Rexanne Becnel (24 page)

But they couldn’t. She knew that, as did he. He’d done the honorable thing in offering to marry her. She’d done the honorable thing by not accepting.

So she said nothing, and after a moment his jaw flexed and he cleared his throat. “I’ll leave it to you to deal with the boy,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that I did not break our agreement.”

“I know that.” She heard the tremor in her voice. Why was this so hard? “I know.”

He nodded once, then turned and left the room. Just left. And in the hollow that remained after his leaving, Sarah heard the echoes of the past few tumultuous weeks. Echoes she wanted to remember and savor and hold on to in the empty weeks to come. For she knew with painful certainty that they would be empty.

When Adrian stood, however, she realized that such a luxury was not to be hers. She had still to deal with him and the knowledge he had about Livvie’s connection to Marshall MacDougal.

As if he read her mind, Adrian said, “You’re not going to tell her about him, are you? That she has a brother.”

Grimacing, Sarah faced him. “Not just yet. But…but eventually, yes. I think she ought to know.”

Adrian frowned. “I don’t know why you want to wait. He’s leaving for America. If you wait, she’ll miss seeing him.”

“I…I think that’s what he wants.”

“You mean he doesn’t want to meet his own sister?” The boy crossed to the window and peered out, but Marshall MacDougal was gone. He swiveled his head and stared back at Sarah. “If I had a sister, I’d want to meet her. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Well. Mr. MacDougal is a man of unpredictable behavior. It doesn’t make sense either that he has elected not to tell the sheriff what you did.”

When Adrian’s expression turned sheepish, she pressed on. “I expect you to keep Mr. MacDougal’s secret, Adrian. That means not telling one soul. Ever. I’ll keep your secret from the sheriff and all the good law-abiding people of Kelso, and you’ll keep Mr. MacDougal’s—and Olivia’s—secret. Are we agreed?”

Of course he agreed. Later, however, once Adrian had left for home and Sarah was alone with her morose thoughts, it occurred to her, unpleasantly, that though Adrian had one secret to keep, she had three.

It was not a hardship to hide the identity of the person who’d shot Marsh. It would be harder to keep silent on the subject of who the American really was. But it would be nearly impossible to suppress the truth about what had passed between her and Marsh. The battle of wills, the eruption of passion, and now, at his leaving, the immense depth of her emotions.

She’d given her innocence to him—an enormous enough event on its own, But in that moment, as she sat alone in the empty parlor, her biggest secret was the sure knowledge that she had also given him her heart.

“D
AMNATION
, boy. What the hell are you doing here?”

Bad enough Marsh had a throbbing headache, an aching shoulder, and a tongue thick with the aftereffects of far too much liquor. Did he also have to be pestered all over again by the skinny little thug who had put a bullet through his arm?

He glared at the sweaty figure that stood in the doorway of the room he’d taken in St. Boswell’s. He’d left Kelso two days ago. By rights he should be in Dumfries by now, arranging for passage on some western-bound ship. But something held him back. He’d stopped the first afternoon here, and he’d never gone any farther.

Once he caught a ship, within a matter of weeks he would be home in America. But that knowledge only made him shake his head. He would not be home. He had no home. Home was a place where someone loved you, and no one loved him. Not anymore. He had a business and a house; a few friends that were more business acquaintances than anything else. That was all.

And so he stewed in this shabby posting house, drinking too much, spoiling for a fight, and thinking far too much about Sarah.

Irritated with himself, he focused his ire on the boy he’d not expected ever to see again. “I said, what are you doing here? Why did you follow me? You don’t have a gun, do you?” he growled. “Or have you come to finish me off once and for all?”

The lad at first did not answer. Instead he swatted his dusty breeches with his dusty hat as if searching for the right words. “I…uh…I wanted to talk to you.”

“No.” Marsh started to close the door, but the boy darted past him and into the room. “Damn it! Get out of here!”

“I just want to ask you something!”

“What?”

The boy swallowed hard. He was nervous, and Marsh felt a twinge of sympathy. Softening his tone, he repeated, “What?”

“I…I know you don’t owe me anything,” the boy began. “I mean, I shot you and all. I owe you. So…so I came here because I thought perhaps…perhaps I could go with you. To America.”

It was hardly what Marsh had expected to hear. He stared at Adrian, baffled.

“I could work for you,” the boy hurried on, his ears growing red. “I could do anything you want—”

“First you want to kill me. Now you want to work for me?” Again Marsh shook his head. “I don’t understand you. Why would you want to go with me? You have a home here. A family.”

“I don’t fit in!”

“What about your mother? Your aunt and uncle? And what about Sarah?”

“They don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“About being a bastard!”

With his good hand, Marsh rubbed the back of his neck. Bloody hell. How was he to answer that? Like Adrian, he’d never had a father. But he’d always
believed
he had a father. Even now, knowing the truth about Cameron Byrde’s defection and second marriage, he could still take some comfort in knowing he was no man’s bastard.

