Betrayed

by Arnette Lamb

  “She didn’t. She mentioned Anne, but tossed it out as faulty recollection. Do you know the woman who travels with Lucerne?”

  13

  Sarah strove for lightness. “Me? I haven’t a dot of musical talent or appreciation, and I assure you, I do not move in the same circles as Vicktor Lucerne. It is an interesting story, though, and I’m delighted that your mother has made a friend.” He couldn’t know how false that statement was; befriending Agnes MacKenzie could spell trouble for Lady Emily.

  “Then the Elliots can count on you for the price of an admission?”

  Removing his outer clothing made him more brazen than ever. Sarah was undaunted. “You’ll pardon me if I decline. I’d sooner toss a handful of shillings down the nearest privy.”

  “What if the proceeds free my brother?”

  That brought up another question. “Does Henry know about the concert?”

  “No. It’s to be a surprise.”

  A comforting bit of information. During his only visit to Rosshaven Castle, Henry was given a lengthy discourse by Lottie on the accomplishments and locations of all of the MacKenzie sisters. Through Lottie’s tales, he knew of Agnes’s unusual vocation and the reason behind it. Pray Lady Emily kept her secret; if Henry learned that Agnes was involved, he’d try to foil her plans, whatever they were.

  A bright spot in the dark tragedy would come later when Sarah shared with Rose the story of Agnes’s friendship with Lady Emily. The maid would laugh herself to tears.

  “Sarah? What will you do if Henry is freed?”

  “I’ll wish him to hell in a hop cart and thank the devil for taking him in.”

  “Come now, are you sure you won’t attend the concert to benefit poor Henry?”

  At his sarcasm, Sarah relaxed a little. She knew the players in the event. Michael did not. “Your brother can rot in King’s Bench Prison for all I care.”

  “Yes, well . . . I’ll make you a trade, Sarah—this painting for the truth. Tell me why you betrothed yourself to hellbound Henry.”

  During one of their many discussions on the subject, Michael had said he believed that marriage to Henry was merely the means to an end for Sarah, the end being her desire to come to Edinburgh. He was off the mark, but even if she told him the truth, he wouldn’t believe her now.

  She snatched up an excuse she thought would pacify him. “Henry agreed to let me build an orphanage in Edinburgh. Many husbands would not have been so generous.”

  “Ah, the infamous stipulations, but I’d hardly describe Henry as generous.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “There’s nothing wrong with a woman looking after her own interests. Your mother was so envious of the document, she added her own conditions to the page, not that they are legally binding, but I suppose you know that.”

  “No, but I’m wildly curious.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What did the countess demand?”

  Sarah couldn’t stop staring at his arms and admiring the way his muscles strained at the fabric of his shirt. Her gaze moved lower, to his lap and the manly bulge in plain view.

  “Care to sit down?”

  At his provocative words, she looked at her hands and returned to the moot subject of Lady Emily’s stipulations. “Your mother demanded the construction of an entire wing of her own at Glenforth Manor and an allowance of one penny greater than mine. I told you she fears being packed off to Fife, and Henry has sworn to move her there. Her life and her friends are here.”

  Michael whistled in mock astonishment. “An inventive excuse, my dear, but not the primary reason you agreed to wed my brother.” He stretched out his long legs, languishing like a dark conqueror among the vanquished.

  “Try again,” he murmured. “And get to the heart of it this time.”

  Unable to stand still, Sarah marched across the room and stood over him. “Wipe that smug look off your face, Michael Elliot. I did not have to go a-begging for a husband, if that is what you want to hear.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Nay, but you insinuated it. And why belabor the point? Why should you give a bent carpenter’s tack why I agreed to wed your brother?”

  Rather than tell her she was a prize even a king would cherish, Michael told her something she already knew. “Because I want you for myself.”

  She folded her arms and huffed beautifully. “So you’ve said before. Forgive me, but with twenty thousand pounds as inducement, I’m sure you’d put me up for sainthood.”

  “Oh, I’d never do that. No one would believe me—not after ten minutes in your company.”

