She glanced down, smoothing her hand over the beautiful satin. As the garments commissioned for her wouldn’t be ready for at least another week, she wore a gown borrowed from the Duchess of Harcourt. Sarah had never felt more regale Or more unequivocally out of place—as if she play-acted and pretended to be someone, something, she wasn’t.
Every aspect of this seemed wrong on some level.
Why couldn’t she just be Sarah, daughter of Captain and Mrs. Aaron Paine from Jamaica? Wasn’t that good enough?
No. Not if she was to get into her grandmother’s good graces. At this point, she wasn’t even sure that was what she wanted anymore.
Gregor was her steadying rudder through it all, and her heart ached to think that soon they may go their separate ways. Scarcely over a week ago, panic had propelled her into his office. Now her circumstances were vastly improved, but every bit of the change was due, at least in part, to him.
His thoughtfulness. His connections. His perseverance. His goodness.
Seated on the far end of the box, every now and again, he ran his finger over the back of her hand resting in her lap. Brazen, considering the candles remained lit in their box. Only a few private boxes had extinguished their tapers.
Surely, everyone sitting nearby heard her heart knocking against her breastbone.
This gruff—much too attractive for her own good—Highlander was well on his way to capturing her heart.
Nonetheless, as long as Santano searched for her and Chris, she could never relax, never let down her guard. She couldn’t be confident of their safety, even with a warrior like Gregor and his influential friends vowing their protection. They couldn’t know Santano was pure evil, and he seemed to have spies everywhere.
This evening as she descended from the coach, she’d caught sight of a vaguely familiar, shadowy figure lurking across the street from the theater. She couldn’t be sure, of course. Not with poor lighting and her hurried glimpse. But something about his bearing caused her nape hairs to rise, and her instinct screamed danger.
Perhaps she was paranoid, but only a fool failed to be cautious and dismissed something like that as chance. On the way home, she’d discuss her concerns with Gregor. For now, she’d enjoy his company and the rather awful performance upon the stage.
She squinted, leaning forward a couple of inches. Was that a man dressed as a buxom woman?
Gregor bent near, touching her hand again and whispering in her ear. “Enjoyin’ yerself, lass?”
How could something as innocent as touching hands heighten her awareness of him? “Yes. Very much.” Not because of the actors on the stage, however. No, another captured her interest. Feeling incredibly daring, she laid her other hand atop his and squeezed his fingers.
He boldly returned the caress.
Someone behind them cleared her throat, and she withdrew her hand. Either they’d been caught in their indiscretion, or fate had intervened and brought her to her senses.
Encouraging him was unwise, as was indulging her growing infatuation. In a matter of days, she’d meet her grandmother at the duchess’s tea, and Sarah would know one way or the other whether she and Chris would remain in London or move elsewhere.
She’d already conceived new identities for her brother and her, should the need arise, and she wouldn’t hesitate to flee once again. Even if that meant not telling these kindhearted people where she was going. Much depended upon the success of the scheme Gregor and his friends had concocted to entrap Santano.
An hour later, as they left the theater, the men sheltered the women from the curious onlookers and an occasional drunken reveler. His features stern and posture tense, Gregor guided her to the waiting carriages. “Look lively, lads. I’ve an uneasy feelin’.”
So did she.
Even as the words left his mouth, Santano’s three thugs rushed from the crowd directly toward her. Gregor neatly stepped in front of her, dispatching Yeates with a mighty blow to his jaw.
He dropped to the pavement like a soiled handkerchief.
Lords Clarendon and Ramsbury wrestled the smaller ruffian to the ground, but the third escaped.
Her heart pounding her throat, Sarah stared into Santano’s hireling’s hate-filled face, as he thrashed in the lordships’ arms.
“Santano knows where you’re stayin’, bitch. Best be sayin’ your prayers—”
Another well-placed punch from Gregor rendered him unconscious, as well.
Sarah clutched Gregor’s arm. “Chris!”
“Ramsbury, will ye see these bloody rotters are arrested?” Gregor asked as he handed her into the carriage.
