by Arnette Lamb
Love squeezed her chest. “Say something, Papa.”
“Oh, Sarah lass.” He put his hand over hers. “I never thought to hear you address me so again.”
“I’m so sorry, Papa. I’ve brought you nothing but shame and dishonor.”
“Nay, ’tis me who is sorry. I should have come to you yesterday, in the cemetery, but I thought you loved that rounder.”
“She does love me, you interfering fool.”
Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll pay for that, you despicable rake. By God, if Hamish were alive today, he’d help me bring you low.”
“Bring me low? You’re the one who cannot get up.”
Relief sapped Sarah’s strength.
Lachlan tried to rise from the chair.
“Cease this instant,” she said, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him down.
Looking up, she said, “Michael, find a damp cloth. You’ve made a mess of his face. Juliet will never forgive me.”
Lachlan grinned, but winced with the effort. “Elliot’s lost some of his comely looks today, I’ll wager. With that face, he won’t be ruining another lass any time soon.”
“Hush, Papa.”
“That’s right, Ross,” Michael said, touching Sarah’s shoulder in a possessive way. “Because I’ll be marrying Sarah just as soon as she’s tended your battered face.”
“A Stewart will again sit on the throne at Westminster Abbey before I give her to you, you foosty scunner.”
“Sweet Saint Mary,” Michael cursed. “Are all of the MacKenzies as stubborn as the two of you? I wonder why they allow you into civilization at all.”
Michael did want her for his wife. In spite of the spectacle she’d made of herself, and even though she wasn’t of noble blood, he wanted her.
Delightfully happy, she dried her tears and gazed lovingly at the man who had donned tattered clothing and swept streets to watch over her.
Lachlan must have sensed her joy, for he said, “Do you truly want that brawling Elliot for your husband?”
Michael growled a warning. “Much more of that, your grace, and I’ll bar you from the ceremony.”
“Oh, please, stop squabbling,” Sarah begged.
“It’ll take more than a quick left fist to keep me away. But what about the rest of the Elliots?”
The events of the morning came rushing back, and Sarah grew melancholy again. She craned her neck to look up at Michael. “I’m very sorry for the things I said to your mother.”
“I’m sorry for not getting between the two of you sooner than I did. She deserved your wrath. She also sends her apologies to you.”
“You have conveyed her false apologies before—on the day I met you.”
He slapped a hand over his heart. “On my honor, she spoke her regrets to you.”
“Honor,” huffed Lachlan. “What would an Elliot know about honor?”
“Hush, Papa.”
“Why did Lady Emily go to London?”
“To repay Richmond.”
“But how? Mr. Coutts refused her my dowry. Where would she get that amount of money?”
Looking suddenly sheepish, Michael pressed the cloth to his bruised cheek.
Lachlan chuckled. “Will you tell her the truth, Elliot, or shall I?”
Baffled, Sarah glanced from one man to the other. “Tell me what?”
“I gave her the money,” Michael admitted.
“There’s more, Sarah lass, but make the scunner squirm when he tells you all of it.”
“All of what?”
“I made a tidy sum over the years, investing in the East India Company.”
Chuckling, Lachlan said, “To hear our friend, Cameron Cunningham, tell it, the only time Michael Elliot lost a quid in the company was a shipment of tea that set off a rebellion in Boston Harbor.”
Sarah didn’t know whether to admonish him for keeping secrets or fly into his arms. She settled on logic. “All of the money in the world will not free Henry if he doesn’t apologize.”
His expression turned sad. “True.”
“I know Richmond well,” Lachlan said. “He wilna let the slight go, and perhaps New Holland’s the place for Henry. Then the title will pass to you.”
Pride filled Sarah. “He doesn’t want it, Papa. He wants to stand on his own for the House of Commons.”
The duke of Ross flexed the fingers on his right hand, then held it up to Michael. “You’ll need that sort of gumption to manage my Sarah lass.”
She huffed.
Michael helped the duke to his feet. “I do have one question. If you are not her father, who is?”
Lachlan pressed his hands to the small of his back and stretched. “You tell him, Sarah.”
Michael draped an arm over her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “Yes, you tell me.”
Secure in Michael’s love and reunited with the only father she’d ever known, Sarah told him about Neville Smithson.
When Sarah had finished the story, Lachlan cleared his throat. “I’m deeply sorry, Sarah lass, for the way in which I told you.” Sorrow wreathed his face. “But I couldn’t see past the loss. He was my friend.”
More like brothers, folks often said. With that admission, healing came to Sarah. Sensing it, Michael pushed her toward Lachlan, who held out his arms.
