by Arnette Lamb
“They are staying,” Sarah admitted.
“Why?”
“I do not know, but I intend to find out.”
Sarah found Michael alone in the library, examining the new bookshelves.
“A well-conceived room, Sarah.”
“Thank you.”
“You changed the bookbinder’s mind.”
“What?”
“You said he had promised only a few boxes of books. There’s more books here than that.”
“There’s more than one bookbinder in Edinburgh. How do you know the Lindsays?”
“I was raised in Fife, which is where they’re from.”
“Who are they exactly?”
“John is a wheelwright by trade, but in the town of Pittenweem they say he’s a better father. Helen mothers even the goslings. They’ll look after the orphans.”
Sarah had planned to do that; the orphanage was her dream. But Michael held the purse strings, and from the finality in his voice, he’d made up his mind to limit Sarah’s involvement.
She must convince him otherwise. “You’ll still need me to teach the classes and . . . and dozens of other things.” Fear and urgency set her to examining her fingernails.
He rested his hip on the edge of a table and watched. “The Lindsays will live here with the orphans, who need a woman to clean and prepare their food. She’ll tend the children’s cuts and bruises. The Lindsays will help wash their hair and dry their tears.”
Sarah had spoken those words to Mayor Fordyce over dinner at the Dragoon Inn. Michael had remembered her speech. She felt complimented to her shoe buttons.
“Helen will turn their nightmares to sweet dreams, and you will fill their minds with knowledge and defend them to the death.”
“Aye, with all my strength.”
“Because you could have been one of them, or because you are one of them. Which is it?”
Today his charm was in short supply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He patted the table surface beside him in invitation for her to sit down. “You come from a family that makes a farce of Hanoverian loyalty, yet you do not write to them and they do not visit you.”
She strolled across the room and made a show of taking the seat farthest from him. “They have their own concerns.”
“I think you wanted to wed Henry so you could live in Edinburgh.”
“Are we back to that?”
“You feel a part of Auld Reekie because you were born here.”
In some aspects, most particularly her association with the orphanage, Sarah did feel a sense of belonging in Edinburgh. But she hadn’t yet felt comfortable enough in the city to visit her mother’s grave.
But the fact that he tried to second-guess her moved Sarah to stubbornness. “That’s an absurd reason. I could have come here on my own.”
“But you did not know that at the time. I suspect you are braver now than you were in your father’s house, and much braver since your arrival here.”
Whether he was correct or not, Sarah was here to stay. “I’ve managed in Edinburgh.”
“Precisely my point, and it thrills you overmuch. You did not expect to live here as an unmarried woman.”
Thrilled her overmuch? How dare he? “I assure you, vanity had nothing to do with it.”
“Agreed. Rather you are proud of your accomplishments. It’s as plain as is the summer sky. Now tell me why this building has a slate roof.”
Moving the conversation suited her just fine. “I had no choice. For fear of another great fire, the dean of guilds has made masonry roofs a requirement. ’Twas costly.”
Michael didn’t miss her attempt to switch topics. He anticipated the merry conversation to come.
“Don’t you care how much it cost?”
Pushing to his feet, he began to inch closer to her. “Did you squander money?”
“Never have I wasted a shilling.”
“Did you find the best price for the best work?”
She glanced at the door.
He examined the standing lamp.
Evidently satisfied that he would keep a distance, she settled again in the chair. “I asked three craftsman to make offers unbeknownst to one another.”
He had known what her answer would be, but he wanted to see that pride again. Moving closer, he passed the fireplace. A sieve for turning tree pulp to paper rested beside the hearth to dry. He stopped to spin the new world globe. “Which one did you hire?”
“The one in the middle.”
“Well done.” With his index finger, he touched India. “What occurred while I was away?”
“We had some trouble with the flesher who apprenticed Left Odd. I spoke to the magistrate, who fined Mr. Geddes—the flesher—and brought the lad back.”
He paused at a side table that held a box of cork writing sticks and a candle for burning them. “He was cruel to the lad?”
“Aye.” The need to find an exit forgotten, she shifted in the chair. “Geddes provided no cot for Odd, and gave him the spoiled food to eat.”
Four short steps brought Michael to the table where she sat. “How is he now?”
“Unharmed, save his taste for fowl.”
“Fleshing poultry no longer suits him?”
“I doubt it ever did. He’s actually a blessing to his brother. They share the task of raising Sally.”
Michael remembered his own trying time with the girl at Cordiner’s Hall. “A task and then some.”
Sarah stood, glanced at the door, and realized her escape was blocked.
Michael took out the pouch of his favorite candy and offered it to her. As she approached, he said, “Is that why Notch and the others were living on the streets? Because apprentices are often mistreated?”
“Yes.” With her fingertips, she delved into the bag. “Charges must be brought against the craftsmen who take advantage of apprenticeships. They’ll continue to mistreat the children if they are not made to answer for it.”
Michael noticed that her injured thumb had healed without a scar. “I’ll visit the guildmasters and insist that they govern their own.”
