Rexanne Becnel (14 page)

No!
Sarah didn’t say the word out loud; she couldn’t have, for her bravado had fled, leaving her mouth as dry as a desert. Her expression of horror must have given her away, however, for Marsh let out an inelegant snort.

“No. I didn’t think you would—at least not tonight. But maybe someday.” He shifted on his seat. “Someday very soon,” he added in a lower tone. Then he crossed his arms, leaned his head back, and shut his eyes.

Did he sleep? It hardly mattered as they rolled along the pitch-black highway, for his last words echoed in Sarah’s mind with increasing force.
Someday very soon
.

Not ever
, she told herself, repeating the vow silently, over and over, for the next hour.
Not ever. Not ever. Never, never, never
. It turned into a chant that mirrored the coach’s slow, lumbering progress. By the time they turned into the drive at Byrde Manor, it had become an anxious, desperate prayer.
Never let me succumb to him again. Never let me see him again. Never let me think about this again
.

But Sarah knew that last portion, at least, was not meant to be. This was one night she would never forget, and in truth, she was not completely sure she wanted to forget. A part of her wanted to go over every portion of those brief but intense moments. She wanted to understand them, dissect them, and examine every aspect of them.

She descended from the carriage, deliberately using the door opposite the one he’d used, then hurried across the muddy yard to the kitchen door. As she fled, however, she feared that understanding the violent reaction she’d had to him would never be enough. Only an hour had gone by, yet she already recognized the wicked, wanton truth.

She wanted to feel that way again.

She wanted to feel that eruption inside her, that faintness, that terrifying surrender. She wanted it and all the rest—whatever it was—that went with it.

A faint moan of utter dismay slipped past her lips. Oh, but she was the vilest sort of person, the lowest sort of woman.

Yet still the truth was a huge monster confronting her, no matter how she wished to avoid it. She desired Marshall MacDougal, the man who would not hesitate to destroy her beloved sister’s and mother’s lives.

It did not matter that his purpose was honorable, that he defended his mother with his quest. She still must not desire this man, this man above all men.

And yet she did. She desired him in the worst sort of way.

Though she hurried away from him without looking back to where he waited for his man’s horse to be unharnessed from the carriage, his image haunted her still.

And as Marsh rode away through the damp darkness, back to his empty room at the Cock and Bow, Sarah Palmer’s image haunted him as well. Her face, flushed and beautiful, as she’d found her release; her helpless cries, like some erotic music in his ears. Her womanly scent and maidenly sensibilities.

Damnation. He’d started something today that he feared now he would come to regret. He groaned as his damnably insistent arousal pressed painfully against the unforgiving rigidity of his saddle.

Hell, he regretted it already.

“A
RE
you sick?” Adrian eyed Sarah skeptically. Behind him Mrs. Hamilton’s face creased in a worried frown. Due to Adrian’s early morning visit, they’d not yet had the opportunity to discuss the results of her journey the previous day. “It’s a glorious day for a ride,” the boy went on, his tone cajoling. “What else have you to do?”

Sarah grimaced, for her head was throbbing already and Adrian’s presence only made it worse. She’d hardly slept at all last night; now she was met with Adrian’s petulance and the old housekeeper’s alarm. Had Mrs. Hamilton spoken yet to the coachman about Mr. MacDougal’s presence in the carriage with her last night? Good Lord, she hoped not, for she was not sure she could successfully deceive Mrs. Hamilton, should the older woman ply her with too many questions.

The fat kitchen cat jumped down from Sarah’s lap and sauntered toward the boy. Sarah sighed. “Perhaps I am a little under the weather,” she said in a deliberately faint voice.

“I knew it,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “You got wet last night, didn’t you? And now you’ve taken ill.” She shook her head. “I hope you do not come down with the ague.”

“It’s not the ague, only a headache.”

“That’s how it starts. Come. You’d better drink some tea and get yourself back into bed. I should’ve known better than to let you go traipsin’ about the countryside—”

She broke off, but it was too late. Adrian looked up from the cat he’d been petting. “Traipsing about where?”

“Nowhere,” Sarah said, this time too brightly. “I took an evening ride and…and I got caught in the rain.”

But that only sharpened the boy’s interest. “It didn’t rain till awful late. Too late for an evening ride.”

Mrs. Hamilton glanced briefly at Sarah before rounding on Adrian. “Whyever she’s feelin’ poorly is none of your concern, young Master Hawke. Go on with you, now. Leave my Sarah in peace so’s she can recover. Go find Mr. Hamilton if it’s company you’re wantin’. He’ll put you to work straightaway.”

Only after Adrian had reluctantly departed did Mrs. Hamilton turn on Sarah. “Now, how about you telling me what’s goin’ on, child? I’m agreed to helping you, ’cause it’s for the family. But I’ll not be hoodwinked by your pretty ways. Out with it now, else I’ll write your mum this very afternoon. And your sister.
And
your brother.”

