The Groom Says Yes

by Cathy Maxwell

  Moonlight flowed through the windows onto her father’s desk. The pen and papers were exactly how he’d left them several days ago. Sabrina couldn’t remember the angle of his chair behind his desk, but all seemed as it should be.

  Everything was quiet save for Rolf’s panting. He stood by the kitchen door, waiting hopefully.

  She released her breath. Her mind was playing tricks on her. There was no sound from upstairs. Her imagination was being overactive.

  With the intention of returning to the kitchen, Sabrina started to pivot, and that is when a man’s figure stepped out from behind the door. Strong arms came down around her.

  “Don’t struggle. Don’t fight,” said a deep voice with the hint of an accent she immediately recognized.

  “Mr. Enright?” she said.

  He spun her around, his expression as shocked as she felt. “Angel?” he whispered, and then blurted out in disbelief, “Who are you to Davidson?”

  There was anger in his voice. Malice.

  Her very good common sense—finally—reared its head, and she realized she was being attacked in her own home. This man should not be in her father’s study. She started to scream.

  A hard hand was clamped over her mouth.

  “Quiet, will you,” he said. “I’ll not harm you if you will be quiet.”

  Harm her?

  Sabrina decided now was a good time to begin taking care of herself.

  She stomped on the toe of his boot with the heel of her sensible shoes. She put all her weight into the action and was rewarded with a very satisfying Irish grunt. His hold loosened. She pushed him away from her and would have taken off running except he grabbed her arm.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he claimed. “I want Davidson.”

  “My father?” The words rushed out of her in alarm. Mr. Enright had been lying in wait for her father? And he believed she found that reassuring?

  As magistrate, her father had made enemies—and apparently she had allowed one of them to have his way with her. To think, she’d nursed this man back to health, and, on some level, had grown to trust him. But she shouldn’t have. He was a viper.

  In fairness, he seemed equally shocked. “Your father? I deflowered Davidson’s daughter?” He didn’t wait for her answer but muttered, “This is not good. Not good at all.”

  He was right, and to show him how right he was, she curled her fingers into claws and attacked.

  Chapter Nine

  Mac didn’t know what startled him most—that his angel was Davidson’s daughter, or the ferocity of her attack.

  Instead of running like any sensible woman should, she charged him without fear. Her eyes in the moonlight were alive with outrage, and as she surged forward, she reminded him of nothing less than a banshee, those demons of Irish lore.

  He stepped back, bumping into the doorframe, then moving into the hall. She followed, ready to scratch the skin off of him.

  Her dog had caught onto the melee and began barking and running around them. Mac almost tripped over the animal. The dog snapped his teeth and tried to grab his coat.

  Mac didn’t feel he could fight back, but he did want her to stop hurting him. A time or two she landed a blow or a scratch that was not pleasant.

  He kept retreating, leading her toward the kitchen, where there would be more space for him to maneuver than in the narrow hall. She ruthlessly went after him.

  Inside the larger room, Mac ducked under her arms and reached for her waist. Using his superior strength, he easily lifted her off the floor and upended her over his shoulder. She kicked her legs wildly and attempted to reach around him in the most unladylike way possible to strike a blow.

  He had to admire her. She was protecting her father. His business with her sire was deadly serious—however, she had changed the game.

  Mac owed her his life. He might have survived his illness without her care but it would have taken longer for him to recover . . . and, while holding her struggling body against his, he realized that making love to her had done more to restore his spirit than any amount of nursing could have achieved.

  This woman had true passion. Even now, he felt himself respond to her in spite of her wanting to rip the ears off of his head.

  So she must stop this nonsense. He needed to find her father, and she was a distraction.

  He set her on her feet with a thud and whirled her around before she could react. He grabbed both her arms below the shoulders and held her captive. He was ready to order her to behave . . . but the words died in his throat.

  The fire from the hearth filled the kitchen with golden, flickering light. The bonnet she’d been wearing had come undone and fallen to the floor somewhere in their struggles. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in thick, round curls. Her eyes sparkled with defiance and, yes, fear. Luminous eyes that told him she was afraid but she’d not run.

  Eyes that could bring a man to his knees.

  “I don’t want to fight,” he said. “Not with you.”

  And because he couldn’t help himself, and because it was what he desired, he kissed her.

  It was the reasonable action in an unreasonable situation.

  Nor was this kiss a common one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed a woman out of true, yearning desire and not to just to meet earthy needs.

  There was also a question in his kiss as well. She had given to him what should have been her gift to a lover. He wanted to know why, to understand, and the mystery of her, combined with the tightening in his loins, was a potent mix.

  The world faded away. He didn’t even register the dog’s barking.

  Miss Davidson resisted. Oh, yes, she did. Her reaction was what he had anticipated. She was going to deny him. Her lips were hard and unyielding, but her body no longer strained away from him. Instead, she had gone still, unwilling to surrender and, yet, no longer ready to fight. He sensed her internal struggle. She was as attracted to him as he found himself to her. It was there in the kiss. A brush of the lips, and the energy between them changed even though she kept hers tightly closed. She was determined not to yield, and yet she didn’t shy from him either.

