Betrayed

by Arnette Lamb

Her spirits soared. For months her life had been a tangle of uncertainty, but with the help of these people she had made a place for herself, and her future loomed as bright and precious as the golden butterflies. Much of the credit went to Michael Elliot; without him, the orphanage would still be a dream.

  Before his trip to Fife, she had asked him to teach the children world history at her Sunday school. “You remembered the lesson,” she said.

  He dodged the excited children as he moved across the room. “I always keep my promises, Sarah. For you.” He handed her the flowers.

  Overnight he’d changed from the reckless and intimate rogue to the gallant and generous friend. Watching him fend off questions from the others in the room, Sarah admitted that she cared deeply for this beguiling man with his military air and commanding presence.

  Her voice trembled with joy and hope. “Thank you for remembering—everything.”

  Notch stepped between them. “Cholly said you didn’t tarry overlong in returning Lady Sarah to her home last night.”

  Only long enough to capture her heart and soul. And watching Michael and Notch together, she now understood why she often linked them. Neither had experienced parental love. Both of them thrived in spite of it.

  “Lord Michael was testy when we parted,” she said.

  His gaze turned hungry, devouring. “Yes, well . . . after saying good night to you, another brawl with a streetsweeper lost its appeal.”

  A confused Notch scratched his freshly combed hair. “Cholly tells a different tale. He says he decided to spare you a bloody nose and busted ribs, and that was after I told him you gave me ’n’ Pic your word to treat Lady Sarah kindly.”

  Michael laughed, but Sarah suspected a dent to his pride fueled his humor. She knew he was too much the gentleman to continue the subject with the impressionable Notch.

  To aid them both, she put her hand on Notch’s shoulder. “Shall I cut the cake?”

  He nodded, and a rare smile of pure boyishness blossomed on his face. “I’ll get the most butterflies in my slice o’ cake.”

  “I will!” Pic declared, which set off a chorus of declarations from the other children.

  After the cake was served and eaten and the rewards distributed, Michael took Sarah’s arm. Drawing her into the sitting room, he said, “Have you any last-minute advice before I begin the lesson?”

  “Why? Do you think you’ll need it?”

  Michael thought she looked happier than he’d ever seen her, her eyes sparkling with joy and her mouth curled in a constant smile. If she missed having her family present for the occasion of her birthday, she disguised it well.

  Michael tamped down his own trepidation. “My teaching experience begins with absolute obedience and ends with military tactics.”

  She laughed. “Perfect methods for keeping the lads and Sally in line. Just be sure to separate Notch and Pic. Pic is the best reader, and he’s quick to volunteer, but Notch will tease him into silence.”

  She spoke as if she wouldn’t attend the lecture. Troubled by that, Michael said, “Where will you sit?”

  Her expression grew pensive. “I have an errand.”

  “Can it wait?”

  A sigh lifted her shoulders. “Nay. It’s waited for twenty-three years.”

  Raising his brows, he silently encouraged her to explain.

  Blinking away the momentary distraction, she gave him a knowing grin. “There is one thing. You have crumbs on your face.”

  Whatever her serious mission, she would keep it to herself. Michael wanted to protest and offer to accompany her, but she was smiling again.

  He said, “I can think of a very pleasant way of removing crumbs, especially from the lips, but it will require your cooperation.”

  She raised her gaze to the ceiling in mock exasperation. “I’m sure you can. Good luck with the class.”

  When she started to move away, he couldn’t let her go. “How long will you be gone?”

  Pensiveness again captured her. “I do not know.”

  “How will you get there?” He couldn’t offer her the carriage; he’d sent Turnbull to Glenstone Manor to deliver the promised money to Lady Emily.

  “I’ll hire a sedanchair.”

  She returned to the library and took a single rose from the bouquet. Then she spoke quietly to her maid, who nodded in agreement and helped her with her cloak.

  As Michael watched Sarah leave, he felt the room turn decidedly cold. But soon the children demanded his attention, and he spent the next hour explaining the complex cultures and the history of the people of India.

