And he didn’t want Lady Sarah lost. He might not want to marry her, but he realized he didn’t want one copper hair on her head harmed. “I’m sorry Lady Sarah went missing, but I understand that it’s not the first time, Your Grace. Her previous, shall we say, adventurous history is familiar to every Puddling citizen.” Lady Sarah had been running away from home for years.
“All the more reason for you to have taken better care of her,” the duke grumbled.
“I couldn’t be in two places at once, Your Grace. You insisted on the special license.”
“You’ll marry when she’s found. Or else.”
Not if she was headless. Tristan sighed. “I’ll see you in the morning. I’m sure the staff will be delighted to provide you with whatever you need to make your night more comfortable and ease you to sleep.” Brandy, or possibly a well-aimed cricket bat.
Tristan bid the duke goodnight, grabbed his satchel and walked briskly through the gardens to the Red House. The air was perfumed with the last of the roses, and he breathed deeply. But his peace would be cut up until he got his hands on Lady Sarah Marchmain.
And when he did, would he cuff her or kiss her?
His cottage was in darkness, which was odd. Usually Anstruther left a lamp burning on the rare occasions when Tristan came in late. He lit the candle in the entryway and found Anstruther’s note, which appeared to be written in haste:
Have taken the liberty of pursuing a lead on Lady Sarah. A woman of her description was reported to have bought a ticket to Gloucester. Returning to Stroud and taking the train. Will inquire with utmost discretion. Staying at the new Station Hotel tonight. Will keep you informed.
The Freds had said nothing about Anstruther leaving either time. But bless the man for his initiative.
Tristan picked up the candle, shedding his clothes as he made his way down the hallway. He was too tired to tend to them tonight and would do so in the morning. He was not in general slovenly, although it was hard to fully eradicate the dirt from beneath his fingernails. But he hated to wear gloves in the garden—the touch of roots and leaves always calmed him.
He’d need to live in a hollow tree in the garden once he and Lady Sarah were married. Like one of those hermits people hired to make their properties more picturesque.
If they married. He’d have to retrieve her first. So imagine his shock when he got to his bedroom and found her curled up in his bed.
Chapter 15
It had been a perfectly dreadful day. Watched by Mrs. Anstruther and a fleet of maids and footmen once she came down to breakfast, Sadie had been unable to smuggle out any valuables beneath the voluminous folds of all her clothes. Not even a teaspoon—Mrs. Anstruther had held out her hand at Sadie’s brazen attempted theft without saying a word. It had been awkward to even climb into the carriage, and both Fitzmartins had given her a rheumy-eyed look at her sudden bulk.
Her revised plan had been to escape once in town, find a secondhand clothes shop, divest herself of the layers she had dressed herself in, and accept whatever coin was offered. Her gown would be the first to go—it was as shapeless as a sack, and it would be far more convenient to ride the rails dressed as a man.
Sadie hadn’t been able to cut her hair off. It was a moral failing on her part, but she was very fond of it and the effect her riot of red curls seemed to have upon some gentlemen. But she’d squashed a cap in her reticule—empty of any money—and planned to cover up her crowning glory as she fled her future.
Nothing had gone as planned. She had managed to duck out the back door of the dress shop Mrs. Fitzmartin took her to—a terribly inferior place—on the pretext of needing to use the loo in the narrow walled garden. The wall had proved remarkably tricky to scale. But once she was free on the unfamiliar streets of Stroud, Sadie had been unable to find a pawn shop of any kind. She had been wretchedly hot in all the clothes she’d donned, too. And the worst of it—she could hear a locomotive’s whistle not far from where she stood. The train station was close, but might have been on Mars for all the good it did. She had no money at all for a ticket, and now bitterly resented buying that cinnamon raisin bun earlier this week at the Puddling bakery with the last of her allowance.
