Betrayed (19 page)

The contemptible blighter was dismissing her! “I think you should mount it.”

“I think you've had your fun, Sarah.”

Not yet ready to end the matter, she guided her horse closer to him. “In future, I think it would be best if you cease addressing me informally.”

The undertaker's conveyance sped by them. Over the noise, Michael said, “I'm to call you Lady Sarah?”

Something in his voice warned her that she tread
close to dangerous territory, but she could not back down. “Have you an objection to the use of good manners?”

“Not in the least.” His tone grew ominous. “But know this, my prank-playing Sarah. I'll gladly address you as a lady when you begin acting like one.”

“You wretched Elliot.”

He expelled a breath and surveyed the shops on the facing side of the cobblestone street. “You've said that before.”

“I'll keep saying it.”

“What's this? My overly schooled
Sarah
has run out of inventive insults?”

Not for a very long time. Not when he intruded into her life and thwarted her best intentions. Not when he set her pulse to racing and inspired maidenly dreams. “Fitting words to describe your family have not yet been coined. And I am not
your
Sarah.”

“Yes, well . . .” A warning glimmered in his eyes. “Go along,
Sarah
. The cobbler and your band of unfortunates await.”

Feeling wretched, Sarah watched him lead the ancient horse away. “You haven't a dot of the good sport in you,” she called after him.

He turned and cupped a hand to his ear. “What did you say?”

“I said—” She stopped, hearing the shrillness in her own voice.

Looking as innocent as a lad at prayers, he shook his head. “You'll have to yell louder, Sarah.”

She had been shouting, but he'd goaded her into it. Judging from the curious faces peering at her through the shop windows, the townspeople had heard her as well. Regret washed over her.

When he spoke kindly to the beast, she felt worse.

Wheeling her horse around, she joined the stream of carts, sedanchairs, and the ever-present coal wagons in High Street. By the time she reached the Cordiner's Hall in Con's Close, a score of orphans had congregated out front.

Notch broke away from the others. “Lady Sarah!” He ripped off his cap and jammed it under his arm. All excited lad, his eyes grew as big and as bright as brass buttons. “Did you hear about the fight 'tween the general and Cholly? The cheesemonger in High Street said 'twas all bluster and little brawling until you arrived.”

Michael and Cholly—their enmity still baffled her. “What were they fighting about?”

“The aleman at the Blue Seal Tavern—that's Reamer Clark—he saw it all, start to end, from no more'n arm's length away. He says Cholly was having the general on over the wicked tongue-lashing you gave him. The general had Cholly on for a foosty gossipmonger and swore to sweep up the streets with him—every lane from Reekit Close to the old castle.”

An ambitious threat, she had to admit, and surely colored by a lad's imagination. “So they were only trading insults.”

“Not for long. The general charged Cholly, who skippered out of reach. Reamer had it that Cholly moved like a fancy dancing master.”

She wondered if Michael would regret setting a bad example for the children. She'd find out soon, if he were true to his word. The Cordiner's Hall was only a short distance from the Dragoon Inn. If he did not dally, he'd arrive here before the rumors cooled.

“What did you see, my lady?”

“No bruises on either one of them.” Come to think of it, she'd seen Cholly only in retreat.

Notch's expression fell. “All the same, I wish I'd been there. Wagers were favoring the general. No decent Scot takes an insult to his clan and keeps goin' on his merry way.”

“What exactly did Cholly say?”

“He swore the Elliots were toad-swiving—” He gulped at using the vulgar word. “Uh, he named the Elliots toad-kissing Lowlanders. That's how he sees the Elliots.”

An astute opinion, she thought. “It's over and done, Notch.”

“Pity that. I could've turned a profit on Cholly.”

“You think an old streetsweeper could have bested Michael Elliot? He's a trained soldier.”

“Beggin' your pardon, Lady Sarah. Survivin' on the street is trainin' of itself. And Cholly ain't that old.”

He certainly looked ancient to Sarah; his back was always bowed and his head perpetually down. But other than his satisfactory tending of the street and his association with Notch and the others, Sarah knew little about Cholly.

“Will the general still come?”

