Sweet Temptation

by Leigh Greenwood

  “We can’t take a bedroom,” protested Sara.

  “Ye have walked most o’ the day, and ye must be exhausted,” said Lord George.

  “We can sleep in a barn,” Sara offered heroically, but was unable to suppress a shiver at the thought.

  “The men were there afore ye, and I doubt the Queen’s arrival would cause them tae quit it afore morning. Ye and yer maid will take one room, and my staff will take the rest.”

  “I do have one request,” Sara said, almost ashamed to ask for anything of this badly overworked man. “Is it possible to heat water for a bath?”

  “I’ll not have my girls carrying water for a damned Jacobite lightskirt,” spat the farmer.

  Betty stepped forward and dealt the man a ringing blow. “Take care how you speak of my mistress, or you’ll be roasting over the very fire that heats her bath water. It’s not for the likes of you to be questioning anything she does.” Sara quickly mastered an impulse to come to the unfortunate man’s defense. Betty’s harsh treatment might be unwarranted, but Sara sorely wanted a bath.

  The water was duly heated, and Sara was able to soak away the day’s accumulation of mud and ease her aching muscles. In the soft light her pure white skin glowed like alabaster, without a single freckle to mar its perfection. Her soft blue eyes shone with contentment as Betty washed her hair. It would take some time to dry the luxuriant mass of strawberry blond tresses, but not nearly so long as when her hair was a foot longer.

  Sara rose from the water and savored the luxury of having Betty pat her dry. She tried to catch a glimpse of herself in a small hand mirror, but Betty kept getting in the way. “Do you think my body is attractive?” she asked, remembering the feel of Gavin’s lips on her skin.

  “It’s not my place to say,” muttered Betty, drying her with businesslike efficiency.

  “But you must know something. You haven’t spent your whole life within the walls of a girl’s school.”

  “A man will take to just about any female that’s prettier than his hunting dog and weighs less than a brood sow.”

  That was not the boost in confidence Sara was hoping for. “I mean a man like Lord Carlisle. After having lots of beautiful mistresses, wouldn’t he expect more than an average female?” She looked at her trim body and pulled a face. “I’m too skinny,” she said, remembering Clarice’s opulent form and longing for just a few of the buxom widow’s curves. “I look like a boy.”

  “Men don’t go about choosing their wives the same way they choose their mistresses,” Betty said reprovingly.

  “But they must look for some of the same things in both.” She didn’t think she could stand it if every man needed a wife and a mistress. She couldn’t share the man she loved with anyone, especially not a woman as beautiful as Clarice Wynburn.

  “It’s nothing you have to worry your head about,” replied Betty, firmly ending the conversation. “You’re his wife, and he has to take you the way he finds you. That’s a husband’s duty.”

  Sara allowed herself to be tucked in, but she had a feeling that however much other men might behave according to Betty’s dictums, Lord Gavin Carlisle was different. Her curiosity was far from satisfied—she really wasn’t sure Betty could satisfy it—but she was too exhausted to think about it anymore tonight. She drifted off to sleep and dreamed of Gavin, spurning an endless parade of voluptuous widows in favor of his slender, lissome wife.

  “I don’t want to see anyone, and I most particularly don’t want to see Colleen Fraser,” Gavin barked at his valet. He didn’t want to eat breakfast, not with his head pounding away like a piece of field artillery, but the news that Colleen had come to Estameer a second time killed what little appetite he had.

  “What shall I tell the young lassie when she comes again, for ye know she will?” Lester demanded firmly, not the least bit deferential to his young lord. He remembered the day Gavin was born, and he could never bring himself to look upon him as anything but a boy.

  “Tell her I’ve gone to Glasgow,” Gavin thundered, throwing down his napkin and rising from the table, “because I have.”

  “Ye have no need tae travel all the way tae Glasgow, if ye’re looking tae do business. Edinburgh canna be half so far.”

