Rexanne Becnel (26 page)

Olivia laughed and shoved him back, but her face swiftly turned serious. “Good Lord, you don’t think they’ve
done
anything, do you?”

“Please, Olivia, can we postpone this discussion of your sister until tomorrow?” He moved over her, then pressed his hard arousal against her belly.

“Good Lord,” Olivia repeated, but with a whole new meaning attached to it.

Afterward, however, as they lay together in the warm, sex-scented cocoon of the marriage bed, Olivia once more considered her younger sister’s odd behavior. Sarah had been extremely forthcoming with the details of her aborted elopement with Lord Penley. She’d explained her reason for concealing her presence in Kelso from Olivia and Neville, and also her intention to help civilize the rebellious Adrian. She’d even expressed an awfully mature opinion of Estelle Kendrick and that woman’s often impossible behavior.

But whenever the subject of the absent Mr. MacDougal had come up, she’d become positively closemouthed. Olivia had a strong feeling that something was going on between them, some secret Sarah was keeping.

Could she have fallen in love with the man?

Olivia snuggled her backside against Neville and smiled into the pillow when his arm came around her. Even in his sleep he loved her. How fortunate she was.

But it seemed Sarah was not so fortunate, for this Mr. MacDougal whom she was so pained to speak of apparently did not feel the same way toward her. Otherwise he would not have departed for America.

As her sister, Olivia felt responsible to help Sarah get over her broken heart. Assuming it was broken.

She sighed and relaxed in Neville’s arms. Whatever the truth, in time she would wheedle it out of Sarah. They’d never kept secrets from one another in the past; she wasn’t about to let Sarah start doing so now.

M
ARSH
rode through Kelso without stopping. He spied the baker and his ever-vigilant mother. He saw the vicar arm-in-arm with his nosy wife, and Mr. Halbrecht sweeping the front stoop of the Cock and Bow. But except for a nod or a tip of the hat, he did not pause.

To pause was to allow himself to reconsider what he meant to do, and he did not want to do that.

When he reached Byrde Manor, however, and learned that Sarah had gone with her sister to live at Woodford Court, he almost did turn back. Olivia Byrde Hawke had returned. To see Sarah, he would almost certainly have to see his half-sister, and he didn’t think he was ready for that. He wasn’t sure he ever would be.

But in the end he forged on. Reversing direction, he returned to Kelso, crossed the river, and passed the cluster of cottages where Adrian lived. Adrian, who’d pricked his conscience and who had a deep streak of loyalty and moral responsibility despite that one notable lapse into violence.

Laundry waved from a line strung between two of the stone cottages. A dog barked but did not rise from his spot in the sunshine. Someone called out his name—probably Adrian. But Marsh did not look around. He was bound for Woodford Court to see Sarah and somehow ferret out the truth.

That was a terrifying enough task, for what if she was with child? No less terrifying, however, was the prospect of finally encountering his sister.

Only his half-sister, he told himself. Still, Olivia Byrde Hawke was his nearest living kin.

He rode steadily on, with a sprightly breeze playing at his back. Through an apple orchard he spied the ancient stone facade of Woodford Court. As if sensing Marsh’s hesitation, the horse slowed. Marsh had to consciously ease his taut grip on the reins and nudge the animal forward with his heels.

He refused to turn back now, for he could not go on in this limbo of not knowing. Not knowing if Sarah was pregnant. Not knowing if she had told his half-sister about him. Not knowing if he could go back to his old life as if none of this had ever happened.

So he turned in at the dry-laid stone gate posts with their Celtic carvings half concealed by centuries-old mosses. He rode slowly through the towering shade of a stand of beech trees, then out across the sunlit lawn that the long drive bisected. The house was impressive, more fortress than residence. He felt like an interloper, some shabby knight-errant from an earlier age, come to try and claim his ladylove.

This time the horse stopped completely.

Marsh stared blindly up at the fortified house. Was that what he was doing here?

His heart banged the painful rhythm of denial in the hollow place that was his chest. Sarah was not his ladylove. Just because she was beautiful enough to incite any man’s lust…just because she was smart and loyal and determined…just because she loved her family with a ferocity he had reluctantly grown to admire…none of that meant anything more than what it was: She did not deserve to be left pregnant and unwed.

His mother had endured that life, rejected by her entire family. He would not provide Sarah’s family the chance to do that to her. Even if he had to break his vow to Sarah, he would confront Olivia with the ugly truth of her own heritage before he would let Sarah be hurt as his own mother had been hurt.

