But she couldn’t. It had happened. She’d seen proof on her clothing.
And she became angry.
No one must ever know of this. No one.
She hugged her legs up close to her body in the tub, fantasizing over the possibility of Mr. Enright’s vanishing or wandering off into the world, never to be seen or heard from again.
But whether he did or not, she knew what she’d done. A secret like this was a burden unless confessed. If her cousin Aileen had been in Scotland, she might have turned to her.
No, the only person she had close at hand was her father—and suddenly, she wanted him to come home. Moments ago, she’d not wanted him to know. Now, she needed his presence. She didn’t like being alone with Mr. Enright and that seductive voice of his. She didn’t want to face him without someone she trusted by her side.
Unfortunately, her father was with Mrs. Bossley, and she would not go to the widow’s house to fetch him.
However, her uncle might retrieve him for her.
Leaving the house to search out her uncle might be a good thing. Distance always offered perspective.
With a plan of action, Sabrina dressed quickly, moved the table back where it belonged, and went into the hall for her hat and gloves. She listened a moment. She heard no sound from the upstairs, so she had to check on her patient. She must. Curiosity encouraged her to do so.
His large body overflowed her bed. He slept as if his conscience was clear. Could he not know what had happened between them and demonstrate a modicum of angst? Or pretend to share her regrets?
Disconcerted, Sabrina flew to the stables. She hitched Dumpling to the cart and set off for Annefield.
Mac woke with a start.
By the angle of the light coming through the window, he sensed the day was well advanced.
For a long moment, he lay still, trying to place his bearings. He didn’t remember this room, and it had been years since he’d slept on such a comfortable mattress or had sheets this fresh.
His memory returned in snippets. He’d escaped from the Tolbooth. He remembered that. He’d been ill. He could recall the fatigue, the dizziness, the nausea. There had been a point when he’d been close to death’s door. He felt weak but good right now. He’d had dreams, wild, nonsensical ones. He had a vague recollection of who was in those dreams. He knew he’d searched for Lorcan . . . he thought. And Moira. Gram had been present.
Then, he remembered the angel.
Intense, vague images came to his mind. Images with taste and texture. The scent of her was all around him. He could have reached for her, expecting her to be beside him, but he was alone.
Mac lifted himself up to rest on one arm and took in the furnishings of the room. The wardrobe door was ajar, and he could see frocks hanging there. The pitcher and basin on the washstand were plain but decidedly feminine in style and form, and there were bits of lace in the curtains.
Oh, yes, this was a woman’s room.
“What have you done with yourself now, Mac?” he asked the world at large and, of course, received no answer. God had never been generous with him.
His stomach rumbled.
A bowl on the bedside table caught his attention. There was also a small pitcher for water and a stack rags that could be used for a number of purposes.
His memory sharpened on her. She had creamy skin, dark hair, and a kindness in her eye that had assured him he was safe. For once in his life, he’d allowed himself to trust someone, and she’d kept him alive.
He remembered the shepherd’s hut. If he’d been left there, he probably would have come down with the croup and never survived. How the bloody hell had he arrived here?
And where was she now? Where was he now?
He listened for sounds of activity in the house, but all was quiet. There wasn’t even a ticking of a clock.
Mac was also hungry. Ravenous. He needed to eat and drink. He reached for the small pitcher and downed the contents. There was nothing left in the bowl, and he had to find something. His body demanded sustenance.
As he sat up, ready to put his feet over the side of the bed, the blanket wrapped around him fell to the side. His breeches were undone, his shirt up to his chest.
His angel had done more than keep him alive . . . and those vague images became more defined. Just the thought of her had him stirring.
Oh, yes, he did remember. She’d been a generous lover, an intense one, open to whatever he asked of her, and he wondered where she was now? Theirs had been no ordinary coupling.
Mac rose to his feet, righting his clothing as he did so and combing his tangled hair back with his fingers. He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand and was surprised to discover he was clean-shaven. She’d done that.
