by Amy Corwin
After retying the string at her neck, he pulled the covers up to her chin. He sat down just as Archer rejoined him.
Archer stood for a moment in the doorway, his lean hand on the knob. He studied William as if aware he had just resumed his seat.
William stared back. Archer’s brown hair was a few shades darker than his wife’s and had a bit more gray at the temple. His face had a lean intelligence, offset somewhat by a stubborn, square chin. He looked to be in his late forties, with a wiry build that crackled with energy. His movements were quick and sharp as he crossed the room and pulled a chair around to face both William and the bed.
“Is he still asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Unlikely to wake today, I should think.” He nodded in Sarah’s direction. “Looks like he could use a good night’s sleep, anyway.”
The smudged circles under her eyes gave her a fragile appearance. William longed to put an arm around her shoulders and cradle her, giving her warmth and protection as she slept.
Forcing himself to look away, he leaned back in the padded chair. He crossed his legs at the ankles. “I believe I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”
“What? All night?” Archer chuckled and shook his head. “There’s no need.”
“Nonetheless, I feel responsible.”
“Why? You didn’t bash him on the head with a water jug. I did.”
“What did you find in the bricks at the corner of your house?” William asked abruptly.
“You saw that, did you?” Archer’s long fingers pulled his lower lip. “What do you think I found? Missing something, are you?”
“Just curious.”
Archer arched his back and dug in a pocket, drawing out a flattened slug of metal. He threw it at William, who caught it in one hand. A spent bullet, dimpled and compressed where it had hit the brick wall. He raised a brow and caught Archer’s eye.
“Looks like our sleeping lad is in need of watching,” Archer said. When he didn’t answer, Archer leaned forward, his voice softer. “I didn’t fire the rifle, son. Remember that. Your Mr. Sanderson is safe in this house.”
He caught himself rigidly, just before he accidentally referred to Sarah as ‘she’. “Is he?”
“Why not? What would I want with a bricklayer? Other than to finish that blasted garden wall, of course. Which looks like it will never get done, now. I promised my wife it would be completed in time to plant the summer herbs—and it’s April already.” He snorted. “Like as not, it’ll be fall again before these blockheads complete it.”
“I hope this incident hasn’t upset your wife.”
“Not at all. Tender-hearted female—always worries over the merest trifles.”
“She seemed upset when she heard his name. Perhaps she knows him? Or his family?”
“There are scores of Sandersons littering the English countryside. No doubt, she knows several of them. She may even have thought she knew this one.”
“Does she?”
“It’s hard to say. Did you notice that peculiar scar on his forehead? The one shaped like a star?”
The mark could no longer be seen. Sarah’s entire head was swathed in yards of white linen, but William nodded slowly and cautiously.
How much should he reveal? He chose the easy course. Nothing.
“What of it?” He asked.
“I’m curious about your interest in him. You seem to know an awful lot about a bricklayer you’ve never met before. Just an hour ago, you didn’t even know his name.”
“I simply have no wish to let a man die at my feet.”
Archer smiled and replied blandly, “Despite your insulting insinuations, neither do I.”
Chapter Six
To William’s surprise, the Archers allowed him to remain. Lady Victoria sent up a tray with an entire roasted chicken, warm, yeasty bread, and a bowl of peas and new potatoes. Sarah Sanderson missed the elegant meal. She lay still and white as a corpse. Only the faint rise and fall of her narrow chest revealed that she still lived.
Close to eleven, Archer stepped in for a moment.
“Do you need any assistance?”
“No. Thank you for dinner.”
Archer waved his words away. “There’s a bed in the adjoining room.” He eyed William’s tightly fitting blue jacket. “Do you need a valet?”
“I’ll stay here. It’s perfectly comfortable.”
A rude snort greeted this preposterous remark. “Ring the bell if you change your mind,” Archer said before shutting the door again.