  Her eyes narrowed, the lashes so long they shadowed her cheeks. Even garbed in servant’s clothing, she looked like a princess.

  “You’re lower than a toad’s belly, and since honesty is your watchword tonight, tell me why you’d spend nine thousand pounds to refurbish the orphanage when your brother needs the money to get out of jail.”

  “The answer to that . . .” He let the sentence trail off; interest in Henry was the last subject on his mind. Discussing his finances was the next to last.

  Basking in Sarah’s presence was foremost on his list of pastimes. She was meant to be in firelight. Were her breasts as lush as Mary had depicted, or did Sarah employ artifice?

  “Have you lost the gist of the conversation?” she asked.

  “Not at all. Since you broached the topic of bellies, I should tell you that Mary gave you a nice one. Gently rounded and begging for a man’s touch.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t. You like me, and were it in your power, you’d change my name to Munro or Brodie or some other clan you favor.”

  Her gaze again flitted to his groin. “You know what Shakespeare said about roses and names. ’Tis for certain all of the Elliots smell alike.”

  Her nearness sent his desire soaring, and if she continued to peek at his lap, she’d soon have an eyeful. “Oh, come now. Be merry, Sarah.” Be naked, he silently urged, and wanton in my bed.

  “How can I enjoy myself when you insist on keeping that painting?”

  “You know my terms.” The little general in his breeches knew them, too.

  Arms still folded, she strummed her fingers on her elbows. “How can I keep them straight? They keep changing. First you tell me I can have the painting if I offer you a like-clad substitute. Then you say—”

  “Stop right there.”

  “Why?”

  The squeak in her voice gave her away. Michael pounced on her momentary vulnerability. “I’ll take the substitute over the confession, so long as you are the proxy.”

  “After all that’s happened, you couldn’t possibly want me.”

  “Then your intellect has failed you.” He patted his thigh. “Sit here, and we’ll discuss the intimate details of why I want you and what can be done about it.”

  “Oh, no. I’m perfectly comfortable where I am.” To prove the point, she dropped her arms and gazed about the room, as if she were having a jolly old time.

  The clock struck the hour of 11.

  Sarah started, revealing her true state of mind.

  Michael glanced pointedly toward the bedroom. “There are other locales to be considered.”

  She gave him that huff of disdain. “I assure you, my wits and my scruples haven’t taken a holiday. But you have forgotten your pledge to comport yourself honorably.”

  “Honoring you holds a prominent place on my list of proper comportment.”

  “Honoring me? I’m acquainted with the post of mistress. It’s been offered to me before.”

  Jealousy simmered beneath the surface of his desire. “By whom?”

  She presented him her profile. “If you’re done with tiresome questions, Michael, I’ll take my leave.”

  Not yet, she wouldn’t. “Then I assume you do not kiss and tell?”

  “Where you are concerned, neither kissing nor telling holds any appeal for me.”

  “You lie with as little skill as you burgle. Unless you’ve
changed your mind about acquiring the painting.”

  Raising her bonny blue eyes to the beamed ceiling, she gave life to the term, tiresome. “I won’t be caught at this inn and trapped into marriage over that canvas. And that is precisely what will happen if anyone finds me naked with you in this room.”

  After the fact, perhaps, for once he had Sarah naked in this room, an army of angry fathers wouldn’t stop him from making love to her. “Marriage to one man and a betrothal to another? You are modern, Sarah MacKenzie.”

  Too late she caught the slip of her tongue; the stain of embarrassment blossomed on her cheeks. “You’re a beast, Michael Elliot.”

  “Yes, well . . .” He peered at the carpet through the rolled-up painting. “You are promised to my brother. I’d say that’s tit for tat.”

  Sarah glanced at the exit door. “I’d like to go home now. Will you excuse me?”

  “Not just yet.” He stood the rolled painting on end, his palm resting on the top of it. Whether or not the betrothal stood, a marriage between Henry and Sarah was out of the question, and not just because Michael had sworn to have her. Henry would stay in jail until he apologized publicly to Richmond. That would never happen; Henry had too much pride to humble himself.