“I had planned to do that.” She popped the candy into her mouth and licked the excess sugar from her fingertips.
At her innocently provocative gesture, Michael’s mouth began to water. “They cannot all become wheelwrights under John Lindsay’s tutelage.”
“I doubt Sally has the hands for it.” Sarcasm flavored her words.
Mockery fueled his. “Someone had hands for finding those thistles you ate for breakfast.”
Her head snapped up, and contrariness flickered in her eyes. “You’re overbearing.”
He took another sweet from the bag. “You’re just underprepared for a man who befuddles you.”
Sarah fumed. In the absence of a middle ground, her every answer was either right or wrong with no room for error, especially on personal topics, which formed the core of his interest. He’d cut off her most convenient escape route, but she would not bring attention to it. She recognized his ploy. Now she must combat it. “I am not befuddled. How are the coal mines?”
“Most of them sit idle because of the export tax and other things.”
She took the easy reprieve. “What will you do?”
“To make the mines solvent, a tidy sum must be invested in new equipment and the building of larger transport ships.”
“You’d still have to pay the tax, which is inordinately high.”
“But moving the coal will become more efficient. Added to that, the holds of the ships will accommodate more coal at a greater profit, and fewer men will be required to move it.”
His problem-solving abilities boded well for the orphans he had agreed to tutor. Later, she would remind him of his promise to teach a class in world history. Now she was interested in expressing her own opinion. “Parliament should make better laws. The rich should shoulder more of the burdens.”
“One battle at a time, Sarah. Do not think the coalmas
ters are above exploiting their own labor.”
“Some are of the opinion that a good and laborious collier can earn eighteen shillings a week.”
“How do you know that?”
Thoughts of escaping the room fled; Sarah had the upper hand. “I took supper at Trotter’s once, and the gentlemen in the next salon spoke loudly on the subject all evening.”
He toyed with the pouch of candy, but his mind was elsewhere. “When did you dine there?”
At his too-casual tone, she grew careful. “In happier times.”
“Before you met the Elliots.”
“After I should have known better.”
“Henry took you there prior to the betrothal.”
“Yes.”
“And you spent the evening listening to the conversation of others?”
“Yes. Your brother’s ability to discourse on more important matters leaves much to be desired.”
“Then why did you agree to wed him?”
Checkmate, he could have said, so quickly did her anger flare. Discussing Henry was not on her agenda for today; financial matters concerning the orphanage demanded all of her attention.
He was surprised when she asked, “What will you do about the mines and where will you look for the financing?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He also wasn’t willing to reveal the source for financing the modernization of the Elliot estate. Like most men, he probably thought her incapable of grasping the subject.
Hoping for the best, she said, “I may have underestimated what the orphanage will need. The roof was an unexpected expense, and the grocers’ contribution was a sorry one.”
“Helen admired the greensward across the way. She talked of planting a garden there.”
“So did I, but the owner also admires his property. Only a crop of tobacco will meet his price, and land farther afield from the customs house is impractical.”
“We’ll find a spot Did you write to your father?”
She stood and gave him her best “move aside” glare, but the look in his eyes said he knew the answer.
Mortification gripped her. Mary had followed through on her promise. “Where is the painting?”
“In a private place.”
Sarah, naked for him to see. No, not Sarah, just her face on the body of an unclothed woman. Still, the implication staggered her sense of morality. “You cannot consider it yours.”
His gaze turned hungry. “Oh, but I can. Mary sent it expressly to me—at no small expense to herself. A guard, in the person of the earl of Wiltshire, accompanied it. He returned to London as soon as I arrived to take possession of the gift.”
“Has he seen it? Has anyone else seen it?”
“I’m not so modern as to allow that, Sarah MacKenzie.”
She did feel provincial, but she was also curious. Believing that he had no desire to display it before others, Sarah relaxed. “Does it look like me?”
“The freckles are puzzling, considering where they are.”
“No,” was all she could manage.
“No?” He said coyly. “Would that be ‘no,’ you don’t have freckles, or ‘no,’ Mary wouldn’t be so wicked?”
She felt as if she were facing an unrepentant orphan. Speaking slowly and concisely, she asked, “Did she paint freckles on me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll kill her.”
“I’m sure you will, especially after you see the scar.”
Sarah pounded the table top. “Mary also gave me a scar?”
“A rather intriguing one.” He stepped close and touched her temple. “The mark begins here.” His index finger drifted down her cheek and jaw to the sensitive skin above her collar bone. “It continues . . .”
She slapped her hand over his to halt its lustful journey. “To where? Where does it end?”
Mock mortification lent him a rakish air. “Only a husband would say the words to a wife.”
“The devil with tender sensibilities,” she spat. “To where does the scar extend?”
He shook his head slowly and in reproach. “The tail of the mark is shamelessly placed, and I wouldn’t dare name specific body parts to a maiden.”
Vengeful anger filled her. “I’ll shout every one of her secrets from atop the bastions of Tain.”
