“Have you long been acquainted with one another, then?” Sarah queried, attempting to initiate a polite interchange.
“No, as a matter of fact, we only met recently,” said the squire.
That news reassured Sarah. Surely Squire Crowell had few such disagreeable friends.
“We have a mutual friend in York.” Mr. Rutherford turned his dark gaze on the squire. “An old, old friend.”
John Crowell’s brow dipped slightly, then he turned to Sarah. “I went away to school in York…I think I…” He gave a slight shake of his head. “Mr. Rutherford also went to Farrowdale. He and I know many of the same families.”
“I see,” said Sarah, though his demeanor seemed vague and distracted. She realized with chagrin that he was anxious to be on his way.
He lifted his cup to his mouth, and Sarah noted his long, slender fingers. His hands were softer than hers, his nails neatly manicured, and she could not help but think of Brendan Locke’s big, square hands and the strength she’d felt when he’d held her.
Heat surged through her at the thought of their kiss, their embrace. No man had ever held her in such an intimate manner, pressing the length of his body against hers, holding her as though she were the most precious treasure in the world.
Surely Squire Crowell’s hands were strong, too. Just because he did not amuse himself with climbing all over the rocky ruins of Ravenfield did not mean he was weak. He was a gentleman with responsibilities that kept him from haring off in sailboats to strange shores, only to be knocked overboard and nearly drowned.
He was a far more likely husband.
“It sounds as though the rain is letting up,” he said, glancing toward the window. “We should forgo the trip to Fullingham and get back to the ladies.”
Rutherford muttered something that Sarah could not quite hear. He left his tea and headed for the door as though he could not wait to take his leave. The squire followed close behind, her chances to impress him fleeting. She tried to think of something to induce him to stay, but he took his cloak from the hook in the entry hall.
“We’d better go while there’s a break in the clouds,” he said as he tossed his cloak over his shoulders. They left the house, and Sarah closed the door behind them, wondering miserably who the ladies were that awaited them.
She went toward the back of the house seeking Maud’s motherly comfort, and found Mr. Locke coming toward her. “You can do much better in a husband, Sarah Granger,” he said. “And I’m going to find one for you.”
Chapter 8
Brogan could not credit that Sarah would waste her aspirations on the dandified milk-sop who couldn’t bear a bit of rain on his precious top hat and cloak. There was too much fire in her to be satisfied with that scrawny, overfastidious dandy.
The taste of her kiss was still on his lips, and he could still feel the impression of her soft curves pressed against his body. Crowell was the last man she should consider, with his pale skin and soft hands. She would be better off with a man who was poor as dirt, but knew how to make love to his céile mate.
“And what would you know of it, Mr. Locke?” She spoke with annoyance, and started to go ’round him. He stopped her and prevented her from leaving.
“I know how your mouth feels against mine.”
Her jaw clenched tightly, and he moved in front of her to stand toe to toe. “I know how your body feels against mine.”
She closed her eyes and tightened her lips into a straight line. “And you should forget such things, Mr. Locke. Now, if you’ll let me pass—”
“You could attract any man in the district, Sarah.”
“Miss Granger, if you please, sir.”
He reached up and pulled two wire pins from her hair. She protested as the curling mass drifted to her shoulders and down her back, but Brogan did not relent. He slid an arm ’round her waist and pulled her close, preventing her from hindering his actions. “You are soft and feminine, Sarah. And your hair is beautiful.”
She trembled in his arms. Or mayhap ’twas his own arms quaking.
“You jest, sir. ’Tis wild and unruly, as you can very well see. No man would ever want—”
He placed two fingers against her lips. “I am a man and I like to see it curling softly about your face…” He swallowed heavily and stepped away. “If I were to stay and court you.”
She turned ’round and headed for the stairs. “But you are not staying.”
“Nay, I am no’,” he said.
“So your opinion is of little consequence,” she snapped. “Perhaps Scottish women—”
“Wear their hair down for their men. Aye.” He slid his fingers through her soft curls. “You are lively and spirited, lass. You need a husband to match your own mettle.”
“I need a husband who understands how a woman wishes to be treated.”
“And you believe Squire Crowell is that man,” Brogan demanded. Angry that she could not see that fop for what he was, he pulled Sarah into his arms again. “You canna think that such a lùigean, such a mollycoddle of a nim-nam like Crowell could ever satisfy you.”
The blacks of her eyes dilated and she started to yank away from him, indignant at his words. Brogan prevented her, crushing his mouth to hers, hungry for another taste of her, yet furious that she could cause such a primitive reaction in him.
She stood perfectly still at first, but her lips quickly softened against his, and when he thrust his tongue through her lips, she did not resist. He invaded her mouth as he drew her close, savoring the tightening of her nipples against his chest and the sweet softness of her body cradling his erection. Gladly would he show her the kind of fire that could be shared between a man and a woman.
She wound her hands ’round his neck and touched her tongue to his, tentatively moving her body against his, seeking the promise of pleasure as intensely as Brogan did. She made a small sound in the back of her throat and Brogan broke the kiss, pressing his lips to her jaw, then her neck, savoring her essence as he moved his mouth toward the edge of her bodice.