  “What else do you wish to discuss?” she asked. “And if you try to forswear the oath you made to Notch, I’ll scream down the inn and have you thrown in jail for a common nuisance.”

  The presence of the magistrate would force an exchange of marriage vows, but reminding her of that logic would only anger her more.

  “There is another matter,” he said. “Obviously you haven’t written to the duke of Ross. Is it because you also cannot find him?”

  Her eyes twinkled with awareness. “Also?”

  “Henry’s solicitor sent a man to both of the duke’s estates. Lachlan MacKenzie is nowhere to be found. Even his enemies do not know his location.”

  “I haven’t an inkling. The comings and goings of the duke of Ross are his own affair, and if you’d met him you’d understand that.”

  “I think it’s odd that he would disappear when one of his flock is in trouble.”

  “I do not need his help to escape the Elliots.”

  “But he’s a family man and a protective father. I doubt he’d ask your permission to act in your best interests.”

  “Then by your own admission, you know he will not stay away for long.”

  “He’s been gone for three months, and his duchess is not concerned.”

  Sarah struggled with the contradictory statement. Lachlan gone three months? That meant he had dropped from sight shortly after penning his last letter to her. She’d wager her fondest memories that Juliet knew exactly where Lachlan was.

  Whatever the outcome, Sarah knew she must make light of the situation. “If Lady Juliet accepts his absence, so should you.”

  “You’re quite right, I’m sure,” Michael said. “My mother and Henry have given up searching for his grace of Ross. Perhaps he is simply waiting them out in a favorite hideaway?”

  Sarah chuckled. “He’s no coward, the duke of Ross, if that is what you are implying. Believe this, Michael, the battle has yet to be struck that Lachlan MacKenzie will run away from.”

  “I’m sure his courage is legend. But where is he? You haven’t a notion. Mary hasn’t a notion. Both of you are being coerced into marrying men you swear you do not want. What concerned father would turn his back on the very children he professes to love? Not to mention spoils beyond redemption.”

  Her stubborn nature roared to life. “I am not spoiled.”

  He laughed and indulged in another piece of candy.

  Sarah was tempted to tell him that she wasn’t Lachlan’s daughter, but intuition told her to save that revelation for the countess of Glenforth.

  Instead, she said, “The duke of Ross cannot be held responsible for the lamentably poor choices of men Mary and I have made.”

  He laughed again, this time so hard his shoulders shook.

  She moved to the door. Like a cat, he lunged to his feet and approached her. Without the waistcoat, his hips and flanks looked lean, almost too narrow to support his broad chest and neck.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said.

  “Why not? Are you afraid you’ll remember how much you like the feel of my arms around you? How you sigh and press your breasts against my chest when I kiss you?”

  She’d heard such bold remarks before, but never from a man who spoke the truth. But Sarah MacKenzie had learned boldness side by side with three sisters who made fool’s play of the courting game. She borrowed and expanded upon one of Mary’s most brilliant rejoinders.

  For effect, Sarah looked him up and down. “The pleasure I took in your embrace is just that—a moment’s enjoyment. Do not glorify it or misconstrue it into a license to paw me again.”

  He went very still, and she had the eeriest feeling she’d underestimated him.

  His gaze rested on the shoulder of her borrowed gown, which again felt scratchy against her skin.

  “Sarah,” he said ominously, his gaze sliding ever upward. When their eyes met, his voice dropped. “The pleasure you took in my embrace is a harbinger of the passion to come between us. We will cherish each other and bestow upon our children the ability to find their own abiding loves. Lie to me now to save your pride if it suits you, but do not lie to yourself.” His words were all the more dangerous because he didn’t move to touch her. His winsome smile intensified Sarah’s confusion, for she felt at once captured by him and freed. “Have you a cloak?” he asked.

  With effort she rose above his seduction. “No.”