So Sarah told her everything—everything, that is, except the one thing she could not tell anyone, ever.

“Well.” Mrs. Hamilton fussed with her tea a long moment. “Well, though I cannot like that he rode with you in the closed carriage, under the circumstances I s’pose you had no choice but to let him. And perhaps it is all for the best. After all, we know now that he is not Cameron Byrde’s heir.” She shook her head. “I cannot tell you, child, how relieved I am for that. I hate to think how that would have affected your mother.” She drank the rest of her tea. “D’you think he will leave us in peace now?”

No
.

“I hope so,” Sarah said, ignoring her real fear that Marshall MacDougal was not done with them. Not by a long shot.

She spent the remainder of the morning in an aimless sort of idleness. She did not wish to ride or walk, nor sit and sew. Reading required too much concentration for her restless mood, and there was no one she wished to visit. No one, that is, except the one person she should hope never to see again.

She tossed down an old copy of
The Ladies’ Gazetteer and Pattern Book
that she’d picked up in the morning room, then made another aimless circuit of the parlor. If only her sister were here. Olivia would understand about the unlikely flare of passion between Sarah and the troublesome Marshall MacDougal. Not that Olivia would approve of her younger sister’s behavior. But Sarah remembered enough of Olivia and Neville’s tumultuous courtship to know that Olivia would at least understand.

Only she could not tell Olivia anything about Marshall MacDougal and his presence in Scotland. At least not until he was gone.

She pushed aside a lace panel in one of the parlor windows and stared out at the placid scene beyond. Green meadows, fully budded trees. Life at Byrde Manor had a stolid sort of rhythm to it, centered on the seasons and the tasks that must be accomplished during each season. Nothing like in town where life revolved around an altogether different sort of season. Politics, parties, people. That sort of season had been her downfall and so she’d been sent packing to a place where she could find no trouble.

Yet find it she nonetheless had.

She let the lace curtain fall. What was wrong with her? Did trouble follow her, or was she the one to create trouble wherever she went? Was her whole life to be a series of crises? Was she to create chaos no matter the place or the people she circulated among?

Sarah rubbed her aching temples with her fingertips. Everything had changed last night. No matter that she had not technically lost her virginity, she had shared something more than she’d ever imagined, with a man she would never see again. Just as bad, however, the man whom she knew she must banish from her life had suddenly become the central figure in it. Though he no longer seemed so great a threat to Olivia’s happy existence, overnight he had become a huge threat to hers.

How could she possibly go the rest of her life without ever seeing him again?

Marsh had spent the entire night replaying those few incredible minutes with Sarah over and over in his mind. Neither the painful ride from Byrde Manor to Kelso nor the cold bath he’d taken had chilled the fire that now burned in him. Even seeking relief in the solitude of his own bed had done little to ease the need that clawed at his insides. He wanted her—Sarah Palmer—naked beside him. Until he had that, his suffering was not likely to abate.

But he was not likely ever to have that chance again. Not now. After that debacle with Horace MacNeil, followed by that incredible scene between them in the carriage, she must be convinced that he was only some profligate Lothario. And a fortune hunter as well.

He would not be able to count on a lame horse and a thunderstorm to throw them together again.

He sat now in the public room of the Cock and Bow, finishing a meal he had hardly tasted, while Duffy sat opposite him, shoveling in every morsel on his plate with great gusto

“So. Where to today?” the man said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve after downing a tankard of ale. “Or have you had enough gaddin’ about the Scottish countryside?”

Marsh scowled down into his own tankard. Where to indeed?

“P’rhaps you’re thinkin’ about goin’ out to visit your lady love?” Duffy persisted. There was a knowing glint in his eyes.

“No,” Marsh muttered through gritted teeth. Despite his denial, however, that was precisely what he wanted to do. But it was too soon to seek her out.

He should never have taken advantage of her that way, and he suspected she would be a long time getting over it. By the same token, however, he would be a long while getting over it himself. And he would not take those few moments back, even if he could. He still wanted to know how she was and how she felt about what had happened between them. But not yet.

He looked up at his grinning servant. “You can wipe that cheeky look off your face. Get the carriage ready. I’m thinking of taking a lengthy journey.”

“A lengthy journey? Where to?” the man asked, his grin fading to consternation. “An’ here I just found the love of my life in Kelso.”

The love of his life? It must be Estelle, the boy’s mother. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back,” Marsh muttered.

“Good. ’Cause I don’t want her eye wanderin’ around while we’re gone. So. Where to, guv’nor?”