  This woman was a challenge and, right now, he didn’t care what her relationship was to Richard Davidson. She attracted him. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted it very much—

  Thwack.

  The sound accompanied the force of a broomstick across his shoulders. “Unhand her,” a woman’s voice ordered.

  Such was the power of the kiss, it took Mac a second to feel any pain. He raised an arm to defend himself, but he didn’t want to let his lips leave Miss Davidson’s—until he was whacked with the broomstick a second time. This time across the back of his ribs and with more force.

  He released Miss Davidson and faced his attacker, an older woman of indeterminate age. She had graying blonde curls beneath a jaunty flower bonnet. The same sort of flowery pattern was repeated in her violet-and-blue dress. Lace gloves covered her hands holding the broomstick.

  His first thought was to Miss Davidson’s safety. This woman was obviously mad.

  He reached to keep his captive protectively behind him, but she had already scampered away.

  “Who are you?” he demanded of his new opponent.

  Her response was to swing the broomstick with an impressive show of strength. It whooshed through the air, smacking him hard on the other side of his ribs.

  Just as he winced from that pain, a good-sized pottery mug whizzed by his head.

  He was under attack.

  Miss Davidson had fled his arms only to begin pulling cups and bowls off the cupboard beside her. She threw them at him with all her might.

  And then there was the dog barking.

  Mac knew when to run.

  Unfortunately, the flower lady blocked his escape to the door.

  He leaped across the table, uncertain how he was going to extricate himself from this complication. He raised his hands to sue for peace.

  Miss
Davidson threw another cup. It hit him in the shoulder.

  “All right,” he said, his temper growing. “Let’s talk about this—”

  The flower lady swooshed the air with her broomstick.

  Mac ducked in time to save his head.

  He straightened, ready to grab that broomstick from her and break it in half—when he realized the women were no longer paying attention to him.

  Instead, Miss Davidson, her hand in the air ready to lob a soup bowl in his direction, stared at her compatriot in openmouthed surprise. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Bossley?”

  The flower lady had swung so hard, she’d stumbled a step, sending her bonnet down over her eyes. She pushed it back with her arm. “Helping you.” She spit the words out with equally fevered disdain.

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Apparently you do.”

  Miss Davidson’s chin lifted. “Remove yourself from this house right this minute.”

  “I will not,” came the staunch reply.

  Mac shifted his weight, uncertain to trust this turn of events. Were they so angry at each other that they had forgotten about him?

  He didn’t think that was a possibility. Women were very canny about being able to perform more than one task at a time.

  However, they eyed each other with the air of avowed enemies.

  And the dog had stopped barking. He stood between the two women, his tail wagging.

  The unwelcome Mrs. Bossley brought her broom to rest on the floor. “I must see the magistrate,” she announced stiffly. “Once I’ve seen him, then I will leave—but not a moment until.” Her voice shook as she spoke, and Mac noticed for the first time her nose was pinched and her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

  He felt rather sorry for her.

  Miss Davidson didn’t. “Once you’ve seen him? Haven’t you been with him enough? Can you not bear a moment apart from my father?”

  “I must see him,” Mrs. Bossley announced dramatically before throwing her broomstick to the floor, where it bounced on the wood floor. She went running out the door, shouting, “Richard? Richard, please. I need you, Richard. I can’t bear to be without you.”

  Miss Davidson put down the bowl she’d been holding and charged after her. “Where do you believe you are going? Come back here. Come back here right now. This is not your house.”

  And Mac found himself alone in the kitchen.

  Footsteps pounded up the stair treads.

  Miss Davidson snapped unheeded orders for Mrs. Bossley to remove herself from these premises. The older woman kept calling for “Richard” in the voice of the lovelorn. The dog had followed them, barking his opinion.

  Mac could leave the house now. No one was paying attention to him.

  However, if he did depart, he might miss more of the entertainment, and he discovered he was enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d felt so engaged in life. He had no doubt that Mrs. Bossley was calling for Richard Davidson. He was curious as to why Miss Davidson was adamantly attempting to throw the woman out of her house.

  “Ah, yes, the mysteries just keep growing,” he murmured.

  And he found he was interested in knowing which one would win. His money was on Miss Davidson, although the power behind Mrs. Bossley’s broom swing was a testimony to her determination as well.

  So, instead of going out the back door, he followed the hallway to where a lively battle was being fought.

  Miss Davidson stood halfway up the stairs, her body stiff with outrage. “You have no right to be going through this house.”

  “Richard. Richard,” Mrs. Bossley cried, sounding half-mad with anguish to the noise of doors opening and closing.

  Mac leaned on the banister, resting his chin in his hand. These were two very passionate women.

  Miss Davidson started up the stairs, stomping on the treads as if to promise a reckoning once she placed her hands on Mrs. Bossley.

  She was precluded from her actions by the older woman’s appearance on the top step. Mrs. Bossley had torn her bonnet from her head. She held it in one hand by the ribbons while her other hand rested on her temple as if her head was splitting with pain. She weaved back and forth as she begged, “Where is he?”

  Miss Davidson pulled up short. “Where is he?” she repeated with disbelief. “He’s been with you since last night.”

