Rexanne Becnel (4 page)

It made him laugh, however, and the low rumbling sound of it tickled something deep inside her.

“Had I a cigar, I’d light it for you now—and you already ride astride,” he added. Then his grin faded and his eyes darkened and roamed over her quite freely. “But I have to agree with your Englishmen. Leave your hair long, Sarah Palmer, and leave me with the hope that I may one day see it unbound and spread across your shoulders and arms.”

Sarah sucked in a harsh breath, shocked by his outrageous words. He was deliberately provoking her. Deliberately trying to unsettle her. Yet knowing that did nothing to lessen the impact, for the tickle in her belly had coiled into a knot—a hot, churning knot.

She didn’t, however, have to let him know that. “
Tsk, tsk
, Mr. MacDougal. I fear you will be awfully disappointed in your visit to our island kingdom if you continue on in that vein. Were my brother to hear you speak so boldly to me, he would surely call you out.”

“Oh, would he?”

“Yes, he would. My brother is James Linden, Viscount Farley, and he would take grave offense—”

“Linden?” he interjected. “But your name is Palmer.”

She looked down her nose at him. “Yes. For your information, James is my half-brother. We had different fathers.”

“I see. That means your father—”

“My father is many years deceased,” she stated curtly. “As is my brother’s. But make no doubt, our stepfather would second James in an instant.”

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to bring up a sensitive subject.”

She lifted her chin. “My father was a wonderful man; the very best of fathers. But that is neither here nor there. I am bound for a ride and you still have a river full of fish to torment. Good day, Mr. MacDougal.”

“Wait. Don’t go yet.” He moved closer, his hand extended out to her. “I’d like to see you again, Miss Sarah Palmer. May I call on you? Where do you live?”

“I’m sure that is not possible,” she answered at once. But she was aware of an unseemly rush of feminine satisfaction at this newest of conquests. Though she should not be impressed by this unmannered American, she could not deny that he intrigued her. “Remember,” she said, turning her horse to leave. “Should we ever be introduced, you are to pretend not to know me.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

“What?” She pulled up the mare, then frowned down at him. “But you agreed.”

“No. I did not answer you at all on that score. But I’ll give you my answer now. When next we meet, I shall be every bit as friendly toward you as we have been these last few minutes.”

“You will not!”

Sarah’s heart began to pump in rising panic when he sauntered toward her. She sat well above him on a fleet-footed animal, while he looked up at her from his place on the riverbank. Yet it was she who felt uneasy as he approached her; she who felt like hapless prey being stalked by a dangerous carnivore.

And yet he fascinated her still. Did he have this effect on all females? Even the mare seemed captivated by him, for the fickle creature reached her nose forward to nuzzle his extended hand.

Before Sarah could react, he took firm hold of the animal’s bridle. At once Sarah’s heart began to hammer with real fear. She was alone with a man she had no reason to trust.

She pulled on the reins and snatched up the quirt, prepared to defend herself. But the mare was skittish and, alarmed, the animal reared. When Mr. MacDougal released the bridle, however, the mare swung abruptly back to him.

It was just enough to unbalance Sarah. Though she grabbed for the small pommel, she felt herself start to slide.

“Damn,” she swore, bracing herself for a hard landing.

But instead of the rough ground, Sarah landed in a pair of strong arms.

“I’ve got you—”

“Let me go!”

In the struggle, they both went down.

For a moment she lay there, sprawled over the man in the most awkward position imaginable. Her skirts were flung high, shrouding his head, she realized with horror. Then he sat up from beneath the froth of petticoats and she found herself sitting in his lap, one of his arms trapped beneath her legs.

He spoke first. “Are you hurt?”

“No, you…you idiot!”

“Idiot? I just saved your pretty little bottom from a bruising fall, and I’m the idiot?”

“If you hadn’t grabbed my horse’s bridle—Oh! Let me up,” she exclaimed, trying to regain her feet.

“If you weren’t such a rude little bitch—”

“Bitch!” Sarah could not believe he’d said that. She glared at him in utter fury. “You called me a
bitch
?”

Marsh reacted without weighing the consequences. She was already furious. What did he have to lose? Besides, those pouty lips of hers were screwed up as if she meant to lambaste him good. He knew only one way to silence a riled woman and so he took it. He captured her pursed mouth with a hard, aggressive kiss.

It achieved the desired result, for no other words assayed from between those lips. But it had another effect as well, not altogether surprising, but not welcome either.

For the moment he pressed his mouth to hers, desire leaped within him like a hungry beast, demanding more than merely one chaste kiss. Though he knew he should not, Marsh deepened the kiss, conscious of her feminine weight upon his lap, her faint, floral fragrance wafting around his head, and her delectable mouth softening beneath his own.

He wanted more of this.