By one, William wished he had considered Archer’s offer of a bed and a valet a little more seriously. Getting up, he paced the room, rotating his stiff shoulders and unwinding the neckcloth that threatened to strangle him. His movements must have disturbed Sarah, though. She moaned and moved her head, rolling over onto her side and laying one hand protectively on her soft cheek.
The gesture wrenched his heart.
When her breathing deepened again, William moved over to the bed. Restless in her sleep, her hand balled into a fist that she pressed against her mouth. Her brows drew down into a frown. She mumbled something unintelligible. He lightly touched her cheek, feeling the soft skin.
No fever, just living warmth. And the tender skin of a woman.
At his touch, she relaxed again, the frown slowly dissolving away.
He quietly paced for a few more hours, occasionally going to the windows and staring at the house backing onto the Archer’s garden. All the windows in the townhouse opposite were dark as if it were deserted. He would have to check tomorrow, but he suspected it was for rent and stood empty. A convenient place for someone to spy on the Archers and the bricklayers they had hired.
Finally, close to dawn, Sarah turned again in the bed. She kicked petulantly at the sheets. William drew up a chair and sat down close to the head of the bed.
“God’s teeth!” she swore, pressing her hand against her forehead. She moaned before kicking the covers again as if they annoyed her. Her eyes flickered. She moaned even more loudly before letting lose a positive torrent of blue words.
William’s brows rose at her impressive command of the vulgar tongue.
Finally, she sat upright. She drew her knees up so she could rest her forehead against them. Then she curled her arms around her head.
“Mr. Sanderson?” William asked gently, not wanting to frighten her.
She raised her head and winced. “Who—what the devil are you doing here?” Then she glanced around before closing her eyes again. “Where am I?”
“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident.”
“Accident?” One suspicious gray eye opened and peered at him over her bent elbow. “What sort of accident?”
“A jug of water fell on your head.” His fingers fumbled with the flattened bullet in his pocket.
She swore again and tried to get out of bed. Her feet no sooner hit the floor than she clutched her stomach. One hand flew to her temple.
“My head!” she cried. “I’m going to be sick.”
William grabbed the washbasin on a small table behind him. He thrust it into her hands. She cradled it in her lap, leaning over it, while her body trembled. Once or twice, she cleared her throat, but gradually, she seemed to bring her reaction under control.
She lifted her head and stared at him. Her eyes were huge. The lashes were dark and spiked with sweat and tears.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I wanted to talk to you.” He kept his voice low, trying to listen for sounds of movement in the hallway.
Despite his quiet words, she winched. She touched her fingers to her bandages delicately. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six, I should imagine.”
She nodded. “Then I’d best be getting home. Mrs. Pochard won’t want me missing supper again this week.” She patted her thighs and hips. “My pay! Has Mr. Hawkins gone already? What about our pay?”
“Mr. Hawkins will be back in a fe
w hours,” William said, trying to reassure her.
“What do you mean, back? Has he gone, then, for the evening? I thought you said it wasn’t even six, yet?”
“Six in the morning.”
“Six in the morning?” her voice rose. She winced and groaned, but tried to stand anyway. Weaving dizzily, she clutched wildly about her, grabbing William’s shoulder.
He put an arm around her back and tried to push her down onto the bed with a hand on her collarbone. She was surprisingly strong. She pulled away, despite her sharp-drawn gasp of pain.
“Leave off, sir! What do you mean? It can’t be morning.”
“It is. You’ve slept the night away.”
“God’s teeth, I’ve got to go!” She glanced around, her round eyes taking in the velvet bed covers and silk curtains. “Where the hell am I?”
“You’re in the townhouse where you were working. You’ve had a bad blow to the head. There’s no point in trying to get up.”
“Do you want me to lose my job? I can’t lie abed all day. What a bufflehead, I am! God’s teeth, and the rent was due last night.” She wobbled forward, her legs nearly buckling as she reached the door. For the first time, she glanced down at her clothing. “And where are my shoes? My smock?”