  Disciplining the children proved considerably easier than gleaning Sarah’s destination from Rose. When the maid finally yielded the information, Michael hurried to join her. Twenty minutes later, he stepped from the confining sedanchair that had jostled him incessantly during the journey across Edinburgh. The surly chairman held out his hand for the fare. Michael realized he’d used all of his money to buy back Sarah’s golden butterflies.

  From across the lane, someone called out, “I’ll settle your fare, Elliot. Help the lass.”

  It was Cholly, the streetsweeper. He sat on the ground and leaned against a lamppost, his arms clutching his broom. Something about the laborer’s pose told Michael the man had been there for a while.

  Help the lass.

  Was Sarah in trouble? Fear ripped through him and set his feet into motion. He ran around the sedanchair and raced along the stone wall that surrounded the Hospice of Saint Andrews. Once inside the gate of the ancient structure, he leaped over the trimmed shrubbery and hurdled a stone fence built by masons in the Dark Ages. A flock of greenfinches noisily took flight. Squirrels scrambled into the oak trees.

  Rounding the back corner, he slowed his pace.

  She sat in a small cemetery, her pink dress vivid against the gray stone markers, her dark blue cloak spread out for a pallet. In her hands she held the rose.

  Catching his breath, Michael read the words on the gravestone nearest to her.

  Here lies Sarah’s beloved mother,

  Lilian White,

  Taken by her master on the 20th day of June, 1762.

  Rather than a tribute to the dead, the words were an outpouring of affection from a devoted father to his treasured daughter. Michael decided the duke of Ross was as complex as he was elusive.

  But where was he?

  Glancing over her shoulder, Sarah spied Michael.

  “Have you run all the way?” she asked.

  “No.” He searched her face for signs of distress. Traces of tears still lingered around her eyes, and her nose was red from crying.

  “How did you get here?” she asked. “How did you find me?”

  Too relieved to stand, Michael dropped down beside her. “A sedanchair and Rose.”

  Sarah looked down at the flower in her hand. The stem was now free of thorns; she’d raked them off with her thumbnail. In her words, she’d waited twenty-three years to visit her mother’s grave.

  He glanced again at the marker. “It’s a lovely stone.”

  Setting her jaw, she lifted her face to the wind and breathed through her nose. As he watched, she battled sorrow and won.

  She had told him that her mother died in childbirth, but hearing the words and seeing the grave were two different matters, one emotionally telling and the other deeply touching. Peace had come to Sarah MacKenzie here; she had gained strength sitting by this well-tended grave. Michael could feel her courage.

  “Has something happened at the orphanage?” she asked.

  He held up his hands. “I survived, and without a mark on me.”

  Deep-throated laughter further evidenced the tears she’d shed.

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  She twirled the rose. “She was an orphan from the Virginia colony. Lachlan met her at court.”

  Michael wanted to ask why the duke of Ross hadn’t married Sarah’s mother, but the answer was none of his business. “Do you favor her?”
>
  “When I was young I did.” She sniffed. “But now they say I look like my father.”

  “They?”

  “My Aunt Juliet, she’s Lachlan’s duchess. He agrees.”

  He remembered Sarah’s story of a governess who won the love of a duke. “Where is he, Sarah?”

  She placed the rose on the grave. “I do not know, but I’ll find him, now that I’m ready.”

  A sense of rightness filled Michael. He got to his feet and held out his hand. When her fingers touched his, he lifted her slight weight effortlessly.

  “You must be chilled,” he said.

  “A wee bit.” She shook out her cloak.

  Michael helped her on with it. “The inn’s close by. Will you join me there for a tankard of mulled wine?”

  “Will you give me the painting—free of conditions?”

  Caught off guard by her frankness, Michael paused.

  “And if you preface your answer with ‘yes, well,’ I’ll ignore you.”

  Michael couldn’t remember the last time a woman had been so straightforward with him, but there was only one Sarah MacKenzie. “Do I do that?”

