cad meant to ruin her family name and destroy the reputations of two of the finest women who had ever lived. And there was no one to stop him but her. To involve solicitors or anyone else was to court disaster.

She could send for her brother, though.

But as swiftly as that idea came, she banished it. If James learned about any of this, he would challenge Marshall MacDougal to a fight—as would Livvie’s husband Neville. Although both James and Neville were sportsmen, there was something dangerous about Marshall MacDougal. Something hard and ruthless. He was not a gentleman, she feared. Nor would he fight like one.

Bad enough the man was willing to ruin the two women in the world whom she most loved. She would not risk him injuring—or killing—the two men she loved best.

She stared at his smug, expectant face.

She would have to outwit him herself, she decided. He believed her to be without resources in a struggle against him, but she knew better.

The light of battle glittered in her eyes. “What is it you want, Mr. MacDougal? Money? Land? A title?” Her tone turned scathing. “I know you Americans are all fascinated by our English titles. Well, I think you should know that Cameron Byrde held no title, save that of gentleman.”
And that was up for debate
. “As for land and money…” She paused and let out an unpleasant laugh. “The inheritance he left his daughter was modest. You’d profit better by marrying some society chit with a decent dowry.”

His amused expression faded at her glib tone. “You think this is about money? Or worse, a title?” He gave a snort of disgust. “You people are pathetic.”

“It’s hardly pathetic to love and protect your family.”

His brows arched and he crossed his arms. “My point exactly.”

Sarah blinked, then narrowed her gaze. “What family do you have to love and protect?” A nasty suspicion struck her. “Are you married? Have you a wife and children tucked away in America?”

For some reason, that made him laugh. “Don’t worry, Sarah. Your passionate feelings are not wasted upon a married man. At this point, though, I suspect you wish I were. But alas”—he pressed one of his hands dramatically against his chest—“I am neither your brother nor attached to another woman. You cannot castigate me on any score for the lust I inspire in you. That is entirely of your own doing.”

How humiliating to hear her own unhappy thoughts expressed so accurately by him. Unable to come up with a cutting rejoinder, she stared coldly at him. “Enjoy your little joke, Mr. MacDougal. But rest assured that any interest I might have had in you—questionable to begin with—is now long departed, replaced by utter contempt. Not all women are brainless twits. But then, how could you know that, given your most recent company? Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She swept past him, as regal and dismissive as any queen could aspire to be. But he caught her by the arm and swung her rudely about.

“I’ve never once thought of you as a brainless twit, Sarah.” His dark, piercing gaze captured her shocked one and would not let it go. “What you are is a high-spirited woman who desperately needs to relieve the passionate humors seething inside her. Isn’t that so?” he finished, his face only inches from hers.

“N…no. No!” she stammered. But his hand, too big and too warm, tightened about her arm, and her blood seemed to heat within her veins. To heat and race faster and faster.

From anger, she told herself as their gazes held. From anger, nothing else. Certainly not from lust!

The tinkling of the doorbell proved her unlikely salvation. The door opened, the bell jumped and jangled, and he abruptly let her go. Sarah sucked in a breath and unconsciously rubbed her arm where he had held it.