The Taste of Innocence (47 page)

His jaw, which had clenched, eased. Inside him, something unlocked, released. He touched his lips to her hair. “Your father sent word that the wound wasn’t life threatening, but he didn’t say how bad it was—and Hills didn’t know.”

She looked up, met his eyes, then she raised a hand and touched his cheek. “I really am all right.”

He nodded, then exhaled and felt the last of the black fear that had gripped him seep away. “Tell me what happened.”

She was silent for a moment; he sensed she was frowning when she replied, “I don’t know. I was riding along. Hills was only a length behind. I’d jumped the stream—it was a little way beyond that. I leaned forward and patted Blacktail’s neck—and that’s when the arrow struck.”

“Hills said he didn’t see anyone, but that you were well past the point where it happened when he got a chance to look back.”

She nodded. “I was galloping and dropped the reins, so Blacktail took off.”

Charlie asked no more questions. He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts; he wanted to mull over them before he shared them. Storm and Blacktail knew the way to their stable; he kept them to a slow canter and let them find their way, while he held Sarah close and let his mind and all his senses absorb the reality that she was safe, whole, still with him. Still his.

Malcolm Sinclair didn’t draw rein at his rented house in Crowcombe but rode on, northward toward the coast.

Lips compressed, features grimly set, he urged his black up the rise toward Williton. “Exercise patience.” He muttered the words through clenched teeth. “Be discreet. So the fool tries to kill her! What the Devil does he think he’s doing?”

There was no one around to hear, much less give him an answer. Cloaked in suppressed fury, he pushed his horse on.

18

The head stableman, Croker, was waiting when they reached the stables at the Park. Hills was there, too, anxious and concerned. Sarah noticed others hanging back, could almost feel their relief when they saw her able to sit and smile, albeit weakly.

Both Croker and Hills grinned back. They held the horses; Charlie dismounted, steadying her as he did, then he lifted her down. He let her toes touch the ground only long enough to change his hold, then swung her up in his arms, careful not to press on her wound.

She continued to smile. Charlie carried her out of the stable yard and across the lawn. She waited until they were halfway to the house and no one else was near before, eyes on his face, she ventured, “I can walk, you know.”

He glanced briefly at her, then looked ahead. His jaw set. “Just humor me.”

A small enough boon, one she could easily grant.

He would have set her on her feet to open the side door, but as they neared, it opened; Barnaby stood back, holding it wide.

Charlie grunted his thanks, angled her through the doorway, then resettled her in his arms. He looked down at her. “Where to?”

“My sitting room. There’s still more than an hour to dinner.”

Charlie started down the corridor. Barnaby ranged alongside. “If you’re up to it, you might tell me what happened.”

Like Charlie, his face was pale, his expression deadly serious. Sarah’s smile took on a tempered edge. “Indeed—you’ll need to hear.”

There was no doubt in her mind—or Charlie’s or, once he’d heard the details, Barnaby’s—that her “accident” could be laid at their villain’s door.

Comfortable and at ease in the cozy warmth of her sitting room, she related her tale, then Charlie added Hills’s observations.

Barnaby let his head fall back against the armchair in which he’d sprawled. “I hadn’t imagined he’d pursue the land from that angle.”

Standing before the hearth, Charlie frowned at him. “What angle?”

Turning his head, Barnaby met Charlie’s eyes. “If Sarah dies without issue, the property reverts to you, and given that we’ve been projecting the fiction that you disapprove of the orphanage…it’s reasonable to assume that if Sarah died, especially in some way connected with the place, then after emerging from mourning, you’d be entirely willing to wash your hands of Quilley Farm. It doesn’t connect with the Morwellan lands—it’s a small, unproductive, unattractive property for a landowner like you.”

Charlie sighed and closed his eyes. “You’re right. And as there’s clearly no rush to secure the property our villain can happily play a long game…” Opening his eyes, he glanced at Sarah, then met Barnaby’s blue gaze. “When this is over and we lay our hands on him, I intend to extract payment for each and every injury he’s caused.”

