Rexanne Becnel (19 page)

The former doubted for the first time the rightness of his demands.

The latter made a solemn vow to do whatever he must to protect Sarah from the American who tormented her.

Marsh let the only fish he’d caught go free. Instead of delivering the fishing gear back to Byrde Manor, he tied it to his saddle, for he did not want to see Sarah. Not yet.

He had to tell her, of course. He’d time to mull over his despicable behavior, and he’d come to the only conclusion he could. He had to tell Sarah that she was right. He was no better than his father. And like Cameron Byrde, he had let Maureen MacDougal Byrde down. His sweet-natured mother would be appalled at what he had proposed to do in her name.

He was appalled himself. And disgusted. He wasn’t sure anymore that he should even accept Sarah’s original offer to purchase Byrde Manor from him. Though it legally belonged to him, morally he was no longer so certain of his position.

Leading his horse, he walked along the irregular shoreline of the river, seeing everything, yet not really seeing a thing.

What a fiasco this had turned out to be. A simple quest for justice, except that the target of his vengeance had been dead for twenty-odd years. Then he’d fallen under the spell of a woman he’d feared was his own sister, only to learn they shared no blood relationship.

But what difference did that make? There was a spark between them—hell, it was an inferno!—and he knew he could make her succumb to him. But they were on opposite sides of an issue that would never go away. In her eyes he would always be a threat to her mother and sister. That she was probably loyal enough to buy their security with her virginity only made it worse.

It made
him
worse.

At least he could relieve her on that score. She probably would not believe him if he just left. She wouldn’t trust him to keep his word. So he would let her buy him off if she still wanted to, he decided. But with money only. He would not force her to his bed. Then he would leave. There seemed no other choice.

He paused in the shade of a swaying willow and rubbed the back of his neck. He stared out at the river just beyond his boot tips, watching the trailing ends of the willow tease the surface of the water. He needed to make arrangements for his return trip to America. It would be good to be home, he told himself.

Only it would not really be home, not with his mother gone. She had always been his only family—except for the half-sister he had never known existed.

Something in his chest felt empty and hollow. He hadn’t wanted Cameron Byrde to have another child, and once he’d found out about her, he certainly hadn’t wanted to meet her. He wasn’t sure he wanted to now. Once he left, however, he’d be giving up the last bit of family he had.

He’d also be giving up Sarah.

Though that should not bother him, it did. He’d already lost his past—the father he’d never known, the mother he hadn’t appreciated nearly enough. Now it felt as if he were losing his future too.

Something rustled behind him. A twig snapped as if someone had stepped on it.

“Sarah?” He turned, overwhelmed with a hope he had no right to feel. He was met, however, not by her beautiful, somber face, but by a blast of light and smoke that spun him backward. Backward. Throwing him off balance and crashing him into the icy river.

He cried out in pain and gulped a mouthful of choking water. Vaguely he heard his horse whinny with fright, then thunder away. Some part of him felt the cold and the pain, and knew he had been shot. But why? And by whom?

As everything closed in, numbing him—killing him—only one answer formed in his head. One face. One name.

Only one person hated him this much.

Sarah.

S
ARAH
jerked when she heard the gunshot, then frowned. What careless fool was hunting so near Byrde Manor? And along the river, where anyone might be fishing?

Then an awful fear grabbed hold of her. The shot was too near Byrde Manor for a hunter—and it was too near where she’d left Mr. MacDougal. She started running before the fear could paralyze her. She just knew she must get back to the river. To Marshall MacDougal.

Down the same path she’d just trudged, she now flew, straight for where she’d left him on the riverbank.

Behind her she heard calls from Byrde Manor, Mrs. Hamilton’s worried cry and Mr. Hamilton’s alarmed reply. Someone would come to investigate, she knew, for Mr. Hamilton was steward to these lands, and no one hunted here without his express approval. But they were so very far away, and no matter how fast she tried to run, she seemed to be moving too slow.

Bursting out of the leafy undergrowth, she skidded to a halt. Where was he? For he was not where she’d last seen him.