He buttoned his breeches.
His boots were on the other side of the night table, but Mac didn’t pause to put them on. He wanted to know where he was and who she was.
He was also interested in knowing how far he was from Kenmore in his quest to find the Reverend Kinnion, his only link to Richard Davidson.
The upstairs floor had three bedrooms. The room he’d been in had definite feminine touches, but the others were neat, clean, and lacking personality. There was a door at the end of the hall that led to attic stairs. He checked the bedrooms and found a wardrobe containing a gentleman’s clothes. The wardrobe in the third bedroom had a man’s jacket and two shirts, items that appeared to have not been worn recently. Perhaps someone had used the room and left these behind. Whatever the case, he now knew there was the woman and at least one man living here. No servants. He didn’t see signs of one.
Mac tried one of the shirts. He’d been wearing what he’d had on for too long. He yearned for clean clothes. Unfortunately, it was too small.
He went down the stairs. His stockinged feet didn’t make a sound on the treads.
The house seemed foreign to him. Nothing was familiar, a sign that he might have been more ill than even he realized when he’d been brought under this roof.
There was a dining room with a table, chairs, a sideboard, and brass candlesticks, not silver. A pianoforte took up one corner of the sitting room across the hall, and there were a few chairs, one upholstered, arranged around the musical instrument and the cold hearth.
Mac walked down the hall and discovered the kitchen. Several loaves of bread were laid out on a table in the middle of the room. Mac fell on one of them, pulling off great hunks of the loaf and stuffing them in his mouth. The bread was delicious. Then again, anything, including cabbage, his least favorite food, would have tasted of ambrosia.
He poked around the pots set around the fire in the hearth. There was what appeared to be a mutton stew there. A bit more nosing around revealed the pantry. It was well stocked. There was bacon, ham, onions, and, to his delight, meat pies. He’d finished the loaf of bread, so he helped himself to a pie, which he washed down with a jug of sweet cider.
Mac was beginning to feel himself again.
There was a bathing tub with cool water beside the hearth. A linen towel was hanging to dry over one of the cooking hooks. A bar of soap was on the hearthstone. Mac picked it up and smelled it. The scent reminded him of roses and lavender, strong, evocative perfumes . . . and the fragrance of his angel.
She’d shaved him, but he was in need of more grooming. Mac believed in regular bathing. He liked the way he felt when he bathed often, and he certainly preferred the way he smelled. As a physician, he’d observed there was a correlation between health and cleanliness, all other beliefs to the contrary.
He glanced at the door. Whoever lived here could return any moment. Or they could be gone for hours. He wasn’t one to waste an opportunity.
Shutting the kitchen door, he pulled a chair from a row of them against the far wall. They probably belonged around the table, but it was easier to knead bread and make pies as delicious as the one he’d gobbled down if the chairs were not in the way.
He propped the chair against the door. It wouldn
’t stop someone from coming in but would give him time to shout a warning or defend himself, whichever the case might be.
The temperature of the water was fine with him. He’d bathed in colder. He didn’t even mind the scent of the soap.
Mac unbuttoned his breeches, shucked off his pants—and froze.
He’d assumed he’d had sex when he’d woken with his breeches undone and his little friend spent.
What he hadn’t realized, until this moment, was that the woman he’d so completely enjoyed had been a virgin.
The signs were there.
Mac frowned. He wasn’t one to deflower the innocent. He rebuttoned himself, moved the chair, and went upstairs to reexamine the bed. On the sheets, he discovered more signs of her virginity.
What the devil was he involved in? It was as if she had taken advantage of him but to what purpose?
And he wasn’t certain he minded.
He returned to the kitchen and tore off his clothes, not even bothering with the door. He climbed into the cold water, lathered the flower-scented soap, and washed himself thoroughly and completely from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.
