by Arnette Lamb
Sarah, an orphan in Edinburgh. The unfairness of it tugged at his heart. It took every bit of strength to keep from rushing to her and pulling her into his arms again. Instead, he thought of the positive aspects of her childhood. “I’m glad your father is a decent man, but I am not surprised.”
“You do not even know my father.”
At her condescending tone, Michael’s temper flared. “I’m disappointed, however, that his daughter is a coward.”
Sarah fumed, but she was more angry at herself than at Michael Elliot. Eventually her attraction to him would fade. Until then, she would carry on and soothe his bruised pride. “I’m only thinking of the problems that a courtship between us will bring.”
All subtlety gone, he lowered his voice. “Five minutes ago, I was more than courting you. And you were more than agreeable.”
“Yes, but never again. Now that you’ve spoken to Henry, you know the exercise is futile.” Would he never reveal what Henry had said about her?
“Yes, well . . .” He glanced at the papers. “The visit proved enlightening. I know my brother better now.”
Oh, that infuriating habit of his. The devil take him and what he’d learned about her from Henry. Sarah had her own life now, such as it was. Between working at the orphanage and battling her own attraction to Michael Elliot, she couldn’t manage an intelligent thought.
She snatched up a bit of rhetoric. “What will you do now that you have left the Complement?”
“I haven’t decided, but I rather like the idea of serving on the governing board of the orphanage. If, that is, you accept men in the position?”
That cool manner of his and quick wit would be her downfall. “Of course I’ll consider you for the position. Men should be treated as equals.”
This time his laughter pleased her. She returned to the chair. “With that cheerful thought in mind, I wondered if you would consider visiting my Sunday school and teaching the children history or geography. You’re well traveled, and I believe they respect you. They’re still learning to read, but I think you’ll find them a worthy audience.”
With a slight tilt of his elegant head, he conceded. “I will, if you’ll make me a promise.”
Past experience told her what he would ask. “No more kissing.”
He gave her a grin that could melt a nun’s resolve. “Give me your word that you will not again condemn me for the crimes of my mother or my brother.”
Why did he have to be an Elliot? Her mood turned blue. “They want money from me for a betrothal made under false pretenses. Henry claimed he was an honorable man. He lied.”
He leaned back in the chair and stretched out his long legs. “That is not my concern.”
She believed him. Michael Elliot held himself above the pettiness of his mother and older brother. He didn’t crow the opinions of others or malign the less fortunate. He also looked like a mighty Highland chieftain, perfectly at home in a tailored gray frock coat and trousers.
She shouldn’t want him at all. He was Henry’s brother. But he hardly knew Henry. “Will you agree to drop the subject of my dowry?”
“Yes.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Until your father offers it to me.”
Her heart tripped like a harvest drum. She had to change the subject. Knowing the attempt was weak, she said, “Henry’s found another way to buy himself out?”
Michael reached for the teapot and filled their cups. “He will get out the same way he got in, I think.”
Surely Michael wasn’t so naive as that. “He’ll be old and gray before he wins enough money from his fellow prisoners. They’re all debtors and felons in King’s Bench. The only money to be had there is printed on foolscap.”
“Henry spends only his nights in prison. Every morning he is released—to facilitate acquiring the money to pay back the debt. Richmond recommended it.”
Sarah stared at the steam rising from her cup and wondered if Henry would succeed. “A sensible plan, if it works.”
“We can only hope it does. Will you also agree to put the past crimes of the Elliots behind you?”
The request was reasonable and could benefit Sarah. She wanted to make a life for herself here in Edinburgh. She had spoken to Count DuMonde, who gracefully agreed to cease his afternoon visits. According to Notch, the gossips were busy with news of the orphanage and speculation about her evening out with Michael Elliot. At least the former spoke positively of her good character. The latter was her own cross to bear.
“I agree.” She held out her bandaged right hand to seal the bargain. “Will you teach the class on Sunday?”
His fingers closed gently around hers. “Only if you are there.”
Intimacy crept into the moment, and Sarah searched for a light reply. “Of course. I’m a very good student.”
His gaze fell to her injured hand, which he examined with great care. “Are you attentive, Sarah?”
“A veritable constant in my character.”
His grin told her he recalled saying those very words to her. “No pranks and no giggling?”
With such an appealing teacher? She wanted to chuckle, but knew he’d take advantage of a humorous moment. “I left those bad habits in my stepmother’s classroom. Do you care for milk and sugar?”
“Only sugar.” His gaze seared her. “I have a fierce sweet tooth.”
He made the simplest of statements sound provocative—that, or her imagination was at fault. Then she remembered the ginger candy he’d offered her on his first visit. “Where, I wonder, have I heard that before?”
He lifted his brows. “Surely from a gentleman with impeccable manners, honest intentions, and the most unquestionable good taste in all important things. Added to that, I am an excellent judge of character.”
He was speaking of her, and the knowledge made her dizzy. Leaning toward him offered a remedy for the dizziness, she knew from past experiences. But she must mount a defense against his seduction, and thoughts of his brother no longer worked.
“You haven’t sweetened your tea,” she said.
