by Cora Lee
“Do you think so?”
“I do.”
Well, that was something worth considering. Did Hartland love her? He’d never said so, but words were not the only way to express one’s feelings.
“I also think teaching you to shoot is a good idea, particularly since Hartland tends to carry pistols when he’s likely to be in danger. If we can find twenty minutes together, I’ll show you how to handle one.”
Sarah nodded. Perhaps another frank conversation with her husband was in order. Though probably not while she was holding a loaded gun.
Chapter Fourteen
The return journey to London was just as tedious as the drive to Devon had been, though the sea crossing had at least allowed them to be on deck enjoying the sun and the salt breeze. Hart had considered riding alongside the carriage on horseback once they reached land again, but vetoed the idea almost immediately. After the attack at Hartland Abbey and the murder of Lady Ashfield, there was no way he was letting Sarah out of his sight while they were vulnerable on the road. He had acceded to her wish not to travel through the night this time, but countered with a full complement of footmen to serve as guards. Richards rode up on the box with the coachman as both a lookout and an extra set of hands should trouble find them.
They would not be caught unawares again.
But riding inside a carriage with a woman who no longer tolerates your presence is disheartening, to say the least. And while Hart was sure the scenery was, in fact, changing beyond his window, he seemed to see the same field every time he looked out and the same herd of red cows. If he could focus long enough he’d read, but his eyes kept wandering to his wife.
She sat in the rear-facing seat, leaning against the carriage wall and ignoring the book in her lap to stare out of her own window. The sun shone on her hair, marking out blonde and red strands among the brown. Was she thinking about their marriage? Afraid of another attack? Wondering why she saw the same four sheep over and over?
“Sarah, may I tell you a story?”
She dragged her eyes from the window and turned them on him. “What kind of a story?”
“A personal one.”
If she reacted, he didn’t see it. He lifted his brows in an unasked question and tilted his head.
“Perhaps it will help pass the time,” she said, nodding.
“You once asked me why I built different types of armor and chose to use them to protect people.”
She sat up a little straighter. “I did.”
“It started when Ollie was sent to the Continent a few years ago.” Hart shifted in his seat, unable to get comfortable. “Well, you’ve seen how I cope with stress.”
“You went into your workshop,” she said with a small smile.
Hart leaned back against the velvet seat, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his abdomen. “I’ve always been one for making things, and when Ollie went to war I became particularly interested in making things that would keep soldiers safe in battle.”
“Why armor?”
She seemed genuinely interested in his answer, and that pleased Hart more than he’d expected it to. “What could protect a body better than being covered from head to toe in steel?” he grinned. “I knew that armor had become practically useless as firearms became more accurate and more powerful, but I thought I could improve upon the old designs.”
“I remember you telling me that the first time you showed me a brigandine.”
When they’d waltzed around his workshop at Hartland Abbey as the rain poured down outside. That was a day he’d likely never forget—if he hadn’t been in love with Sarah before then, he certainly was afterward. He’d pushed the emotion down that day in order to focus on solving the mystery of her death threat, but he hadn’t been able to deny its existence.
And he no longer wanted to.
“I drew up all sorts of designs, and built most of them, trying to get the most protection and the best mobility out of one suit. I wanted... I needed to do everything in my power to protect the only family I had.”
“Of course you did.” Her voice was soft, knowing.
He loved that she understood him. Even Ollie, who’d known him longer than anyone else, had never fully grasped Hart’s motivations. But more often than not, Sarah did.
“I think that’s why I was so keen to save you,” he confessed quietly. “You once told me that it would be easier to send you away somewhere while I stayed in London to sort out the problem. But I couldn’t do it. After Ollie and Richards you were the closest thing I had to a real friend, and I thought you’d be safest with me. Turns out I was wrong, but I did try.”
She leaned forward and laid a hand on his knee. “You weren’t wrong. If not for you I’d likely be dead by now. I’d have been all on my own with no idea how to deal with danger when it came for me, and I would have had my mother to worry about, too. You’ve kept us both safe.”
The warmth from her hand permeated his trousers and shot up to his heart...with a short detour through his manhood. He fought not to close his eyes and savor the sensation. She’d barely touched him since their falling out; the contact now sent frissons of pleasure through both organs.
Instead, he sat up and clasped her hand in his larger one, bringing her fingers to his mouth for a kiss. “I would do anything for you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do.” Her voice was even as she spoke, and her lips curved into a small smile. “That’s part of what makes it so difficult to remain angry with you.”
“Then don’t.”
It was his usual blunt response delivered with his usual grin, but her own smile faded. “Would that it were so easy. Perhaps I’m not even angry any longer, Hartland, but I don’t trust you. Not with my heart.”
For a single second he thought she said “my Hart,” and another bolt of pleasure ran through his body. When her actual words registered a moment later, the pleasure drained away and left the sting of disappointment in its place. Hart leaned forward and reached for her free hand, holding both her hands over their nearly-touching knees. He absolutely hated baring his soul like this, but the urge to make amends with his wife far outweighed any emotional discomfort he felt.