He heard a desperate whimper, then her eyes flew open with a suddenness that left him breathless and bewildered. Breathing hard, she wrenched her arms away from his neck and pushed against his chest, turning at the same time, propelling herself out of the room and up the staircase.
Brogan stood still, his heart pounding, his arousal pressing painfully against his trews. He closed his eyes and struggled to recover his own breath, telling himself that he’d only demonstrated the kind of passion Sarah would miss if she won Crowell for her mate. ’Twas not personal. Not at all.
Maud came in through the front door with Margaret, brushing droplets of rain from her skirts and shoulders. “Oh! Mr. Locke! Where are Squire Crowell and his friend?”
“They’ve gone,” Brogan growled.
Fortunately, Maud did not take note of his frustrated tone, for he could give her no explanation of his present mood.
“Oh, well, I’d hoped…” She stopped, casting a speculative expression in his direction. “Mr. Locke, are you sure you won’t stay for Mrs. Pruitt’s gathering?”
He shook his head, still feeling nonplussed and incomplete. “Absolutely sure. I canna stay.”
“Well, then. ’Tis no matter,” she muttered. “Our Miss Granger plans to walk into Craggleton this afternoon to buy cloth for the new frocks. If you go along with her, she can show you the livery.”
Brogan clenched his teeth, determined to try another tack with Sarah. “I would enjoy that walk verra much, Maud.”
Sarah had to get away from the house. Away from Brendan Locke.
And he had instilled a seed of doubt about John Crowell. “How dare he?” she whispered fiercely against the fingers she’d pressed to her mouth.
He had just spoiled the most important day of her life, her one chance to impress Squire Crowell with her grace and poise. Brendan Locke had no intention of claiming her for himself, yet he’d taken liberties like a legitimate suitor. Why couldn’t he leave he
r alone?
Standing in her bedchamber, she looked at herself in the glass at the gown she’d worn again today. It fit her well and showed her figure to good advantage. There were still those damnable freckles, but at least her hair had been neatly arranged and pinned at her nape.
The squire had seen her at her best.
Yet Mr. Locke could only criticize her…and befuddle her with his kisses. She had surrendered to his demonstration of passion, but fortunately had come to her senses once again. She had no intention of becoming his “holiday conquest,” for when he returned to Scotland, he would go alone. He did not even intend to stay long enough to escort them to Pruitt Hall on Friday.
She pulled her hair back into order and pinned it tightly to her head, silently castigating the Scotsman. He knew nothing about her situation or her needs. She certainly did not need a husband who felt compelled to make her skin quiver with his touch, or her mouth tingle with his kiss. She wanted a staid and stable spouse who would provide a decent home for her and the girls.
She took her bonnet from its box and put it on, stopping short when she caught her reflection in the mirror once again. Somehow, she’d left a few soft curls around her face where Brendan Locke had put them.
“Oh fiddle,” she muttered, grabbing her shawl. She felt as though she could crawl out of her skin, and the only remedy she could think of was a long walk. The weather had cleared, so it was the perfect afternoon to walk to Craggleton for new fabrics for the girls’ dresses, just as Maud had suggested.
She went downstairs where Maud was gathering up the teacups from the drawing room. “That was an unexpected visit!” she said.
Sarah nodded. “I think it went well, though.”
“Oh my dear saints, yes! You looked beautiful in your good dress, and I’m sure Squire Crowell took note of your fine manners.”
“Maud, do you…” Sarah paused, unsure quite what she wanted to ask.
“What is it, Sarah?”
She frowned. “Do you think that the squire is…is…Oh, never mind. I’ll be back soon.”
“All right, dear,” said Maud. “And Sarah, don’t come back without buying some fine cloth for yourself.”
She took an umbrella from the stand by the door and went out toward the front gate. The sky was still cloudy, but the rain seemed to have passed. Considering how little time remained to make gowns for the girls—and herself—she needed to get into town today, no matter what the weather.
She watched the ground as she walked, avoiding the mud and puddles, so she did not see Mr. Locke until he had fallen into step beside her.
She stopped abruptly. “What are you doing?” she demanded, unwilling to walk one step farther with him.
“I am allowing you to take me to the liveryman in Craggleton.”
“As your legs are so much longer than mine, I am sure you can reach the livery much faster than I,” she said. “I will just give you the direction and you can—”
“You mistake me, Sarah.”
“You know that I have not given you leave to use my Christian name, sir. Do you say it just to annoy me?” It was just a word. The sound of it on his lips should not make her heart pound or her breath catch. She should not allow her eyes to drift to that mouth, to those lips. His kisses were not only forbidden, they were unwanted.
“Crowell would never consider using your familiar name, would he…Sarah?” He crowded too close, his leg brushing her skirts as they walked.
Sarah moved closer to the edge of the path, wishing that the contact of his arm against her shoulder did not generate such an earth-shattering sensation in her womb. She gathered her shawl tightly around her shoulders to avoid touching him. He was not the man for her, and he had no right to criticize the one she’d revered and respected since her girlhood.
“Of course he would not. Squire Crowell is a well-bred Englishman who would not dream of taking liberties with a respectable woman he hardly knew.”