His hand moved past her wrist to the tender skin of her forearm. “No, I haven’t.”
The air grew close between them. She scrambled to control the conversation. “Speaking of your honest intentions, are you prepared to visit the cobbler tomorrow? You did agree to furnish shoes for all of the orphans.”
“I agreed to pay for the shoes after you admitted what was in your heart.”
“Are you welshing?”
“Aren’t you?”
“We both are. Tomorrow afternoon is convenient for me to accompany you to the cobbler.”
If appearances counted, Michael Elliot looked prosperous. But so did the rest of his family. He took rooms at an inn and was generous to those who served him. She remembered Rose’s tale of his giving a crown to the stableman for the care of his horse. “You’ve made arrangements to pay the cobbler?”
“The members of the Complement are responsible. They all wanted to help.”
“Then you are not a wealthy man?”
“At this moment, I feel wealthier than a king.”
She found the strength to pull her hand away. “That’s no answer. You made a very generous offer to aid the orphans. At the time, you couldn’t have known the Complement would agree.”
“Oh, but I could. As I said, I’m an excellent judge of character. And in reply to your very personal question about my finances—if I were comfortably fixed, wouldn’t I buy my brother’s freedom?”
He made her sound nosy, but money was at the core of her entanglement with the Elliots. “I do not know you well enough to venture an opinion. Would you buy Henry’s freedom?”
“Ah, now I understand. You are worried that Henry may soon be released and you will have to face him.”
Owning up to her worst mistake didn’t frighten Sarah; she welcomed the opportunity to look Henry Elliot in the eye and tell him exactly what she thought of him. “Will he soon be released?”
“I
do not know. There is much more to the charges against him than a gaming debt. He truly insulted the duke of Richmond, who has threatened to bring the matter to Parliament.”
In spite of her trembling hand, she picked up her teacup. “I’m not surprised.”
With an infuriatingly steady grip, he also sipped from his cup. “Just how well did you know Henry before the betrothal was formalized?”
The tea grew bitter on her tongue. “Obviously not long enough.” She put down the cup and moved to the lamp table. “Do you still want me to open that package?”
“A clumsy effort, Sarah, but—”
“But you’re a gentleman to the tips of your fine imported boots.”
“For the moment, yes,” he warned. “I’m waiting for your reply.”
“Did you ask Henry if he had intimate knowledge of me before the betrothal?”
“I will stake my reputation on the fact that you are a virgin.”
Gasping, she bristled with umbrage. “That’s not what I meant.”
He chuckled without humor, and his expression spoke of greater intimacies.
Unable to bear his gaze, she turned away. “The betrothal was a mistake. Isn’t that enough?”
A cup clattered against a saucer, and she heard him rise. “Sarah, look at me.”
He stood so close she could feel his warmth and power. “No.”
Strong hands grasped her upper arms, and he turned her around. Determination blazed in his eyes. “You did not tremble when my brother held you.”
She dragged in a breath, and as she exhaled, his neckcloth fluttered. “No. I did not.”
“You’re trembling now.”
Oh, God. He was going to kiss her again, and she couldn’t summon the words to dissuade him.
His hand touched her chin, and with gentle pressure, he tipped her head back. He smelled of masculine illusions conjured by a woman in love. No, her heart cried. She couldn’t love Michael Elliot.
“Run, Sarah,” he whispered. “If you are fearful of your feelings.”
“Swear that you do not have at least one reservation yourself.”
“I cannot, but neither will I lie to myself. I prefer to face my quandaries.”
“And conquer them.”
“No. I’d rather overcome them. Only enemies must be vanquished, and you, Sarah MacKenzie, are the very farthest thing from an enemy.”
She touched his chest. “You do fear something, but you keep it locked away, here in your heart.”
She lifted her brows, inviting him to reveal his weakness.
Not for all the world’s riches would Michael bare his soul to her. “Now, my inquisitive one, you may open Mary’s gift.”
“You’re overbearing.”
“You’re just miffed because I asked you to admit your feelings for me.”
With unsteady hands, she untied the string and unwrapped the painting. “Oh, Mary. How could you?”
At her mournful sigh, Michael peered over her shoulder.
In the classic style of her mentor, Joshua Reynolds, Mary had depicted Sarah and a man who could only be the duke of Ross. Sarah’s dress was perfectly detailed, down to the embroidered thistles at the hem and around the daring neckline. Lachlan wore the flashy tartan of the MacKenzies and an elaborate chieftain’s sporran.
Behind them in the painting, a fire blazed in a massive stone hearth, and the room abounded with small details. The toys of her younger siblings littered the floor, and the remains of a meal cluttered a table. It was as if Sarah and her father had been captured in a moment of time.
Above the mantle was a framed picture of a woman wearing a MacKenzie tartan sash. Judging from the old-fashioned dress and ducal coronet, she must be the duke’s mother.
Mary’s skill far surpassed accurate details. Her ability to capture the love and joy shared between father and daughter went beyond that of the great masters.
Sarah’s knuckles were white from gripping the frame, and tears dotted the bodice of her lavender gown.
“Is that your grandmother?” he asked.
She cried harder.
