To Kiss a Thief (9 page)

But compelling, nonetheless.

Perhaps it would not prove such an uncongenial task to pretend to woo her, after all.

“You are most welcome, Sarah.” Keeping one hand at the small of her back, he lifted the other to sweep the hair from her face, stroking his fingertips along her cheek as he did so. He realized he had never seen her hair unbound before. Even on their wedding night, she had worn it in a long, tight braid. If he had taken the time to undo that braid, to find out what she hid beneath its taut twists, how differently their lives might have turned out.

“It occurs to me that the good people of Haverhythe will begin to suspect something's amiss if we don't spend more time in one another's company, if we don't show one another a little—affection,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to within an inch of hers. “After all, we have been separated for three long years.”

Whatever warmth the words had held was quickly cooled by the steely look in Sarah's eyes. If David Brice had looked at him in such a way across the field of honor, he might have turned tail and run.

“The good people of Haverhythe are either still in the pub or have long since taken to their beds. I'm quite sure this little display will be lost on them.” She glanced over her shoulder at the village, as if seeking confirmation of her claim. “In any event, I'm surprised you care for what they think.”

“I don't.” With the pressure of his palm, he tilted her face so she could not avoid his gaze. “But you do. Would you rather your friends cast our reunion as fairy tale or melodrama?”

“What they imagine will depend at least as much on whether you play the hero or the villain,” she tossed back. “Good night, my lord.” Slipping free of his embrace, she turned to walk back along the quay, her damp skirts clinging to her long, slender legs.

“Y
our husband will take the child, of course.”

Lost in thoughts of Abby Norris's headache, the crippling pain in Martha Potts's joints, and the grim change in the weather such maladies foretold, Sarah nearly stumbled at hearing the vicar speak her worst fears aloud. Mr. Norris paused in their journey up the nave of All Saints' and gestured toward the pew usually occupied by Sarah and Mrs. Potts, now taken up by a set of broad shoulders clad in dark blue superfine.

As if on cue, St. John turned and gave her a cryptic smile.

And to think she had imagined the Lord's Day would offer some reprieve.

“Ow, Mama!” Clarissa attempted to throw off Sarah's fingers where they had sunk sharply into her little arm.

Perhaps
, Sarah prayed as they walked toward her husband,
Clarissa will refuse to go with a stranger
. But such a hope was dashed when St. John patted the polished wooden bench beside him and Clarissa slid happily into place. “Mama play,” she explained, and St. John nodded.

“Yes, I know. I am saddened to hear that Mrs. Norris was taken ill, of course, but I look forward to hearing my wife's contribution to divine services this morning, Mr. Norris.”

“Mrs. Fairfax is always willing to help,” Mr. Norris praised, urging Sarah toward the chancel, where the organ was ensconced.

As Sarah seated herself at the persnickety old instrument, she glanced back toward the pew. Clarissa had climbed into St. John's lap and was amusing herself with the shining buttons of his waistcoat. He ran his hand over Clarissa's mop of golden-brown curls and looked up at Sarah, his expression unreadable.

She quickly turned to face the organ and focused her attention on the music, but throughout the service she could feel his eyes on her back, studying her with an attentiveness no hymn had ever called forth before. She remembered the burning penetration of his gaze the night before, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her, the whisper of his breath across her lips as he closed in for a kiss.

Her pulse leapt at the memory and her fingers stumbled over the keys.
Fool, fool, fool
.

Whatever he wanted, it was not her. And whatever she needed, it was not him.

She dragged her wayward thoughts back to the service and played until the organ's hollow-sounding notes told her that the church was nearly empty.

When she dared to turn around at last, St. John and Clarissa were gone.

Hearing nothing but the echo of Mr. Norris's fateful promise in her ears, she hurried out of the church, oblivious to the greetings of her neighbors, struggling to find one little child in the crowd. Hampered at least as much by her own anxiety as by the blinding midday sun, she located her husband and daughter at last, standing with the Thomases a few yards down the footpath.

“Mama!” Clarissa cried, holding up a motley collection of wildflowers in one grubby fist while little Bertie Thomas scouted for similar treasure nearby.

St. John turned and then stepped back to make room as she hurried toward them.

“Lovely as always, Mrs. F.,” Nan Thomas enthused. “Weren't it, Bert?”

Bert nodded. “T'aint the Christian thing to wish the megrims on Mrs. Norris, but 'tis a treat to hear you play, ma'am.”

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax. A treat,” St. John echoed, evidently amused by the man's choice of words.

“Thank you. It is an honor to be able to assist Mr. Norris,” Sarah replied as the vicar joined their little group.

