by Cheryl Holt
He stopped in the center of the path and glared at her. She glared back—as if they were equals, as if she might simply bowl him over if he didn’t step aside. Her obstinacy was exasperating and infuriating.
“Move, Mr. Shawcross. I have an appointment at the manor, and I’m late for it.”
“Your appointment is cancelled.”
“Pardon me if I don’t believe you. Ophelia Sinclair demanded I attend her, and I’d just as soon not be at odds with her.”
“She went to London, and she asked me to inform you.”
She studied him, searching for the truth of his statement, and ultimately stumbling on it.
“Oh, good. I wasn’t keen to talk to her anyway.”
She whipped away and headed for the cottage. Just like that. With no courteous parting remark.
“Miss Robertson!” he snapped more sharply than he’d intended, but the annoying shrew had that effect.
She glowered at him over her shoulder. “What?”
“Mr. Sinclair specifically told you he wanted those children out of sight, but you felt free to waltz into the village with them.”
“We’re not his prisoners, Mr. Shawcross.”
“No, you’re not, but you were blundering about in your usual reckless manner, and Miss Ophelia saw the three of you.”
“Maybe Miss Ophelia needs to grow up and accept the reality about her father.”
“Maybe that’s not up to you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she snottily retorted.
She continued on, displaying a total disregard for the fact that he wasn’t finished speaking to her. He could certainly comprehend why she was still single. Only a dolt who was completely emasculated would have dared marry her.
“Miss Robertson!” he said much too loudly, but she was quickly putting distance between them.
She whirled to face him. “Will you shout at me across the park, Mr. Shawcross? I must firmly state that I don’t care for it. Why don’t you stomp over here and manhandle me instead? It’s what you’re best at.”
He tamped down a spurt of temper, determined not to have her goad him into lashing out. “Cease your flirting with Mr. Sinclair. His sister witnessed that too, but he’s promised to her cousin, Miss Gordon. She’s thick as thieves with Miss Gordon, and you’d gravely regret having either of them angry at you. You can’t win a fight like that.”
“Thank you for your wise counsel. I’m ever so grateful!”
“I’m trying to help you, Miss Robertson. I’m trying to make you see sense because you appear to possess very little of it.”
“Yes, I’m renowned as a hysterical female.”
It was a valid assessment, so he wouldn’t debate the matter. “Stay away from Mr. Sinclair. I’m sure you have a wild idea in that deluded brain of yours about how you can charm him and latch onto him in a permanent fashion, but you never could. Take a piece of advice from me.”
“I’m absolutely breathless waiting to hear what it is.”
“You’re too far beneath him to ever capture his notice, so save yourself some trouble. Remain in your cottage and behave yourself while you’re there.”
“Behave myself!” If she’d been standing next to him, she might have slapped him. “Mr. Shawcross, you are not my father, brother, or husband. You have no right to boss me, and if you don’t like me being friends with Mr. Sinclair, that’s your problem. Not mine!”
She flounced off, and he called to her twice more, but she ignored him. He would have bellowed a third time, but he realized he was embarrassing himself.
Why let her rile him? If she got herself into a jam with Sebastian, what was it to him? If she antagonized Miss Ophelia, hadn’t Raven warned her?
It was simply that his loyalties lay with Sebastian, and he would never allow anything to happen that might hurt the man. No doubt about it, Miss Robertson was exactly the sort of wench who could bring disaster raining down.
When Sebastian returned from Selby, they would have to have a long, frank discussion. Miss Robertson and those children had to be sent away as swiftly as their departure could be arranged. Raven would personally dispose of her, and when he was escorting her off the property, he would smile all the way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sebastian walked up to the cottage, and as usual where Miss Robertson was concerned, he was trying to figure out his purpose.
It was late, and he probably should have spent the night in London, but he’d been overwhelmed by thoughts of her. He’d pushed on to Hero’s Haven, suffering from an extremely illogical need to be with her.
After his awful conversation with Nathan, he required a huge dose of her fascinating personality to tamp down his doldrums.
He and Nathan had met at boarding school when they were seven. Nathan had been like a lost, angry puppy. He’d lashed out at every person of authority and had constantly gotten into fights. Sebastian had been amazed by his fearlessness and bravado, and he hadn’t been able to resist their being friends.
Nathan’s grandfather, Godwin, hadn’t liked him and couldn’t manage him, so he’d rarely been welcome at Selby. Sir Sidney had loathed Godwin, and he’d enjoyed tweaking the old man’s nose with regard to Nathan. Nathan had been absorbed into the Sinclair family and had gradually seemed like one of them.
Godwin had died when they were ten, and with him no longer around to prevent it, Sir Sidney had started taking them with him on his trips. They’d grown up together on sailing ships, in desert caravans, in jungles where no Englishman had ever walked. They’d traipsed after his famous father and had become famous themselves.
They’d had the best childhood any two boys could have had, but it was clear that Africa would be their undoing. Nathan would never forgive him. His hurt was too great, his grievances too monumental.
Sebastian had to question Judah again, then send him packing, but he couldn’t. Not with the inquest about to begin. At the moment, he wouldn’t create an enemy who might spread negative stories.