  “Always, when you do not choose to reply.” She threaded her arm through his and started down the path. “Then you change the subject or ask a question yourself. It’s the way you avoid answering troublesome questions.”

  Complimented to his bootflaps, Michael wanted to kiss her then and there, but propriety stopped him. “Since you know me so well, I’ll consider returning the painting to you.”

  She lifted one brow.

  Grudgingly, he said, “Without conditions.”

  “You are kindness itself,” she said, meaning anything but.

  As they exited the hospice grounds, Michael looked for the streetsweeper, but the lane was empty.

  “Who collected the most shillings?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Notch.” She smiled in honest query. “Do I get a shilling?”

  Several benign replies came to mind; Michael discarded all of them. “I had a sweeter reward, of a more personal nature, in mind for you.”

  A blush stained her cheeks. “I can imagine what it is.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “Aha! I told you so.”

  Properly chastened, Michael suppressed the need to defend his conversational habits. Today was Sarah’s day.

  They walked the short distance in companionable silence. Fat pigeons strutted in the lane and pranced on the ledges of buildings. Few merchants opened their shops on Sunday afternoons, and the craft guilds were closed up tight. The wagonways were deserted, and only carriages and sedanchairs shared the lanes.

  The day was comfortably warm; only an occasional cloud cast its moving shadow over the town. Michael had left the customs house in such haste, he’d forgotten his cloak, but he did not miss its warmth. He remembered how chilled he’d been upon arrival in Scotland, and decided his affection for the woman beside him wasn’t the only change in his life since leaving India. The climate of Edinburgh now suited him as well.

  The doorman at the Dragoon Inn hastened to let them inside. Michael halted, temporarily blinded in the darkened room. When his eyes adjusted, he saw that the chairs and benches were upended on the tables and the bar. A scrubmaid sloshed her mop across the worn plank floor. The pungent odor of lye soap permeated the close air.

  Sarah waved her hand in front of her nose. Michael helped her off with her cloak. “Will you join me in my room?”

  Her gaze snapped to his.

  He quickly added, “Just until the maid’s done, and the air is breathable again.”

  “Stop trying to look innocent, Michael Elliot; your boldness spoils the effect.”

  He smiled, and led her toward the stairs. “Seems strange, not having William on the steps to trip over or Notch—”

  “Lord Michael!”

  Turning, Michael saw the owner hurrying toward them.

  He held out a small blue box. “Someone left this for you.”

  Beside him, Sarah gasped. “Who?” she demanded sharply.

  The man shrugged, and as propriety dictated, spoke to Michael although the message was meant for Sarah. “The doorman brought it. Said a stranger gave it to him.”

  “Bring up two tankards of warm wine—straightaway.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Eager to get her away, Michael took the box and ushered her to his rooms.

  Moving up the stairs, Sarah walked on leaden feet. Only moments ago, she had made her personal peace with Lachlan MacKenzie. As if he’d heard her very words, he’d sent the one possession that best symbolized the estrangement between them: the necklace from Neville Smithson. The box and the necklace were a birthday gift from her real father.

  Just as she sat in one of the comfy chairs, Michael handed her the box. “I believe this is yours.”

  Her hand shook as she released the clasp and lifted the lid. Resting on the satin lining was a folded note. Beneath it lay the golden beads, some broken, all unstrung as she had left them. The cruelty of Neville Smithson still ached like a raw wound. She had forgiven Lachlan MacKenzie. His words of explanation and defense rang in her ears. I would not have given you up, Sarah lass.

  She closed the lid.

  “Is it yours?” Michael asked.

  “I do not want it. You take it. Give it away. Throw it in the rubbish bin.”

  “Come now, Sarah. You’re too brave to run away from a piece of paper and a handful of beads. Read the note.”

  The command in his voice startled her.

  A fierce knocking sounded on the door.

  “Read it now.” Michael moved to see who was there, while Sarah opened the box and took out the paper. There, in the duke of Ross’s distinctive hand, were the words

  Come back to us, Sarah lass, for without you, we are as these beads, broken.