“With immense pleasure.” Ramsbury signaled his driver. The strapping fellow and Harcourt’s drivers were binding the attackers’ wrists and ankles as Sarah’s conveyance pulled away from the throng.
Less than thirty minutes later, after a harrowing ride, her nerves tattered raw from worry, she closed Chris’s bedchamber door. The servants assured her and Lord and Lady Clarendon that nothing out of the ordinary had transpired in their absence.
Allowing Gregor to lead her downstairs, Sarah pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Do you think Santano really knows we are here?”
Gregor drew her to halt, turning her so that she faced him. “It’s no’ only possible, we want him to ken. As an extra precaution, I’ll be stayin’ here ’til the scunner’s caught.” His mouth quirked in that roguish manner she’d come to know. “Just think, jo, I can give ye more dancin’ lessons.”
Excitement and alarm swept her, not only that he would stay here, but that he’d tried sweeping her worry aside and changing the subject. She crossed her arms. “I presume you’re going to explain those statements to me?”
“Dinna get yer feathers ruffled, lass. I’m no’ keepin’ secrets from ye.” He kissed her forehead, right there for all to see, as if he were staking a claim on her. For a blissful instant, she forgot her fear.
Only an instant though before reality crashed upon her senses. “Good try, Highlander.” She poked his chest. “I’ll have the truth of it, and don’t spare my sensibilities. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a delicate flower or a swooning sort of female.”
“Aye.” He gave her a scorching glance that sent a frisson along her spine. “I noticed that about ye, and a lot more too.” He made slow work of raking his gaze over her from head to toe and back again.
“Gregor McTavish!” She didn’t sound half so outraged as flattered at his seductive smile and the rakish glint hooding his turbulent gaze.
“Och, dinna fash yerself.” He tapped her nose. “Today, word was deliberately spread around the places Santano, and his sailors frequent that soon after my apartment was searched, a chest was delivered to Stapleton Shippin’ and Supplies. If all goes as planned, Santano will attempt to steal it. Given I’ve added new security measures, I’m positive he’ll take the bait. Once inside the warehouse, he’ll find much more than a chest awaits him.”
His low, slightly wicked chuckle sent shivers scuttling along her shoulders. Gregor McTavish wasn’t a man to underestimate.
A few days later, Sarah inhaled a steadying breath and swallowed her nerves as she and Gregor entered the Harcourts’ grand house. After passing the butler her new navy-blue silk bonnet and velvet-lined pelisse, she commanded her frolicking pulse to calm. As it was wont to do, the unruly thing completely ignored her dictate.
She must do this.
With Gregor by her side, she could.
“Has Lady Rolandson arrived yet, Tibbs?” Sarah couldn’t wait an instant longer to ask the question burning the tip of her tongue.
“Yes, Miss Paine.” The butler accepted Gregor’s cane and hat, as well.
She would’ve preferred to meet her grandmother for the first time in a private setting, but her ladyship’s refusal to so much as speak to her had brought this public confrontation upon herself.
It had actually been quite brilliant of Alexa, truth to tell.
Gripping Gregor’s a
rm as if it were a lifeline, Sarah allowed him to guide her down the passageway. Catching sight of them as they passed an ornate gilded mirror, a tiny smile bent her mouth. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect he’d picked his blue tartan waistcoat because it matched her midnight blue gown.
Both tall and blond, they did, indeed, make a most attractive couple. Their children would be blond too, no doubt. Would their offspring have his blue-gray eyes or her hazel ones?
If only it might be so.
Those ruminations would have to wait. Her future was but a few feet away, and she intended to face it head-on. She squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine, and elevated her chin.
Mustering her composure, and ordering whatever the rambunctious creatures frolicking in her middle were to settle down, Sarah permitted Gregor to lead her into the drawing room.
“Smile, lass.” He squeezed her arm. “Ye look like ye’re goin’ to a funeral. What’s the worst that can happen?”
She was, in essence, facing a sort of death. For today she’d either forge a new future or slam the door on her past forever. As for the worst that could happen? Well, she wasn’t sure where Gregor fit in either of those scenarios, and she very much wanted him to. Very much, indeed.