He took the painting from her and let it fall to the carpet. “Why does it trouble you so, Sarah? It’s obvious he loves you. I know you’re stubborn, but you cannot deny his affection. Surely you long to make amends with your family.”
Michael wrapped her in his arms and rubbed her back.
She curled kittenlike against his chest. “You don’t understand.”
“I’d like to.” He discovered that she didn’t wear stays, but Sarah MacKenzie needed no artifice. She needed a friend. Michael gladly took up the role.
In a cheerful voice, he said, “Did the duke crow, ‘Didn’t I say so?’ when you changed your mind about marrying Henry?”
“You sound as if you know him.”
“I’m beginning to. Then he commanded you to come home.”
She sniffed. “He knows better than to command me.
Michael fished out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “Of course he knows better. Or do you truly stay in Edinburgh to escape the best intentions of half of the Highland’s eligible dukes?”
A change came over her; the weakness fell away like a discarded shawl. “Rose said that to Turnbull.”
The coil of her hair formed a golden eddy at the crown of her head. “You are Rose’s favorite topic of conversation.”
“She exaggerated about the peers coming to Tain.”
“Thank goodness. I fair poorly when compared to dukes.”
“Even if he were a prince or a clerk’s apprentice, I do not want a husband.”
“Not Claude DuMonde?”
Now completely alert, she wiped her eyes and sniffed with finality. “How did you know about him?”
Michael thought of another Highlander he’d seen of late. “From the doorman at the inn. He heard it from that streetsweeper, who will take up his broom to defend your honor.”
“That’s Cholly.” She retrieved the painting from the floor and rested its face against the wall. “He knows all of the gossip before it’s spread. I had Notch tell him he could also pick out new shoes.”
“I doubt Cholly rises that early, since he prowls the streets at night.”
She glanced toward the front door and cupped her hand to her ear. “Can you not hear the slide of his broom? That’s him sweeping the stoop, even as we speak.”
The cocky laborer could sweep the rooftops for all Michael cared. Now that he’d helped Sarah master her sorrow, he phrased the question he’d been avoiding. “This Cholly fellow is welcome to come to the Cordiner’s Hall tomorrow. At the moment, I would like to return to a bit of unfinished business between us.”
She looked wary and with good cause.
“I did ask Henry about the reasons for your speedy betrothal. Which brings me to the dreaded question . . .”
“Which is?”
“Why did you propose marriage to him?”
8
That question and the ensuing quarrel still rankled the next day as Sarah stood in the stables and groomed her horse. Michael couldn’t possibly know the truth, could he? He’d been speculating, fishing for confirmation of what he thought was the truth.
But how much of his actions were governed by loyalty? He often admitted that he was a stranger here and new to the problems facing the Elliots. What of his feelings for Sarah? One moment she thought his affections for her were heartfelt. The next moment she named him a knave doing poor service for his older brother.
Most of the time she felt confused. Yet sadness pervaded her uncertainty, because Michael Elliot possessed fine qualities. He’d been quick to take her side against Mayor Fordyce. He’d been quicker to offer immediate aid, in the form of shoes, to the orphans. But those kindnesses did not excuse his joining forces with Lord Henry and Lady Emily against Sarah—not unless he wanted her dowry for himself.
Why did you propose marriage to Henry?
Sarah had spent the night and morning remembering the doubt in Mi
chael’s voice and seeing the anticipation in his eyes. He couldn’t know the reasons behind her promise to the Elliots; even a desperate Henry would not have revealed the details.
Sarah’s dilemma grew, and she must harden her heart to him.
“I’ll have me a horse someday.” Notch sat astride her sidesaddle, which Turnbull had moved to the block the day before.
Sarah had come to the stable to escape troubling thoughts of Michael Elliot. She grasped the diversion Notch offered.
“What kind of horse will you have?” she asked him.
He screwed up his face in disgust and rubbed his thigh. “Not a gelding.”
Rose poked her head out of the next stall where she’d been polishing the new window glass Turnbull had installed. “Watch your tongue in the presence of a lady. We’ll have no vulgarities here.”
Notch eyed her assessingly. He’d long since stopped back-talking Rose, but he still considered a bold retort now and then; the practice of standing up for himself was too ingrained.
In acknowledgment of his good manners, the maid smiled at him. “You’ll be smart enough by that time to know that a mare’s the best, because she’ll make little horses for you.”
He pondered that.
Sarah raked a brush through her horse’s mane, the movement slightly awkward because of the bandage on her hand.
The lad said, “Having little horses is the same as paying her own way, ain’t that it?”
“See, Lady Sarah?” Rose chirped. “Didn’t I say Notch was a bright lad? He’ll be strolling down High Street one of these days, a passel of governors currying after his favors.”
Bursting with pride, he arched his back and jammed his left foot into the dangling stirrup. “She’ll be a sorrel,” he declared. “With a white sun ’twixt her ears and . . .”
Sarah said, “A mouth as soft as summer butter?”
“For a certainty, my lady.” He flapped his legs and jerked on invisible reins. Without the cap and oversized coat, he looked small and endearingly young.
He was also wearing new clothing.
“That’s a nice shirt, Notch,” she said.