“Mrs. Thomas, I believe you were just about to explain to me how you came to know my wife,” St. John said after a moment.

Bert laughed. “Everybody knows everybody in Haverhythe, Lieutenant Fairfax.”

Lieutenant
Fairfax? Sarah narrowly avoided snorting.

“Mrs. Potts is me ma,” Nan explained. “And Mrs. F. here saved her life—saved all of us, really.”

“Oh?” One dark blond brow shot up.

“I rather think it was the other way around,” Sarah insisted, pleading silently with Nan Thomas to speak of something, anything else.

But if Nan received the message, it mattered very little, because Bert was quick to take up the tale.

“You're too modest, Mrs. F. You see,” the young fisherman said, turning to St. John, “I were bad hurt, couldn't work.” He spread his beefy hands before him and studied them for a moment, as if reflecting on their betrayal. “And Nan here were, well . . .”

He paused and Nan passed one work-roughened palm over a belly that had begun to round once again.

“I understand,” St. John interjected mildly, as if such details were an expected part of polite conversation. By contrast, Edmund Norris's face turned a rather remarkable shade of pink.

“I'd been takin' care o' Mrs. Potts, and my own ma, o' course. But times got tough. Real tough.” Bert jerked his thumb toward Haverty Court. “His lordship's steward threatened to turn Mrs. Potts out of Primrose Cottage if she couldn't come up with the rent. She started walkin' the quay again, like she did after Nan's pa drowned.”

“Then Mrs. F. come along and asked if Ma would take in a boarder,” Nan chimed in. “If it weren't for her, I reckon Ma 'ud be at the bottom of the bay.”

Sarah felt St. John turn and look at her. “Is that so?”

Sarah could hardly deny it. After facing the village's censure for weeks, scraping by on the few coins she had happened to have in her reticule when she left London, and beginning to suspect her own “interesting condition,” Sarah had passed more than a few nights tempted to join Mad Martha there.

Instead, she had joined her at Primrose Cottage.

“Nonsense, Nan,” Sarah demurred. “If your mother had been as desperate as that, my little mite could hardly have saved her. She was simply kind and generous enough to take me in.”

“You're too modest, Mrs. Fairfax—especially considering what happened next.”

“And what was that?” St. John asked, turning to the vicar.

“When she saw the Thomases' situation, and realized they were unfortunately far from alone in their troubles,” he explained to St. John with a melancholy shake of his head, “she took a notion to begin a sort of pension for the men and their families. The Fishermen's Relief Fund.”

“Really, I think Mrs. Norris deserves—” Sarah tried to interject, but her words fell on deaf ears.

“She had the vicar take up a collection,” said Nan.

That gentleman brushed aside his own contribution. “And she got the women of the village to set aside a bit here and there—old clothes or salted fish—for those who needed it.”

“Why, she even badgered 'em up at Haverty Court,” exclaimed Bert. “She's done all but steal to see that fund built up.”

Sarah watched St. John's eyes widen at the mention of theft. “Really?” he exclaimed. “Well, Mrs. Fairfax has always been remarkably resourceful.”

“And o' course, there's the festival,” Nan added. “We mustn't forget that.”

St. John looked at Sarah. “Ah, yes. The festival. With proceeds to go to the, er—”

“Fishermen's Relief Fund,” Sarah supplied brusquely. “If it doesn't rain,” she reminded them all, casting a chary glance at the cloudless blue sky. “Come, Clarissa. It's time to go. Are those flowers for Mrs. Potts?”

After the obligatory protests from the children and cheery well wishes from the adults, Sarah turned at last toward the cobbled street. Clutching a bedraggled bouquet of weeds, Clarissa wandered a few paces ahead.

“Why did you not tell me?” St. John asked, drawing Sarah's hand through his arm.

Sarah longed to pull away but instead nodded a greeting at the Mackey children as they passed. “Tell you what?”

“About Mrs. Potts—the Fishermen's Relief—the festival. Too modest, perhaps?” He smiled, but his eyes were chips of ice. “Am I now to suppose that you stole that necklace and then took my stepmother's money for a noble purpose, rather than a nefarious one? Did you fancy yourself some sort of Lady Robin Hood?”

“Lady Estley has told you that she sent me money, and I will not deny having received it. But I deny most vehemently that I demanded it, or expected it.” Sarah spoke in a heated whisper, for she was all too aware of Haverhythe's love of gossip, and the street around them was crowded. “How could I? I have nothing she wants—nothing anyone wants.”

“You will forgive me, ma'am, if I express some doubt on that point.”

