by Arnette Lamb
Hoping to give her a little time to settle down, he moved to the door. “I’ll only be a moment.”
To his astonishment, she preceded him into the sitting room and marched up to his mother.
“An admirable performance, Lady Emily,” she said. “But I’m not fooled.”
“Fooled?” his mother said, looking Sarah up and down. “Ha! I should have expected low behavior from a Highland by-blow.”
“Then I have news for you. The duke of Ross is not my father. He only took me in when my own father would not.”
Michael could only stare, wondering how many more shocks awaited him. Was this the payment for a blissful night of love?
His mother’s gaze darted from him to Sarah.
At length, Lady Emily said, “I had hoped for better for Michael, but there’s nothing else to be done about it now.”
“Hoped for better?” Sarah challenged. “You’ve treated him abominably, and that’s when you even thought of him at all. Henry is all you care about. Michael was only a babe, and you left him in Fife for the Lindsays to raise.”
Stiff with indignation, his mother stared at her own hands. “He’ll be allowed to wed you, but not for fifteen thousand pounds.” Looking up, she drilled Sarah with a steely gaze. “We’ll need thirty thousand pounds if you expect Michael to marry you—a corn-commoner.”
Sarah crossed her arms and huffed. “There is no dowry; I am not Lachlan MacKenzie’s daughter.”
“When did that truth come out?” Lady Emily asked.
“I was told of my parentage on the day before I arrived in Edinburgh.”
Michael believed her, and he now knew why she had refused any communication with Lachlan MacKenzie. She’d been hurt and confused.
“The duke of Ross signed the betrothal,” his mother argued. “I’ve a writ authorizing release of the funds you deposited in Mr. Coutts’s bank.”
“Are you daft?” Sarah’s voice rose. “I’ve read the law, and you cannot claim my dowry. No court will find in your favor.”
At that revelation, his mother’s demeanor changed. Tense with stubborn pride, she said, “I doubt we’ll need it. I’ve arranged for the great Lucerne to perform a concert here. The admissions will free Henry.”
Sarah’s temper cooled to simmering scorn. “The arrangements you speak of, were they made with a noblewoman you met in London? The one with the pink jade necklace and the Oriental maid?”
Suspicion pinched Lady Emily’s face. “What about her?”
“She happens to be Agnes MacKenzie. We were raised as sisters, and she is a true daughter of the duke of Ross.”
Michael cursed.
“Nonsense.”
Through gritted teeth, Sarah said, “Listen to me, Lady Emily. If you ever again accuse me of speaking nonsense, I’ll yank off your wig and toss it in the nearest slop bucket. I do not speak nonsense!”
Seeing her hopes of freeing Henry dashed, Lady Emily softened her tone. “I doubt that woman is your sister, but even if she is, you have no right to interfere in the plans for my concert.”
Michael felt as if he’d stepped into a nightmare.
But Sarah wasn’t done. “Don’t you see, you thickheaded Elliot? Agnes approached you. She probably pinched your purse herself. Agnes MacKenzie bamboozled you in retaliation for the wretched way you’ve treated me.”
“How do you know? Unless you put her up to it?”
“Has the word loyalty ever entered your limited vocabulary?”
“If what you say is true, and she’s not really your sister, why would she be loyal to you?”
Sarah threw up her hands and stomped from the room.
Michael opened the exit door and shouted at his mother. “Out!”
Sputtering in disbelief, she planted her feet. “No. You cannot order me out. I let Henry throw away his life. I will not allow you to do the same.”
Frustrated to the point of rage, Michael slammed the door and began to pace.
“If it takes all of my strength,” she went on, “I’ll keep you from those wretched gaming houses. You’ll not go dallying off to London whenever the mood strikes you.”
“Mother!” he wailed in frustration.
“You will make something of yourself.”
Balling his fist, he pounded the mantel. The clock banged, and his collection of boxes tumbled to the floor. “I have already made something of myself, Mother. You would know that had you bothered to ask.”