So she had wandered aimlessly for what seemed like hours, considering her options, ducking into alleyways when she feared discovery. Her best bet was to climb into a cart and take her chances as to the destination. The object was to get away, wasn’t it? It didn’t much matter where. Sadie would throw herself at the mercy of a stranger. She was not going to be forced into a marriage of convenience, especially since it only convenienced her father, and any kind, charitable person would agree.
It looked as if her luck had changed when an elderly but pleasant looking farmer parked his wagon if front of the apothecary where she had been studying the glass bottles in the window as if they contained the answer to the universe. She watched as the farmer conversed with the man behind the counter.
Time was of the essence. One of her minders was bound to discover her if she waffled any further. Sadie ducked under the tarpaulin in the back of the cart and held her breath—there had been an odiferous passenger there before her. A goat? Chickens? There were traces of feathers and other substances Sadie really didn’t care to examine more closely.
One had to do what one had to do. She had curled herself up into a bulky ball and found the jolting on the country road almost soothing, as she had not slept very well the night before. She had been very close to nodding off when the wagon made an abrupt stop and she rolled into a corner like a billiard ball.
There was conversation, and the creak of a gate. Sadie could make out nothing of the words spoken, though it lasted quite a while. Eventually the wagon resumed its journey and she was thrown again into the corner as it descended what felt like a mountain peak.
This time the wagon rolled to a gradual stop, and Sadie felt the vehicle shift as the farmer climbed out. He whistled, and Sadie had heard a happy yap from a distance, which turned into a growl as the animal came nearer. The previously delighted dog hurled itself into the cart on top of the canvas, its paws scrabbling over her and its teeth nipping through the fabric.
So much for a stealthy arrival.
“Ho, Moll, what have we got here?” the farmer had asked.
He then exposed her cowering body as the border collie revised its method of attack, licking her face with exceptional vigor. The man clucked like a worried hen, and shook his head the whole time Sadie, fending off the dog’s misplaced affection, tried to explain her predicament.
And predicament it was. She was right back in Puddling’s village limits. Up the steep hill, she could see men working at the charred end of Stonecrop cottage, and even the elegant proportions of Sykes House and its gardens a little way beyond the town. Her old farmer, Ham Ross, was the very fellow she had stolen pumpkins from in what now seemed like a very juvenile prank.
Of course he was in no mood to assist her. Besides the pumpkin thievery, he shared in Puddling’s economic fortune. An escaped Guest would do no good to the foundation’s reputation, and so he told her. The entire village would suffer. And why wouldn’t she want to marry Mr. Tristan? He was a fine young man. Handsome, too, even with the Sykes eyebrows.
She sat in her wretched stinking clothes with Moll on her lap while Mr. Ross lectured her on her perfidy. Nothing Sadie said in her own defense could save her. No one “in their right mind” would help her, according to the fellow.
So she would have to save herself. Sadie put the dog aside and inched her way off the bed of the wagon. Surely Mr. Ross was too elderly to chase her? She could hear the rush of Puddling Stream to her right. So what if she got a little wet?
Sadie had not counted on Moll. With one command from Mr. Ross, the black and white dog ran circles around her, causing her to trip. She was usually not clumsy, but perhaps wearing three or four different layers had something to do with her winding up facedown in the farmyard.
&nbs
p; Moll wagged her tail and snuffled at her neck. Traitor.
“Now look, Lady Sarah.” Mr. Ross’s tone had been stern, although she could tell he found her situation amusing. “Come in for a cuppa, and then we’ll see about getting you back to Sykes House in one piece. They must be up in arms.”
“I don’t want to see my father,” Sadie muttered into the dirt.
“He’ll be worried.”
“Good. Let him stew.”
Mr. Ross helped her up. “The Bible says you must obey your parents.”
“If Moses knew my father, he might have made an exception on the tablet,” Sadie said, brushing off her skirts.