But after the Exploration Society’s findings had been disseminated, after Judah’s testimony was set in stone under oath, he could raise whatever spurious claims he liked about Sir Sidney, but he’d be branded a disgruntled liar who was incensed over his spot on the expedition team being revoked.
No matter what else transpired, he had to search Judah’s possessions for Nathan’s stolen knife. If he had it, the discovery would mean Nathan was telling the truth and Judah wasn’t. If that was the case, Sebastian was afraid he might murder Judah, and with those hefty topics weighing him down, he was in the mood for some merriment.
He could have stopped at the Haven, where there was likely a bevy of harlots entertaining his crew, but he hadn’t wanted to revel with a bunch of loose doxies. He’d wanted to see Sarah Robertson.
It made no sense, but there it was.
The cottage was dark, the shutters closed, and he wondered if she was napping in front of the fire. Or might she have already climbed into her bed? The notion that he might stumble on her there was unbelievably thrilling.
He should just break down and ask her to be his mistress. Why not? He was rich, and she was desperate. There were worse ways for a female to support herself than by being spoiled rotten by a wealthy man. Plus, she was twenty-seven, so she was much too old to still be a maiden. She ought to learn about physical pleasure.
If he suggested that type of liaison, how might she react? She’d probably slap him and chase him out, but he’d suggest it anyway, and he’d cajole her until he wore her down.
He reached for the doorknob, eager to spin it and tiptoe inside, but…?
It was locked!
He was so stunned that he couldn’t deduce what was happening. She’d locked the door? Why? She couldn’t intend to keep him out. Could she?
Before he could dissuade himself, he knocked and murmured, “Sarah? It’s me. Let me in.”
She didn’t answer, and he continued knocking and calling to her, growing more exasperated by the
minute.
The entire journey home from Selby, when he’d been so glum, he’d pondered her incessantly and how he’d tell her all about Nathan. She had a pragmatic view of people, and she’d persuade him that the situation wasn’t as bleak as he supposed. He’d been counting on her!
Ultimately, he was so livid that he kicked the wood—very hard—and it finally brought a response. A shutter creaked from the window in the parlor, and she leaned out.
“Be silent,” she furiously hissed, “or you’ll wake the whole neighborhood.”
“Open up.”
“No. You need to go back to the manor, and I need to go to bed.”
“I have to talk to you.”
“You do not, and there’s no reason for you to be bothering me.”
“Bothering you! I swear, if you don’t open the door—right now—I will kick it in.”
“You’d ruin a perfectly good door? For what?”
“If I decide to wreck it, I will. It’s my house, as is every bloody thing on this estate. You should remember that.”
“Don’t be crude, and don’t use foul language in my presence.”
“I have to talk to you.” He sounded almost frantic.
“You’re being ridiculous, and if you don’t calm down, the children will hear you. I refuse to have to explain why you’re behaving like a lunatic.”
At the snotty comment, he was so riled he was surprised the top of his head didn’t blow off. He marched over, not sure if he planned to kiss her or shake her, but she lurched away so he couldn’t grab her.
In her hasty retreat, she hadn’t latched the shutter, so the window was wide open. He simply hoisted himself over the sill and scrambled into the parlor. In a tiny corner of his mind, it occurred to him that he was acting exactly like the lunatic she’d just accused him of being, but he didn’t care.
No one was allowed to disobey him. No one was allowed to defy him or flout his wishes. He was Sebastian Sinclair and she was…was…
Well, he had no idea what she was. The accursed woman was destitute, friendless, and without a viable option for the future. She was lucky he’d ever glanced in her direction a single time, and she would not ignore him. If she thought he’d tolerate such insubordination, she was the lunatic.
She was over by the hearth, and she’d actually picked up an iron poker. She brandished it at him and warned, “Stay where you are!”
Of course he didn’t listen. He stormed over and yanked the poker away, tossing it on the floor, where it landed on the rug with a muted thud. Then he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her to him.
He studied her and observed a great deal of rage and scorn. He’d been away for such a short period. What had left her so irate?
He dipped in to kiss her, and she wrenched away.
“Mr. Sinclair! Please!”
“Call me Sebastian. You’re aware that I expect it.”
“We are not on familiar terms.”
“I determine those sorts of issues between us, Miss Robertson, so you will call me Sebastian. And I will start calling you Sarah. Don’t argue about it.”
“You’re a bully, and I’m much too annoyed to put up with your nonsense.”
“I’ve been away two days, and I arrive home to find you in a complete snit. What is wrong with you?”
She whirled away to light a candle. There was a fire burning in the hearth, but it had died down, so there was a bit of illumination, but not much. He gaped at her, watching, as she waited for the flame to flare, then she held it toward his face.
“I have a question for you,” she said, “and I want to see your eyes clearly when you answer so I’ll know if you’re telling the truth or not.”
“Fine. Ask away.”
“Are you engaged to be married?”
He hesitated because he wasn’t engaged, but he would be before too long. He couldn’t keep evading the nuptial noose. Every bachelor was eventually ensnared, and his turn was approaching much more quickly than he’d like.