Caught up in giving edicts, she didn’t hear. “No matter what Lady Sarah says, you must believe that I never wanted to send you to Fife. ’Twas your father’s doing. He forbade me to ‘coddle another of his sons,’ as he put it. I was only six and ten when you were conceived and too naive to challenge my husband.”
Sweet Lord. She’d been no more than a child when she’d given birth to Henry. A child raising a child. Why had Michael never known her age?
Because his earliest memories were those of a five- or six-year-old boy, riding his pony for his snowyhaired father and demonstrating his skill with a bow and arrow. Lady Emily had been a small shadow on the edge of the images, or not there at all.
“No packing off your children to Fife,” his mother declared. “We’ll raise them here.”
“Raise my children? I must beget them first!”
Her face blushed crimson and she glanced at the bedroom door. Catching his own absurdity, he struggled for control of his anger.
“Mother,” he began patiently. “I love Sarah MacKenzie, and I intend to make her my wife. But if you do not leave before she gets on her clothes and marches through that door, there will be no marriage.”
Lady Emily’s expression smoothed out. “Of course she’ll wed you. You have the Elliot good looks. You haven’t been ruined with gaming, and with her temper, she’s more than a match for you. You’re like your grandfather, you know. All domineering and have-it-your-way—”
“Mother!”
“Oh, Michael. Do not bluster so. She cannot possibly dress herself alone.”
On that erroneous declaration, the bedroom door swung open. Righteously angry, a still-disheveled Sarah burst into the room.
“I told you so,” his mother whined. “Her dress is hooked all wrong. Just look at her hair. She’ll need some work before we summon the parson to marry you.”
“Marry us?” Sarah chortled with glee. “Never. I’ve had enough of the Elliots.”
“What else is there to do?”
“I’ll show you.” Head held high, her hastily done up hair falling around her shoulders, Sarah headed for the door.
“Stop,” Michael snapped in his general’s voice.
Deaf to his words and blind to all but her escape, she didn’t break stride.
“One more step, Sarah MacKenzie, and I’ll drag you back.”
She huffed, tucked her slippers under her arm, and grasped the handle.
“I mean it, Sarah.” Michael ran to the door and threw the bolt. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Her foot slammed into his shin.
She winced. “Open that bloody door.”
Hobbling himself, he grasped her arm and pulled her back. Facing his mother, he said, “Out!”
Agog, the countess stared at Sarah. “You will not hurt her—above ruination.”
Sarah quivered with rage and spat, “Ruination? You’re just afraid he’ll damage the goods.”
His mother stepped back. “I never truly disliked you, Sarah MacKenzie.”
Sarah wilted in mock relief. “You cannot fathom how happy that makes me feel. You’re a selfish and cruel woman who wouldn’t know like or dislike if they crawled under your silly dusted wig.”
Unreality gripped Michael.
Drawing herself up, Lady Emily said, “You insisted Henry send me to Fife.”
“That’s a wretched lie. Henry hardly mentioned you. Henry never talked about anyone except Henry.”
Michael felt as if he had a pair of angry Bengal tigers on his hands.
&n
bsp; His mother spat, “You only saw Henry three times before you sent that agreement.”
“Then four must be my lucky number,” Sarah railed. “I rue the day I set eyes on your son.” She glared up at Michael. “Sons! Let me go.”
He tightened his grip. “Calm down, Sarah. You’re not truly angry with me.”
“Then you’re as daft as she is. You seduced me and arranged for her to find us together. Now get your hand off my arm. I’m leaving.”
His mother moved toward the door. “No. Someone must fetch the clergy. I’ll be the one to go.”
Michael pushed Sarah behind him. “Yes, Mother, you will leave, but Sarah and I will notify the church.”
The moment he unlatched the door, Sarah shoved him back and darted into the hall. Lady Emily went after her. In his haste to get to the door, he almost knocked his mother down.
When he at last set her aside and moved into the hall, he stopped in his tracks.
William, Turnbull, the Odds, and the blustering magistrate stood on the landing.
With Notch on her heels and the maid Rose at her side, Sarah ran out of the inn.
* * *
Tears of shame and regret streamed down Sarah’s cheeks and mingled with the water in her bath. Michael’s arresting and masculine odor lingered around her, and no matter how many times she lathered her skin or how much fragrance she poured into the water, she could not obliterate the heady smell of him.
