by Karen Ranney
The door to the carriage abruptly opened.
“What in the name of all bloody hell are you doing here? I nearly killed you, you daft woman! Have you no sense?”
She stared at Douglas, incapable of responding. All she could do was take in the sight of him, covered in soot, his black hair sticking up in spikes, his face covered by dust. His white shirt was ripped, and there was a bloody scratch on his right cheek.
Her heart was beginning to beat again, expanding from the shrunken, shriveled little mass it had been for the past thirty minutes.
She flew out of the carriage and advanced on him like a demon, beating him with her hands, hitting that beautiful chest with her clenched fists, so furious, so enraged that she didn’t care what she was saying. Nor did she give a flying farthing that people’s attention was no longer on the blaze but on her—Lady Sarah Eston having a fit.
“You blew yourself up, you bloody daft man,” she screamed.
“Sarah!”
He grabbed her wrists with both hands and held them away from him.
“You could have died! You could have died!”
“I had all I could think of without you being in the mix,” he shouted. “I could have killed you, Sarah Eston. Did you never think of that?”
She lowered her head, her rage passing, but slowly. Several long minutes passed while she strained to regain her composure. He released her wrists, and she stepped back, still breathing heavily.
“Ah, love, I could have hurt you,” he said softly.
She looked up at him. “You sound very Scottish,” she said. “Why is that?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, in full view of anyone who chose to look in their direction, he pinned her up against the side of the carriage and kissed her—gloriously, wondrously. All she could do was hold on to him and moan when he deepened the kiss.
She slid her hands across his chest, reached out to grab his shoulders, then smoothed her palms down his arms. She wanted to feel all of him, to reassure herself that he was actually there. He wasn’t a figment of her desperate imagination. This wasn’t a dream in which she was given her greatest desire. He was actually there, holding her, kissing her.
“Bloody daft woman,” he murmured against her lips.
“Bloody daft man,” she said. “You blew yourself up.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have if I’d known you were coming.”
She pulled back and looked at him, her hands flat against his chest. He was so precious to her and so very angry. She was just as angry. Let him be enraged. Let them both be furious, as long as he was alive.
“I could have hurt you, Sarah,” he said softly, both hands touching her face. His fingers danced along her cheekbones, then threaded into the hair at her temples. His palms were rough against her cheeks, but she wouldn’t have moved for anything.
“You were in danger, and I never knew,” he said.
Her hands reached out and clasped his wrists. “I couldn’t just let him keep you there, Douglas. I had to do something.”
He shook his head. “You’re a Tulloch,” he said. “For all that you’re the daughter of a duke.”
The duke. She’d completely forgotten. She remembered seeing him being carried between Tim and Alano, then couldn’t recall anything about him.
“Did he survive?”
“The blast? He did. Unfortunately, part of the wall fell on him. I believe he has a broken arm, from what Alano says.”
“And Simons?”
“He and I both made it to the second floor before the explosion.”
At that moment, Douglas decided to kiss her again, so she couldn’t possibly concentrate on Simons’s fate.
A kiss or two later, she remembered something else and pulled back, staring into his shadowed face intently.
“Why do you want to end our marriage?” she asked.
Instead of answering her, he entered the carriage and pulled her in behind him. On another day, she would tell him that such actions were not those of a gentleman, and he would write the information in his journal. For now, she tumbled onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He chuckled and pulled her closer, hugging her so tightly that she could feel his heart beat against her breast.
He spoke softly against her temple. “I would never let you go, Sarah,” he said. “It was your father who threatened me with the dissolution of the marriage if I didn’t produce his diamonds.”
She slapped against his shoulder, pushing back so she could stare into his face.
“He has no right! How dare he even threaten such a thing!”
“He has no rights,” Douglas said, “but I didn’t discover that until I inquired of my solicitor.” It was his turn to study her face. “Did you follow me?”
“I was trying to find where you disappeared. I thought you’d decided not to be married anymore.”
He pulled her closer as if to admonish her for such a thought.
“I actually went to try to negotiate with your father. I was going to give him all the small diamonds I had in return for the agreement we signed. I wanted him out of our lives. Unfortunately, I never got the chance.”
She stared at him. “I don’t think he’s my father,” she said, realizing that she hadn’t told him. “I may not even be Lady Sarah.” She explained what she knew about her mother and Michael Tulloch.
He was quiet when she finished.
“Would your life change all that much?” he finally said. “If you discovered it was true, and you were Michael’s daughter?”
She glanced at him, surprised. “It would explain why the duke has always disliked me. But I wouldn’t feel right living at Chavensworth.”
“You, of all people, have earned Chavensworth. I’ve never seen anyone work so hard or be responsible for so much.”
She sat back, a little overwhelmed by his praise. She’d never known he felt that way about her.
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or the grief she’d already endured, but she looked at him, hiding nothing. “My dearest love, will you please give up those horrible diamonds? I cannot endure another hour of thinking you gone.”