  “With me?” Mrs. Bossley dropped her hands to her side in surprise. “Since last night?”

  Miss Davidson’s response was a bark of disbelief. “You don’t have to pretend,” she said, her words wounded and strangely affecting. “You have won. He’s chosen you over his reputation, his honor, his responsibilities.”

  “You believe your father has been with me?” Mrs. Bossley countered, as if wishing to perfectly understand the accusation against her.

  Crossing her arms tightly against her chest, Miss Davidson did not reply but studied a point on the staircase that was of interest only to her.

  “He has not been with me,” Mrs. Bossley said. “I haven’t seen him since you and I had our little tiff at the Ladies’ Quarterly Meeting.”

  It took a moment for Miss Davidson to process this information. Her brows came together, then her head shot up. “You have not seen Father?”

  Mrs. Bossley shook her head so vigorously, several pins dropped from her hair, upsetting her style.

  “Since before the luncheon?” Miss Davidson prodded.

  “The night before,” Mrs. Bossley added for clarification. “I was expecting him last night. You can imagine I had a few matters I wished to discuss with him. You spoke to him, didn’t you?” Now Mrs. Bossley was the accuser. “You told him about our conversation.”

  “I did,” Miss Davidson admitted stoutly, “as well I should. And then he left the house, and he hasn’t returned since. Are you saying, he did not go to you?”

  “That is exactly what I’m saying. I have not seen him. I expected his visit, but I’ve had no word or sight of him, and considering how upset you were when we spoke, I assumed he avoided me.”

  Miss Davidson shook her head. “Well, if he wasn’t with you, and he hasn’t been with me—where is he?”

  It was at this point that Mac felt he could offer something to the conversation. He cleared his throat, gaining their attention, and announced, “He might be dead.”

  The idea had just occurred to him, but considering the events that had ruled his life, and that Davidson had helped orchestrate his escape, the possibility was real.

  Both women started in surprise. Mrs. Bossley practically came tumbling down the steps to stand on the same stair tread as Miss Davidson. “Dead?” she repeated, her hand rising to clutch her dress at her heart.

  Mac rested his elbow on the newel post and nodded. The staircase was made of good sturdy wood and not ornate. In fact, everything in his house spoke of a simple, humble life, and not the home of the sort of Captain Sharp who would patronize the Rook’s Nest as Davidson had done.

  “Yes,” he informed the women. “Richard Davidson could be dead.”

  Mrs. Bossley was ready to come undone. She began drawing big, shuddering breaths, but Miss Davidson had enough spirit to challenge him.

  She came down a stair. “What makes you say this?”

  “Because he apparently was playing with some nasty fellows,” Mac answered.

  “My father would not consort with anyone disreputable,” she informed him.

  “Did he consort with the Reverend Kinnion?” Mac asked. “Because I fear there is a strong possibility, the good reverend might also be dead.”

  “Dead?” Miss Davidson repeated.

  “Yes, shot.”

  “What is this man talking about, Miss Davidson?” Mrs. Bossley demanded, shrilly. “Why is he here anyway?”

  Miss Davidson shook off her companion’s questions. She came all the way down the stairs so she could stand eye level with Mac. “The Reverend Kinnion has been missing for several days. Why do you believe he is dead?” she asked, her voic
e calm, the gaze of her blue eyes intent as they met his.

  This woman was a cool player. A good one to have on one’s side in a fight, but he’d learned that when she’d attempted to scratch the eyes out of his head.

  And, whatever had been going on between her and Mrs. Bossley was of little consequence at this moment. She truly was concerned for her father and wanted answers.

  “I heard the shot that might have killed him,” Mac said. “I stumbled over his body, and he did not respond.”

  “Are you certain he is dead?”

  “No. I started to check and was waved away by another man. I had the impression he would take care of the reverend. After all, I was trying to escape from the jail and was not in a position to linger even though the Reverend Kinnion had been helping me with my escape.”

  “Escape from the jail? The Reverend Kinnion?” Miss Davidson considered him a moment as if she didn’t believe his story. Mac could understand her doubt.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Bossley gripped the hand railing and rocked with the drama of an actor in a Greek tragedy. “Oh, dear. Oh, Richard,” she whispered. “Oh, Lord.”

  “Mr. Enright, who are you?” Miss Davidson asked.

  In that moment, he had an irrational urge to kiss her again. She was just that delightful. Most soldiers lacked her single-mindedness, a trait he valued, and he couldn’t help but wish to draw this moment between them out. Her directness was refreshing . . . and she had saved his life, in more ways than she could imagine, he realized. He was actually enjoying himself.

  “I’m a man who came here to confront your father.”

  “Because . . .” she prodded.

  She deserved a straight answer. He owed her that much.

  “Because I’m a man wanted for murder.”

  Chapter Ten

  Of all the answers Sabrina could have anticipated, that was not one of them.

  She found herself staring at him, waiting for him to deny the charge. She wanted him to laugh. “You jest.”

  He boldly met her eye. “I wish I did.”

  “And you are not teasing about my father’s fate?” She couldn’t say the word, dead. She did not want to lose another parent.