“I have a sudden desire to see the Atlantic coast of Scotland,” Marsh answered slowly as the idea evolved in his head. His mother had mentioned once or twice that she had sailed to America from the port city of Dumfries. Cameron Byrde might not have wed her anyplace around Kelso that MacNeil would have heard about. But he might well have done so in one of the Atlantic port towns and villages where no one would have known them. Marsh had found no proof of a marriage around here, but perhaps there he might.

Besides, it would get him away from Sarah for a few days. Maybe by then his blood might have cooled down a little. Maybe then he’d be able to think straight about what was going on between him and Sarah Palmer, something that had nothing to do with Cameron Byrde or Olivia Byrde Hawke.

He saddled his own horse, his mood considerably lightened. Sarah Palmer might think the subject of his true heritage settled, but he knew better. He had not given up his quest, not by a long shot. He’d only broadened it. He still wanted his birthright. But now he wanted Sarah Palmer too.

If last night had proven anything, it was that the two were not mutually exclusive.

Mrs. Hamilton’s hovering eventually drove Sarah outdoors. The air was clean and sharp, and the sun had burned away most of the puddles. Dressed in an everyday gown with a pair of garden clogs on her feet, Sarah had set herself to puttering about in the garden. The roses needed retying along the garden fence and the rosemary shrubs ought to have their tips pinched so that the plants wouldn’t grow too leggy. Plus, some wild creature had tunneled beneath the fence that separated the sheep meadows from the garden plot, and played havoc with the newly emerging pansies.

Unfortunately, the mindless labor of gardening left a big, empty space for uneasy memories to cavort in. And cavort Sarah’s memories did. By early afternoon she had worked herself into quite a state. Bad enough her hands were filthy, her manicure ruined, and her hem stained with mud. Far worse, however, was the shame upon her soul. She’d behaved like a wanton last night, yet still she thrilled to the memory. Her body reacted with longing every time she recalled what she’d done with him.

Her mind fought it, but her body won.

This must be why parents guarded their daughters so carefully and tried to marry them off so quickly, she decided. To avoid this terrible limbo of shame and desire. At least within a marriage this physical yearning could be slaked.

Nonetheless, ignoring the situation was doing her no good at all. Perhaps she should simply go into Kelso and find out whether he had left. For if he was gone, then she had nothing to worry about—except, perhaps, the latest wickedness he had loosed within her.

She took the chaise to town, determined to appear the proper lady despite her improper behavior of late. She drove first to the bakery to purchase sugared rolls for Mrs. Hamilton. Unfortunately, the baker’s outspoken mother sat in the window, watching Sarah’s every movement without the least show of subtlety. Recalling their previous encounter, Sarah only nodded to her, then gave the baker her order.

Hurry up. Hurry up
. Her foot began nervously to tap.

But the baker was too slow and his mother too nosy.

“Have you driven him off so fast, then? A strapping fellow like him needs a woman to match.” Those quick, birdlike eyes swept over Sarah. “Give her an extra loaf, son. I’m thinking she needs more flesh on her bones if she’s to keep the next bonny lad that comes along.”

“Mother!” the poor fellow moaned, sending Sarah an apologetic glance. But he duly added a loaf as his mother had ordered.

Sarah steeled herself to ignore the old woman’s candid remarks—all except for one. Feigning disinterest, she turned toward the woman. “So he’s left, has he? What a relief.”

“Sure, an’ he’s left. But don’t you go pretending you don’t care, lassie. I know better. I can tell.”

The baker shoved Sarah’s purchase at her. “I’ll add it to your bill,” he said, gesturing toward the door with a pleading expression on his round face. He couldn’t get her out of there fast enough.

Sarah was also eager to leave. But she wanted to know more about Mr. MacDougal’s departure, every detail, and she was willing to endure the old busybody’s uncomfortable observations to do so.

She cleared her throat and stared at the other woman, who waited in her tall armchair, an expectant expression on her wrinkled face. “You’re right. I do care that he’s gone. But not for the reason you think. Mr. MacDougal is not the sort of man my mother would approve of. I did not wish to hurt his feelings with an outright rebuff, so you see, his absence removes the necessity for me to do so.”

The woman readjusted her gray knitted shawl across her thin shoulders. “Rather see you get him than that Estelle,” she grunted. “But what will be, will be. And what won’t, won’t. Fetch me a fresh cup of tea,” she called over to her son.

Sarah stood there a moment, aware she’d been dismissed. But the mention of Estelle’s name raised up the hairs on the back of her neck. Surely he had not run from her to Estelle. Surely he would not do such a thing to her!

Yet why should he not?

She forced her legs to move and, with a nod to the embarrassed baker, left his fragrant little shop. Marshall MacDougal was gone, she told herself.
Be glad of that and do not worry about the details
.

But it was awfully hard. So mired was she in her jealous fit that when Mrs. Liston called out to her, she did not at first hear.

“Miss Palmer. Oh, Miss Palmer!”