He winked in that confident manner that never failed to charm a smile from her. “Ye and Chris can always come to Scotland with me.”
Eyes narrowed the merest bit, she took his measure. Did he jest, or was he sincere? Then her mind stumbled upon the truth, and dismay bludgeoned her. “You’re returning to Scotland?”
“Aye,” he agreed, his voice somewhat gravelly.
Dismay throttled up her throat. She’d become accustomed to his company. His dear face and roguish humor. And he was leaving.
“When?”
It wasn’t any of her business. She’d hoped to see him after—that was if—things went well with her grandmother. Sarah lied to herself. She had counted on his being there, no matter the outcome. To think he wouldn’t nearly undid her.
He rolled a shoulder nonchalantly. “It depends.”
On what? She wanted to scream.
He canted his head in response to a handsome dark-haired man’s greeting. “Yvette and Ewan are here, Sarah.” He seemed inordinately pleased by that. “I’ll introduce ye later.”
With a small start, she realized who the man and the stunning blonde at his side were. Rumor had it, Yvette McTavish was the wealthiest woman in the whole of Britain. Sarah swept her gaze over the assembled guests, glittering in their high-fashion finery. Her grandmother was in this room somewhere.
She would have to wait to find out when Gregor intended to leave for Scotland. The moment she’d anticipated and dreaded was upon her. “I hope this isn’t a colossal mistake,” she whispered.
At once, Alexa glided to their sides.
Speaking quietly, she murmured, “Sarah, your grandmother is sitting by the window. I don’t believe she saw you arrive, but I do have salts available in case she swoons.” Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “She’s known to do that regularly.”
Just perfect. Temperamental, mean-spirited, sharp-tongued, unforgiving, and given to the vapors. Had the dowager any redeeming qualities?
Digging her fingers into Gregor’s forearm, Sarah marshaled every ounce of poise she possessed as the duchess wended her way across the drawing room, smiling and nodding to guests as she swept past.
Elegant, her mien superior and self-important, Lady Rolandson, attired in black from her lace cap to her gloves, was engaged in conversation with another distinguished grand dame near her age, also swathed in black from her sophisticated turban to her beaded, slippered toes.
Upon their approach, Lady Rolandson gave a disinterested upward sweep of her sparse lashes. Eyes widening, she froze, going perfectly still. The color draining from her face, she clutched at her throat as if choking. “Mary?”
Sarah shook her head, sinking onto the empty chair and offering a tremulous upward turn of her mouth. “No, I’m her daughter, Sarah Paine.”
Almost at once, a plumpish prune-faced woman, perhaps in her fifth decade, rushed to her ladyship’s side. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she patted gently, while glaring daggers at Sarah. “Calm yourself, Your Ladyship. Take deep breaths.” All solicitous concern, she hovered above Grandmother. Rummaging in the reticule at her wrist, she asked, “Do you require your salts? ’Tis obvious this person has given you a most terrible upset.”
Lady Rolandson speared the woman a sour look and shrugged the hand off her shoulder. “Stop coddling me, Bernice! You’re my companion, not my nursemaid. I’ll thank you to remember your place.”
There was the temperamental harridan Sarah had been warned about.
Bernice’s mouth cinched impossibly tighter as if she’d sucked a most unripe lemon. Something akin to fury tightened her plain features, and Sarah realized with an uncomfortable start, the companion’s wrath was directed squarely at her. “But your heart, Your Ladyship,” Bernice argued stiffly.
“Is now and has always been perfectly fine, Miss Wattle.” After another scathing glance, Sarah’s grandmother struggled to her feet, extending quaking hands. Eyes suspiciously moist, she offered a trembling smile. “My dear, why didn’t you inform me you were in London? I’m beyond overcome, but so very delighted. I didn’t even know of your existence.”
Sarah stiffened, casting Gregor a flabbergasted look. It took all of her self-control not to condemn her grandmother for a liar right then and there. Was it possible he’d been right? That somehow, incredible as it seemed, her grandmother hadn’t known about Sarah’s many attempts to contact her?
