Betrayed (23 page)

“Only an Elliot would make such a vulgar statement.”

“Yes, well . . .” His lips pursed in an overdone and unconvincing apology. “As long as you stand me apart for another's doing, you see me through narrow eyes. At that insulting treatment, even a villain will cry foul. I'm no villain, Sarah.”

His weak based logic begged for a challenge, and she was happy to offer it. “In addition to the wickedness of Mary MacKenzie, we stand at odds on a matter of great import to me.”

“Whether or not my family should have your dowry.”

“Aye.”

“Yet you have not asked my opinion.”

“Your opinion?” She laughed. “You obviously believe it belongs to them.”

“No. I think it belongs to your husband.”

Her independent nature rebelled. “It belongs to me! Lachlan MacKenzie knew that I would not waste the money. That is why he entrusted it to me.”

Michael was not convinced; she could see the disagreement in his eyes. Sarah braced herself for the argument to come.

“Your father wisely doubted both my brother's ability to husband you and your faculties to see that he was a poor choice.”

Had Lachlan? Probably, she had to admit. But that did not exonerate Michael for demanding Sarah's dowry at their first meeting. “If you oppose your
family, then why concern yourself with a woman they obviously despise?”

His remarkably pointed look made her blush.

“Well done, Sarah MacKenzie,” he said with too much drama. “I feared your powers of observation had taken a holiday. I can see they have not.”

Clever
missed the mark; Michael Elliot could twist a death threat into innuendo. But he had made the mistake of disparaging the MacKenzies.

Sarah fell back on the argument she'd prepared. “Take your approval and give to the French. You couldn't see a dung wagon even if it were beneath your Elliot nose.”

Her plan worked, and he looked wonderfully befuddled for it.

At length, he said, “Why does it occur to me that our quarrel has little to do with Henry Elliot or your dowry?”

“Because you are a man, and as such you think your beliefs are sacrament. Your kind looks for enemies, and you strike battles in the name of bruised pride.”

“At least men do not make war over an invitation misplaced. Nor do we condemn
our kind
overlong for a sharp word spoken when tempers are high.”

Twisting a conversation fell short of the mark; he'd braided that reply, and all of her responses favored his convictions. “You make women sound shallow of mind.”

“Most are, for they have never been privy to the greater issues.”

“Matters like war and capture and weapons of destruction?”

His honor righteously engaged, he grew aggressive. “Might prevails in this world.”

“A world you men have governed poorly and over squabbles.”

“Squabbles?” He was so distraught, he began walking in an ever-closing circle. “Oh, I'd say the loss of the American colonies was more than a squabble.”

So, he thought to win with one of his “greater issues.” Sarah jumped into the fray. “Not at the start.”

“It was about the breaking of the law.”

“A law with its genesis in a squabble.”

“Laws must be made.”

“Made fairly.”

He frowned and shook his head, as if to clear it. “Do you believe we should have let the colonies go?”

“I believe we should have let them
grow.”

“Grow? What logic is that?”

She almost said “simple logic,” but knew what he'd make of that. “They are our seeds. If we tend them they will make nothing new of themselves. They will be as us in another time and place and our squabbles will become their quarrels.”

“They will squabble among themselves, just as the Highland Scots do.”

He knew the remark was unfair, but before he could speak, she said, “Perhaps. But perhaps not. What if we treated them with respect? If the smallest part of what I've read is true about the strength and ability of colonial females, my gender will bring another voice to the squabbles of colonial men.”

“I pray my American brethren are up to the task.”

“Mock me while you can, Michael Elliot. Your gender is in decline.”

He laughed, but affection fueled his mirth. “I think I should surrender now.”

She pounced on his retreat. “Agreed, and for spoils, I'll demand the money to buy a team of horses and a wagon for the orphanage.”

“Why?”

“A wheelwright, which you claim John Lindsay is, and his apprentices need a wagon.”

“The wagon is not a necessary tool to make the wheel.”

The finality in his voice sparked her ire. The arrogant swine. How dare he come here, boast of having that obscene painting, and not even try to kiss her? He'd touched her with easy familiarity when describing that scar on the portrait, but his seduction had stopped with a touch. What lovers' game did he play now?

Having no answer, she took the long path to the door and silently wagered her new quills that he'd demand to know where she was going.

“Where are you going?”

She smiled broadly, rewarding herself because he couldn't see her face. “To watch the laundry dry.”

“Sarah.”

The entreaty in his voice was also expected. Now he would play the apologetic swain; then he would try to kiss her.

She opened the door.

“Sarah!”

Just as she predicted, his commanding nature took the fore. He was just like other men she'd allowed to court her. Once they'd exhausted their cache of sweet words, they resorted to domination.

Braced for a boring demonstration of male power, Sarah sighed. If he demanded that she explain herself, she'd throw something at him.

Turning to face him, she said, “You bellowed, Lord Michael?”

“Where do you think you're going?”

The flintbox hit Michael squarely in the chest, but he hardly noticed. The fire in Sarah MacKenzie's eyes held him captive. This Highland lass had spirit to spare, and his hands itched to harness her excitement and keep it for his own.