Her foreboding increased. “Marsh? Marsh!” Desperately she scanned up and down the riverbank.

On impulse she turned downstream toward Kelso, calling out to him again and again. But there was no reply, and with every step her panic grew stronger. Something was not right!

Then she spied something in the river, something lodged up against a fallen alder tree. “Marsh!”

Dear God! Had someone shot him?

Without pausing to think, she plunged into the river, wading through the shallows, driven forward by the worst fear of her life. But like before, she could not move fast enough, slowed even more by the drag of her sodden skirts. Just as he was about to drift into the center current of the river, she lunged forward and caught him by the foot. Somehow she fought her way to his head, then muscled him over onto his back.

Was he breathing?

She stood in the hip-deep water at the very spot where Olivia had taught her to swim, and cradled his shoulders and head in her arms. “Marsh? Mr. MacDougal?” Her heart slammed in her chest. Was he dead?
Please, God. No
.

She had to get him to the shore.

Slowly, scrabbling for a firm foothold, Sarah inched backward toward the bank, floating him on the water, trying to keep his head above the surface, yet also tipped to the side. She slipped and fell—but the water was shallower here.

When Mr. Hamilton and one of the stableboys found her, she was sitting in the water still, cradling him in her arms.

“I think somebody shot him.” She was sobbing and hadn’t even realized it. “He fell in the river and was drowning. I think someone shot him,” she repeated, like a trained parrot that could only repeat one phrase over and over again. “I think someone shot him.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Mr. Hamilton cried, wading into the water. “Help me, boy. Help me!”

“Is he dead?” The boy’s voice quavered and he hung back.

Sarah glared at him. “No!”

Together they dragged the inert Mr. MacDougal onto the shore; then, when Mr. Hamilton collapsed, breathing hard, the boy tore back to the house for more help.

“Marsh? Mr. MacDougal?” Sarah rolled him to the side, hoping any water he’d sucked in would drain from his slack mouth. Though she searched for a bullet wound, she knew the most important thing was to get him breathing. So kneeling behind him, she began to pound his back with her open hand.

“Breathe,” she chanted between blows to his upper back. “Breathe!”

Then he groaned and began to cough, and water gushed out of his mouth.

“Breathe!” she kept on demanding, bending over him, her own breaths coming in great heaves. Only then did she see the ugly stain of blood on his sleeve.

He
had
been shot!

She tried to be gentle as she probed for the wound. But he still winced and groaned, then let out a muttered oath. “Damnation! That hurts!”

He was awake! Sarah was so relieved she could not begrudge him the curse. She bent over him. “Marshall MacDougal. Can you hear me?”

He coughed again, then turned partially onto his back, putting his face only inches from hers. “I can hear You, What in the damn hell happened?” His good hand reached for his injured arm. “Son of a bitch!”

“We heard a gunshot. I…I think you were shot.”

His eyes locked with hers. From a distance she heard more people coming to help, calling out to them. And she heard Mr. Hamilton’s shout, guiding them closer. But the words that stayed with her—the words that chilled her to the bone—were the words Mr. MacDougal muttered next, his head resting on her knee.

“Yes. I’ve been shot.” He coughed then groaned. “And there’s only one person I can think of who would be happy if I were dead.”

Only then did he look away. He shoved up on his good arm, wincing at the pain as he struggled still to breathe. Behind her Mr. Hamilton was still huffing, but he knelt down beside them. “Don’t try to get up, lad. I’ve got help comin’.”

Sarah sat back, relieved that Mr. Hamilton had not heard that awful accusation. Yet still her gaze sought out Mr. MacDougal’s. Did he really believe that? The suspicion she saw in his dark eyes confirmed it. It also cut her to the quick.

Then all at once the riverbank was alive with people. The gardener, two of the fieldworkers, Fleming the footman, Cook, and even Mrs. Hamilton had all come running.

“Good Lord! What happened?”

“Did he drown?”

“Someone shot him!”