But that was only paper and ink, a legal technicality.

The truth was, Adrian and he did share a bond. They were boys whose fathers had never assumed their responsibilities; boys whose careless fathers had died young, never bothering to impart any knowledge of manhood to their sons.

He stared down into the hopeful eyes of the long-legged colt of a boy before him, and as the seconds ticked by, he watched as that hopefulness faded to dejection.

He sighed. “Sit down, Adrian. Let’s think about this a little more.” He gestured to a ewer of ale. “Help yourself. Are you hungry?” He called for a plate of food and watched the boy wolf it down. Easy to slake a boy’s physical hunger and thirst. It was harder, however, to address the hunger and thirst of his soul.

He pulled a chair opposite Adrian and sat, his elbows braced on his knees. “You think because our situations are similar—namely, that neither of us has fathers—that you and I are alike. But we’re not, Adrian. My life is in America. Yours is here.”

“But it’s not. I’ve tried. I hate that school my uncle sent me to. And at home—” He broke off, scowling down at his hands. “You saw my mother,” he muttered in barely audible tones.

“That doesn’t mean you can just abandon her.”

“She won’t care. Anyway, she’s got your man to keep her happy.”

Marsh shook his head. “Did you tell her you were leaving?”

When there was no response save a deepening of the boy’s frown, Marsh continued. “You have to go back to Kelso, Adrian. Talk to your uncle. If he’s willing to finance your education, you’d be a fool to turn down his aid. An idiot. Talk to the man. Find a different school. In a few years you’ll be ready to make your own way in the world. But you’re not ready yet, son.”

“I
am
ready!” The boy lurched out of his chair and began to pace.

“You think so?” Marsh rose also. “What kind of job do you think an uneducated boy can get? What kind of living can he earn? Not much. And in a few years when you’re ready to marry—or worse, when you get some girl in the family way—what sort of future will you be able to provide for them? What you do with your life now will determine what sort of father you’ll be then. God willing, you’ll be better at it than your father was. Or mine.”

They weren’t the words Adrian wanted to hear. But Marsh could tell they’d made an impact. The boy’s fists clenched and his jaw worked. But he had no ready reply. When he finally spoke, however, it was not in his own defense.

“I hope you mean what you say. And I hope whatever education you got will make you a good father someday. But I don’t guess we’ll ever know that, will we?”

Marsh frowned back at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“What about Sarah?”

Marsh tensed. He knew exactly where Adrian was going with this, because he’d been brooding about the very same subject. Sarah had turned down his offer of marriage, but that didn’t mean she might not change her mind. Especially if anything were to result from that incredible night they’d spent together.

When he was too slow to respond, Adrian’s jaw jutted out. “Did you get a child upon her?”

“No.” As an answer it was not very convincing, and the boy’s eyes narrowed.

“So you say. But you can’t be certain.”

Marsh swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted was to ruin Sarah’s reputation. Yet another part of him wanted to proclaim to the entire world what they’d done together, and then to claim her as his own. It was the whole reason he’d parked himself in this crossroads of a town and not continued on to the coast, he realized.

At his hesitation, Adrian smiled triumphantly. “You don’t know, do you? You might have got a child on her, but you just don’t know. And if you leave, you’ll never know. But then,” the boy added, sneering, “maybe you don’t really
want
to know.”

Marsh stiffened. “Mind your own business,” he growled at the boy. The truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

“Do you
want
to get a bastard on her?” Adrian went on. “Was that your plan once you learned your own father was dead, to wreak your revenge upon the rest of your father’s family by ruining
her
?”

“That’s ridiculous!” Marsh glared at the boy. “What reason do I have to seek revenge upon Sarah? She’s not even related to my father.”

Adrian snorted. “I saw how you looked at her. You wanted her. And it seems like you must have gotten her. But maybe even after that she still didn’t want you because…because you’re not
good
enough for her,” he said, pouncing on that reason with a nasty grin. “You being a bastard and all.”

Marsh could hardly restrain the urge to shout the truth at his youthful tormentor.
I’m nobody’s bastard! I’m the rightful heir to Byrde Manor!
But he couldn’t. He’d made a deal with Sarah.

In the end, he made a deal with Adrian as well.

The boy would return to Kelso and when his uncle returned, Adrian would have a long talk with him about his future. In return, Marsh would remain in Scotland long enough to learn whether or not Sarah had conceived a child from their union.

It was no more than he’d intended to do anyway, Marsh realized. That’s why he was stewing in this rat hole of a place. He simply couldn’t depart for America until he knew that Sarah’s situation would be all right.

They traveled back toward Kelso that afternoon, Marsh and Adrian riding side by side while Duffy handled the carriage. The boy made no bones about his animosity toward Duff.

“But me intentions are honorable,” Duff protested when Marsh explained the problem in private.

