The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (7 page)

He slowly stood, stretching as he rose. He could hardly believe that a man as well-respected locally as Sir Arthur Tisdale was involved in a plot to extend Napoleon’s empire.

He lobbed the rock into the air, losing sight of it as it disappeared against the blackness.

“Strange lot, those Tisdales,” he mumbled to himself, turning back toward the castle.

Sarah knew the way by heart, even in the dark. The winding path leading through the woods just beyond the gardens of her family’s home was one she routinely traversed.

Filtered moonlight appeared here and there as she
walked, the distant lapping of the Channel’s waves against the rocky shore the only sound for miles.

Save for Titus’s panting behind her, she realized. The dog’s massive head bumped Sarah’s backside as he dutifully followed after her.

She reached down and patted his soft fur and he responded with a stealthy swipe of his tongue on her wrist. He’d been none too pleased when she’d risen from bed, tripping over him in the process. But he’d wearily accompanied her out into the night, familiar enough with Sarah’s habits.

She’d begun sneaking out of the manor house at the age of eight. Despite being clumsy, Sarah’s need for motion was undeniable, especially when something was on her mind.

Her father had noted on more than one occasion that even in the womb, Sarah’s preference had been clear. Lady Tisdale had hardly been able to lie down without a stout kick from their unborn child.

Sarah reached the edge of the wood, stepping out into the open and the gentle wind that blew in from the Channel beyond the cliffs below. Titus walked to an outcropping of rocks and threw himself down on the cool dirt, a huff escaping his wet muzzle.

“You came of your own accord, Titus,” Sarah chided the giant, walking to where he lay. She crouched down beside him, slipped off her clogs, and ran her fingers through his smooth, short fur. “Though I am happy for the company.”

She lifted her white cotton night rail slightly, and then collected as many pebbles as she could settle into the fabric. She rose, climbed a large flat rock, and stood, her bare feet tingling from the porous, faintly abrasive surface.

She carefully poured the rocks onto the boulder’s surface, then picked a smooth, oblong pebble from the pile
and flung it with force over the cliff, hardly pausing before choosing a second one and sending it on its way.

She tilted forward, the feel of the grainy rock beneath her toes a welcome distraction. Walking alone at night in the woods was hardly troublesome. Well, to her anyway. Sarah could not imagine what her mother would do were she to discover her daughter’s solitary and certainly quite scandalous behavior.

Sarah bent down and retrieved a large, rough rock, gripped it tightly, then hurled it into the ever-increasing wind. No, it was not
what
she was doing that was troublesome, but
why
.

A gust of wind caught her unbound hair, strands blowing every which way and obscuring Sarah’s vision. She reached up and captured the mass and quickly plaited it before tossing the braid back over her shoulder.

Why had Lord Weston returned to Lulworth Castle? She picked up two pebbles and sent them quickly after the others.

Surely he knew the villagers’ feelings toward him? It was plain that those who attended his party were there to drink his wine, eat his food, and stare at the man as though he were one of the horrid animal attractions in London that Claire had told her about. If she were in Lord Weston’s shoes, Titus could not have dragged her back to Lulworth.

At least now Sarah had a
good
reason for not liking the man. She’d been painfully embarrassed by their conversation during the dance. She cringed as she recalled her mother’s icy demeanor upon meeting Lord Weston, though, upon reflection, she really should have known that her silly mother would be unable to look past her dislike for the earl.

Her face grew hot as she thought back to how Lord Weston had turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised
and a question in his eyes. All she’d been able to manage was a mouthed “I was wrong” before hurriedly walking away to find Claire. A coward’s way out for sure. But at least she was safe from her mother’s machinations. And now she could return to her life before Lord Weston.

Sarah grabbed a pebble and aimed for Ursa Major. Unsurprisingly, the rock fell short of its destination.

She had to admit that Lord Weston
was
handsome. And charming.

There was an intensity that seemed to lie just beneath his lightly tanned skin, though Sarah found she could not get far beyond thoughts of the skin itself. The vee of it visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt when he’d thought to jump in the lake was similarly colored. Sarah wondered just how far the tan continued down Lord Weston’s torso.