“Not from London Bridge? Her detractors are there.”
But the ghastly portrait was here in Edinburgh. “You will give me the painting.”
“Only after I’ve ascertained if the replacement in my bed is authentic.”
She’d get the painting, even if she had to don a robber’s clothing and steal into the Dragoon Inn. “Do you sleep with a painting?”
“Only when I’m deprived of the original.”
“Only an Elliot would make such a vulgar statement.”
“Yes, well . . .” His lips pursed in an overdone and unconvincing apology. “As long as you stand me apart for another’s doing, you see me through narrow eyes. At that insulting treatment, even a villain will cry foul. I’m no villain, Sarah.”
His weak based logic begged for a challenge, and she was happy to offer it. “In addition to the wickedness of Mary MacKenzie, we stand at odds on a matter of great import to me.”
“Whether or not my family should have your dowry.”
“Aye.”
“Yet you have not asked my opinion.”
“Your opinion?” She laughed. “You obviously believe it belongs to them.”
“No. I think it belongs to your husband.”
Her independent nature rebelled. “It belongs to me! Lachlan MacKenzie knew that I would not waste the money. That is why he entrusted it to me.”
Michael was not convinced; she could see the disagreement in his eyes. Sarah braced herself for the argument to come.
“Your father wisely doubted both my brother’s ability to husband you and your faculties to see that he was a poor choice.”
Had Lachlan? Probably, she had to admit. But that did not exonerate Michael for demanding Sarah’s dowry at their first meeting. “If you oppose your family, then why concern yourself with a woman they obviously despise?”
His remarkably pointed look made her blush.
“Well done, Sarah MacKenzie,” he said with too much drama. “I feared your powers of observation had taken a holiday. I can see they have not.”
Clever missed the mark; Michael Elliot could twist a death threat into innuendo. But he had made the mistake of disparaging the MacKenzies.
Sarah fell back on the argument she’d prepared. “Take your approval and give to the French. You couldn’t see a dung wagon even if it were beneath your Elliot nose.”
Her plan worked, and he looked wonderfully befuddled for it.
At length, he said, “Why does it occur to me that our quarrel has little to do with Henry Elliot or your dowry?”
“Because you are a man, and as such you think your beliefs are sacrament. Your kind looks for enemies, and you strike battles in the name of bruised pride.”
“At least men do not make war over an invitation misplaced. Nor do we condemn our kind overlong for a sharp word spoken when tempers are high.”
Twisting a conversation fell short of the mark; he’d braided that reply, and all of her responses favored his convictions. “You make women sound shallow of mind.”
“Most are, for they have never been privy to the greater issues.”
“Matters like war and capture and weapons of destruction?”
His honor righteously engaged, he grew aggressive. “Might prevails in this world.”
“A world you men have governed poorly and over squabbles.”
“Squabbles?” He was so distraught, he began walking in an ever-closing circle. “Oh, I’d say the loss of the American colonies was more than a squabble.”
So, he thought to win with one of his “greater issues.” Sarah jumped into the fray. “Not at the start.”
“It was about the breaking of the law.”
“Laws must be made.”
“Made fairly.”
He frowned and shook his head, as if to clear it. “Do you believe we should have let the colonies go?”
“I believe we should have let them grow.”
“Grow? What logic is that?”
She almost said “simple logic,” but knew what he’d make of that. “They are our seeds. If we tend them they will make nothing new of themselves. They will be as us in another time and place and our squabbles will become their quarrels.”
“They will squabble among themselves, just as the Highland Scots do.”
He knew the remark was unfair, but before he could speak, she said, “Perhaps. But perhaps not. What if we treated them with respect? If the smallest part of what I’ve read is true about the strength and ability of colonial females, my gender will bring another voice to the squabbles of colonial men.”
“I pray my American brethren are up to the task.”
“Mock me while you can, Michael Elliot. Your gender is in decline.”
He laughed, but affection fueled his mirth. “I think I should surrender now.”
She pounced on his retreat. “Agreed, and for spoils, I’ll demand the money to buy a team of horses and a wagon for the orphanage.”
“Why?”
“A wheelwright, which you claim John Lindsay is, and his apprentices need a wagon.”
“The wagon is not a necessary tool to make the wheel.”
The finality in his voice sparked her ire. The arrogant swine. How dare he come here, boast of having that obscene painting, and not even try to kiss her? He’d touched her with easy familiarity when describing that scar on the portrait, but his seduction had stopped with a touch. What lovers’ game did he play now?
Having no answer, she took the long path to the door and silently wagered her new quills that he’d demand to know where she was going.
“Where are you going?”
She smiled broadly, rewarding herself because he couldn’t see her face. “To watch the laundry dry.”
“Sarah.”
The entreaty in his voice was also expected. Now he would play the apologetic swain; then he would try to kiss her.
She opened the door.
“Sarah!”
Just as she predicted, his commanding nature took the fore. He was just like other men she’d allowed to court her. Once they’d exhausted their cache of sweet words, they resorted to domination.