One cup of tea had led to three, and a substantial platter of remarkably good scones with homemade strawberry jam. It had been so easy to talk to Ham Ross, who was not quite eighty and had seen and heard a great deal in his life. He proved to be sympathetic up to a point—he was not going to assist in any escape, however. But he did agree to bring her to Sykes House the back way, and to stop by the Fitzmartins to tell them she was all right—Sadie did feel a bit guilty there. Word would travel through the village, and everyone would sleep soundly tonight. He promised to say nothing to Tristan’s staff, for then her father would be blistering her over his knee, or trying to. She thought she could outrun him, but was frankly exhausted.
This time Sadie was concealed in a swept-out wagon between two lavender-scented quilts. Ham Ross was stopped at regular intervals as they moved through the village, and he discovered that Anstruther had left the Red House with a satchel, off on the train for a fruitless search for that duke’s daughter.
He brought her to the back gate of Sykes House, wished her joy of her impending marriage, and gave her a grandfatherly pat on the head.
He was such a nice man. Sadie had not been so comfortable with anyone in ages. Reluctantly, off she went, heading up the winding path through the gardens to the Red House. She would be safe there, at least until Tristan returned.
And she’d been so very tired. It had been simple to shed her layers of clothes, wash, curl up in his bed and nap off the tea and scones, all as the sun dipped behind the Cotswold Hills. She must have slept for hours, for it was fully dark, save for the candle flickering in Tristan Sykes’s hand.
“What the bloody hell!”
The sharp planes of Tristan Sykes’s dark face were illuminated. Was this the face she would have to wake up to every morning? He looked somewhat satanic, and as weary as she had been before her refreshing interlude in his bed. She supposed she should have hidden in Anstruther’s monastic little room, but Tristan’s massive carved bed had called to her.
Sadie raised herself up against the feather pillows. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that she was wearing one of his linen nightshirts. She couldn’t help but notice he was only attired in a pair of drawers. “Good evening, Mr. Sykes.”
“Good evening? Good evening! This is what you have to say for yourself? My entire household has been upended because of you! Your father wants to ruin me!”
“Oh, he’s always cross at the least little thing. You really shouldn’t let him cow you.”
He looked as if he would like to strangle her—she was familiar with that sort of look—but then thought the better of it. Slapping the candle holder on the bedside table, he growled, “Move over.”
Chapter 16
“What?” she squeaked. Tristan was pleased to see her sleep-rosy cheeks pale.
She should be punished. Swiftly. Hard. His palm itched. Her curly coppery hair was braided like a schoolgirl’s, and he longed to grab one of the plaits and shake her.
Ever since he got the damned telegram, he’d spent the day rushing to get home, dying a little of impatience for every mile of countryside the train clacked through. Worrying and feeling helpless, the duke’s crumpled telegram in one pocket, the special license in another.
Tristan had imagined worse things than a beheading befalling her. A woman traveling alone with no resources? She’d been reckless in the extreme escaping like that. Absolutely anything could have happened to her, even in this quiet corner of Gloucestershire. Tristan had no great confidence in the saintliness of mankind.
With the exception of the estimable and ancient Fitzmartins, who could have dropped dead from failing to do what they perceived as their Christian duty to chaperone her. Clearly Lady Sarah had been allowed to run wild for far too long. She respected nothing, no one, not even the safety of her own person.
She needed to be tied up and isolated until she knew her proper place. Fed stale bread and water if necessary. If she thought Mrs. Grace’s cooking was bad, she hadn’t seen anything yet.
The future of Puddling was in his hands—and the thorn in its side in his bed. She was not going to run away again.
“You heard me.” Tristan barely recognized his own voice.
She pulled the covers up. “You cannot talk to me like that.”
“Really? You are in my bed. We are to be married tomorrow. I’m tired.”
She darted away as he sank into the mattress. It was a good thing her side of the bed was flush against the wall. Lady Sarah Marchmain was going nowhere unless she tried to crawl over him.
Let her try.
“I—you—”
“Shut up, Lady Sarah. Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one day? You will apologize to the Fitzmartins before the ceremony for you causing them so much distress. To poor Anstruther. To my driver and his son as well. Whichever maid you ditched, too. Was it Hannah or Audrey?” They were twins and he sometimes mixed them up.