Just as his scent stayed with her, so did the memories of his loving fill her mind. She shivered and slipped deeper into the tub.
Not only had she betrayed the MacKenzie family love and loyalty, she’d ruined any chance for a loving marriage or a respected life in Edinburgh. She would be branded a wanton and deemed unfit to supervise the orphanage. Her pride and stubbornness had led to her own downfall and seduction.
Outside, the bells of Saint Giles chimed the meridian. As soon as she mastered her emotions over the disastrous encounter with Lady Emily, Sarah intended to pen the brief that would negate the Elliots’ attempt to steal her dowry. But how could she concentrate on rescuing money from the bank when she couldn’t stop crying? Burying her face in her hands, she gave way to the agony and sobbed. Why anyone ever named her Sensible Sarah, she did not know. Foolish Sarah better suited her actions of the last six months.
But the folly of the night before made pettiness of her other mistakes. She had given her heart to Michael, and when she most needed his support, he had behaved in true Elliot form.
Her stomach soured when she recalled the insults and lies his mother had told. But Sarah’s own outrageous behavior stunned her more. Wearing only a man’s robe and coming straight from a bed of sinful pleasures, she had flaunted her sin and railed at the city’s biggest gossip.
What had she been thinking? She hadn’t; Michael and their shared passion had wiped out all sense of propriety.
Even knowing the truth, Sarah couldn’t help wishing she were wrong. Her heart ached at the memory of his loving declaration and her own yielding response.
Had he meant those words of affection? Had his vow of love been true?
Perhaps, but no man would willingly take a shrew for his lifelong mate.
The pain of loss and disappointment stabbed like a knife, and she clutched her belly, hoping to soothe the ache. She remembered the feel of his hands caressing her, his mouth tasting her in places that couldn’t be named outside the marriage bed.
The marriage bed. She cried harder. In the light of day, their glorious hours of passion seemed like a nightmare. Word of the entire wretched affair would spread like the plague.
Sarah, discovered in Michael Elliot’s bed. Sarah, screaming like a fishwife at the countess of Glenforth. Sarah, in complete disarray, dashing from inn to carriage. Sarah, the topic of conversation in every gin shop and drawing room.
Lachlan MacKenzie would suffer for her dishonor. Just when she’d made peace with her past, she’d wrecked her future. Even if Michael forgave her, Sarah couldn’t forgive herself.
Bold and reckless. She was all of those things and more. The need to run away drove her to finish her bath and dress. In the quiet confines of the bedroom, she ordered her thoughts and penned a rebuttal to the Elliots’ claim on the money she’d deposited in the Bank of Edinburgh.
Fighting back another bout of shame, she ordered a carriage. But when she arrived at the bank, she discovered that Lady Emily had not presented a writ, but Mr. Coutts assured Sarah that he would not have released the money if he had received such a paper.
From a clerk, she learned that Lady Emily had left on a hastily arranged trip to London. Word of Sarah’s downfall was on its way to the Court of Saint James.
Too distraught for any company other than her own, she returned home and began the letters of explanation and apology to her family.
Sometime later, Rose burst through the door. “Come quick, Lady Sarah. Notch says Cholly and the general are fighting in Pearson’s Close over what happened last night.”
* * *
As if the hounds of hell were on her heels, Sarah raced through the streets of Edinburgh. She couldn’t bear the thought of Michael disgracing himself in a public brawl, not when she was the cause. And the streetsweeper. What had moved the stranger, Cholly, to rise in her defense? His misplaced gallantry would land him in Tolbooth, for the magistrate was duty-bound to bring down the law on any common laborer who attacked a member of nobility. For Cholly’s plight, too, she felt remorse.
At the corner of High Street and Pearson’s Close, she encountered the fringe of the crowd that had gathered for the occasion.
“Ten quid more on the streetsweeper,” someone called out. “He’s busted the general’s lip.”
“And why not? The general called him a meddling old fool.”
“Only after Cholly said the general was a toad-kissing Lowlander.”