With the slightest flexing of his eyes, he indicated she should go on.
Grandmother drew in a shaky breath, her focus sinking to the floor. In a small, weak voice, she said, “These many years, I never heard from your mother. I’d given up hope.”
“I beg your pardon?” Outrage at the blatant tarradiddle sluiced Sarah from her head to her toes curled tight in her slippers.
Gregor’s heavy, soothing hand on her shoulder calmed her a mite.
“Not a word.” Grandmother shook her head. “I’d hoped and prayed, as did Rolandson, that she’d contact us. For nearly ten years, I checked the post every day. I gave up after that, you see. It was just too painful...” Her eyes grew misty, and her chin quivered. A heartbroken, fragile old woman had replaced the formidable dowager of a few moments ago. She dabbed an eye with her knuckle. “I finally realized Mary would never be able to forgive me.”
Miss Wattle made a tutting sound, her tone and gaze condemning. “I must say, you’ve some nerve, Miss Paine, showing up unannounced and distressing her ladyship in this matter. In public, too. For shame.”
Who was this woman that she presumed order her and Grandmother about? Sarah bit the inside of her cheek from telling Miss Bernice Wattle precisely what she could do with her bloody disapproval. The suggestion might have something to do with a small body cavity.
“Might I advise you adjourn to a more private setting, my lady?” Alexa said as she cut Adaira a telling look.
The countess approached, concern pinching the corners of her eyes the merest bit.
Glancing around, Sarah encountered the curious glances of several other guests. Likely this gossip fodder would be whispered in drawing rooms and assemblies across London by day’s end. It wasn’t every day during a le beau monde tea that a peeress discovered the offspring she’d disowned decades before had a child.
Sarah’s lips twitched. Grandmother might be allowed a fainting episode after all.
“Yes, yes, that would be wise, Your Grace. I should prefer to converse with my granddaughter alone.” Lady Rolandson reached for Sarah’s hand, and she reluctantly allowed the old woman to clasp it in her frail grasp.
Something was off here. Her grandmother didn’t appear to be pretending her shock, so why would she claim that Mama had never written? Sarah possessed the returned letters.
“Yes, I too think i
t’s wise to have this discussion in private and determine if this… person is who she claims she is. She might be impersonating your granddaughter in an attempt to swindle you.” Accusation ringing in her words, Miss Wattle made to accompany them.
Balling a fist against the urge to slap the condescending smirk off Miss Wattle’s chuffy face, Sarah forced herself to count to ten.
Gregor’s hand lit upon her shoulder for a brief instant, once again calming her.
He knew. Knew how hard put Sarah was to bridle her tongue.
“Have you eyes in your empty head, Bernice?” Lady Rolandson swept a hand up and down Sarah. “She’s the very image of her mother at that age, you twaddle-brain. You view Mary’s portrait in the drawing room daily. Don’t pretend you do not notice the resemblance,” her ladyship snapped while leveling Miss Wattle a peevish glare.
“I believe grandmother and granddaughter should be permitted this reunion in private, Miss Wattle.” Alexa’s demeanor clearly expressed that nothing else was acceptable.
“But… I don’t…What if…?” Miss Wattle stuttered.
“There’s no need for you to join us,” Grandmother said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I expect our discussion to become quite emotional.”
“I’m not sure you should be alone with this person, your ladyship. After all, we know absolutely nothing about her.” Miss Wattle could be given credit for her tenacity, if not her ragged manners.
“Come, Miss Wattle.” Adaira looped the vexed companion’s arm through hers. “Have you met my brother, Lord Sethwick, and his lady?” Her side-eyed glance and slightly quirked mouth indicated she knew full well what Miss Wattle was about, and she wasn’t having any of it.
“You won’t leave, will you?” Sarah touched Gregor’s arm.
“Nae. I’ll be right here, waitin’ for ye, jo.” He crossed his arm over his chest. A gallant knight vowing his allegiance. “I swear.”
A Yuletide Highlander Page 9