He urged the horse forward again. An old man leaning upon a stone fence called over his shoulder as Marsh rode by. At once a young groom popped out of the distant stables, then headed Marsh’s way at a fast trot.

“Just water him,” Marsh told the lad as he dismounted. “I won’t be very long.”

“Yessir. Very good, sir.”

When the boy squinted at the horse, Marsh asked, “Is there something else?”

“Oh, no, sir. That is…I b’lieve this here animal is one of our own. Sold a few years ago at a horse auction in Berwick.”

“You raise horses here?”

“Oh, yessir. The very best horses in all of the Borders. And beyond,” he added, his young face reflecting his pride. “My father runs the breeding stables here. And his father before him.”

And no doubt the boy would inherit the job one day, Marsh thought as the young fellow led his horse away. More family longevity. Everywhere he looked there were families. Except for him—and to a lesser degree, Adrian—everyone here had mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. Aunts and uncles. And those people were happy—happier, at least, than he and Adrian were. He and Adrian were both miserable and unhappy. But mostly they were lonely.

How ironic that in the midst of that loneliness, they were the ones most willing to abandon what few remnants of family they still possessed.

He stared at the house again, paralyzed by that new and depressing knowledge. He had to go through with this. He had to find out if Sarah was pregnant. But beyond that he could do nothing, even if he wanted to. If she was not breeding he would have to leave; he had to honor their agreement.

But there was one thing he could do. Afterward he could find Adrian and impress upon the boy the absolute importance of this extended family of his. Marsh might never be able to become a part of the Byrde/Hawke/Palmer clan. But he’d make certain Adrian stayed sheltered in its midst.

When Sarah spied the rider, her heart came to a stuttering halt. Disbelievingly, she stared from her second-floor window. He had already left for his home in America. He could not still be in Scotland, and certainly not here. Certainly
not
here.

Yet there was no mistaking those wide shoulders and that upright carriage. No misplacing the dark russet of his hair and the determination of his approach.

Marshall MacDougal had come for her. That was the first foolish thought that took hold in her pathetically addled brain. He had come for her because he could not live without her, just as she was coming to believe she could not live without him. She clung to that hope as he rode over the dry moat. She clung to that hope as she craned her head to watch him dismount and hand his horse over to one of the stableboys.

Only when he disappeared into the ancient gatehouse did her foolish yearnings collide with a far less pleasant reality. If he was here, it was more likely because he’d decided against the deal they had struck. He must have decided that his father’s name—and his own place as the man’s rightful heir—was more important to him than the money she’d offered to him.

Sarah remained frozen in the window, her breath coming fast and hard as terror swept through her. No. After all her efforts to prevent it, he could not do that to her now—or to Livvie.

Forgetting decorum, she hiked up her skirts and dashed from the room. Down the hall past a gallery of Hawke portraits, then down the stone stairwell, so old its treads were worn from all the people who’d passed down them. Five centuries of people. Five centuries of their joys and woes. But had any of those long-ago men and women been so completely betrayed as she, or so heartbroken? Though her head knew there must be many, at the moment her heart said no. No one could ever have felt this crushed. No one.

And yet she must somehow hide it.

Through a narrow bank of windows she spied Olivia in the old pleasure garden, a straw hat sheltering her face as she worked among her spice plants and herbs. Mrs. Tillotson crossed the downstairs hall near the foot of the stairs, probably heading out to announce their caller.

She caught the housekeeper by the sleeve. “Is that Mr. MacDougal I saw riding up?” She tried to appear calm, but feared she failed.

“Why, yes, it is. Come to call on you, as it happens. I thought you might be out-of-doors with Lady Hawke and Catherine, and so—”

“There’s no need to disturb them,” Sarah broke in. She tried to smile but knew it was feeble at best. “I’ll see him privately, if you don’t mind.”

Mrs. Tillotson nodded agreeably, but on her round face her curiosity showed. Sarah knew she would not have much time. “Very well, Miss Sarah. I left him in the drawing room.”

Sarah was breathless when she arrived at the drawing room door. Breathless and without one idea as to how she should deal with Marshall MacDougal. There was no time, however, to contemplate or prepare. She stepped into the drawing room, which was once the fortified house’s great hall, and watched as Marsh turned to face her.

