Betrayed (2 page)

They could have been standing in the dungeon rather than this toasty-warm sanctuary, so cold did Sarah feel. “ 'Tis one lie for another, Papa.” The endearment burned on her lips. He had often praised her maturity, her sensible nature. But in his heart he must not believe his own opinion of her, for he hadn't trusted her with the truth. Not until now.

Sensible Sarah
. She didn't feel sensible in the least.

Betrayal fueled her anger. “Henceforth, how shall I address you? Your Grace?”

Misery wreathed his face, but his will was as strong as ever. “You canna be angry. Your best interests were at the heart of it.”

“If a lie has a heart, it beats the devil's rhythm.”

“Sarah lass . . .”

As if she could shove his words away, she held up her hand. “I'm not
your
Sarah. My father is—is dead.” Anguish stole her breath. Neville Smithson had entrusted his children to her teaching, yet he'd denied her the greatest bond of all—her own blood kin. And now it was too late to look him in the eye and ask why he had not claimed her.

Other ramifications were endless and baffling. “I stand as godmother to two of my own sisters.”

“And a fine influence you are on Neville's younger children.”

Neville's children—her siblings . . . but Lachlan MacKenzie thought of her as his daughter. Sarah didn't know what to think. “But they don't know I'm their sister.”

“We'll tell them.”

How, she wondered, her pride reeling. But there was no hurt in it for them, was there? Neville's son and heir, David, would surely rejoice and expect Sarah to take his side in his marital disputes with Lottie. What would the younger ones, her godchildren, say? Would they see her differently?

“Did Neville want you to tell them?” she asked.

“There wasn't time. God took him quickly. He spoke of his wife, then of you.”

The information neither cheered nor saddened Sarah. She felt numb.

“You were always so different from my other lassies.”

That was true, but Lachlan had given each of his children an equal share of his love. To Agnes and Mary, he exhibited great patience. To Lottie, he gave understanding.

To Sarah, he lied. Worse, he had been quick to swear that she was the image of his own mother, a MacKenzie—an impossibility.

Sarah marshalled her courage. “It was all lies. Did you also lie about my mother?”

“Nay. Your mother was Lilian White, sister to my beloved Juliet.”

Sarah's stepmother was also her aunt, a situation that had been the cause of great jealousy among her siblings. But all along, Sarah had had an unknown reason to envy them their blood ties to Lachlan MacKenzie. She had been almost six years old when Juliet White came to Scotland to search for her sister's child. After winning the position of governess to four illegitimate girls, she had inspired the passion and won the love of Lachlan MacKenzie. Soon after, she gave him the first of four more daughters and an heir. Three of the girls survived. The children were Sarah's younger siblings.

And yet they were not. Her real siblings lived in the Smithson house at the end of Clan Row.

She glanced at the family portrait on the far wall. Not Mary's finest work, but certainly the most endearing to date, the painting captured the MacKenzies lounging on the bank of Loch Shin. Life had been simple on that day years before.

One sister, Virginia, taken by misfortune, was depicted as an angel peering from behind a rowan tree. The day the family had given up hope of finding Virginia had been the blackest in Sarah's life. Until now.

That sorrow had passed. So, then, would this misery, Sarah pledged. But she must know more about her father. “Did he have any other words for me?”

“Neville loved you. He left you ten thousand pounds.”

As a final blow, Lachlan MacKenzie, the only father she had ever known, thought her shallow enough to be bought. Something inside Sarah began to shrivel. She wanted to flee, to cower in the dark and cry until the pain ebbed.

But cowardice was not her way. She was almost three and twenty and would soon embark on a new life as the countess of Glenforth. Therein lay her salvation from the hurtful world that this room, this moment, and this life had become.

You bear the mark of the MacKenzies, Sarah lass.

A lie.
No MacKenzie blood flowed in her veins.

In reality she'd been sired by a man who had toasted her every birthday and visited her when she was ill. A sheriff named Smithson, not a duke named MacKenzie. A man buried this morning, a man who sought to buy her forgiveness from the grave.

The cruelty cut her to the bone. “Neville Smithson left me guilt money.”

“Nay. You are the same Sarah MacKenzie you have ever been. I would not have given you up, even—” He slapped the Bible. “I wouldn't have given you up.”

Even if Neville had asked
, she finished the thought. Neville Smithson hadn't wanted her. As a tutor for his children, she'd been acceptable, but not as a treasured daughter.

His fair face rose in her mind, an image as constant as any in her memory. Her father: a fair-minded and honest sheriff with archangel good looks, Neville Smithson, a commoner.

She grasped the necklace he'd given her and ripped
it off. A shower of golden beads rained over the rug and scattered beneath the furniture.

“Sarah! 'Tis your favorite.”

Scattered. Same as she felt.

“What are you thinking?”

The sound of Lachlan's voice drew her from the stupor her mind had become. “I'm thinking that I must go to Edinburgh and tell Henry.” Yes, Henry and a new life.

“I'll go with you.”

Denial came swiftly. “Nay. I'll take Rose.” Her maid was company enough.

He sighed in resignation. “If Glenforth is unkind to you, or judgmental, I'll make him wish he'd been born Cornish.”