“Of course. Having a row has only detained him.”

“Good.” Notch jerked his head toward the group of orphans across the street. “They'll be disappointed, don't he come.”

The other children milled on the walkway and peered through the windows of the mercantile that flanked Cordiner's Hall. With smudged faces and soiled clothing, the young girls looked like dolls carelessly dropped in the dirt. Every cloak was torn or poorly patched. Breeches were too short; skirts
dragged damp and tattered in the lane. Some of the older children had no hats or caps to block the wind; most had runny noses and chafed ears.

The injustice stirred Sarah's ire, and she pledged to call on every tailor from Grassmarket to Farley Close to secure a proper suit of clothes for each of the orphans. For now, shoes would have to do.

She gazed fondly at Notch. “Are all of your friends here?”

He kicked at a pebble. The sole of his shoe flapped loudly. “All but Left Odd. For twelve shillings, we apprenticed him out to the flesher in Niddry's Wynd. 'Twas his idea to go.”

More often than not,
apprenticeship
was a polite term for slave labor. Based on the theory that Left Odd would earn a marketable trade, the orphans had scraped together the money to buy the lad a position. They had pooled their savings before in similar ventures, often with disastrous results.

But Sarah had met the poultry flesher. Mr. Geddes quoted the scriptures and hired a carriage for his small family every Sunday afternoon. Just to reassure herself about Left Odd's welfare, Sarah vowed to make the acquaintance of the flesher's wife. “I hope your friend fares well there.”

Notch thrust his hands into the patch pockets on his bulky coat. “Left Odd ain't one for highjinks, you know. He'll come away from that fleshery with a journeyman's token.” In a quiet, vulnerable voice, he added, “He promised to bring home a dressed-out pheasant for each of us.”

Even the promise of a delicacy failed to stir excitement in Notch over the apprenticeship of his friend. She knew that he'd seen too much human misery,
experienced too many failures in the effort to rise above poverty and starvation.

“Where did you eat last night?” she asked.

“Cholly got us work picking linings at the trunkmaker. The cook at Moffat's Lodging House had extra drippings. She sold 'em to us for tuppence.”

Selling kitchen scraps was a common practice and one of the perquisites fortunate servants enjoyed. That employment was far above squatting in old trunks and ripping out the worn cloth linings. “Surely the food was cold by the time you arrived home”—wherever home was.

“Nay, she had good cinders, too. We built a toasty fire in the mews. Pic acquired a bucket o' milk.”

He spoke of the meal as a triumph. For a group of children under twelve, it surely was. At their age, Sarah's greatest dilemma had been deciding which book to read next.

Sarah added the grocers to her list of folks to visit on the orphans' behalf. “You could have come to me for help.”

He shrugged, but fierce pride lay beneath the surface of his nonchalance. “We was out of want's reach.”

“Still—”

“Leave it be, Lady Sarah. If we lodged up with you, the toffs and that foosty ol' countess'll start up their wicked rumors quicker than you can recite the kings of Scotland.”

At his gallantry, tears stung her eyes. The self-proclaimed betters in Edinburgh could learn a lesson in humanity from this decent lad. “Things will be better soon.”

He gave her a rare smile. “Aye, we'll be happily circumstanced in Reekit Close.”

“Yes, you will.”

His mood further brightened, giving her a peek at the playful lad beneath his tough surface. “Is it true that you hired a nag and brought it to the general to ride?”

“The general's coming!” shouted Sally.

Michael rode the fine crimson bay, the horse she'd admired on his arrival in Edinburgh. Garbed in city clothing, he bore little resemblance to the first officer of the Complement, until she looked into his eyes. There she recognized the determination and arrogance of a man born to lead and bound to exact revenge.

Sarah stiffened her resolve.

Beside him trotted a stable lad dressed in the sedate blue livery of the Dragoon Inn. A workman pushing a scavenger's barrow moved into the lane. The bay sidestepped, then started to rear up, but Michael easily contained the animal.

Notch donned his cap, murmured, “By your leave, my lady.” Then he raced toward Michael.

After exchanging greetings with the stable lad, Notch called out, “Welcome, general.”