“My money’s on the general. He’s too quick for the likes of ol’ Cholly.”
“Open your eyes, man. Cholly ain’t old.”
Feeling more ashamed with every step, Sarah elbowed her way through the crowd of cheering onlookers. She spied Notch and his friends across the way. From atop the shoulders of Right Odd, Sally stared, eyes agog, at the spectacle.
Hemmed in by the jeering throng, the two men were locked in combat. Michael was facing in her direction, but Cholly’s broad back blocked her view. Michael feinted left to dodge a blow.
Now that he was in full view, Sarah looked for injuries. Blood from his cut lip stained his white neckcloth. His waistcoat and breeches were soiled and torn. A swelling high on his cheek made his fierce countenance all the more menacing. Her heart tripped fast with worry. What if he were permanently lamed or killed? That outcome was certainly possible, for his opponent was obviously skilled with his fists.
Without the blanket cape, the streetsweeper did look younger to Sarah. His back was broad, and his dull, unkempt hair gave proof of his lowly station in life. Did his face bear the marks of the fight? If he turned to face her, she’d have her answer.
His teeth gritted, Michael came on with a flurry of punches. She winced, knowing his opponent would suffer a black eye from the ferocious blows.
“Eh, mates,” the man beside Sarah shouted. “Lady Sarah’s come to watch.”
Cholly roared a common Scottish curse and drew back his fist. Michael ducked, but the next punch caught him square on the chin. His head snapped back. He staggered. Seizing the moment, the street-sweeper crouched and charged like an angry bull, forcing Michael into a door. Wood splintered and the door gave way. Locked in combat, the men disappeared over the threshold.
Before the crowd could close in, Sarah dashed after the fighting men. Once inside the darkened space, she grasped the door, which hung crookedly on its hinges.
“Get back, all of you!” she yelled.
A reply came in the form of boos and protests.
Crashing noises sounded behind her. The nearest spectators craned their necks to get a peek
at the ongoing fray.
Sarah was just as determined to end it, and from the frenzied expressions on the faces of the crowd, none of them would help her. They were strangers.
She sighted Notch. “Get the magistrate,” she screamed. “And find Turnbull.”
Bless the lad, he nodded and dashed away.
Putting her shoulder into the damaged door, she wrestled at getting it back into the jamb. The sprung hinges protested. Sarah would not be denied. With a last push, the door fell into place. She slammed the bolt home.
Grunts and hisses filled the air. Pottery exploded to the floor. Whirling, she searched the dimly lit room. The shutters were drawn, allowing only bars of sunlight to penetrate the shadowy space.
“Michael! Stop it!” she yelled.
Another, louder grunt sounded. Other noises followed.
Desperate, she moved to the shutters and threw them open. The furnishings took shape; she saw a tapestry fire screen, and on a marquetry table, an array of pipes and a tobacco jar. She had a moment to notice the familiar items just before the brawling men careened into the smoking stand.
Clutching the streetsweeper’s shoulders, Michael yanked him up off the floor and threw him into a chair. Light fell on the man’s face, and she recognized him. Lachlan MacKenzie.
“Papa!” she screamed.
Drawing in a breath, he turned to her. In that moment, Michael’s fist crashed into his face.
“Michael!” She ran across the room and grabbed his arm. “Please stop. You must stop. Get away from him.”
Dazed, his chest heaving, his hands still knotted for battle, Michael shook his head.
Tugging on his arm, she said, “You’re going to kill the duke of Ross. That’s no streetsweeper. He’s Lachlan MacKenzie.”
Blinking, struggling for breath, Michael finally noticed her. “What did you say?”
She dropped to the floor beside the chair containing a very still duke of Ross. “He’s Lachlan MacKenzie.”
To her astonishment, Michael threw back his head and laughed.
The duke groaned and lifted a hand to his bruised cheek. “Sarah lass?” he said, in a groggy voice.
“I’m here, Papa,” she crooned, pushing his hair out of his eyes and searching for a life-stealing injury. But tears blurred her vision. Lachlan MacKenzie had been in Edinburgh for months. In the guise of streetsweeper, he’d watched over her.