The remark was so typical, Sarah smiled. But her happiness fled. It hadn't occurred to her before now that Henry would do anything other than accept the news with good grace. His mother, the Lady Emily, would not be so generous, but Henry usually prevailed in their family disputes.

Sarah would take only her MacKenzie dowry to Edinburgh. Lachlan had pledged the twenty thousand pounds months ago and had put his seal to the formal betrothal. The Smithson money could rot for all she cared; a king's ransom could not make her forgive him.

With Henry's help, she would heal the wounds Lachlan MacKenzie and Neville Smithson had dealt her.

“Take your necklace, Sarah.”

“Nay. I never want to see it again.”

1

Edinburgh, Scotland

June 1785

L
ady Sarah!”

Two of Sarah's pupils, William Picardy and the lad everyone called Notch, dashed into the schoolroom.

Notch yanked off his woolen cap. The crisp air made his thick brown hair crackle and stand on end. “The king is dead!”

She'd been staring at a blank slate and thinking of the odd turn her life had taken since her arrival in Edinburgh. Notch's shocking statement offered a diversion from her own troubles. “Who says the king is dead?”

Shoving the smaller William out of the way, Notch stepped forward. “The Complement's just come off a warship. Everybody knows the Complement wouldn't come to Scotland for any less of a reason—” His adolescent voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “I say the old Hanoverian's carved his last button, and Pitt the Younger has sent the Complement to give us the jolly news.”

The king's Complement was an elite troop of horse soldiers, noblemen all. With great ceremony, the
Complement had served English monarchs since the time of Henry VIII. At the ascension of George I, the Hanoverian kings had relegated the crown's cavalry to ceremony and foreign service, preferring a Hessian guard. The arrival of the Complement in Edinburgh certainly meant change, but did not necessarily harken the death of a king.

Notch's fanciful imagination, coupled with his need to impress and rule the younger orphans, was likely at the heart of the rumor.

Sarah intended to get to the truth of the matter. “Did you hear them say the king is dead?” she asked. “You heard one of the soldiers speak the words?”

He slid her a measuring glance, one eye squinting with the effort.

She held her ground. “Who told you?”

He withdrew a little and grumbled, “Didn't have to have it said to me like I was a short-witted babe.”

She saw through his bravado, his way of managing alone on the streets of Edinburgh since the age of six. At 11, he was as worldly-wise as a man double his years. But in his eagerness to please, he was still a boy. No matter the reason, he deserved her respect and her guidance.

“No one expects you to predict the fate of kings, Notch. Even bishops cannot do that.”

He stared stubbornly at the scuffed toes of his too-large shoes. His black woolen coat had long ago faded to dull gray, and his breeches were patched at the knees. Only his scarf, a contribution from Sarah, was new. That and his recent penchant for washing his face and hands every day.

The other children, four to date, doted on Notch's
every word. She hoped to make him understand the responsibility he undertook as their leader. He was only a child, but he'd been robbed of his boyhood. She intended to give it back to him.

She leaned against one of the school desks. “But if you are only speculating about the reasons behind the arrival of the Complement and your theory proves wrong, you shouldn't be made to feel a lesser man because you were merely voicing
your
opinion. You could even learn and discuss the views of others in the matter. Such as Master Picardy here.”

Eight-year-old William Picardy clutched his frayed lapels and rocked back on his heels. His blunt-cut brown hair framed a face of near-angelic beauty.

Wondering how anyone could have abandoned this precious child to the streets, Sarah resisted the urge to embrace him. “Why do you think the Complement has come?”

William fairly wiggled with excitement at being addressed. Eyes darting from the school desks to the standing globe to the hearth fire, he considered the question.

“What's it to be, Pic?” Notch tapped his foot. “Are you with me or against me?”

He'd given her a perfect opportunity to broaden the lesson. “It's not a contest, Notch. Neither of you must be right or wrong. Your friendship does not hinge on one of you lording his knowledge over the other. You can learn together.”

The expression in his eyes turned aged, wise. “We know our place, my lady. Me and Pic, Sally, and the Odds.”

The strength of Sarah's argument waned. The other
orphans he spoke of were beholden to him, needed him as much as he needed them.

“I believe . . .” William paused, obviously battling he force of Notch's will.

“Out with it, Pic.”

William sighed and said, “The king's upped his pointy slippers.”

“There it is.” Notch slapped William on the back and sent Sarah a victorious glance.

She gave up the effort to teach them democracy and shared responsibility. Theirs was a precarious existence; safety lay in numbers for orphaned children. Preyed upon and exploited by the very adults whose duty it was to nurture and protect them, the children were wary of “sermon-saying sinners,” as Notch called them.

He and the others still didn't know her well enough to trust her. But they wanted to, and that made Sarah profoundly happy, a rare feeling these days.

“Have you ever seen the Complement?” William asked.

“Nay,” she said. “They've been in service abroad for most of my life.”

“She's from the Highlands,” Notch reminded him, but in a mannerly tone. Then he cocked out his elbow and held his arm in gentlemanly fashion. “William and me thought to have a look at the king's best. You could come along.”

Bowing from the waist, William swept a hand toward the door. “Smellie Quinn plugged up the kegs at the Pipe 'n' Thistle so as
he
didn't miss a sight of the Complement.”