The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Are you a strong swimmer?” Marcus whispered to Sarah, looking down the coastline.

  Treading water, Sarah stared at the small group of men gathered on the beach. “Yes,” she answered. “I’ll make it in.”

  “Not to this beach, you won’t,” he directed, pulling her back against his chest when she made as if to set out. “I want you to swim back through the arch and come ashore at Man o’ War Bay.”

  “Come in, Weston—and bring the rest with you. I’ll send my men out to fetch you, if necessary,” Dixon threatened from the beach.

  Sarah squeezed Marcus’s hand tightly. “I’m safest when I’m with you, remember?” she said simply, shivers from the cold water in her voice.

  “You are trying my patience,” Dixon added, his tone becoming more irate.

  “Let’s not keep the man waiting any longer,” Marcus said reluctantly to the other three.

  The four swam the short distance to shallower waters, wading through the surf and plodding along the wet sand until reaching Dixon and his men.

  “Marlowe suggested we find you,” Sarah said fiercely, stopping just in front of Dixon. “And here you are. How kind of you to oblige.”

  The man struck Sarah across the face, knocking her to her knees. “Do not take that tone with me, Sarah.”

  Marcus lunged at Dixon but two burly smugglers made a grab for him and restrained him by the arms, one on each side of him.

  “And to think I’d considered taking you with me,” Dixon continued, sweeping Sarah with a disgusted look. “Hardly any chance of that now, you common whore.”

  Sarah rose slowly, squaring her shoulders, her spine ramrod straight. She looked Dixon in the eyes without flinching, even as a thick-bodied smuggler yanked her wrists behind her back. “I’ve already killed Marlowe tonight—don’t give me a reason to kill you.”

  “Have you, now?” Dixon said snidely, reaching out to trace the neckline of Sarah’s sodden shirt with insolent familiarity. “I suppose I must thank you, then. Sticky fingers, that one. He made off with one of the emeralds, which would have severely lessened my bargaining power. Hardly a worthy partner in all of this, just as I predicted from the start. Good help who know their place are so hard to find.”

  “So you’re a traitor,” Sully interrupted with disdain, earning a punch to the stomach for his trouble.

  Dixon continued to stroke Sarah’s skin with his long, thin finger. “Hardly. I’d no choice in the matter. My brother’s oldest brat will inherit the title, leaving me with hardly enough to live on,” he explained. “Smuggling brandy was not going to save me, so I began to look for other, more lucrative, endeavors.”

  “And supporting Napoleon’s quest for world domination seemed worthy of your time?” Marcus taunted. He twisted, testing the grip of the smugglers who restrained him. His only hope was to free himself long enough to get to the knife in his boot. But the men holding him didn’t seem distracted by the conversation.

  “Precisely,” Dixon answered, scrubbing his hands together and wincing fastidiously at the damp seawater left on his fingertips by Sarah’s shirt. He walked toward Marcus. “And do you know the best part? Hmmm?”

  “Do tell me,” Marcus ground out.

  “It required very little effort from me. The robberies in London were hired out. The day-to-day interaction with the smugglers themselves? Hired out. Even the murdering was left to Charles.” He looked over at Nigel, his lips twisting into a macabre caricature of a smile. “I must confess, though, I took it upon myself to do away with the Burroughs boy.”

  “Bastard,” Nigel shouted, his eyes hot as he ran toward Dixon. One of the men intercepted the boy easily, pushing Nigel to the sand and planting his foot in the small of the boy’s back.

  “What has become of today’s youth?” Dixon said with an affected sigh. “I’ll be doing society a service by ridding it of one more insolent pup.”

  “But you’re short two stones, are you not?” Sarah pressed, attempting to draw Dixon’s attention away from Nigel.

  He turned back to her, pinning her with a lecherous gaze. “Right you are. One is due to arrive from London anytime now.”

  Marcus realized that Dixon knew nothing of the Corinthians being in possession of the seventh stone, which meant that Marlowe had failed to share a most vital piece of information with him.

  “And the other?” Sarah pressed.