“Where are you hurt?” That was Mrs. Hamilton, breathing hard from the unaccustomed activity, yet still as calm and levelheaded as ever. “Push aside, Cook. Let me see. Where is the wound?”

It was a relief for Sarah to let Mrs. Hamilton take charge. In truth, she was trembling too hard herself to be much help to anyone else. But it was not the cold that had her shaking. Rather, it was the drama of the last few minutes. She’d been yanked from fury to panic to utter shock, and it was almost too much to take in.

Mrs. Hamilton removed Mr. MacDougal’s coat and tore his sleeve to probe his wounded arm. “Appears to be a flesh wound, thank God. The bullet’s gone clean through.” Then she bound his arm with the sleeve of his own coat. Despite Mr. MacDougal’s protests, the gardener and Fleming helped him upright. Then, with him supported between them, they all headed for the road and the cart that one of the lads had hied off to fetch.

Only then did Sarah rise from her knees. Her legs shook so violently, however, that she wavered. Had not Mrs. Hamilton turned to her, then grabbed her arm, Sarah feared she might have fallen.

“Dear girl! Here, sit. Sit another moment. You’ve had a terrible fright.”

“No. I’m all right. I…I’m just a little shaken.”

“And so you should be.” The old woman slipped an arm around her waist, and Sarah leaned gratefully on her. “Oh, and you’re soaked to the skin, child.” Mrs. Hamilton squeezed her tighter still. “You saved him, Sarah. Had you not leaped into the river, who knows whether Mr. MacDougal would have drowned? But who could have shot him, then left him that way to die?”

It was a question Marsh pondered as well while he lay in a big bed in one of the upstairs rooms at Byrde Manor. Under the efficient supervision of the stern housekeeper, he’d been stripped of his wet clothes, washed, dried, swabbed, bandaged, and dressed in a clean nightshirt of ancient origins.

And through it all the same question circled in his head. Who had shot him?

He was no longer so certain it was Sarah. She had been the one to come racing to his rescue and pull him from the river’s clutches, then keep his head up until help came. Mrs. Hamilton had been sure to let him know all the details.

Of course, Mrs. Hamilton could be lying. Or exaggerating. She was nothing if not a loyal retainer.

He needed to learn the truth, and he needed to learn it from Sarah.

“I’d like to speak to Miss Palmer,” he said, pushing upright and swinging his legs around to dangle over the side of the bed.

“I’ll tell her.” Mrs. Hamilton held out a spoonful of some new evil-smelling concoction. “Here. Take this. And get yourself back under those covers.”

“I need to see her now.”

“And I said I’d tell her.”

“Yes, but—”

“If you must know, she’s takin’ a bath. She’s had quite a shock, she has. But she did what she had to do.” The woman stared sternly at him. “She saved your life. You know that, don’t you?”

He frowned. “I know.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. “I’ll let her know you’re askin’ for her. Meanwhile, take this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a special medicine. I make it myself. It promotes healin’,” she added when he hesitated.

Finally he took it, then nearly choked. “God Almighty! The cure is worse than the injury.”

“What kind of talk is that from a strapping bucko like yourself, I’d like to know? Just shush yourself and lie down. I’ll go see if Miss Sarah’s fit to come visit with you.”

Marsh lay back, only partially mollified. But be could hardly go prowling the place clad only in a nightshirt. “Where are my clothes?” he asked before she could shut the door.

“Your coat and shirt were ruined. The rest is being washed. I’ve sent word to the Cock and Bow for your man to bring some things up here for you. The sheriff has been summoned as well.”

“The sheriff?”

“Somebody shot you, lad. We canna let such a one wander the countryside, now, can we?”

By the time the sheriff and Duffy Erskine arrived, Marsh could hardly keep his eyes open.

No, he hadn’t seen his attacker.

No, he had no idea who would want to hurt him.
Aside from Sarah Palmer and everyone else in her family
.

“He’s lost a goodly bit of blood,” he heard Mrs. Hamilton say. “Plus, I gave the poor lad something to help him rest. He’ll feel better tomorrow. You can talk to him then.”