But when he parted those luscious lips and delved deep within the recesses of that sweet, tart mouth, she stiffened, and he knew the moment was done. Before she could resume her tirade, he set her aside, jumped to his feet, then hauled her rudely upright.

“In the future, I suggest you find a more placid mount, since you obviously cannot manage this one.” Whether he referred to himself or the mare, however, he was not entirely certain.

He strode up the bank, snatched the sorrel’s reins, and proceeded to check the animal for injury. But he was vitally aware of every movement Sarah Palmer made. How she shook out her disordered skirts and surreptitiously rubbed her bottom. When she intercepted his bold stare, she wrapped her arms around her waist and frowned.

At least she was not hurt, nor, apparently, was her horse. He, however, was feeling the very real ache of an inappropriate arousal.

“Your horse seems all right to ride,” he muttered, and led the animal over to Sarah.

She took one step back from him, but no more. “You should not have taken hold of her bridle.” When he did not respond, but only stared steadily into her wide blue eyes, she gritted her teeth and stuck out her jaw. “And you had no business at all kissing me like that.”

“No? What way would you
have
me kiss you?”

“No way at all!” Her eyes flashed as she snatched the reins from his hand.

“Can I help you up?”

She gave a rude snort. “I believe you’ve helped me quite enough already.”

So Marsh stood there and watched her mount with a sweep of dirtied skirts and petticoats. He admired the glimpse he had of her stockinged ankle, and the rigid set of her spine as she settled herself on the saddle. She was furious and embarrassed and, if he was lucky, just a little bit intrigued.

He grinned as she sent him a scathing look, then wheeled the horse and rode away. He’d either won her over or condemned himself completely in her eyes. He’d learn soon enough which it was.

S
ARAH
worked the well-worn pair of grooming brushes over the sorrel mare with an energy that, unfortunately, did nothing to dispel her terrible anxiety.

What had she been about, kissing that man?

It did no good to tell herself that he had started it all. He had taken hold of her horse’s bridle. He had caused the startled animal to rear and her to fall.

Every bit of it was true. Yet there was another truth, and it was that which had her in such a state.
He
had kissed her; but
she
had kissed him back.

She pressed her lips together and brushed the mare’s withers and side, hand over hand, as she hadn’t done in a year or more. Not two days in Scotland and she was already courting disaster. And as usual, there was a man involved.

But what a man
, the traitorous thought intruded. Big. Dangerous. Fascinating despite his arrogant manner. She’d never been so affected by a kiss before. Never.

Then again, she’d thought the very same thing about Lord Penley’s stolen kisses. They’d been swift, but they’d been accompanied by effusive vows of love and eternal devotion. How foolish she’d been. For she could see now that Lord Penley’s kisses were nothing when compared to the violent passion that Marshall MacDougal had unleashed on her.

Or was the violent passion generated from within her?

She paused, one hand suspended in the air, and gnawed the side of her mouth. She seemed to be progressing from bad to worse when it came to her dealings with men. And her physical reaction to them was getting stronger and stronger. With every kiss and caress, she grew quicker and quicker to succumb.

She let out a little groan. Was it as her brother had said, that there was a wildness in her, a recklessness that would lead her to disaster and ruin, if she did not learn to curb it?

In that moment she feared it was so.

Frowning, she resumed her ministrations to the placid horse, combing out forelock and mane and long sweeping tail. But as she worked, she turned her mind toward a plan to reform herself, to prevent any further decline and, she hoped, to turn herself in a more positive direction.

She could always keep Agnes with her, she mused. That would solve the problem well enough. Unfortunately, that would be a case of the cure being worse than the affliction. No, Agnes was leaving in the morning, and good riddance to her.

What Sarah finally decided she needed were country hours, wholesome exercise, and industry for both her hands and mind. Something to occupy her time. Surely there were numerous tasks and projects she could undertake at Byrde Manor that would fill her days and also help Mrs. Hamilton. Within the month Olivia and Neville would return with the children. If she applied herself, by that time she could prove her usefulness and strength of character, not just to everyone else, but also to herself.

And if she should again run into that bridge-building American, Marshall MacDougal?

With the back of her wrist Sarah pushed a wayward curl from her brow. She would have to make sure she did
not
run into the man. After what had just passed between them, she knew better than to trust him or herself.

Thank goodness he was only in Scotland temporarily. He’d said he was on holiday. That meant he eventually would leave the neighborhood. Though he presented a problem to her, in truth he was only a symbol of a greater problem she still must address: no matter the venue—country or town—she invariably was drawn to the worst sort of man. No honorable gentlemen for her. Oh, no. She gravitated strictly to troublemakers.

Marshall MacDougal would soon enough be gone from Kelso. But unless she worked on improving her own behavior, the problem he presented would return in the form of the next troublesome fellow who came along with a cheeky grin and a charming manner.