“Sarah,” William said.
His firm voice stopped her. She stared at him in silence.
“Sarah, listen to me, you can’t go running out there. Someone tried to kill you yesterday.”
Her narrow shoulders straightened. “They didn’t succeed, did they? So, I’ve got to get up. Don’t worry—I’ll pay you what I owe, but I must keep my job to do it. And I’ve got to have a place to live. Nothing comes for free.” A trembling hand pressed against the bandages before she threw open the door.
Following her, William tried to sound reasonable. “You can’t. You’re a woman—”
“Hush!” she said, standing in the hallway in her stocking feet, looking confused and dazed.
“Well, at least put on your shoes and smock.”
A glimmer of a smile crossed her pale face. Very carefully, she turned and reentered the bedroom. William collected her belongings and held them out to her. She sat gingerly on the bed.
When she leaned over to put a shoe on, she stopped with a gasping intake of breath.
“I—I can’t. Can you?” she asked finally, her voice soft with embarrassment.
Without a word, William knelt and thrust her thin feet into the heavy shoes. After lacing them, he held the smock over her head, drawing her hands through the dusty sleeves as if she were a child.
“I’ll get a hackney,” William said as they moved quietly through the hallway. He could hear the servants stirring in the back of the house, preparing for the day.
“No.” She bit her lip when she started to shake her head.
William waited until they got outside before he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “I refuse to walk back to Second Sons. We’ll share a hackney.”
Despite the early hour, the street was already alive with traffic.
Sarah glanced around, apparently too tired and ill to argue. Eyes half closed, she waited next to him until he managed to collar an urchin and promise him a shilling if he found them a hackney. They didn’t have long to wait. William helped her inside and climbed in afterwards, settling next to her.
“You really can’t go to work today, Miss Sanderson.”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.
“Why not? You’re Sarah Sanderson, aren’t you?”
“What if I am?” Her eyes opened, gleaming silver in the shadows. “It makes no difference. I’ve a job. Responsibilities with bills to pay like any man.”
“But surely—“
“But surely I should do what? What would happen to Miss Sarah Sanderson if she was left orphaned? Would you have me go to the workhouse? Or should I walk the streets, perhaps, like all the other women who make their living from the feather-bed jig?”
“That is not what I—”
“Of course not. But it’s much easier to be a nine-year-old boy than an eleven-year-old girl. Oddly enough, they’re built along such similar lines that there’s hardly a hair’s difference.”
He tried to place his hand over her fists. She shook him off.
“I understand why you did it, but you must realize you can’t keep this up,” he said. “Not much longer. You’re a woman now, whether it’s convenient to you, or not. And you’re not a poor orphan without resources. You’re the daughter of the Marquess of Longmoor.”
“I can’t inherit. All the property is entailed. The house is burned, the contents gone. There’s nothing there to rely on. Nothing but my wits and my own two hands.”
“But surely—“
“My family is dead. There is nothing left. Leave it be.” Her voice was hard and resolute, as if she had long ago come to terms with the hopelessness of her terrible situation.
He hesitated, thinking about the Archers. They might take her in, but to what end? If they had indeed known about the fire in advance and managed to be gone at the crucial time, could they be trusted to care for their niece? There was also Archer’s peculiar method of protecting Sanderson. Flinging full jugs of water out the window could kill a person just as easily as a bullet.
And maybe that was what he intended.
There was no doubt in William’s mind that Archer was sharp-witted and an opportunist. He would not hesitate to take advantage of any opening offered to him.
The hackney coach slowed and came to a gradual halt. William glanced out the window. They were in front of Second Sons. He pushed open the door and flipped a few coins to the driver before helping Sarah alight from the coach.
She stood there as if dazed, staring at him with huge gray eyes. Before she could turn and head for her boarding house, William grabbed her upper arm and guided her up the steps into Second Sons.