“It little matters to me what you believe,” she lied. “In any case, I put her money to good use. I started the Fishermen's Relief Fund.”

That revelation succeeded in startling him into silence, but only for a moment. “If you imagine your good works here are somehow penance for your crimes—”

“
Crimes
, my lord? Of what crimes do you accuse me?” she demanded.

“I think you know your crimes, my lady,” he insisted softly, glancing toward Clarissa and then back at her. “You were caught in a compromising position with another man. At the same time, a priceless family heirloom disappeared. Then you decided to run, rather than stay and proclaim your innocence—”

“But I did.”

His steps halted. “I beg your pardon?”

“I did proclaim my innocence. On the night I first stood accused. But you did not hear me, it seems. Or you did not believe me.” She darted her gaze away. “What hope have I of anyone believing me now?”

“Precious little,” he agreed, an edge of indecision in his voice. “You cannot deny the appearance of guilt.”

She forced herself not to flinch beneath the sudden intensity of his regard. “Appearances may deceive, my lord.”

He tipped his head as if considering her response. “Indeed they may, Mrs. Fairfax. Indeed they may.”

But before he could say more, Clarissa grabbed his free hand. “Play donkey.”

After Sarah slid her oft-mended glove from his elegantly tailored sleeve, he bent to scoop up Clarissa, hoisting her onto his shoulder. At the child's squealed demand, he trotted along the cobblestones like a donkey, calling greetings to half the town as they went, earning smiles from everyone they passed, and arriving at the bottom of the street hardly out of breath.

So he had decided to play the dashing hero before the eyes of the village, eh? Well, then, let him learn just what such a role required. She could ensure it would not be simple child's play.

Sarah caught up with them just on the threshold of Primrose Cottage and laid a staying hand on his arm. “Meet me tomorrow on the quay. Nine o'clock.”

“All right,” he agreed, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead again. “Another moonlight assignation?”

“Nine o'clock in the morning,” she replied, curving her lips in a small smile. “Come ready to work, my lord.”

* * *

Sarah arrived on the quay early the next day and greeted Mrs. Norris and the handful of people who had agreed to help them prepare for the festival on Michaelmas. Colin Mackey had sent his daughter and his eldest son. Mr. Gaffard was there, leaving Mrs. Gaffard to mind the shop. The Rostrum brothers—Clovis and Hubert, two bent-backed fishermen too old to go to sea—stood side by side; after three years, Sarah was still not sure which was which. These, with a scattering of younger children who were eager to help but really too young to do so, were the army she had collected.

St. John was nowhere to be seen.

Apparently even a miserable bed at the Blue Herring held more appeal of a morning than a day of hard and likely thankless work—the kind a hero undertook regardless. She had expected it to be more of a challenge to reveal his true colors to the town.

“Abby, my dear, are you better?” Sarah walked immediately to her friend's side and took her hand.

“Much,” Abigail Norris replied, although her smile was still weak and her brown eyes heavy-lidded.

“Well,” Sarah said, giving Abby's fingers a squeeze and glancing at the sky, “we'll just have to pray the storm blows over before Thursday.”

“And what storm is that, dear?” Abby asked innocently.

Sarah considered all the storms bearing down on her and only wished she could say which posed the more immediate threat.

“Gather 'round, everyone,” she called with a clap of her hands. “And thank you for agreeing to help. Mr. Norris has made sure every parish within twenty miles knows about our little festival, so we must prepare for visitors. The plan is to have stalls for the bazaar set up here along the top of the quay,” she said, gesturing above her, “and here below, in the evening, there's to be a dance under the stars.”

It was unconventional—and all likely to be ruined if rough weather came in off the sea. But the wide foot of the quay, where the ships' cargos were loaded onto sledges and taken up the road, was the largest open area in town, as there were no assembly rooms. “The children can begin by sweeping off the stones and setting everything to rights. And if the men—”

“Ho!” Gerald Beals's voice rang out over the cobblestones. Sarah turned to see him leading one of a pair of donkeys drawing a sledge laden with lumber from an old barn at Haverty Court that had been damaged in a storm. “Here's the wood for the stalls, Mrs. F.”

As she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she realized that the second donkey was led by St. John. He was dressed for work, as she had instructed—or at least, as best a man of his rank could be. Over his crisp white linen and buckskin breeches, he had put on an apron of some heavy stuff, probably borrowed from Mr. Beals. The light breeze off the water rippled his shirt and revealed the breadth of his shoulders beneath it. Tossing the donkey's lead to one of the little boys, he pulled off a glove to run a hand over his bare head, pushing his golden hair behind his ears. Then he came toward her, all blue eyes and dazzling smile.