“No, I’m not engaged,” he said.
She banged the candle down on a nearby table. “Oh, you liar! You are! You’re engaged.”
“Sarah, I am not. Who told you I was?”
“Your sister. The other day, when you rode by me in the village? She saw us together, and she felt compelled to visit me afterward. I was advised—in no uncertain terms—to avoid you like the plague.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She also saw Noah and Pet, and she demanded I admit the identity of their father.”
“Did you?”
“Not at first, but she badgered me unmercifully, and I relented.”
“It serves her right for being so nosy, I guess.”
“In the brief interval you were away, I was shouted at by your man, Judah Barnett. I was insulted and abused by your man, Raven Shawcross. I was ordered about and chastised by your sister, and I am enormously aggrieved by all of their behavior toward me.”
“I can tell.”
She was magnificent when she was angry. Like a powerful goddess who could point her finger and destroy worlds. He wondered again who her father had been. Who might have passed on such imperious traits?
“I spent the day writing to acquaintances,” she said, “and begging for assistance, so hopefully, I will be out of your hair very soon. Until I can make other arrangements, the children and I will sequester ourselves in this cottage, and we will not step foot outside it so we don’t offend your companions. In the meantime, you will inform your cadre of tormenters that they should leave me alone.”
“I will do that.”
“Congratulations on your pending marriage, but as you are about to be a husband, there is absolutely no reason for you to be standing in this parlor. Goodnight and goodbye.” She motioned to the window. “You found your way in, so I’m sure you can find your way out.”
She huffed off and crossed the foyer, then the kitchen, then to the maid’s room behind it. She slammed the door, and it grew very quiet.
He dawdled like a dunce, pondering his options. He’d have to scold several people for their interfering in his private affairs, beginning with Ophelia. How dare she claim he was engaged! As to Judah and Raven, they didn’t have to pester Sarah for him.
He understood they would picture themselves as being very loyal, that they were protecting him from her, but he didn’t require protection.
Despite her tirade, he was still eager to tarry with her. He was anguished over his meeting with Nathan and needed some cheering. Would it kill her to provide it?
Her fit of temper reminded him of why he hadn’t betrothed himself to Veronica. He lived with virile, manly men, and he was perplexed as to how he should deal with the feminine impertinence Sarah freely exhibited, and he didn’t want to deal with it.
He merely wanted to wallow in her presence until his mood improved. He glanced at the open window, then at the foyer that led to the other side of the house where her pathetic bedchamber was located.
His choice was easy. He blew out the candle and stomped off.
* * * *
Sarah heard him coming, but couldn’t prevent him from entering. The door to her bedroom didn’t have a lock. If she’d been stronger, she could have pulled over the dresser as a barricade, but why expend the energy?
He was like a force of nature, a rich, cosseted brat who’d had the world handed to him on a silver platter, and she loathed his type of wealthy, domineering idiot.
They ruled the kingdom and assumed every lowly person in it should bow down, but the problem for her had always been that she wouldn’t bow to anyone. She viewed herself as equal to any man, and in light of the fact that half her blood was from Viscount Matthew Blake, she had every right to feel superior.
If her father had wed her mother, Sarah would be far above Sebastian Sinclair in rank and station, and he wouldn’t dream of disrespecting her. As it was though, he treated her like a servant, like a doxy who should be excited to give him whatever he des
ired.
He was a bully and a cretin, and she was still smarting from the humiliating experiences she’d had to endure from his sister and his men. They’d blithely berated her as if she should have to allow it. She wouldn’t silently tolerate it though, and they harassed her at their peril.
As he blustered in, she was standing by the window and staring out at the night sky. It was dark and cloudy, looking as if it might rain.
For a moment, she thought about climbing out into the yard, but why bother? He’d simply follow her. He was that determined to be with her, and while she’d have liked to quarrel, the fight suddenly went out of her.
She displayed a tough façade, but in reality, she was a single female who constantly assisted others, but who had nothing to show for it. Not a home, not a relative she would acknowledge, not a friend who would aid her, not a penny in her purse.
How had she arrived at such a wretched spot? And how would she ever dig herself out of it? She was all alone, and only rude, overbearing Sebastian Sinclair had stepped forward to help her. The realization was the saddest ever.
“I could have sworn I asked you to depart,” she said without turning around.
“I never listen to women, and I’m not about to start with you.”
She snorted with disgust. “What is it you seek from me, Sebastian? Just tell me. Put me out of my misery, then go away.”
He came up behind her, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. They were nestled together, her backside pressed to his front. Their proximity was thrilling in a manner she detested.
“I’m not engaged,” he said. “I probably should be, but I’m not.”
“But you’re promised to someone.”
“Yes, my cousin, Veronica.”
“Why haven’t you proposed?”
“Our mothers have pushed the match, but I’m not in any hurry.”
“Do you want it?”
“Not especially. If I was keen to have her as my bride, I’d already be a husband.”
“Is she expecting it to happen?”
“Yes, but only because my mother and sister egg her on. I have never uttered a word of encouragement to her.”
“Swear it to me.”