The door opened as they reached the top stair. Sotheby stood there, mouth agape.
“Sir!” His eyes took in William’s lack of a cravat and his wrinkled blue coat. “Sir!”
“Breakfast in my office in ten minutes,” William ordered, sauntering past with Sarah in tow.
She tried to pull away, but every time she jerked her arm, she groaned and closed her eyes. Finally, she just let him lead her into his office and push her down into the very same chair she had occupied two days previously.
William went around his large desk. He tugged at the curtains to make sure they were closed to keep the light out of her eyes before he took his own seat. Clasping his hands in front of him, he eyed Sarah.
Where to begin?
Chapter Seven
Her head was surely going to explode. Sarah glanced at Mr. Trenchard, her eyes watering with pain. She felt confused and couldn’t seem to think properly. Her belly twisted hollowly. A throbbing headache pounded with each heart beat until she wished her heart would simply stop.
And yet, despite her physical discomfort, all she could think about was the rent she owed Mrs. Pochard. And finishing that garden wall.
The thought of bending down to pick up a brick made her swallow convulsively.
Nonsense. She wasn’t a baby any more. She had to do it. The headache would fade as the day progressed.
Opening one eye, she realized Mr. Trenchard had closed the drapes, leaving the room in blessed darkness. The sight of the rising sun’s sparkling light made her want to toss up what little remained in her stomach.
“You haven’t taken any food, or drink, since yesterday,” Mr. Trenchard said.
His voice slammed painfully against her ears, even though she could tell he was trying to speak softly. Before she replied, his butler wandered into the room, along with the maid. The two carried trays and made an appalling symphony of clattering and clashing crockery as they unloaded it. She held her head briefly, cradled in her cool hands, before she heard them leave.
When it was quiet again, she opened her eyes. Mr. T
renchard was pouring steaming coffee into a cup, to which he added liberal amounts of cream and sugar. He pushed the cup toward the edge of the desk closest to her before he started scooping spoonfuls of fluffy yellow eggs onto a plate.
Her stomach rolled over as the slightly sulfurous scent of scrambled eggs wafted past her nose.
“Drink something,” he said. “Do you think you can eat? Eggs? Or would you prefer some broth?”
With a very controlled, very smooth motion, she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth and let the hot liquid brush her lips. Her stomach grumbled and clenched. She took a deep breath and let the merest teaspoonful enter her mouth. The sweet liquid trickled down her throat, and she swallowed, holding her breath. It continued to spiral downwards inside her, leaving a faint warmth behind.
When her body accepted that small taste with no ill effects, she took a larger swallow, again patiently waiting for it to seep into the empty reaches of her belly. After the second drink, her stomach rumbled loudly. She glanced at Mr. Trenchard in horror, but he was calmly slathering a thick piece of toast with orange marmalade.
Her eyes fastened on that piece of toast. With a mighty gurgle, her stomach vibrated while she tried to quiet it with another sip of coffee and a hand on her belly.
Mr. Trenchard caught her gaze and smiled. “Would you prefer a piece of toast? Dry or buttered?”
She couldn’t help staring at the piece in his hand, held mere inches from his lips. Thick, sweet peels of orange zest curled over the top, glazed with sugary jelly. The tangy citrus scent filled her mouth with desire. She licked her lips.
He chuckled.
She wrenched her gaze from the toast to find his blue eyes twinkling merrily at her, despite the tired lines and shadows of his face. They were so deep, so blue, like the vast sky after the rain—brilliant and mesmerizing.
“Do you want this piece?” He held it out toward her.
“No, sir,” she said, trying not to drool. “I’ll get another.”
Still grinning, he thrust the toast into her hand before he picked up another from the plate at his elbow. She took a bite, closing her eyes as the bright, sweet taste filled her mouth. Even her stomach quieted, waiting in hushed awe for the first taste. Sweet, tart, and the slightest bitterness of orange peel. Evoking lost memories of her life before...