  Dixon closed the distance between them, his head lowering to align with hers. “Come now, Sarah, don’t play coy with me. If you did indeed murder Marlowe, then you’re in possession of the last emerald.”

  “Funny,” Sarah spat out, “I don’t recall any emerald.”

  Dixon stood his ground. “That really would be too bad. You see, Napoleon’s buyer must have all of the emeralds—nothing less.” He closed one hand around Sarah’s throat. “So, to be even one stone short is simply not acceptable.”

  He squeezed, lightly, but enough to make Sarah flinch.

  “I have the emerald,” Marcus drawled, tamping down his murderous rage. The bastard would pay for putting his hands on Sarah. “But you’ll have to come and get it.”

  Dixon released Sarah and turned to Marcus. “Actually, I don’t have to do anything. Black,” he commanded, gesturing at one of the men holding Marcus. “Relieve Lord Weston of the emerald.”

  The burly smuggler released Marcus’s arm and shoved a heavy hand into his coat pocket.

  It was just the opportunity Marcus had hoped for.

  He staggered sideways as if pushed off balance by the man’s groping, slumped down, and reached into his boot, palming the knife.

  No one noticed. All eyes were trained on the smuggler searching for the emerald.

  “What do we have here?” the smuggler said, lifting the small pouch from Marcus’s pocket.

  And with that, Marcus swung his weight around and stabbed him in the stomach, pushing his body off with his shoulder before rounding on the second smuggler and slitting his throat with one quick slice of the razor-sharp blade.

  “Aye now, don’t tell me we’re late to the party.”

  Marcus’s gaze flashed over Dixon’s shoulder.

  Thomas and a handful of local men stood on the beach, just outside the mouth of the cave that led to the tunnel at the Boot. Some were armed with spikes and knives, others with only their scarred and well-worn fists.

  Thomas smiled.

  Dixon made a break for it, running toward the cliffs while a third smuggler attacked Marcus.

  With the element of surprise no longer on his side, it took longer to dispatch the man than Marcus would have preferred, his rage growing until he stopped the battle with a vicious left to the man’s chin. The smuggler toppled to the beach, bleeding and unconscious.

  “Sarah!” Marcus yelled, searching for her as he fought his way through the fray. He lunged and jabbed as if set upon by wild animals, his heart pounding in his ears.

  At last he spotted her with Nigel, safely tucked inside the mouth of the cave.

  Assured that she was unharmed and a safe distance from the fighting, he turned and ran in the direction he’d seen Dixon head.

  As he looked up the chalky hillside just beyond, he caught sight of Dixon as the man labored hard to climb the crude path.

  Marcus cut a swath across the melee and hit the path at full stride, his leg burning with every step.

  “Dixon,” he shouted.

  The traitorous man looked back, his face contorting with anger and fear before he faced forward once again. Too late, he tried to avoid the exposed tree root that jutted up in the rocky trail.

  He tripped, his lanky body lurching forward as he fell to his knees.

  Marcus pushed harder, ignoring his leg as it threatened to give way beneath him. He reached Dixon just as the man was rising to move forward.

  Marcus reached out and twisted his fingers into Dixon’s hair, forcefully yanking him back. “You’ve the constable to answer to, you bastard.”

  Dixon shot back wit
h his elbow, landing a painful hit to Marcus’s leg wound. “Not if I have any say in the matter.”

  Marcus staggered, his leg collapsing beneath him.

  Dixon jumped up and turned to face him. “Worthless half-blood,” he spit out before waging a second attack, this time kicking at Marcus until his back brushed the cliff’s edge.

  Marcus endured one, then two kicks, the top half of his body coming to dangle precariously over the edge. Just as Dixon looked to be delivering the final blow, Marcus dug in and shifted his body to the left.

  Marcus grabbed at the chalky cliff with both hands, but it was too late for Dixon. His forward momentum was too great, and when his kick failed to connect, it carried him over the cliff, his screams of terror filling Marcus’s ears as the man fell to his death.

  “For the record,” Marcus said with grim satisfaction, lifting his battered body up the craggy cliff and back onto the rough path. “You do not, nor will you ever, have any say in the matter.”