She basked in the embrace, a renewal of a lifetime of loving concern.
“Neville would have claimed you Sarah, but I could not let you go.”
A crash sounded behind her.
“Good Lord!” Michael exclaimed. “Who is that?”
Lachlan looked past Sarah, his blackened left eye wide with shock.
Sarah turned around. And groaned.
There on the threshold stood a very angry and extremely dangerous woman. In each of her hands she held a primed pistol.
“Michael,” Sarah chirped. “May I present my sister, Lady Agnes MacKenzie.”
Epilogue
One month later
Sunlight streamed through the vaulted stained-glass windows of Saint Margaret’s Church, casting a brilliant shower of jewel-like colors over the flagged stone floor. Standing in the vestibule, Sarah tilted back her head and gazed up at her husband.
He grinned down at her. “No second thoughts?”
“I’ve given up thinking today. I’m only feeling, and deliriously happy is my watchword for the moment.”
“Good, because Lachlan MacKenzie swears he will not take you back.”
As if she would consider leaving Michael Elliot. “That’s because you broke his nose. Juliet will not stop teasing him. She has the entire family and the population of Tain making fun of him.”
Sudden vulnerability wreathed Michael’s features. “He’s a wonderful father, Sarah. Will you forgive me if I do not succeed as well with our children?”
Love filled her to bursting. “Oh, I think you’ll manage admirably, Michael. Unless you think the MacKenzie brood is perfect.”
His laughter echoed off the ancient walls, mingling with the sound of dozens of conversations going on in the nave of the church. In a few moments, Sarah and Michael would formalize their spoken vows by signing their names in both the Book of the MacKenzies and the family Bible.
“Behold the harmonious Clan MacKenzie.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “Hear them?”
Sarah thrilled at the familiar sound, and if she concentrated she could separate Agnes’s sultry tone from Lottie’s sophisticated speech. Lachlan’s hearty laughter floated above the din as he assumed the role of proud father.
All of the MacKenzies had come to Edinburgh for Sarah’s wedding. Sketchpad in hand, Mary now stood near the altar, preserving the event for generations to come. The tenacious earl of Wiltshire dogged her heels. Notch and the other orphans hadn’t moved more than a step away from Agnes, who drew the young ones to her like sunshine to summer. Since the loss of dear Virginia, watching over children had become her special quest in life.
At the opposite end of the church, in the apse, L
ady Emily conversed with Vicktor Lucerne, who had composed a stirring wedding march for the occasion. Michael’s mother had at last seen Henry for the selfish, prideful man he was. That stubbornness had earned him a sentence of transportation to the penal colony at Botany Bay. Aside from fawning over the young Lucerne, Lady Emily put her efforts into convincing Michael to assume the earldom of Glenforth.
The Smithson family had also descended on Edinburgh for Sarah’s wedding. Clutching Michael’s hand and kneeling before the altar, Sarah had made her peace with Neville. Although she knew she would never truly think of him as her father, he held a special place in her heart.
Other guests, friends of Michael, had come from London and Glasgow. Members of the Complement had hosted a reception the evening before. The arrival of one guest in particular had taken Sarah by surprise. Lord Edward Napier, earl of Cathcart, was considered the most respected statesman and scholar of the day.
“Sarah?” Michael whispered. “Are you my sweetheart?”
A sense of harmony thrummed through her. “I’m your wife.”
Dots of color from the windows played across his noble features. “You did not answer the question.”
Baffled by the request, she murmured. “Yes, I’m your sweetheart.”
“Good. Now close your eyes and cup your hand.”
“Why?”
“Because you husband asks it of you.”
The command in his tone begged for a challenge. “You have an odd way of phrasing a request.”
He made a desperate face. “Please?”
She did, and when his lips touched hers, she felt something cool and heavy fall into her palm.
He pulled back, and looked pointedly at her hand.
She looked there, too, and saw her golden beads, intact and resting in her palm. The irony gripped her, with thoughtfulness and love, Michael had helped her heal the rift with her family. Thanks to him, the MacKenzie family unity, like the necklace, had been restored.
“See?” he said. “Jewels do fall from the sky when I kiss my sweetheart.”
Happier than any woman had a right to be, Sarah threw her arms around him and thanked God and all of His angels for the gift of Michael Elliot’s love.
Books by Arnette Lamb
Highland Rogue
The Betrothal
Border Lord
Border Bride Chieftain
Maiden of Inverness
Hark! The Herald: Holiday of Love Collection
Betrayed
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1995 by Arnette Lamb
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