“Honorable?”

Duff scowled at Marsh’s skepticism. “Estelle mayn’t’ve lived the most sterling life, but she’s got a good heart.” Then his trademark grin burst through. “A good heart hidden beneath a goodly pair of bosoms.”

“She’s the lad’s mother.”

“I know. I know.”

“Then guard your tongue around him.”

“All right. But y’know, guv’nor,” Duff said, squinting at him, “seems to me I’m doin’ better with my ladylove than you’re doin’ with yours.”

Marsh stiffened. “If I want advice, I’ll ask for it.”

Duff shook his head. “If I was a famous boxer, I’d tell her. Ladies like that sorta stuff—even fine ladies who act like they don’t.”

Marsh wanted to snap at the man, to tell him to mind his own business. But instead he rubbed the back of his neck. “I only wish it were that simple,” he muttered.

Duff grinned. “I knew it. I knew you was that MacDougal,” he exulted. “Mac MacDougal.”

“That’s in the past,” Marsh said, cutting the man off. “It doesn’t matter, especially not to Sarah.”

“Ah, but you can never tell,” Duff said. “Maybe if you clear the air between you, you know, spill all your secrets, you might find out it’s a lot simpler than you think.”

But Marsh knew better. He might be as wellborn as Sarah, but he’d lived a hardscrabble life so removed from hers as to be unbelievable. And even if that didn’t matter to her, there was still the issue of her half-sister—
his
half-sister too.

So they made their awkward way back. Marsh did not take a room in Kelso, however. Instead he settled in Rutherford, an hour and a half away, at the inn where he’d run into Sarah the fateful night of the storm.

Adrian promised to inform Marsh if he heard anything one way or another about Sarah’s situation. As the days passed, however, Marsh found the enforced idleness maddening. He did the mathematics a hundred times. Two weeks until she should have her monthly. Ten days. A week.

The weather grew hotter. The farmers prayed for rain. He rode through the hills and fields every day. But never in the direction of Kelso and Byrde Manor.

Duff did, however. Each night he rode out to see Estelle, and the knowledge of their happy liaison tormented Marsh. Each night he lay awake remembering everything about Sarah. Her energy and determination, the fire in her eyes. He remembered also the softness of her skin and the strength in her young body. The feminine power. The passion.

It drove him mad to remember her response to him, her incredible passion—and his.

But those were dangerous thoughts. Insane thoughts. To drive them out, he forced himself to imagine how his life might have been as the heir to Byrde Manor. Learning to ride and hunt at his father’s side. Dining at the same table with both of his parents. Watching his mother smile at the man she loved.

Those thoughts were almost as dangerous as the others, however. And pointless. What was done was done. The past could not be changed.

But the nights were so long. If his parents had remained wed, there would have been no second wife for Cameron Byrde, he reminded himself. No Olivia and no chance for him ever to have met Sarah Palmer. He would not have been an American but a British subject.

Somehow that held no appeal. Perhaps his mother would have been happier, but as for himself…

One night he could not bear all those difficult thoughts. Enough time had passed. Every day he expected some news from Adrian. And every night he castigated himself for his cowardice.

Marsh rubbed his neck in agitation. Why couldn’t he just confront Sarah himself? Just ride up the drive, request an audience with her, and then ask the question.

Have we made a child together?

And what answer did he want to hear?

He didn’t know. That was the crux of his problem. Of his hesitation. Of his cowardice.

He wanted to know that she was not breeding and thereby absolve himself of some portion of the guilt he felt toward her. But if that were in fact the case, then he would have no reason at all not to leave this accursed island. And that terrified him.

But if she were breeding…

That terrified him too.

He didn’t know what answer he wanted to have from her. He didn’t know, and the not knowing was driving him mad. So he leaped up from his restless bed, threw on breeches and a shirt, and drew on his boots. Then he strode out to the four-stall stable, saddled his horse, and set out for Kelso. He had to see her, to confront her, and ask her outright.

A part of him realized that she might not yet know one way or the other. But he didn’t care. He needed to move, to see Byrde Manor. To see her.

It was insane. He ought to wait another week at least. But he couldn’t. He had to go now because he didn’t know what else to do.

He didn’t know himself at all anymore.

Sarah lay awake in her darkened bedchamber. By day she could ignore the evidence that with each dawn grew more damning. At night, however, with no distractions, her fears had free rein to torture her.

It had been six weeks since her last monthly flow. She remembered, because it had occurred just before her short-lived elopement with Lord Penley. At the time she’d put him off, delaying their elopement until the pesky problem of her monthlies was over.

It seemed as if a year had gone by since then, not merely a month and a half. So much had happened during that time. So much had changed. Especially her.

What she feared, however, was a far greater change than anything else she’d ever been through. One of her hands crept down to rest lightly upon her belly. Could she be breeding?

Could Marshall MacDougal’s child have taken root inside her and even now be growing?