Sensible men did not pluck virgins. There was a price for such foolishness, especially when the man didn’t know who the woman was. He didn’t think she could be the wife of the house and still be intact, but if she was the daughter, well, things could become complicated.
And if there was one thing a man wanted for murder didn’t want, it was more complications.
Just the thought of all that could go wrong made him dunk his head underwater. Still, he wasn’t just anyone any longer. He was an earl although he didn’t feel worthy of being one. And, of course, if there was a child, he would do the honorable thing.
But first, he’d wait to meet the lady.
Mac climbed out of the tub and dressed quickly. He combed his hair with his fingers before helping himself to another cup of cider which he carried as he opened the door and went out into the hall. There was another room, a study with legal papers stacked on the desk. He set his cup down and started going through them, anxious for any clue as to the owner of the house—and then he saw the name on the signature line.
“Richard Davidson.”
For a second, he was stunned. His enemy, the man who could answer the question “Why,” was either here or close at hand . . . and all Mac had to do was wait.
The earl of Tay let Sabrina cool her heels for two hours before he entered the Morning Room, where Ingold, the Tay butler, had asked her to wait along with some light refreshments.
Her uncle did not look well.
The earl of Tay had once cut an imposing figure. Now, he seemed a seedy one.
His florid cheeks were at odds with the pasty skin of his neck and hands. His hair was grayer. He had a decided paunch and a stumble to his gait. He was still wearing his dressing gown over a shirt and breeches. His neckcloth had a large stain on it.
“You are drunk,” Sabrina said in weary surprise, watching her uncle head to a side table boasting several bottles of port.
“The day is advanced,” her uncle mumbled. He toasted her with a full glass, before saying, “Most of what I feel is from last night.” He downed the glass and poured another.
“Wait,” Sabrina ordered, moving to place a hand on his arm and prevent him from consuming another drink before she spoke. “I need your help.”
He stared at her through watery eyes. “Eh?”
Her first inclination was to slap sense into him. Instead, she forced a smile. “I need for you to call on Mrs. Bossley and tell Father he must return home.”
“Eh?”
Sabrina could feel her false smile stretch tighter. Her uncle tried to raise his arm to bring his glass to his lips. She held it down. “Father. Needs. You.”
“Not if he is with Mrs. Bossley,” the earl answered, sounding very lucid. He pivoted, escaping Sabrina’s grasp, and took a sip of his drink. “He’s probably very happy. He’ll return home by and by.”
“But he is making a spectacle of himself,” Sabrina said, as if it should be obvious—and momentarily forgetting to whom she was speaking.
He reminded her by saying, “Good for him. At our age, it is a mark of honor to be considered a spectacle. I hope Lilly shows him a good time.” He paused, eyed Sabrina, and added, “You might consider making a bit of a spectacle yourself, lass. You are too serious for your own good.”
If he’d known what a “spectacle” she’d made of herself already this day, he might not be so cavalier. And it was on the tip of her tongue to inform him. She’d had a good roll with a man whom, for all she knew, could be a common criminal. Yes, she had! And she’d let him have her in broad daylight, which, from her limited understanding, was practically unchristian.
But she held her tongue because her uncle might applaud such behavior.
Instead, with an exasperated sound, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the house, refusing to waste one more minute of her time conversing with a drunkard.
Dumpling was not happy to see her. The Annefield stables were the pony’s favorite place to visit since they treated him so well. Sabrina gave the stable lad a coin out of her meager purse and took the reins, snapping them to send Dumpling pulling the cart down the drive.
Her mind was in a tizzy. She had few options.
Calling on Mrs. Bossley was out of the question. Her father had made his choice, a fact reemphasized when she returned home and saw that her father’s horse was still not in his stall. Sabrina could only pray her father came to his senses soon. Then again, the earl of Tay was not going to serve as a proper role model.
Or maybe the earl had, and for that reason her father had deserted his family and all of his responsibilities.