She swept her tongue over her lips, aware of the heightened sensitivity that lingered still, and her face lowered in a frown. Perhaps she should simply avoid the company of all men, at least for a while. Keep strictly to the company of women.

She sighed, depressed by that dreary thought. But she vowed to stick to it.

So it was that she sat in the fragrant kitchen not a half hour later, positioning a footstool under Mrs. Hamilton’s feet. “There, now. You don’t have to move at all. Just sit here like a queen and order us about at your leisure.”

Mrs. Hamilton gave her a shrewd look. “My, aren’t you the accommodating one today. But I know you better than that, Sarah girl. You’ve never been one to hang about the kitchen with a pocket full of embroidery.”

Mr. Hamilton shuffled through the open door. “She don’t hang about the kitchen ’cause she’d ruther hang about the stables, smart lass.”

Relieved by his interruption, Sarah grinned. “Of late I’ve not done enough of either of those.” Pulling up a rope-bottomed chair, she sat down at the wide, scarred table that dominated Byrde Manor’s cozy kitchen and smiled fondly at the elderly couple. “It’s so lovely to be here with the two of you. If I want, I can pretend that I’m twelve again, with no worries or cares at all.”

“The onliest thing you need to worry over, girl, is gettin’ married,” Mr. Hamilton pronounced. “You ought to be wed.” He looked at his wife. “She ought to be wed.”

“Oh, hush, old man,” Mrs. Hamilton retorted. “Not everyone marries at twenty. You didn’t.”

“But I should’ve. I should’ve married you back then even if you were a shrew.” Then, winking at Sarah, he wisely hobbled out of the kitchen.

“You’d better run, old man!” Mrs. Hamilton called after him. “And I wasn’t a shrew.” She looked over at Sarah. “I wasn’t a shrew.” Then she chuckled. “Well, maybe I was. But only because he was such a troublesome young buck.”

Sarah played with a bit of thread that had unraveled at the cuff of her sleeve. “Do you think, if you had married one another way back then, that…that it would have worked out all the same?”

Mrs. Hamilton poured a thick stream of cream into her tea. “No, I do not. There’s a time for everything, child, and a reason. It does no good to speculate on how you might have changed the past, for you’ll never get the chance. Let the past go. Work on makin’ good choices in the here and now, and wait for the future to unfold. That’s what I say.”

Sarah grimaced. “It’s the middle part that’s so hard, isn’t it? Making good choices in the here and now.”

“I s’pose that’s why you’re here. Your mum sent you up to us to cool your heels, didn’t she?”

Sarah made a face. “I see you haven’t changed. Still figuring everything out.”

“Who else’s to do it, if not me? You’ve been a handful since the first day you drew breath, Sarah Palmer. A strong-willed baby, an energetic child, and now a headstrong young woman. ’Tisn’t hard at all to figure that the last thing you would want is to leave London at the height of the season. And since you usually manage to wrap your mother around your little finger—and your brother—my guess is you’ve gone and done something a mite too outrageous for them to ignore this time.”

Sarah twisted her own empty teacup around and around on its saucer. Was she that transparent? She scowled down at her cup. “I fell in love with the wrong sort of man—only he seemed like the right sort at the time. But he wasn’t and if James hadn’t stopped me, I would be wed to him this very minute. And miserable, I am now convinced.”

“I see. And did you thank James for his interference?”

Sarah gave the clever old woman a wry smile. “Eventually.”

“Hmm. And have you learned anything from the experience?”

Not enough, if this morning’s adventure was any indication. But to Mrs. Hamilton she said, “Oh, I suppose. Mainly that my taste in men is atrocious.”

Mrs. Hamilton chuckled. “Just like your mother, you are. Just like her.”

“Oh, Lord. I hope that doesn’t mean I’m to have four husbands like she’s had.”

“Now, now. Don’t you be criticizing my sweet Augusta. She was unlucky, bein’ widowed three times. But she loved each and every one of her husbands, and she’s happy now. At least that’s what she says in her letters.” The old servant leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Tell me the truth, girl, is she happy?”

“You needn’t worry yourself on that score at all, for Mother and Justin are just as happy as can be. You’d think they were still newlyweds sometimes, the way they carry on. Apparently, I’m the only worry she has. Just me.” She sighed with exaggerated resignation.

“Go on with you, lass. You can’t be all that much trouble.”

“I don’t think so either. But, well, I suppose I have made some foolish choices. Only I shan’t make them again. I mean to turn over a new leaf, Mrs. Hamilton. But tell me,” she added, hoping to steer the subject away from herself. “What’s new in these parts?”