  “Where I go is none of your concern, you nosy old rascal. But for your information, I’ve already been to Edinburgh, and I don’t like their prices. There must be more of the old man in me than I bargained for. It looks like I was born to haggle over the last penny.”

  But as he traveled the cold, wet roads across Scotland, he admitted it was just as well he was out of Colleen’s way. He had first succumbed to her lusty ardor five summers back, but he had been at Estameer for nearly three weeks and had not had the slightest desire to quench the fires that raged in his loins in Colleen’s embrace. It hadn’t been necessary for him to dream about Sara every night to realize she was the only one who could satisfy the thirst which now bedeviled him, body and soul.

  The more often he remembered the look on her face when he stormed out of his father’s house, the more convinced he became that he had misjudged her. At the time he had been too enraged to care, but as the anger of that morning faded, a myriad of impressions began to emerge from the mist, providing him with a clear picture of his father’s cold rage, the Burroughs women’s incredulous disbelief, and Olivia Tate’s chagrin. He didn’t care about his father, and hadn’t given more than a minute’s thought to Olivia and the Burroughs, but he could not get Sara out of his mind.

  It wasn’t her shock or surprise. He’d been shocking and surprising people for years; it was-their own fault if they expected something else of him. It wasn’t even the hurt, though Gavin never intentionally hurt anyone who hadn’t hurt him first. For the hundredth time he recalled the words he had flung at her. No, not at her—he hadn’t even had the decency to speak directly to her—at his father, but meant for her. No, they weren’t meant for her, but she thought they were, and he had done nothing to cause her to think otherwise.

  It was as though some part of her, one of the intangible somethings that make a person an individual, had died. No, that wasn’t it either. She had come face to face with something terrible, something that undermined the whole foundation of her beliefs, that literally threatened her existence, and she had drawn inward to protect herself. And he was that something.

  She had come to him open and welcoming, expecting him to be the boy she remembered, and he had turned on her in a furious rage. She had somehow regained enough confidence to come to the marriage bed trusting that he would not hurt her, and he had shattered that hope as well. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he had said he didn’t want her. During the day he could almost forget his infamous treatment of her, but the grinding weight of guilt seemed to grow heavier each night.

  He knew he wanted her—God! His body grew rigid with desire every time he thought of her—but he felt an overwhelming need to make her hurt go away. He didn’t know which he wanted to do first, or if he could do one and not the other. It was all tangled up in his mind at the moment, but it was probably too late either way. He couldn’t believe he had rejected Clarice and Colleen for a skinny, virginal girl, and then abandoned her to the mercies of the Earl! “You are truly your father’s son,” he told himself furiously.

  He cursed and dug his heels into his horse’s side, driving the animal forward at a gallop.

  Chapter 12

  As they left Shap two days later, Sara saw troop after troop of enemy light horse on the hills beside the road, riding in pairs against the skyline.

  “You think they mean to attack us?” Betty asked, her eyes wide with fear.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Sara said, not taking her own eyes off the following troops. “We never studied military tactics at Miss Adelaide’s.” A short time later, the sound of trumpets and kettledrums broke upon their ears so suddenly it surprised a scream of fright out of Betty. Certain that Cumberland’s army would rush down in the next instant and slay them al
l without hesitation, Sara sat rigidly in her seat, and wondered why it had seemed important to leave London immediately. It was certainly foolhardy to continue on this ill-considered journey, when she was caught between two armies chasing each other across England.

  Suddenly a man at the head of their column drew his sword and ran up the hill; he was immediately followed by others. The Highlanders arrived at the top of the hill, greatly to the consternation of a body of three hundred English light horse and chasseurs who found themselves mistaken for an army; they galloped off in haste, kettledrums and trumpets suddenly silent.