If we tend them, they will make nothing new of themselves.

Watching her stand proudly and fearlessly before him, Michael grasped the meaning behind her statement. Love for humankind was another of the many heartfelt virtues of Sarah MacKenzie. He wanted to know them all. But first, he must give her room to move about, and most importantly, he must respect her. So that ruled out any attempt to do what he really wanted to do: kiss her senseless and feel her surrender in his arms.

Overruling his base desires, he elected truthfulness. “I've angered you.” But it wasn't her wrath that he feared. Disappointing her troubled him more. “Will you please tell me why?”

“No.” Her gaze slid to the fallen flintbox. “Not today.”

In a rustling of petticoats and pride, she left the room.

Give her to the count of ten to ponder an answer, and you'll rue ever asking the question.

Michael understood another of Henry's assessments of Sarah. But in this instance, one man's displeasure was another's joy.

He picked up the flintbox and examined the heavy scrollwork, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her. She
hadn't said “never” in response to his question; she'd said “not today,” indicating that she would in the future reveal her feelings and explain what he'd said that riled her so.

A future. It sounded sweet to him. A life spent with Sarah MacKenzie promised extraordinary excitement. He imagined her passing on that courage and intelligence to the daughters she would give him. He pondered that happy dream until the silver box grew warm in his hands.

“Lord Michael?”

She appeared in the doorway and her smile boded disaster.

“Yes?”

“A footman just brought a message for you from the countess of Glenforth.” Her smile turned spiteful. “She's returned from London and commands you to dine with her tonight.”

Tender thoughts of a happy life with Sarah MacKenzie fled, replaced by dread over the evening to come. Unless Sarah had colored the message.

“I doubt she truly commanded me.”

“Rose took the message straight from your mother's footman, who left similar instructions with the doorman at the Dragoon Inn.”

“Who told you the footman had been to the Inn?”

“Notch, who heard it from your friend Cholly, who was conversing with the doorman at the time. Cholly questioned your mother's servant. The lad said the countess was fairly chirping with good humor.”

“What will you do tonight?”

She gave him another of her superior smiles. “Womanly things, of course.”

11

H
ours later, dressed in the drab and prickly clothing of a scrubmaid, Sarah moved cautiously up the back stairs of the Dragoon Inn. A wall lantern in a rusted sconce provided faint light, but for safety's sake, she extinguished it.

Darkness settled around her, and fear rippled in her breast.

The opened door above led to the well-lit second story and Michael's room. As she made her way there, the stairs squeaked loudly, grating on her already frayed nerves.

Why hadn't she worn slippers?

On that thought, sick laughter threatened to burst from her. She had schemed to play the thief tonight. She'd borrowed clothing and planned the crime. She'd gone so far as to allow the children to conspire with her, and all she could think about at this crucial juncture was her poor choice of footwear.

Conjure up the rewards
, Notch had advised her.
Dwell too long on the trouble to be had, and you'll find
yourself in it.
Rather than easing her, his remembered advice brought a new wave of guilt.

Then she envisioned Mary's painting and took heart.

Achieving the last step, she spied Notch, who made an admirable attempt at looking busy polishing the oaken bannister with his knitted cap. He even whistled a popular tune about the trials of a heartbroken titled lady and her charming but penniless common beau.

Seeing Sarah, Notch winked.

A door opened and slammed shut. The lad froze and shot her a warning glance. Footsteps sounded, but from her vantage point, Sarah couldn't see who trod the hallway above. When Notch turned toward the sound of the footfalls, Sarah paused, one boot braced on the next step, both hands shaking in terror.

Desperation had driven her here. Mary's obscene painting was the cause. Had Michael done the proper thing and yielded the painting, Sarah wouldn't have been forced to thievery on the eve of her birthday. She'd be safe at home, her conscience clear, her thoughts dedicated to how she would celebrate tomorrow. She prayed it did not find her in Tolbooth Prison.

Scars and freckles—Sarah falsely depicted for the world to see. She cringed at the thought.

A loud belch from beyond the door set her knees to knocking. She felt like a winded fox trying to elude a pack of fresh hounds.

Michael had left the inn at eight o'clock, an hour ago. By now, he would be taking the first course of his meal with the countess.

The plan to go immediately into his room had been
foiled by a slow Turnbull. Not until moments ago had the valet descended the stairs for his evening meal and customary game of whist with the inn's baker. William was stationed on the landing of the front steps to keep watch in case Michael returned unexpectedly. Under the guise of learning to make a stew, Peg had stationed herself in the kitchen.

A drunken guest staggered into view, his waistcoat buttoned crookedly and his wig askew. Sarah dashed behind the open door and flattened herself against the wall. Through her narrow line of vision, between the door and the jamb, she watched the man weave his way to the main steps where Notch stood.

The smell of fresh wax and old plaster assaulted her nose.

Glancing at Notch, the man came to a wobbly stop. “What's yer business here, rogue?” he demanded, his speech slurred from too much ale. “You look like a lad o' the streets.”