Without sparing Sarah a glance, Michael dismounted and tossed the reins to the liveried lad. Then he conversed at length with Notch, who pointed to the still-milling children.

“But first, General,” Notch said, “ 'bout that fight you 'n' Cholly had. Did he truly call you a coward after you said he was a decrepit old scunner?”

Michael rested a hand on the boy's shoulder and
guided him toward Sarah. “We'll discuss it later. How nice to see you again,
Lady
Sarah.”

Good manners dictated that she ignore his sarcasm. “Very nice indeed, sir.”

“You had a pleasant morning?”

Good intentions fled. “It was rather boring.”

“How can that be, my lady?” asked Notch. “Cholly said you traipsed all over Grassmarket lookin' for the poorest mount to be had.”

“We must commend her on the search, Notch,” said Michael. “But I believe the MacKenzies are renown for their prowess at selecting any number of
things.”

The thinly veiled insult spurred Sarah to say, “One of the many outstanding attributes of my clan.”

The determination in his eyes turned to lusty promise. “I anticipate discovering them all.”

Notch craned his neck to glance up at Michael. “You miffed at her over that jest with the mare?”

“Not miffed.”

Knowing Michael meant worse, Sarah looked him boldly in the eyes and smiled.

Misunderstanding, Notch blew out his breath in relief. “Good. Squire MacCrumb says he'd take 'er, even if she didn't have all her teeth.”

“A man of discerning tastes, this Squire Mac-Crumb.”

“Not that. We cannot abide the thought of him comin' 'round her ladyship. But he's a generous one with his contributions.”

Having heard enough, Sarah folded her hands. “Speaking of generous, will you help me? There isn't a mounting block in this lane.”

“I will.” Notch dashed forward and fell down on all fours beside her mount. “For a penny.”

“Notch is earnin' a penny,” Pic exclaimed.

The news chirped through the throng of children, and they stared expectantly at Sarah.

Michael stood over the boy. “I'll help her, lad.”

Knowing a penny would feed all of the children tonight and understanding that Notch wanted to earn the sum, Sarah sent Michael a pointed look. “I'm certain Notch can do the job. Could you just steady me?”

An instant later, enlightenment gleamed in Michael's eye, and he held out his arm. The muscles felt like steel beneath her fingertips. She gave him all of her weight, which he bore without effort. As she stepped down, she barely tapped Notch's back with her foot.

Michael's expression turned pensive as he watched Notch spring to his feet and dust off his hands.

“Thank you.” Sarah gave him a penny.

He tucked it away. “We're ready for the fittin' of those shoes, general.”

Still watching Sarah, Michael nodded. “Gather the troops, lad.”

Notch dashed across the street, whistling as he went. “Citizens at large! All those here for gettin' brogue-shod, let yourselves be heard.”

Squeals and hoots and a deluge of scurrying children were his reply. They surrounded him until Michael marched to his side and drew him away from the others.

He towered over Notch and spoke sharply, but Sarah couldn't make out the words. The lad listened
intently, his gaze darting from his friends to the still-closed doors of the hall. Inside, a trio of cobblers awaited. Above the shops was the large meeting room where the Cordiner's Guild gathered to manage their trade.

With a final word of what could only be encouragement, Michael gripped Notch's shoulder. The lad gave a brisk nod, pivoted on his heel, and approached his young friends. Holding up his arms, he whistled loudly. “Quite your squawking and make a line here, starting with Pic and Peg.” He pointed to the empty space before him.

Michael went inside the building and returned a moment later with an elderly cobbler. The older girl, Peg, was escorted inside first.

Feeling left out, Sarah asked the stable lad to watch her horse. Gathering the cumbersome train of her riding skirt, she joined Michael inside the establishment.

The heavy smells of oil and leather hung in the close air. In the rear of the shop, apprentices with tacks pressed between their lips wielded hammers and mallets as they plied the trade. Huddled near a lamp, a snaggle-tooth boy threaded a needle to stitch bows onto a pair of silk slippers.

“Peg wants the sturdy boots,” Michael said by way of explanation. “But I think the buttoned ones suit her better.”