Barnaby’s lips lifted in a feral grin. “I’ll hold your coat.”

Sarah inwardly shook her head at them. She studied Barnaby; he’d been absent since riding south in the wake of the solicitor’s clerk. “Did you learn anything about the agent?”

Barnaby’s expression darkened. “No—other than that he’s a very sharp cove.” He glanced at Charlie. “I hung back and followed the clerk all the way to Wellington, but the roads in and out of Taunton lack cover—the agent might have seen me and decided to play safe, I don’t know. Regardless, I followed the clerk to his lodgings, then as it was late, I left to find rooms for the night.

“The next morning I spoke with the solicitor and persuaded him to assist us. His description of the agent was the same as all the others, so it seems it’s always the same man, and in this case the solicitor—Riggs—was quite sure the man wasn’t local. Which”—Barnaby raised a finger—“means that we might be able to find him if we search. People in the country notice those who are not locals.”

Barnaby’s lips tightened. “Unfortunately, when the clerk arrived, I learned that the agent had just happened to run into him in the tavern in which he habitually takes refuge in the evenings, avoiding his landlady. If I’d known, I would have remained on watch, but…” Barnaby grimaced. “Suitably encouraged, the clerk told the agent that a friend of the family—to wit, me—would be in Wellington the following day to discuss the offer for Quilley Farm with the agent. Apparently the agent looked grave and said the offer was final, a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, and he wasn’t interested in any discussion. He said his client would take the lack of immediate acceptance as a refusal and gave the clerk an envelope with the remainder of the solicitor’s fee.”

Charlie softly swore.

“Indeed.” Barnaby looked grim. “I’m growing devilish tired of tripping over this agent. I’m going to turn my sights on him and scour the area—someone will have seen him and noted him as a nonlocal. He’s been around for weeks now—he can’t have remained totally hidden for all that time.” His eyes narrowed; his voice grew harder. “And when I find him, I’m going to persuade him to lead us to his master.”

Looking down at him, Charlie faintly raised his brows. “I’m so glad you said ‘us.’”

Deciding that the civilizing influence of a good dinner wouldn’t go amiss, Sarah rose and shook out her woefully crushed skirts. “I’m going to change for dinner. Half an hour, gentlemen.”

Charlie watched her like a hawk as she walked to the door; aware of it, she turned and flashed him a reassuring smile before opening the door and heading for their apartments.

Charlie lay on his back in their bed and watched a shaft of moonlight creep across the room. Sarah lay beside him, sated and sleeping. Over dinner they’d gone over every aspect of their villain’s game that they knew or felt confident enough to guess—only to conclude that they were still a long way from identifying him.

Instead of remaining in the dining room to pass the port, he and Barnaby had adjourned with Sarah to her sitting room; he was starting to feel as comfortable in that room, with her, as he was in his library. They’d discussed the best places for Barnaby to start his search, then revisited their safeguards for the orphanage, reluctantly accepting that they didn’t dare set watchers in the surrounding hills; there was simply too great a risk the villain would sight them and pull back.

Speaking with Barnaby had reminded Charlie of the wider implications of the villain’s scheme, yet to his mind, to his instincts, the imperative to capture and unmask the man was now sharply personal.

The events of the afternoon replayed in his mind, together with the revelations they’d brought. The cold dread that had gripped him when he’d heard that Sarah had been injured wasn’t a feeling he would ever forget, yet against it, balancing it, was the relief—sheer, abject, and revitalizing—that had washed through him in the instant he’d seen her, standing beside her mother, hurt, perhaps, but still very much alive.