She had a spectacular imagination, one that easily removed the earl’s fine lawn shirt and traveled lower to where it had been tucked into his snug breeches.

A trickle of sweat ran between Sarah’s breasts and she rubbed at it distractedly.

The earl was making her perspire. No, the mere
thought
of the man was making her perspire.

She reached for the remaining pile of pebbles and gathered them together, standing and lobbing them over the cliff with force.

She would not let Lord Weston capture her fancy. At best, such folly would be distracting. At worst, disastrous. And Sarah had experienced too much of both in her life to volunteer for such a fool’s errand.

She undid her hair and shook it out about her, the long tendrils blowing wildly in the wind, tugging at her scalp.

She lifted the hem of her night rail and jumped from the rock, landing in the soft dirt near Titus. “To
bed,” she said simply, stepping into her clogs then clucking at the dog as she walked toward the woods.

Titus heaved himself up with a second sigh and followed his mistress home.

Marcus awoke stiff and sore from the past evening’s events. Despite the short distance to Tisdale Manor and the balmy afternoon weather, his aching leg wouldn’t allow him to walk there.

Pokey, Marcus’s chestnut character of a Thoroughbred, had been enlisted for the trip, his champion bloodlines surely recoiling at the thought of such an inconsequential task, while his lazy disposition clearly relished the briefness of the short ride.

The horse plodded up the private lane toward Tisdale Manor. Marcus idly scanned the grounds, noting the beech trees neatly lining the earthen track and the rhododendron bushes along the edge of the grassy lawn beyond.

And a curvaceous backside, low to the ground as its owner crawled somewhat awkwardly from bush to bush. A muslin dress, the very faintest of moss greens nearly lost against the color of the grass, pulled tight over the swell of buttocks as the woman moved, knee to knee, the fabric straining to contain the ripe, round—

Marcus squeezed his eyelids shut and swallowed hard. “Miss Tisdale, have you lost something?” he asked, adding “such as your mind,” under his breath.

She stopped suddenly, frozen, obviously unaware that Marcus had approached.

“Bugger.”

Or at least that was what he
thought
he heard her say. “I beg your pardon?” he queried.

She sat back on her heels and twisted to look over her shoulder at him. “Is that what it looks like?”

Oh, the lass was clearly trouble, but so entertaining.
“May I be of assistance?” he asked, turning Pokey from the path and onto the lawn.

“No!” she vehemently whispered, her eyes darting toward the manor. “That is to say,” she paused, regaining her composure, “thank you for the kind offer.”

She was breathing a bit harder now, her breasts moving up and down with the effort. “I’m glad to offer my services,” Marcus pressed, noting that each step Pokey took toward her made Miss Tisdale’s breath that much more labored. Marcus wondered if he urged Pokey closer whether Miss Tisdale’s delectable bosom would heave itself right out of the green gown.

On second thought—

“Miss Sarah!” a servant’s voice rang out, the loud call coming from the general vicinity of the manor.

She muttered something under her breath. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but the tone was anything but ladylike.

“Is it that you’ve lost something, Miss Tisdale, or that something—or someone, rather—has lost you?” Marcus asked, enjoying this far more than he should.

She looked as if she were contemplating something of great importance, her brow furrowing as she looked first at the manor house and then back to Marcus. Finally, in a very defeated tone, she muttered, “The Honorable Ambrose Dixon.”

“Dixon has lost you?”

She rose up on her knees, arms akimbo. “I am not the man’s to lose, on that point you may be sure.”

“Miss Sarah!” the cry came again, this time markedly closer than before.

Miss Tisdale threw herself to the ground, apparently attempting to become one with the lawn.

“I see,” Marcus replied, stifling a laugh. Clearly, for all of her heat and fire, Miss Tisdale was very neatly
stuck. “Well then, it appears you do require my aid, after all.”

She ceased clutching the large blossoms in a vain attempt at concealment and looked him squarely in the eye. “In what way, my lord?”

Marcus turned Pokey back toward the drive. “I’ll keep your location a secret, for a price.”

Her emerald eyes grew as round as saucers, and she seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit. “Are you implying that should I not agree to this price, you will reveal my hiding place?”