  He donned his own cloak and performed the exceedingly romantic gesture of wrapping her in his tartan plaid. Still smiling, he said, “In spite of it all, my dear Sarah, and as regrettable as it is for me to say, you flatter the colors of the Elliot plaid. Hamish would have carried you off without a proper introduction had he seen you in the cloth of our clan.”

  Disarmed, she opened the door. “I’ll return the tartan to you tomorrow.”

  “No, you will not. I’ll see you home.” Commanding both her person and her emotions, he led her down the back stairs and to the stable, avoiding the public spectacle of the common room. The small and unexpected kindness went straight to Sarah’s heart. Holding her arm in gentlemanly fashion, Michael called for the inn’s best carriage.

  As the attendants readied the conveyance, the farrier came forward. “Lord Michael. The streetsweeper, Cholly’s his name, is lying in wait for you in the mews of Carter’s Close. He’s madder’n an Englishman without a bucket o’ gin.”

  Michael looked exasperated. To the stable at large, he said, “Who is this damned Cholly?”

  Sarah had no answer; her mind spun with visions of children and abiding love.

  As he handed her into the carriage and tucked her to his side, Michael murmured, “Why does a bloody streetsweeper champion your causes?”

  The weight of his arm across her shoulders was more than noteworthy, for Sarah knew he was sending her a message: in the game of domination, he would stand as the victor. To her dismay, she was beginning to covet the spoils of the vanquished. “What will you do?” she asked, anticipating the fun he would make of the benign statement.

  “Since I cannot have you at the moment, I’m feeling rather testy. Once I’ve seen you home, I’ll find out if this Cholly is worth the bother.”

  14

  Happy birthday!”

  Stunned, Sarah stopped on the threshold of the customs house.

  Notch, the Odds, William, and Sally jumped into the air. Rose whistled, and Helen Lindsay clapped her hands. John Lindsay, garbed in full Highland regalia, stood in the midst of the chaos, wailing away on the bagpipes.

  Happiness swelled in Sarah’s chest, and tears came to her eyes. Now she knew that Rose had feigned illness this morning. When Sarah had returned from church service, she’d found a note from the fully recovered Rose, saying she’d see Sarah at the cu
stoms house.

  “There’s cake and cider.” Notch took her arm and dragged her down the hall to the library.

  One of the tables was covered with a starched cloth. Upon the bed of white linen sat a cake, a bowl of fresh oranges and cherries, and an enormous bundle of rare white heather. A wave of homesickness washed over Sarah. In harmony with the loneliness beating in her chest, the skirl of the bagpipes ebbed in a slow, whining sound.

  A teary-eyed Rose pulled two handkerchiefs from her wrist bag and gave one to Sarah.

  “Lang mae yer lum reek,” said the smiling maid.

  Good luck was just what Sarah needed. “Thank you, Rose. But how did you manage to get everyone to keep the secret? No one said a word—not even the children.”

  “The children didn’t know until this morning.”

  “Very clever. Did you bake the cake?”

  Striking a sassy pose, Rose chirped, “Who else could?”

  “Mistress Rose says the cake has golden butterflies inside.” William appeared at the maid’s side. “Is it true, Lady Sarah?”

  “Yes, a dozen of them about this big.” She held her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “If your piece of cake has a butterfly inside, Rose will give you a shilling.”

  He frowned. “That much gold’s worth more’n a shilling, ain’t it, Notch?”

  “Aye, the goldsmith at Luckenbooths pays fair prices.”

  These children were strangers to family traditions; mere survival from one day to the next had long occupied their lives. But no more. They now had a home with comfortable beds, food aplenty, and people who cared. Guiding them came natural to Sarah. She addressed their leader. “If you sell the butterflies, what will we put in your cake when your birthday comes?”

  Notch frowned. “Sally’s the only one with a birthday. Right Odd saw her bein’ born.”

  Every time she thought she truly understood them, Sarah faced another surprise.

  “Then each of you shall pick your very own day,” said a familiar authoritative voice. Michael stood in the doorway, a bouquet of roses tucked under his arm. “Happy birthday, Sarah.”