“I have badly bungled our relationship, and I can’t even promise I’ll never do it again.” He chuckled to cover the nervousness that suddenly surged through him, running his thumbs over the back of her hands to steady himself. “In fact, I can almost promise that I will do it again. But I can learn from my mistakes, and I can promise never to make the same one twice.”
“Promises to earn back my trust, to learn from your mistakes, and to never make the same mistake twice. I’m going to hold you to those.”
Her voice was steady, her body relatively relaxed. She wasn’t angry, then, but neither was she smiling. She likely needed time to consider his words, and quite probably her own feelings. As much as he wanted her to throw her arms around him right then and kiss him all the way to London, he reminded himself to be patient. If he forced her hand she would close herself off from him again, and Hart didn’t think he could deal with that pain a second time.
He contented himself by dropping another kiss on her hands before releasing them. “I expect nothing less.”
~~~
The news appeared in all the gossip rags even before the Hartlands had even returned to Town. The first ball at Elliott House hosted by the current earl was to be held in a week’s time, and everyone was waiting with breathless anticipation.
They’re trying to draw you out, the paper said to her as she read it. They will be ready for you.
“Of course they will,” she replied aloud, throwing it down on the old table at which she sat. She couldn’t afford to be in her parents’ house for more than a few minutes—a reward had been offered for information on her whereabouts, and she doubted the servants in the neighboring houses would hesitate to turn her in. But she’d returned for the supply of black powder her father had kept for his pistols, and had wandered ab
out the house one last time, touching each piece of furniture beneath the sheets protecting them from light and dust.
She was so tired from running. How lovely it would be to live in the house again, to have servants and clean clothing and her own hair color once more. To retake her place in society as the daughter of an earl.
She’d sat down at the dining table to read those horrid gossip rags and pretend for just a moment that things were as they used to be. She’d tried to forget that she’d found the papers abandoned on the street several days after they’d been printed, instead of sending a servant to purchase them when the news was still fresh. She’d hoped to find out where Lord Hartland and his misbegotten wife were, and had been slapped in the face with this celebration of their marriage.
Rebecca knew they were trying to control her final assault on Sarah, trying to force her to come to a place familiar to them where they could prepare defensive measures. It was the only logical explanation for having such a public gathering after hiding for weeks.
But she didn’t care.
The Hartlands might think that they had an advantage by luring her to their own home.
They didn’t.
Lord Hartland and his murdering wife had no idea what was in store for them.
~~~
Sarah sat down on the bed and looked about her bedchamber for a place to keep the tiny pistol Joanna had lent her for the journey back to London. She had been given the best room in the inn, and while everything appeared very clean, the furnishings were rather sparse. Not liking the idea of having a loaded firearm under her pillow, Sarah laid it on the floor beside the head of her bed. It was close enough to be easily reached in the event she needed it, but she didn’t have to worry about setting it off in her sleep.
She stared at the little gun a moment longer. She’d become competent enough at hitting trees at Glanmire House, but would she be able to shoot straight under pressure? How would it feel to shoot an actual person if she had to? Could she live with herself if she took another life?
What she needed was reassurance. Lucy had already undressed her for the night, but Sarah dug a wrapper out of her luggage and put it on over her nightgown. She peeked out the door before exiting, nodding at the two footmen in bright Hartland red that had been posted outside as her personal guard. Stepping around them, she sidled up to the next door and knocked hesitantly.
“Enter.”
His back was to the door when she opened it, his body bare except for the trousers he wore. She longed to run her hands over his skin and to have his hands on her, to strip off his trousers and her nightclothes and feel the pleasure she knew he could give her, and to give him pleasure in return. But until she knew if she could trust him with her heart, physical intimacy would only complicate matters.
“Hartland.”
He turned and his eyebrows shot up. “Sarah.” He cleared his throat and schooled his features. When he spoke again, it was in a lower register. “I didn’t expect to see you again tonight.”
“I didn’t either,” she allowed. Then, since he had been making a point to be honest with her, she offered up some honesty of her own. “I-I was frightening myself, thinking of all the awful things that could happen in the next few days. Would you talk to me for a while? Help me settle my nerves?”
“Of course.” He gestured for her to sit on his bed, then picked his shirt up off the floor and pulled it on over his head. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Anything,” she responded automatically. “No, wait. There is something I’d actually like to discuss.”
He raised his eyebrows again and tilted his head slightly to one side, seating himself next to her.
She’d become bold in the bedchamber and in anger. But boldness in the calmness of a normal conversation seemed a much bigger leap. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “We haven’t talked about the possibility of a non-aristocratic marriage.”
“A non-aristocratic marriage?”
Was he confused or just disbelieving? She forced her gaze to meet his. “What if I didn’t want to lead a life separate from yours after all this is over? I’m not saying that is what I want,” she added quickly. “But more information is better when making important decisions.”