He didn’t speak, only placed his hand against her cheek, searching her face.
“I didn’t think you would ever say that to me,” he said softly. “Dearest love?”
“My very dearest,” she said softly. “Dearling.”
He brushed her chin with his fingers, traced the line of her jaw, trailed them over her lips. “I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. The moment you leveled that disdainful glance in my direction, and I saw the fear in your eyes. I thought you brave before, but now I know how much courage is in your heart.”
He leaned over and kissed her and, for a delightful few moments, conversation was simply unnecessary.
When he drew back, she slid her hands up to link them behind his neck and leaned forward, placing her cheek gently against his wounded cheek.
“I was so worried,” she said. She’d been grief-stricken, like the woman in the mirror. She pushed that thought from her mind, in favor of curiosity. She pulled back. “Did you cause the explosion on purpose?”
He smiled. “Actually? I planned to blow off the door, not the entire house. If Simons hadn’t decided to release me, I might have been scattered from here to Scotland.”
“Good for Simons,” she said. “Perhaps we can find a position for him somewhere.”
“I think I’ll offer him a position as majordomo,” he said, surprising her. “He can either educate Paulson or replace him. Either way, Alano will be happy.”
She chuckled and placed her hand against his chest, over his heart, feeling it beat strongly. At this moment, this perfect moment covered in soot and dust, and breathing the scent of fire, Lady Sarah Eston was the happiest she’d ever been.
Chapter 33
Sarah was in the library, in a special area she’d created on the second floor behind the book stacks, when Douglas entered and called out her name
.
She stood and came to the railing, looking down at Douglas. His hair was windblown, his jacket askew. It must have been raining; his hair was damp and his shirt dotted with moisture.
Dear God, please don’t let the Duke of Herridge have issued another edict. He’d been driving everyone mad with his demands. He wanted his toast in a certain way; he demanded to know the name of the young girl who was nearly rude to him this morning. His mattress needed to be shifted, he wanted the Duke’s Suite painted, and he hadn’t liked anything Cook had prepared during the last month.
He had even grumbled about the distribution of the Henley Gift, funded entirely by Douglas, of course. He’d been such a disruptive presence that most of the staff had turned and frowned at him. Blessedly, he’d left shortly thereafter, and the gathering had turned into a well-deserved celebration.
The Duke of Herridge had not been in residence for a great many years, and from what she’d witnessed, the staff of Chavensworth wished he’d remained in London. But with his house destroyed, there was no other place for him to go, and he’d been living there for the past twenty-seven days.
Twenty-seven miserable days.
Regrettably, there were no funds to rebuild his house in London. However, Douglas had offered Sarah to do just that one night when the Duke of Herridge was being particularly difficult. They were sitting in the Chinese Parlor, one of Douglas’s favorite rooms.
“It was my fault the house burned down,” he said.
“It was his fault for imprisoning you! And Tim!”
In the end, he’d agreed not to begin construction.
She’d not forgotten that her husband was stubborn and Scottish. When she said as much to him, Douglas had only smiled, and said, “Your being wholly Scottish would explain your degree of stubbornness, my dear wife,” he said.
She stared at him. “You’ve never said that before.”
“Called you stubborn? I think I have.”
“No, called me wife.”
He smiled. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Our wedding day, as I remember.”
That comment had led to a kiss, which had led to even more delightful occupations. In fact, it was difficult to be in the same room with Douglas. Either the urge to touch him was too great, or his kisses were too intoxicating.
Now, she looked at him with a smile, thinking that it was a rainy afternoon, there were occupations other than being in the library to intrigue her.
“Are you writing?” he asked, beginning to ascend the curved iron staircase.
She felt warmth flow through her at his words.
“What do you know about my writing?” she asked.
He held up one hand, palm toward her. “After your mother died,” he said gently. “I thought to find records of how many aprons were washed, or the number of soup bowls at Chavensworth.”
“There are records like that. Mrs. Williams keeps them,” she said. “But you read my journal?”
He nodded. “I didn’t mean to pry,” he said, “but I must confess, it wasn’t easy to put the story down. You tell a very good tale of adventure.”
“Really?” She searched his face, but there was nothing in his expression but interest. No derision. No amusement. Had he seen himself portrayed in her journal? He’d featured prominently in the pages. “I like losing myself in telling a story,” she said, a confession she’d made only to one other person—her mother. “I would love to write about the Tullochs of Kilmarin,” she added.
“Which reminds me,” he said, pulling something out from behind his back. He extended a drawstring bag to her.
She looked at him quizzically and reached for the bag, opening it slowly, revealing the mirror she’d brought from Scotland.
“The Tulloch Sgàthán,” he said, and when she glanced at him, he explained. “The Tulloch Sgàthán—Gaelic for mirror. I’ve altered it a little, and given it a bit of beauty.”