  But Sara’s relief was only temporary. Two miles farther on, the Macdonalds in the rear were suddenly attacked by two thousand of Cumberland’s cavalry. Luckily the road was lined by thick hedges and ditches, so that the horsemen could not get round their flanks. The Macdonalds valiantly repulsed the attack with their swords, turned and ran down the road until they overtook the wagons, then turned and repulsed Cumberland’s cavalry again. By constantly repeating these tactics, while the wagons before them fled as quickly as they could, the Scots came into Clifton with very little loss.

  “Get the women into safe quarters and then join me,” Lord George ordered Fraser. “I mean tae see how many men Cumberland has following us.”

  But Sara was not content to remain safely indoors. The experience of being outside with cheerful, energetic men had given her a strong distaste for a household containing a scolding housewife and two whining daughters. As there was no separate room where she and Betty could withdraw, she decided an hour’s walk in the night air would be preferable to their company, and after a quick meal, she left the abode of her sullen hosts.

  “You can’t mean to go walking about like we were in London,” Betty protested. “There are men out there with guns.”

  “They’re to the south of town,” Sara assured her. “We’ll stay to the north.”

  What Sara couldn’t know was that Lord George had taken his men out of Clifton in search of Cumberland’s army, only to find four thousand of them approaching from north of the village. Lord George cunningly concealed his men behind the network of hedged enclosures along the very lane where Sara and Betty were walking.

  The English couldn’t get to the Highlanders because of the hedges and ditches, so five hundred of them dismounted and advanced in skirmishing order from ditch to ditch and hedge to hedge, keeping up an irregular fire. Sara and Betty found themselves caught between two advancing armies.

  “Merciful Jesus!” cried Betty. “We’ll be killed right here!”

  “We’ve got to get through the hedge,” Sara said, pushing her frantic maid toward the side of the road. They tumbled into the ditch and scrambled up the other side, but could find no opening in the hedge.

  “We’ll never push our way through without an ax,” groaned Betty, giving herself up for dead.

  “Keep looking,” Sara whispered fiercely. “If we don’t find an opening, we’ll have to hide in the ditch.”

  “But it’s full of water.”

  “Would you rather be wet or dead?”

  But Betty wasn’t required to decide whether she preferred to die of pneumonia or a musket ball. Sara found a weak place in the hedge, pushed Betty through, and followed herself just as the enemy came into view.

  “There’s someone behind us,” Sara whispered moments later, when she heard sounds of stealthy movement through the hedges and enclosures behind them. Betty dropped to her knees and began praying, earnestly begging forgiveness for every sin she could remember committing.

  “No one is going to harm us,” Sara insisted. “One of those armies belongs to Lord George, and the other is supposed to defend English women.”

  Confident in their numbers and the superiority of their fire, and well-hidden in the wan, moonlit darkness, Lord George brought his men up to the road through the hedges behind Sara, allowing the enemy to draw closer. By now the light had faded, and the dragoons could scarcely see the sights on their muskets when the cry, “Claymore!” followed by a succession of wild yells coming from both sides of the road, warned them of a Highland charge. Jumping the hedges, swords held high in the air, the Highlanders were on top of them in a moment.

  Sara couldn’t stay hidden, and she squeezed back through the hedge. What she saw stunned her. This was no imaginary battle; men were being killed, swords plunged through their bodies, limbs severed from the trunk with a single swing of the broadsword. One man fell to the ground, his unprotected skull split to the teeth by a single blow. Suddenly it seemed to her that the whole world was smeared in blood.

  Out of the melee Sara recognized Lord George, standing back to back with Fraser, fighting on foot. She watched fascinated as they parried sword thrusts with their targes (small, round wooden shields covered with leather) and drove their opponents back with powerful swings of their broadswords. Their alternate advances and retreats had the precision of choreographed movement; then unexpectedly one of them would vary the rhythm and a protagonist would step back with blood streaming from a fresh wound. Terrified, horrified, and fascinated, Sara watched the gory combat, the full meaning of war and what it could do to the human body coming home with crushing effect.