“What would you like to know?”
His expression was neutral, his voice even. Did he really not care if she stayed with him or not? “What would it be like? How would it work?”
“We would stay mostly at Elliott House, I think. My Armored Man activities center around London and its surroundings because that seems to be where I’m most needed.”
That certainly wouldn’t be a hardship. Sarah had lived her entire life in Town, and Elliott House in Hampstead was near enough to almost seem like she still did. “What else?”
“You would have charge of the house and the servants, and I’d expect you to do the same at all my properties.”
Sarah nodded. That she’d expected. If she were to remain with Hartland, she would need to take on the duties of a countess and mistress of his households.
“You might also take part in the entertainments of the Season if you wish, though I would probably beg you not to offer up our home to guests very often.”
He grinned as he spoke the last and she found herself smiling in response. “If there is one thing I’ve learned from this ordeal with Lady Rebecca, it’s how much work goes into planning a ball.” She’d learned so much more in the weeks since she’d first learned of the threat against her, of course, but it felt good to be the one making quips for a change.
He obliged her and chuckled. “Exactly so.”
An awkward silence descended upon them and Hart cleared his throat. “You did say that you wanted to become a mother—that could also be arranged.”
She’d called her children her legacy the day she married Hartland, and still looked forward to bringing them into the world if she were so blessed. She might, even now, be carrying Hart’s child, and her cheeks warmed as she recalled the night they had spent in his bed. “I-I would like that.”
“Raising the children or making them?” he winked.
Was it her imagination, or was he breathing a bit faster? She certainly was. “Both,” she confessed, smiling despite the redness she knew was collecting on her face.
He reached for her, but yanked his hand back before he touched her. “I thought you enjoyed our night together. Would you still, though, if you hated me?”
“Oh, Hartland, I never hated you.” She slid closer to him on the bed and took his hand. “I was very angry with you, certainly. And mistrustful. And hurt. But I never hated you.”
His shoulders relaxed visibly. “That’s good to hear.”
She leaned forward and dropped a kiss on his shoulder. It was meant more to reassure him than anything, but her aim was a little off and her lips connected with his skin instead of linen. Her heart joined her lungs in increasing its tempo while a compulsion built inside her to kiss him again. For once, she let her body win out over her brain and pressed her lips to his neck.
His hand caressed her cheek, her hair, guiding her face to his. She opened her mouth in anticipation and was rewarded when his mouth covered hers. The kiss was firm but not forceful, tender without being hesitant. She moaned, sliding even closer to him on the bed and wrapping her arms around him. She had missed this—missed him—and savored the feel of him against her.
When his hand slipped inside her wrapper, though, she broke away. Her body screamed at her to continue, to give and receive the pleasure she knew would come. But her cautiousness won the day and she rose from the bed, taking several steps away.
“You still don’t trust me,” he said, a note of impatience entering his voice.
She didn’t blame him for feeling frustrated. In his place, Sarah would be questioning everything she’d done over the past weeks and wondering what more she could possibly do.
“I can’t help it,” was
all she managed to say. Pulling her wrapper more tightly around her, she turned toward his door. “I’ll return to my chamber. Good night, Hartland.”
Sarah fumbled with the door for a moment, but managed to extract herself without looking back at her husband. Nor did she look at the footmen outside her own door even as one opened it for her. She closed it behind her and leaned against the sturdy oak for a long time, attempting to calm her body.
When she finally felt somewhat composed once again, she shed her wrapper and dropped onto her bed, leaning back against the headboard. Well, she wasn’t frightened any longer, but her conversation with Hartland hadn’t exactly soothed her into drowsiness.
The muted sounds of a scuffle in the corridor drifted through the thin walls. Some gentleman in his cups? Hartland sparring with Richards? A distraction to lure her guards away from her chamber?
Her door rattled as if something had been thrown against it and a male voice groaned. She wrapped her arms around herself. What was going on out there?
The door burst open and two loud bangs echoed against the bare walls. Sarah instinctively curled into a ball and covered her head as splinters of wood burst from the headboard mere inches from her shoulder.
Heavy boots thudded across her chamber and she scrambled off the bed, her only objective to get away from this new threat. She moved as fast as she could, but her nightgown tangled in her legs and impeded her escape. Two metallic thumps hit her ears and the heavy steps tracked her across the floor. Where were the footmen who were supposed to protect her?
“Hartl—”
She screamed his name as loud as she could, but her cry was cut off midway by a hand squeezing her throat. Another hand joined the first, slamming her against the wall and pinning her there. She clawed at the hands, trying desperately to remember what Hart had taught her. Feet. Something about feet...stepping on feet? Stomping on feet!
She lifted one foot and brought it down with all her strength, but she was barefoot and her assailant was wearing heavy boots. He flinched, but recovered quickly and redoubled his effort to strangle her.