Marcus was discovering the benefits of angering Miss Tisdale. Color flooded her cheeks and spread down the graceful arch of her neck and below, disappearing beneath the neckline of the green gown.
Do not play games
he told himself, but something about Miss Tisdale urged him on. “Exactly.”

“You cannot be serious!” she whispered angrily, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

“Is there a servant about?” Marcus yelled, causing Miss Tisdale to gasp.

“Name your price,” she said through gritted teeth.

Marcus’s brain practically spun with the possibilities, but the sound of approaching footsteps forced him to cut short the most enjoyable mental parade. “I fear there is not sufficient time at the present. Let me think on it.”

Her mouth opened and closed with outrage. “Within reason, my lord. The price must be within reason.”

“Of course,” Marcus answered with a telling grin, turning Pokey to intercept the approaching servant.

“Tell Sir Arthur that Lord Weston has come,” he said authoritatively, and watched the servant hie himself to the house before he turned Pokey toward the stables and into a slow trot.

He looked back only once to where Miss Tisdale lay.
He could swear he saw the heat of anger wafting up from her in waves.

Within reason indeed
.

Marcus had known the Honorable Ambrose Dixon as a boy, though he’d forgotten most of the details, save for one: He’d disliked him immensely. The man had always been snide, despite the fact that they were not equals in rank. Dixon was the second son of the Earl of Swaton, pushed further down the line of inheritance by the arrival some three years before of the current earl’s twin boys.

Comfortably ensconced in a sturdy brown leather armchair, which time and several generations of Tisdale males had worn soft on the cushioned seat and along the rounded arms, Marcus studied both Dixon and Tisdale while drinking what was arguably the best brandy he’d ever had the good fortune to swallow.

Dixon was tall, and while slight of build, he possessed something in the way of looks that Marcus was sure women might find appealing. He also drank his brandy with gusto and spoke in a firm, condescending tone.

It was not until he inquired after Miss Tisdale that Marcus truly began to understand her hesitancy.

“Really, Tisdale, this business of allowing the girl to wander about the property must end,” Dixon pronounced with barely concealed annoyance, swirling the last of his brandy about in the cut glass before finishing it off. “After all, it’s not as if we’re in the Highlands of Scotland, where women run barefoot through the heather. Isn’t that right, Weston?” he baited.

Yes, that look of distaste on Miss Tisdale’s face when she’d uttered Dixon’s name made so much more sense now, Marcus thought.

Marcus looked about the room for a broadsword with which to clout the bastard. Finding none, he took a long pull of brandy and drank.

“Perhaps she saw you coming?” Marcus queried innocently, enjoying the slow heat of the superior brandy.

Dixon discarded his glass on the window ledge then eased back into his leather chair. “You always were quite the clown,” he answered, clearly irritated.

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Sir Arthur added hastily, finishing his brandy. He winked at Marcus then picked up the Waterford decanter and offered Dixon a second glass. “For your efforts, my lord.”

Dixon gestured toward a fresh glass that accompanied the decanter and nodded. “It’s the least you can do, I suppose,” he said jokingly, though it was clear he would have expected no less.

Sir Arthur poured the man’s second glass and settled back in his chair. “Now, Weston, tell me, is this not the finest brandy?”

“Without a doubt,” Marcus answered, giving Tisdale a genuine smile. “You are a man of your word.”

Tisdale looked terribly pleased with himself. “A fine compliment indeed.”

“And where might one secure a supply of his own?” Marcus asked, adding, “Theoretically, of course.”

Sir Arthur let out a bark of laughter, and Dixon cringed. “Jolly good fun, you are, Weston. Jolly good.” His host leaned in, dropping his elbows to the broad mahogany desk topped in gilt-tooled leather. “How much, theoretically speaking,” he said with emphasis, “might you like to acquire?”

Dixon set his glass down with a heavy clunk. “Really, Tisdale, I don’t know that this is something—”

“Come now, Dixon. Everyone through the length and whole of Weymouth knows of such things. The brandy’s origins are hardly a secret. And Weston is—”

“Be that as it may,” Dixon interrupted, his gaze narrowing in on Marcus with barely concealed suspicion. “I can hardly allow a family with whom I hope to be intimately
connected to take such chances. Surely you can part with a bottle or two for the earl?”