Ever since the day at Kilmarin when she’d seen her reflection in the mirror, she’d not looked at it again. Her caution might be foolish. But what she’d seen in the mirror had come to pass. Had the mirror the ability to foretell the future? Or was that a foolish thought? It might well be, but she didn’t want to look at her reflection and see anything other than the bliss she’d enjoyed in the past weeks.
Douglas had, indeed, given the mirror a bit of beauty. Around its circular back were a hundred tiny diamonds. She smiled, enchanted at the sight.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “But where did you find all the diamonds?” She lowered the mirror and looked at him in concern. “You’re not making diamonds again, are you? Isn’t the chance of explosion too great?”
He shook his head. “I found them,” he said. “Alano and I lifted the observatory door, and they were in the grass. I think they were shot out of the furnace before the explosion.”
“How is Alano?” she asked, smiling.
“Determined. He’s taken on Jason’s education.” He smiled. “Jason reminds him of me, two decades ago, of course. Alano has him reciting the capitals of Europe while we rebuild the observatory. And Mrs. Williams has deigned to unbend long enough to send him lunch from time to time, so I suppose his campaign is working on that front.”
She chuckled, retreating to the table, where she put down the mirror and picked up a letter before returning to his side.
“A trade,” she said, handing him an envelope. “I have something for you, as well.”
“A letter?” He glanced at the envelope but made no effort to take it. “Who would be writing me?”
She smiled. “You won’t know until you open it,” she said. “A messenger delivered it, but he wouldn’t say from where or why.”
He opened the envelope and read the contents of the letter, glancing at her when he finished.
“I’m sorry, love,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. It’s your grandfather.”
“He has died,” she said.
He nodded.
Donald Tulloch had been, essentially, a stranger to her. Perhaps later she would weep, for the death of the man she’d never known. Now, however, she could only feel the loss in a detached sort of way.
“There’s something else,” he said.
His eyes were glittering, and the flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the weather.
There were two letters, one that Douglas had already opened, and one inside, addressed to her with the seal intact. Her name had been written in a delicate script, so lightly on the page that it was barely there, like the filament Douglas used in making his diamonds.
She broke the seal, tilted the page toward the light, and read:
Granddaughter,
I have deeded Kilmarin to your husband, another Scot who needs to return to his homeland. The house will shelter you, give you protection, and within its walls you can find family.
That was all, just two short sentences, but the implication was staggering.
She glanced over at Douglas. “He left you Kilmarin.”
He nodded. “I know.”
On his face was the shadow of the boy he had been, poor and hungry, hearing of the great castle near Perth.
She approached him. “You’re the laird of Kilmarin,” she said softly.
“I am.” He smiled. “Are you coming to Scotland with me?”
“Of course I’m going with you. I’m not about to let you desert me for Scotland.” She smiled. “Wherever you go, Douglas. Scotland, Spain, France, Queensland. To the ends of the earth, if necessary. I’ll go with you anywhere.”
He studied her for several long moments, his gaze sweeping over her face.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“If you can remake yourself, Douglas Eston, then so can I. You give me the power to be anyone I choose to be,” she said. “I think I shall like being a new person.”
“Not the duke’s daughter?”
She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Would you mind if I chose to be Sarah Eston of Kilmarin, inste
ad?”
“As long as you don’t forget your true role,” he said, smiling.
“The laird’s wife?”
“The laird’s love,” he said.
“The laird’s love,” she agreed, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
Epilogue
The Duke of Herridge stood at the door and watched as Douglas Eston’s carriage, followed by two wagons laden with trunks, set off for Scotland. The wagons were, unfortunately, followed by another carriage, this one containing his cook, his underbutler, and his stable master, in addition to a few other highly capable servants. He’d already lost his housekeeper, who’d elected to move to London and marry some Spaniard. The other disloyal fools had evidently decided that Scotland offered them more than Chavensworth. Let them go. Let them all go, including the woman he’d brought up as his own child.
Bastard. The word seemed more fitting for a male than a female. Scottish bitch—that title he reserved for her mother. Six months after their marriage, she’d whelped that child and didn’t even bother to pretend it was his. His pride had demanded a lie, so he’d pretended as well. What did it matter? She was a girl. No other children had been born alive, however, and after a while, he’d given up trying.
He withdrew the mirror from the concealment of his sling. He’d found it in the library one day, a gift for the taking. Besides, Eston still owed him some diamonds. The casing of the mirror was fine, with its heavily etched gold and diamond adornment. The glass of the mirror, however, needed to be replaced. Still, it would serve as an adequate bridal gift.
As luck would have it, he already had a girl in mind. A charming, lovely creature with a laugh that made him want to smile and a voice as enchanting as a forest brook.
Anthony, Duke of Herridge, smiled, and anticipated becoming a bridegroom.
Author’s Note
Not long ago, I read a fascinating article about artificial diamonds. One of the paragraphs sparked my curiosity, because it told of a process invented in 1850 to make artificial diamonds. Unfortunately, the formula has subsequently been lost. From that, the plot of Sold to a Laird was born.