  There was no reply.

  Sarah had waited long enough.

  “Take the tunnel back to the Boot,” she told Nigel, clutching the boy’s face in her hands. “Wait there for me. Do you understand?”

  Her brother shook his head, the gaze he fixed on Sarah filled with all the fierceness and love he had left in him. “No, I won’t leave you.”

  Frustrated, Sarah was torn. She needed to know that he was safe—and he needed to know the same of her. They were far too alike for Sarah to deny him. “Then promise you’ll stay here in the tunnel.”

  Nigel’s expression made it clear he wanted to object, but at last he nodded reluctantly. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will,” she assured him, landing a kiss on his forehead. “I’m going to find Marcus.”

  Sarah left Nigel watching her from the tunnel and stepped out onto the beach.

  Thomas and his men had taken control, and the smugglers who had not been killed were currently bound together and surrounded.

  Sarah ran to where the men stood, searching the faces and not finding the one she sought. “Where is Marcus?” she asked Thomas anxiously.

  The man landed a swift kick to the belly of one of the smugglers struggling to get up. “Last I saw of him, he was chasing after Dixon.”

  He turned to look at the cliff wall and Sarah’s gaze followed. She gasped, her heart stopping at the sight of a body lying on the rocks several yards along the cliff from the foot of the path.

  “I wouldn’t waste a sigh on Mr. Dixon, if I was you,” Thomas said by way of explanation, taking Sarah by the arm and shaking her gently.

  Sarah looked again toward the body, and then burst into tears. “Where is Marcus?” she begged.

  “I’d check near the top,” Thomas replied, then turned her loose.

  She hurried forward, tripping on the rough stones and catching herself with one hand splayed against the cliff rock.

  “Have a care—he’ll hardly want you if you’re dead,” Thomas warned, handing her a lantern then returning to the captives.

  Sarah righted herself and ran, leaving the beach and climbing the path, dodging roots and loose rocks along the way.

  She called his name over and over, until her lungs felt near to bursting.

  Finally, around a narrow turn in the path, Sarah held the lamp aloft and found him.

  He was stretched out flat on the rough track. Sarah could make out the soles of his Hessians and not much else.

  “Marcus!” Terrified when he didn’t respond, she ran, stumbling, to reach him.

  She dropped to her knees beside him and held the lantern aloft, looking anxiously at his still form. When the light revealed no glisten of blood, Sarah abandoned the lantern altogether and set her frantic hands on him. She poked and prodded at his stomach, his chest, both arms, and finally his face.

  “Please, Marcus, say something,” Sarah pleaded, her heart threatening to break in two.

  “Ach, woman,” he replied hoarsely, then opened his eyes.

  She leaned down and kissed him hard. “Bugger. I thought you’d … I was afraid …”

  Sarah didn’t bother to finish her sentence. She kissed him again, releasing all of her fears until nothing was left but relief and utter joy.

  Marcus’s arms wrapped around Sarah, pinning her to him. “You’re happy, then, to see me alive?”

  “How could you ask such a thing?”

  Marcus gave her that small male smile that Sarah would never, ever tire of. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  He sounded so annoyingly sure of himself she would have smacked him if she hadn’t been so bloody glad he was alive.

  “You’d almost hoped to prove me wrong about parting ways at the beach.”

  He was wrong, of course—except in a teeny little way, he wasn’t. She’d have loved to have proven her point, so long as she could have done so without his dying. She couldn’t say that, though, so instead she grabbed his face in her hands and said, “Kiss me.”

  Marcus smiled wider, almost triumphantly. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Kiss me,” Sarah demanded. “And never, ever stop.”

  And so he did.

  “It is not too late, dear,” Lady Tisdale said hopefully while fussing with the drape of Sarah’s bridal gown.

  Sarah looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, her gown simple in silk sarsenet, fine touches of bead-work interspersed with pearls edging the bodice and hemline. “The wedding is about to begin, Mother.”

  “Still.” Lady Tisdale continued along the same path, “I am sure the vicar would be willing to accommodate us.”