  In that moment both Fraser and Lord George turned toward a fallen man, and Sara was jerked out of her trance by a sudden rush of a government dragoon against their unprotected backs.

  “Look behind you!” she screamed, and clambered out of the hedge. She was unable to reach the dragoon, but the unexpected sight of a woman rushing out of the hedge caused him to falter. That was all Lord George and Fraser needed, and they converged on the unfortunate man. The end came quickly. The dragoon turned to drive back a thrust from Fraser, and Lord George caught him from behind with a single, powerful swing of the broadsword. His severed head tumbled from his shoulders and rolled toward Sara. It came to a stop at her feet, his eyes still open and staring.

  Sara screamed and fainted.

  The Esk River separating England and Scotland was running high when they reached the border. Sara had been declared a heroine for her part in the battle outside Clifton, and the Prince had insisted that she ride with him. She appreciated the comfort of this favored position, but she was even more grateful for the companionship, which kept her mind from dwelling on the unforgettable horrors of the battle.

  “Highlanders will cross a river where a horse will not,” the Prince gaily informed Sara, as she watched column after column of men enter the river. Though the water rose to the men’s shoulders, they crossed one hundred abreast, just as they marched, holding one another by the collars, until above two thousand were in the water at once. It was a thrilling sight, and Sara was proud to be part of such an intrepid band of men.

  The Prince and all the men on horseback went in to break the force of the current, so it would not be as rapid for the soldiers on foot. Then he recrossed to escort Sara to the far side.

  “We can cross on our own,” Sara stated gallantly, as she watched the swirling water whip the men about like bobbing corks.

  “Never will you insist, milady, if you have any feeling for my poor self,” wailed Betty, petrified by the swift-running waters.

  “You could cross on foot, and the water would reach no higher than your waist,” remarked the Prince, who had never accustomed himself to the size of the towering female. But before they reached the bank, the Prince caught sight of several infantry who had lost their footing and were being swept downstream towards them. He sprang forward into the river and caught one poor soldier by the hair, supporting him until he could receive assistance, then helped another to the bank. When he reentered the water to bring out a third man, the men cheered him warmly.

  “The Prince and his Highlanders seem to be of the same intrepid spirit,” Sara said to Fraser.

  “’Tis a thousand pities his generals canna share his spirit,” remarked Fraser bitterly.

  But his sour mood evaporated quickly. Some of the men had waded into the water fully dressed,
while others held their clothes above their heads to keep them dry. On reaching Scottish soil, the pipers began playing a reel, and all the Highlanders danced naked on the bank to dry themselves.

  Sara didn’t know where to look. She was surrounded on every side by an endless tide of men indulging in a display of unfettered natural exuberance. Betty was scandalized, and insisted that Sara close her eyes, but she stubbornly kept them open. It seemed foolish to be ashamed of something that thousands of men were doing without the least hint of embarrassment. Maybe that was part of the difference between men and women. Men could accept the sensual part of their nature, while so many women were determined to deny it.

  Too, she found herself unconsciously comparing them to Gavin, and as always, they came off wanting. Among the thousands of men that surrounded her, there might be one who was as handsome, another with more powerful shoulders, and still another who was taller, but no one man combined all the attributes which made being held in Gavin’s arms a shattering experience. In the days that had passed since she joined the army, her remembrance of Gavin had grown more vivid, and she found that nearly everything that happened made her think of him.

  Sara’s gaze fell upon some gaily dressed women who had preceded the army across the ford, and were now enjoying the nude dance with whoops and shrieks of delight. She didn’t remember having seen them, and she was puzzled as to why they should have appeared now.

  “Who are they?” she asked Fraser.

  “You’re never asking after them, milady,” scolded Betty, maneuvering her horse until she had positioned herself between Sara and the women.

  “But I’ve not seen them before. Where have they been?”

  Fraser could barely contain his bottled-up amusement.