  The plaintive note sent tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Michael knelt beside her, a steaming tankard in each hand, his gaze fixed on the note. “I’ll trade you,” he said, a tentative smile beginning to glow in his eyes.

  She exchanged the box for the wine, and as her hands curled around the warm mug, her heartache eased. She had behaved like a coward these last few months, never considering the pain her family suffered.

  And they were her family, the MacKenzies. Their blood did not travel in her veins, but their love dwelled in her heart. She’d spent her life among them, rejoiced at the birth of each new sister and brother, grieved at the loss of dear Virginia.

  At the remembered pain of that tragedy, Sarah knew that her desertion had dealt her family another painful blow. They did not deserve cruelty, not from a prideful woman who’d been raised with love and kindness.

  She choked back a sob.

  The mug was taken from her hand; then Michael lifted her from her chair and pulled her to stand in his embrace.

  “Shush,” he soothed, patting her back and rocking from side to side. “All will be well, Sarah.”

  How could it be? She’d stormed from Rosshaven Castle, too consumed with self-pity to notice the destruction she’d left behind. Her younger siblings wouldn’t understand. Juliet surely blamed herself, and with sinking dread, Sarah knew her stepmother did not carry that burden alone.

  Where was Lachlan?

  “Oh, Michael. I’ve been such a fool.”

  “Impossible. You could never be that.”

  “I’m selfish. Even you said I was spoiled.”

  “I exaggerated. You’re headstrong and determined.”

  “I’m reckless. I’ve hurt them so.”

  He pushed a handkerchief into her hand. “Not apurpose, you didn’t. You haven’t the heart for cruelty, especially to the MacKenzies.”

  “Oh, I do. Pride drove me away from them.”

  “Why?”

  “I felt as if I were in the way. Mary and Agnes were off on adventures. Lottie wed years ago to a man she has loved since childhood. Lachlan and Juliet have another
family.”

  “You thought they didn’t need you.”

  “ ’Twas that and worse. I wanted my own family, and I wouldn’t listen to Papa. He knew Henry was wrong for me.”

  Michael held her at arms’ length. Even through teary eyes, his concern was plain to see.

  “Have you committed murder?” he demanded.

  A yoke of misery weighted her shoulders. “Nay.”

  “Have you compromised the sovereignty of the realm?”

  She took a deep, shaky breath.

  “Have you? Answer me, Sarah.”

  She ducked his gaze. “Nay.”

  “Have you stolen anything other than my heart?”

  15

  Sarah’s pain ebbed, leaving a spark of hope. But she could not address his admission now, for too many things were left undone. Hoping he understood, she said, “I tried to steal the painting.”

  In mock reprimand, he replied, “You’re a wretched failure at thievery.”

  “You’re a knave for taking advantage of the moment. You know I’m too miserable to mount a defense.”

  He grinned like a sailor home from the sea. “Guilty as charged. Why did you ask Henry to marry you?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, she stared at the gold braid on his coat. “You will not believe me. My reasoning will sound too simple, which it truly is. Too much has occurred between us.”

  “Enough has occurred between us for you to know that I am a man who makes up his own mind—when I am afforded the opportunity.”

  His eloquent words answered all of her reservations. “I proposed to Henry because he was the first man with all of his teeth who could even read my stipulations.”

  A smile danced in his eyes. “And he agreed to them.”

  “Yes. You see, I must have money and means of my own. I’m far too—”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Any man who refuses me a voice of my own is—”

  “A fool.” He pulled her to his chest. “You’re better off without him.”

  Like a kindred spirit looking for his match, he melded her to him. His strength of will seeped into her, urging surrender, demanding that she see the truth that was in his heart.

  She languished in his arms and reveled in the feel of his power, for she knew without doubt that Michael Elliot was constant in his desire for her and honorable to his soul. He had not tried to stifle her with arrogant male authority; he had, at almost every turn, employed patience and understanding.