They all filed out. Only then did he voice his overriding concern. “Where is Sarah?” he asked once more, though his tongue felt thick and his voice slurred.

Mrs. Hamilton’s gray brows arched in interest. “Sarah, is it? Humph. I expect she’ll be along soon enough, lad. Meanwhile, you do as I say and rest yourself.”

Once he had subsided against the pillows, Mrs. Hamilton shook her head, then made her weary way down the hall toward Sarah’s bedchamber. This was a troubling business. Very troubling, indeed. The entire household was in a dither, with not a jot of work done since that gunshot had sounded. Mr. Hamilton had uncorked a fresh jug of whiskey to calm his nerves and had handed it around to calm everyone else’s as well. Supper would be a haphazard affair at best. As for herself, she was shaken up enough not to really care.

But it was Sarah’s silence and her refusal to see Mr. MacDougal that had the housekeeper most worried. She had delivered the man’s message to her, but Sarah had only turned away.

Mrs. Hamilton paused outside her door and rubbed an aching spot at the small of her back. The question remained. What was going on between those two? She’d thought she knew, but now she wasn’t so sure. And who had shot Mr. MacDougal?

She knocked on Sarah’s door, then entered without waiting for a response. Sarah sat before a small fire, combing her hair to dry it. With her hair down and dressed in a pale pink wrapper with eyelet lace at the collar and cuffs, she looked almost as young as she’d been the very first time she’d come to Byrde Manor. Just twelve, sweet, yet full of high spirits, she’d had a real talent for getting into one scrape after another.

A precursor of things to come, Mrs. Hamilton now realized. But this business with Mr. MacDougal was more than merely a scrape.

And now this shooting…

She planted her fists on her hips. “This is getting too dangerous, Sarah, girl. Too dangerous. It’s past time for you to write Livvie and Neville and inform them exactly what’s going on around here.”

Sarah had been lost in her own dark thoughts, but at the older woman’s pronouncement she whirled around. “No. Not yet.”

“This has gotten out of hand, child. Can’t you see that?”

“No.” Sarah stood. “Involving Livvie and Neville will not help. Please, Mrs. Hamilton.” She took the woman’s hands in hers. “I don’t know who shot Mr. MacDougal, but I do know that he and I had finally reached an agreement.”

“An agreement? Are you saying he’s given up his search to prove his rights to Byrde Manor?”

Sarah averted her gaze from the other woman’s watchful stare. She would have to take the chance on telling Mrs. Hamilton the truth about Cameron Byrde’s first marriage to Marshall MacDougal’s mother. And about her offer to buy Mr. MacDougal’s silence.

But not about his counteroffer. That was strictly between him and her.

She looked up at her mother’s oldest, most loyal retainer. “I was not entirely honest when I told you he’d learned nothing in Dumfries.”

Mrs. Hamilton listened without interruption to the whole of it, only going a little paler. “And so,” Sarah concluded, “he has agreed to accept payment from me for the value of Byrde Manor.”

The woman shook her head. “That Cameron Byrde. What a scoundrel! I suppose we owe Mr. MacDougal a great debt that he has agreed not to shame Livvie and Augusta. But Sarah, such a large amount of money!”

“It is. But what better use for my money than to protect my sister? And my mother,” she added, for she knew Mrs. Hamilton was as close to Augusta as a person could be. “I have more than enough money. But I only have one family.”

Mrs. Hamilton sighed. “Well put, child. Well put. And you say he has agreed?”

“Yes. We were…we were working out the details of our agreement there by the river. You know, how to transfer the funds and all. I had started back for the house, and he had gone back to fishing when I heard the gunshot.”

Mrs. Hamilton shivered, then tugged Sarah into a smothering embrace. “Thank God you weren’t still there. You might’ve just as easily been shot as him.”

“Yes,” Sarah murmured. But she didn’t think so. She was very afraid that someone had deliberately shot Mr. MacDougal, that whoever it was had waited until she’d left to do the deed. But who would want to do such a thing? No one in Kelso had reason to hurt him.