To Sarah’s relief, the old woman settled back into her chair. “Oh, not so much. We’re pretty quiet hereabouts. Ah, but there is a new upset. Lord Hawke’s nephew, that wild Adrian, has gotten himself kicked out of Eton. Came home just yesterday. He’s lucky his uncle is gone up to Glasgow, but there’s sure to be a scene when he returns.” She clucked her tongue and shook her grizzled head. “’Tis a shame, for Lord Hawke and Livvie worked very hard to get him back in after that last row he had.”

Adrian. Sarah hadn’t seen Neville’s nephew in years. “How old is he now?”

“Fourteen. Fifteen. A terrible age for boys, if you ask me. ’Course, what do you expect when he’s got no father and his mother encourages him to think he’s above the other village lads? Even though he is natural born, Lord Hawke does right by the lad, him being his dead brother’s only child. And Livvie is as good to him as she is to her own two. But so long as that Estelle continues to undermine their every effort to civilize the boy, well, I don’t know what Neville and Livvie are going to say when they find out about this.”

Sarah vaguely remembered Estelle Kendrick. “What do you mean, she undermines their efforts?”

“Oh, that one. She encourages him to think he’s better than the other lads ’round these parts, yet at the same time, she only laughs when he misbehaves. He’s a sweet-natured lad. Always has been. But that Estelle, I’m afraid she’ll turn him just as selfish and wild as she is.” Again Mrs. Hamilton shook her head in disapproval. “You complain about your mother, Sarah girl, but you should thank your lucky stars you don’t have a mother like Adrian’s.”

Sarah considered that. “I saw some boys about his age racing their horses on the road earlier.”

“Humph. And Adrian probably at the head of the pack.”

“I suppose I ought to look in on him. Perhaps invite him around.”

Mrs. Hamilton sighed. “Aye. I s’pose you should.” Then she brightened. “Maybe you can have a civilizing effect on the lad. Lord knows no one else has succeeded with him.”

As Sarah refilled Mrs. Hamilton’s cup with fresh tea, she mulled over the idea. Civilizing a young lad on the brink of manhood, making him acceptable to the young woman he would soon begin to court. She needed something to occupy herself, some sort of project. Perhaps in Adrian she might have found one. And wouldn’t everyone be relieved and impressed if she managed to turn the boy into a proper gentleman?

An aberrant thought sprang into her mind. Too bad she could not perform the same service for Mr. MacDougal.

She set down the teapot with a little slosh of hot liquid, then sucked on her burned finger. Drat the man for rattling her so! Why was she thinking such thoughts about him? It was obvious from his outrageous performance today that he was already too set in his ways to alter them now. Adrian was still a boy, but Marshall MacDougal was a grown man. Definitely a full-grown man. And one far too dangerous for her to venture near.

While Mrs. Hamilton rattled on about the vicar’s wife and the brouhaha she’d raised last market day, Sarah’s mind flitted between the wild child Adrian, and the dangerous Mr. MacDougal. At what age, she wondered, did the male of the species become irredeemably lost to good society?

Perhaps they were born that way, she speculated with a smirk, and it fell to women to improve them.

Well, she was more than up to the task with Adrian Hawke. But as for Marshall MacDougal, he was off limits, she decided. Definitely off limits, and she’d best remember it.

Marsh managed to land two fine trout and one decent-sized pike. Had he truly been on holiday with nothing to trouble his mind, he might have hooked several more of their wilier brethren. But his mind was preoccupied—and not only with finding the truth about his father and the circumstances of his birth. Sarah Palmer, enticing minx that she was, had left him with the beginnings of an arousal that refused to subside.

That mouth had tasted even better than it looked, and that was saying a lot. He’d only wanted to shut her up—at least that’s what he’d told himself at the time. After several hours’ reflection, however, he knew it was more. He’d wanted to kiss her from the first moment he’d seen her yesterday, flouncing away from him at the posting inn with her hips swaying and her nose in the air. Haughty little brat.

She wasn’t so haughty now, though, for he’d felt her lips open under his, and felt her body go soft and willing—if only for a few moments. But it was long enough to have aroused him even further. It aroused him now to recall the intensity of their encounter.

It was only that he’d been too long without any sort of female companionship, he told himself as he pulled his line of fish out of the water and hung them over the butt end of his pole. Though he’d love to silence that mouth again—and with more than merely kisses—he knew that was unlikely to happen. Women like Sarah Palmer—ladies of her sort—might tease a man with a secret smile or a stolen kiss here and there. But they seldom delivered the goods. Especially the virginal ones, which number he was fairly certain Sarah Palmer still belonged.

If he wanted any relief from the ache in his breeches, he’d have to find it from some doxy.

Meanwhile, he had other matters to attend to, so with an effort he turned his thoughts to his main purpose for his fishing expedition. He had decided to present himself at the kitchen door of Byrde Manor, give his catch to the cook by way of thanks, and see what he might learn from the back door that he had not learned at the front.