“Because he has no spine.”
“You are the most impertinent—”
“Aren’t there any other well-heeled gentlemen in Craggleton? Men with…”
“With what, Mr. Locke?” she demanded, suspecting he’d nearly said something entirely inappropriate.
“With the brass to treat his woman like—”
“A trollop?”
“No.” He stepped in front of her. “Like he doesna wish to take another breath without touching her, without holding her in his arms while the ground shifts beneath his feet.”
Sarah’s heart lurched and she found herself dangerously close to touching him, to falling with her entire body into his improbable romantic fantasy.
She snapped back to the reality of her life. Of his being a stranger who intended to leave in another day or so, of her responsibility to Margaret and Jane.
“The squire’s suit was very finely made, wasn’t it?” she remarked with a nonchalance she did not feel.
Brendan Locke stepped aside and let her continue.
“And his boots—so well-polished that even the rain and mud couldn’t spoil them.”
Mr. Locke looked down at his own scuffed top boots. “Signifying what, exactly?”
She smiled with feigned sweetness. “Oh, I did not mean to imply that your boots were anything but…Well, you’ve been mucking about at the castle, haven’t you?”
Surprisingly, Mr. Locke continued in silence until they reached Craggleton, giving her some peace as well as the opportunity to reflect on her few precious moments with Squire Crowell.
Brogan wanted to shake her.
Then he wanted to kiss her, to lay her down in a secluded bower and show her what a woman was meant to do with the man she took for her céile mate, her husband.
He shouldn’t have touched her, and he certainly should never have kissed her, not when the memory of their intimate embrace caused such an instant, painful arousal.
She was more responsive than any mistress he’d ever known. Innocent and inexperienced, she possessed a wealth of natural sensuality, and he feared her kiss, her touch, her scent, would haunt him for the rest of his life. He’d never had the urge to pledge céile, and now he knew he never would. Not unless he found a woman of his own kind who roused him as Sarah Granger did.
Craggleton was a lively town with plenty of foot traffic as well as riders on the muddy streets. Sarah kept her attention focused on the space before her, never turning her head to look into the shops or greet passersby.
Nor did they greet her.
She stopped and gave a nod in the direction ahead. “Follow this street until you reach Mr. Merton’s office.” She indicated the solicitor’s sign. “Then turn right. You’ll see the livery after a few minutes’ walk.”
Brogan remembered hearing Merton’s name mentioned at Ravenfield and decided to have a talk with the man. He needed to learn about Tuath entitlements and inheritance.
“I trust you will be able to find your way back to Raven—”
Brogan crossed his arms over his chest at her easy dismissal of him, and looked down at her. Her impudent gaze faded slightly.
She gave a small cough and looked away. “T-to Ravenfield?”
“I’ll see you right here, shortly,” he said.
“’Tis not necessary for you to—”
“Do you ride?” he asked.
“I never had the…I never learned, and I have no need of the skill, anyway,” she replied, turning away. She started down a narrow lane and went into a small shop. Only then did Brogan make his way to the livery.
He chose a suitable horse and gave the liveryman instructions on saddling the beast and bringing it to the solicitor’s office, where he went next.
Merton’s clerk ushered him into the small, cluttered office at the back of the building and introduced him to the man behind the desk. The solicitor was a short, round man with a bald pate and a fringe of silver hair around the baldness. He had prodigious whiskers on his cheeks that extended into a bushy mustache. He arose slig
htly, extended his hand, and asked Brogan what he could do for him.
Brogan took a seat, not entirely sure what a solicitor did, though he assumed his function encompassed more than just handling inheritance matters. Since he dealt with property, Brogan hoped the solicitor could help him.
“I wish to let a house,” Brogan said. “I’m a visitor here, and I understand there is a widow who owns a small cottage near Ravenfield.”
“Mrs. Hartwell’s house. Yes.”
Merton told him that the widow would lease the place for no less than a one-month term. Brogan made the agreement and signed a lease, satisfied that in doing so, he was protecting Sarah’s good name. When she went to the Pruitt affair, there would be no questions about a strange man staying at Ravenfield.
“The cottage is somewhat closer to town than Ravenfield,” said Merton.
“Where, exactly?”
“Take the east path after you’ve gone about two miles. It’s just around the bend.”
Brogan nodded. Earlier, he’d noticed the road splitting off about a mile from Ravenfield.
“What is your business here, may I ask?” said Merton.
Brogan hesitated, surprised by the question. He decided to keep it simple and give the same lie he’d told Mrs. Pruitt. “No business, really. I once knew Captain Barstow. Since I was in the vicinity, the ladies at Ravenfield graciously allowed me to explore the old castle grounds.”
“Such ruins interest you?”
Brogan gave a nod. “Aye.”
“You might wish to consider visiting the old castle at Fullingham. It’s in much better condition,” said the solicitor. “Besides, Ravenfield has a new owner who should arrive at the estate within the next day or two.” He looked out the window at the sky. “Weather permitting.”
Brogan furrowed his brow. “What will become of the women at Ravenfield?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Merton replied. “It’s only Sarah Granger, after all. She—”
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