“H-Hannah. And we are not getting married!”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. It was usually enough to strike terror in the observer’s heart. “Oh?”
“There’s no need to knuckle under to my father. I thought about his absurd demands all day. You do not have to marry me.”
She was the one being absurd. She was in his bed, in, by God, his own nightshirt, which looked much sheerer on her than it did on him. They were entirely alone in the house, with not even old irascible Anstruther for company.
Indeed he had to marry her, if only to live with his own conscience. He could see the pink of her nipples.
Quite pretty they were, too.
“I do, or he will contrive to put an end to Puddling’s success. I cannot let the village down.” Tristan blew out the candle for his own protection. If he couldn’t see her, he wouldn’t want her so badly.
In theory.
Bloody hell. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t some young Etonian looking at a naughty French photograph cadged from a wicked uncle. The madwoman should not appeal to him at all, even if she was within a foot of him, scrabbling at the covers. She was mad, after all.
And so very—singular. All that blazing red hair. Those very long legs. The odd gooseberry-colored eyes. Her impressive br—
Tristan punched his pillow down. He smelled lavender. Wasn’t that supposed to be restful? However, not an inch of him felt at peace, particularly his manhood.
Which was expanding by the second.
Men were indeed pigs, just as Lady Sarah believed.
“Lie down and go to sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“You can’t tell me what to do! And I will not sleep in here! It’s not proper.”
Tristan’s lips turned up. Imagine Lady Sarah lecturing him on propriety. She, who was infamous throughout the country for her hare-brained exploits.
“You’ve already been asleep in here,” he reminded her.
“But you weren’t home!”
He rolled onto his back. “You might as well get used to sleeping next to me.”
She gasped. “Didn’t you say just yesterday that you had no intention of consummating this marriage that is being forced upon us?”
“Did I? That was short-sighted on my part. I must not have been thinking clearly—you do seem to have that effect on me.” Tristan sighed, enjoying himself far more than he though
t possible. “I’ll need an heir eventually. My duty, as it were. I may only inherit a baronetcy, but it’s very ancient, you know. Wouldn’t want to let the ancestors down.”
“Duty!” Lady Sarah uttered the word as if it were a hairy spider to be spat out. “I’m not some broodmare.”
“Didn’t you and Roderick Charlton plan on having a family?”
“We never discussed it. One doesn’t. It’s not—”
“Proper?”
She hit him on the shoulder with a pillow. “Oh, you are an awful man.”
Dear God, she wasn’t going to turn violent like Linnet, was she? He’d had enough of that in his life, thank you very much.
Apparently God had a sense of humor that Tristan didn’t share. He snatched the pillow and tossed it to the floor. “Behave yourself.”
“I don’t know how!”
And then the mattress shook. At first, Tristan thought Lady Sarah was bouncing to be annoying, but he realized she was crying. Without any sound. The bed was like a ship in a storm, heaving and rocking.
He was not going to take pity on her. She was in a coil of her own making. Everything she’d done since she came to Puddling had been meant to cause trouble, and now she was reaping what she’d sowed.
Oh, hell. He sat up and edged over to her. She was stiff and unyielding when he drew her close. Her tears were hot on his bare shoulder, and slid down his chest, little rivers of scorching despair.
“Don’t. It won’t be so bad.”
No. It probably would be worse. Tristan was not suited to be anyone’s husband, and Lady Sarah was no one’s idea of a comfortable wife. Thrown pillows would be the least of it, he was sure.
“I want H-Ham,” she stuttered.
Why was she speaking of meat at a time like this? “What?”
“H-Ham Ross. The farmer in the valley. He knows you and says you are n-n-nice,” she wailed, attempting to push him away with not very much effort.
“You are not going to Ham’s. My guess he’s asleep by now.” The old man was a wonder, running the farm with such vigor as if he were half his age. He rose before his rooster told him to. “How do you know him?” Apart from stealing the man’s prize pumpkins.
Seducing Mr. Sykes Page 9