It was so much harder than she had imagined. Just seeing him again wreaked a violence upon her heart that she could never have prepared for. She did love him, she realized. She must, for no other emotion could possibly evoke such extreme reactions from her.

She took a sharp breath. It hurt even to breathe in his presence. How absurd was that?

But despite that pain, she took another breath and lifted her chin as if she were no more affected by him than she had been the very first time they’d met. “You are the last person I thought to see here,” she began. “I hope you have not come to renege on our agreement.”

His eyes were intense and turbulent, yet she could read no specific emotion in them. She closed the door behind her but did not advance farther into the room. “So, why have you come?”

Olivia looked up at Mrs. Tillotson. “You mean he’s here? The mysterious Mr. MacDougal?”

“In the drawing room right now.” Mrs. Tillotson grimaced and wiped her hands nervously on her ever-present apron. “She closed the door. They’re alone in there. I wasn’t rightly sure you would approve.”

Olivia looked over at the narrow drawing room windows with raised brows. “Well, well. Normally I might be a bit more cautious. But I think I’ll give them a little time—just a little—before I join them. Where is my husband?” she added.

“Over to the breeding stables. I understand that the Barbary mare is about to foal.”

“Good. And Philip?”

“He’s napping.”

Olivia smiled to herself and glanced over at her daughter, who was weaving clover blossoms into a crown for her head. “Stay here with Catherine, will you?” she asked Mrs. Tillotson. Then her smile broadened. “I think I shall go wash up, then wander around a bit.”

She had just entered the house from the back entrance when the front door opened and Adrian burst in. He gasped for breath when he spied her and wasted no time on pleasantries. “Is Sarah here? Is Mr. MacDougal?”

Olivia held a finger up to her lips. “Shhh. Yes to both.” She pointed at the closed drawing room door, then signaled for him to follow her up the stairwell. “Now,” she said when there were nearly to the second level, “what has been going on around here in my absence?”

“Nothing,” he replied too quickly.

“Really. So you’ve come racing over here for nothing? No ‘Hello Aunt Olivia. So nice to see you, Aunt Olivia. How are you doing today, Aunt Olivia?’”

He had the good grace to look sheepish.

“Well?” She crossed her arms expectantly. “It’s plain you know what this is all about. After all, I’m told you shot the man, she saved him, and he forgave you.”

Despite his frown, hot color crept onto the boy’s cheeks. “It’s…it’s complicated,” he finally muttered.

“So I gather. Go on.”

“What else did Sarah tell you?” he hedged.

“Not much else, other than that the mysterious Mr. MacDougal had returned to America. Only it’s obvious he hasn’t. Do you perchance know why he is here?”

He worked his jaw back and forth. “I think so. But I can’t tell you,” he added in a plaintive tone. “You have to ask Sarah, not me.”

She cocked her head. “All right, then. I will.”

“No!” He caught her arm when she would have started down the stairs again. “No. Don’t go in there yet.”

She fixed him with an expectant stare. “Only if you give me some reason not to. And you can leave off scowling at me, Adrian Hawke. She’s my only sister and I love her too much to ignore all the undercurrents going on around here.”

He muttered something under his breath. All Olivia caught was something about women and the word
troublesome
. She wanted to laugh but dared not do so.

“All right,” the boy finally said in an aggrieved tone. “He’s here—at least I think he’s here—because he has formed an attachment to her.”

“And she has formed an
attachment
to him,” Olivia said, exaggerating the word.

“Who can tell? You women are too mixed up for a bloke ever to know what you’re thinking.”

This time Olivia did smile. Fourteen and already sounding like every other man alive. “I beg to differ, Adrian. I know exactly what I’m thinking: if my sister’s morose mood of late is any indication, she must like this American very much.” She hooked her arm in his and started down the stairs and back toward the garden. “And I also think that you must approve of the match. Am I right?”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. But as he accompanied her, Adrian’s spirits began to lift. Perhaps this was all going to work out, he mused. If Sarah did care for the man—and he was fairly certain Mr. MacDougal cared for her—then perhaps they could work out their differences and get married. Especially if Sarah was bearing their child.

But what if she wasn’t?

He was prevented pursuing that worrisome vein of thought when Olivia squeezed his arm. “It seems to me, Adrian, that you have lately been dabbling in the art of matchmaking, an area of meddling I’ve long been interested in. I confess, however, that I never would have thought that shooting a man might be the best way to convince him to settle down. Tell me, do you think I ought to try out the same scheme on your mother?”