  Sarah smiled. Although she’d never been a woman to dream of her wedding day, she had to admit that it was exactly as it should be.

  The sun was shining gloriously in the clear blue sky. Her closest friends and family were in attendance—even Thomas, whom Lady Tisdale had been loath to invite, but whom Sarah could not imagine such a celebration without. The man had, in truth, saved her life and the lives of the ones she loved.

  Sarah shivered at the thought. Nearly a month had passed, the days filled with emotion as Nigel had begun to heal from his ordeal, Sarah endured disconnected dreams of Marlowe, and Marcus had well and properly wooed Sarah as surely no other man had wooed a woman before.

  She looked out the window of Lulworth Castle. In the spacious courtyard below, the guests were gathering for the short walk to the wedding site.

  “Would you like me to fetch the vicar?” Lady Tisdale pressed.

  Sarah turned to her mother, taking her hands. “Mother, I’ve explained to you why I wish for the ceremony to take place out-of-doors.”

  “Really, Sarah, it’s unheard-of for a bride and groom to recite their vows in such a setting—”

  “Mother,” Sarah repeated, her tone more serious.

  Sarah had very nearly not asked Marcus whether he would consider being married on the cliff top.

  In truth, she knew that it sounded shockingly unconventional—never mind sounding unconventional, it most surely was.

  But everything that had anything to do with this day—the most important of Sarah’s life—was tied irrevocably to the cove.

  Sarah and Marcus had discovered while walking one day that both had made it a habit over the years to stare out over the cove, in the black of night, and think. About life, love, and everything else that seemed so complicated despite the simple terms with which any of the issues could be—and should be—handled.

  Many a night the two had looked out upon the same expanse of water, perhaps even passing each other without knowing.

  Marcus had willingly and heartily agreed to exchanging their wedding vows in what was, truly, the place where they’d begun, their individual yearnings of the heart leading them to each other.

  His only request was that she not race for the woods partway through the ceremony.

  Sarah had laughingly assured him that she would never run again. Not from him, not from life.
Not from anything that came their way.

  And besides, she’d thought to herself though she didn’t say it aloud, she could just as easily run from the church.

  With a small smile, Sarah came back to the present and her mother’s concerns.

  “You’re missing the point,” Sarah said gently, patting her mother’s hands before turning back to the mirror. “All that matters is that Marcus and I want this—therefore, you should too.”

  Sarah observed her mother’s reflection in the mirror, her mouth opening and closing like a trout’s.

  And then, for no apparent reason, Lady Tisdale drew in a determined breath and nodded. “I’ll go fetch Claire for you. And Sarah,” she added, reaching to pat her daughter’s shoulder. “I love you.”

  She turned quickly and walked from the room, leaving Sarah quite thunderstruck.

  “Bollocks! If I’d have known that all it would take was obstinance, I would have tried that years ago.”

  “I believe a bride is entitled to do whatever she likes on her wedding day,” Claire called, sweeping into the room, resplendent in a gorgeous amethyst gown, “but I’d be careful with the profanities, dear. One never knows who might be listening.”

  She caught Sarah in her arms and hugged her, careful not to disturb her friend’s hair. “You are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah replied, tears threatening. She brushed moisture from her eyelashes with her fingertips, and then fixed Claire with an excited gaze. “Now, you’ll never guess what just happened.”

  Claire bent down awkwardly to remove a pale thread from Sarah’s skirt. “Is it something to do with your mother? I passed her in the hall just now and she looked as though she’d been struck with something quite large—and hard.”

  “I told her exactly what I thought. Exactly.”

  Claire looked confused at first, then her eyes grew round. “Exactly?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And she failed to spontaneously burst into flames?” Claire asked teasingly.

  “Nary a flicker,” Sarah answered, hardly believing it herself. “And she told me that she loves me,” she added in a small voice.

  Claire wiped at a tear slowly slipping down Sarah’s cheek. “Well, truly it is a day for miracles,” she said gently, “as you’ll have to agree once you’ve seen the remainder of your wedding party.”