While the highly sane, logical, rational, and arrogant side of him was only too ready to point out that that dread, and the despair and desolation that had lurked behind it, ready to sweep in and claim him if she’d been taken from him, was the price he paid—and would have to pay for the rest of his life—for allowing love to claim him, another part of him, a part he was only now coming to recognize and know, simply smiled and held to the glory of his relief, to the warmth and joy he derived from caring for her, from fussing over her as he’d never liked being fussed over himself…he was starting to understand the bone-deep satisfaction, the intangible gratifications, of loving her.

Despite the dread, he still wanted that, with every fiber of his being wanted to seize and secure that, even if it meant embracing love to do it. Fear of the dread, of the despair and desolation, wasn’t enough to turn him from his path, to keep him from seeking the joys of love.

Sarah murmured in her sleep and snuggled closer; his arms instinctively tightened, then he remembered her wound and forced his muscles to relax. She was there, with him; that was all that mattered.

She’d been there, with him, from the instant the door had closed behind him after he’d followed her here from her sitting room. She’d bathed earlier; he’d looked in and made sure her maid was in attendance—that being so, he’d retreated. But when they’d returned, they’d been alone, and she’d turned to him without hesitation. More, with intent.

He’d been concerned for her wound, worried that too vigorous movement would cause her pain; she’d made it plain that wasn’t her concern—taking him into her body and loving him, explicitly and implicitly, had been her goal, her sole and consuming focus.

Lying back he’d surrendered and let her have her way, let her ride him to sweet oblivion. What he’d seen in her face, her eyes, what he was sure she’d seen in his, had gilded the moment, rendering it precious, investing it with glory revisited and reclaimed.

Somehow stronger.

He sensed she was strangely pleased with him, with how he’d behaved at the manor, but he couldn’t imagine how he could have behaved in any other way. He’d felt warily uncomfortable when he’d realized how openly possessive and protective he’d been, but she hadn’t seemed to mind.

Which was just as well. Acting less so would have been beyond him.

At the moment, between them, all seemed to be progressing, if not quickly, then at least in the right direction. He might not always know what it was he did that she approved of, but instinct seemed to be guiding him in that.

Reassured, his mind drifted toward sleep, then out of the veils a memory rose. Of him at their wedding breakfast making a vow—another he’d subsequently let fall from his conscious mind. Then, farsightedly, with unerring instinct, he’d vowed to do all he could to make her happy.

He was back on track to fulfill that vow—and part of that would be telling her that he loved her. Admitting, aloud, for the universe to hear, what he felt for her.

He had a library full of books; somewhere he’d find the words.

If there was one truth he’d finally recognized, it was that receiving love simply wasn’t possible without giving love in return—and, ultimately, owning to it.

Quite why his sex found that last so daunting…sleep tugged and his hold on reality slipped. He let go, leaving that everlasting mystery of the universe unbroached.

Sunday afternoon found Malcolm Sinclair striding along the wharves of Watchet. His cold hazel gaze scanned incessantly, noting this man, then that. His quarry unsighted, he turned into the town’s streets and systematically quartered them, looking in at every tavern he passed, every shop.

Eventually, temper quivering in every line of his large frame, he halted at the upper end of the High Street. He had no idea where Jennings was; he’d been hunting for him for most of the past night, and all of the day. He’d even risked riding through the hills north of Quilley Farm, but had seen no one.

Looking down the sloping High Street, he scanned all those in sight—all those who could see him. He’d been in Watchet frequently over the past weeks; the locals either knew who he was, or had grown accustomed to seeing him about their town. Deciding that speaking with his henchman was presently more important than the risk that someone might see them together, he swung on his heel and stalked farther up the High Street, then turned along the last lane on the right.

Jennings had rented the tiny fisherman’s cottage at the far end of the lane. Malcolm walked straight past it and onto the narrow, rocky path that climbed toward the hills. Halting a little way on, he turned and looked out to sea, as if studying the fall of the land and the layout of the town.

The cottage and the small lean-to stable at its rear were also in his line of sight. There was no horse tied up in the stable.