Whatever was going on, she realized she had little power over his decisions.
Instead, she was going to have to take care of herself. The thought was daunting, and invigorating in a way she’d not imagined. In the process of unhitching Dumpling, Sabrina paused a moment, evaluating this new realization.
She would take care of herself.
The idea had never crossed her mind. She’d been more or less adrift in life, doing what was expected, anticipating others’ needs, not ever considering what made her happy. But what if she took Dame Agatha and even her uncle’s advice and changed? What if she decided what she would and wouldn’t do?
Sabrina had never imagined her life beyond the boundaries of her family.
She scooped out oats for Dumpling and came to a decision. “I’ll do my charity work and help those who value my healing skills, but I want to live for myself. And,” she added, leaning into the stall so that Dumpling could see she was very serious, “I won’t feel guilty for what happened this afternoon.” She rocked back on her feet. “No, I won’t,” she repeated. She would become like those Frenchwomen she’d heard about who ran salons and were valued for their intelligence.
Maybe she would leave the valley. There was a thought to make her stomach churn with fear. However, there was a world beyond the parish and she’d experienced none of it. She’d been too busy feeling sorry for herself, just as Dame Agatha had suggested.
A thoughtful Sabrina started for the house with a length of rope in her hand. Evening had fallen. The moon was pale in the sky. No lights shone from the windows. Either Mr. Enright had left—which she hoped. Or, he had not regained consciousness, and she was going to tie him up. She didn’t know what she would do with him after that, but she’d improvise. It would be easiest if she could ask him to leave, and he did so without fuss.
Rolf bounded from his post by the step to greet her, and she gave the dog a hug. His presence by the house told her Mr. Enright was probably still her guest. She liked to think Rolf was a good watchdog. She interpreted his wagging tail as a sign all was fine, and yet, an unsettling feeling tickled the hair at the back of her neck. An awareness that perhaps she should be cautious.
Sabrina wasn’t one for signs, but the ot
her day in the bothy, her senses had rightly warned her . . . and now, once again, she had a recognition of something she could not define.
She opened the back door, holding the coil of rope ready so she could use it as a weapon. The hall was dark. No one stirred. “Go inside,” she told the dog.
His shiny eyes looked doubtful in the moonlight.
“Don’t worry. Father isn’t here.” And he wouldn’t be.
Rolf went inside. She watched his shadow move down the hall. He didn’t sound an alarm, pausing first by the study door, convincing himself that his master was not home, then moving on to the kitchen, his favorite room in the house.
Meanwhile, Sabrina’s stomach rumbled. She’d barely touched the bread-and-butter sandwiches at Annefield. She could heat the stew Mrs. Patton had made and kept warm on the hearth or grab one of the meat pies always kept in the pantry for light meals. A glass of cider would taste good as well.
Then she’d have the energy to decide what to do with Mr. Enright.
Sabrina bravely walked into the house, her rope at the ready. She didn’t have to feel her way. She knew it even in the dark. Without bothering to remove her bonnet, she walked into the kitchen, set her rope aside, and placed a log on the dying fire in the hearth. Flames rose. The tub was where she’d left it. She would have to drag it to the door and pour the water out. She pulled off her driving gloves and placed them on the table before reaching for a taper on the mantel and lighting it off the growing fire. Warmth and light filled the room.
She started to carry the lit taper to a candle, when, once again, she sensed all was not as it should be. Rolf sat on his haunches by the table, ready for a treat. He didn’t seem unusually alert.
“Father?”
Her voice echoed in the darkness. It was silly to think he was there. His horse was not in his stall, and he would have lit the lamp in his study or candles in the kitchen.
She blew out the taper and placed it on the table. With catlike feet, she moved out into the hall. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. No one was there.
The door to her father’s study was halfway open. She couldn’t remember how it had been when she’d left. She placed her palm on the cool wood and slowly pushed the door open.
The Groom Says Yes Page 9
