Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (23 page)

The comfortably plump woman handed over a small package wrapped in brown paper along with several franked envelopes, most addressed to Artie. “Well, it’s from that shop in London she likes, that’s for sure. What color is it today, dear?”

Any other time, Sarah would have been delighted in entertaining Mrs. Pope with the tale of a color called Egyptian Mummy. Today it was all she could do to breathe.

“Oh, some brown,” she said. “I fear the only thing I know about brown is its resemblance to every color I attempt to paint.”

She accepted the mail with a smile. “Oh, and Old George is over helping Mr. Hicks repair some walls. He asked if I would check for any mail for him.”

Fortunately, Mrs. Pope would know to include any missive for Tom Frane without comment. But Mrs. Pope was shaking her head. “Not today. But the mail was held up by the rain up north this afternoon. It might be coming tomorrow. Have him check back.”

Sarah thanked her and pocketed the letters. She had to hurry. She had to let Ian know about Minette Ferrar, to give him time to get away. But when she turned, it was to suffer another shock. Stepping through the door was none other than Martin Clarke.

Sarah knew she lost color. She felt as if she were swaying on her feet. She barely felt Artie slip a hand through her arm, as if the girl needed support as well.

“Mrs. Pope,” Martin greeted the woman as he doffed his high-crowned beaver. “Miss Clarke. Sarah.”

Sarah and Artie dipped a knee. Sarah wasn’t breathing. Martin stepped right up to them, cutting off their escape, crowding them into a corner of the small room. She knew what he was here for, and there was no squire to deflect his venom.

“Sarah, I wonder if you can help me,” he all but purred, which made Sarah’s skin crawl. “One of my men is…unaccounted for. You met him. He helped rescue your…pig. Corporal Briggs. Could you have seen him?”

Panic closed Sarah’s throat. Revulsion. Suddenly she could smell sour breath in her face. She could feel the harsh grip of vicious hands. “Briggs?” she managed to answer with an unconcerned shrug. “Why, no. I shouldn’t be surprised that one of your employees isn’t to be found, though, Martin. They struck me as rather unreliable.”

Leaning in even closer, Martin raised a gloved finger to Sarah’s cheek. “Is that a bruise rising, cousin? I believe Fairbourne is becoming a dangerous place.”

Sarah saw Artie whip around and peer at her. Mrs. Pope leaned over a bit.

“You must not be involved much in the day-to-day operations of your estate, cousin,” Sarah responded. “Farmwork is often hard. But dangerous?” She deliberately shook her head. “Nothing I am unable to handle, I assure you.”

It was his color that rose. He glared at her, stymied by the public arena he had chosen in which to confront her. “If I don’t find my employee,” he warned, “I will feel free to do anything to ensure his safety.”

“You do admit that he is your employee, then?” she asked, unable to believe her own bravado.

She knew he couldn’t answer. He looked rather as if he would explode. Without another word, he slammed his hat on his head and stalked back out the door. Sarah wasn’t certain how she kept her legs under her. She swore all the blood in her head drained out, leaving black spots in front of her eyes.

“Sarah,” Artie whispered in shocked tones. “You
do
have a bruise.”

It took every ounce of strength in her, but Sarah smiled. “I forgot to bring Harvey his scone. Now,” she said briskly. “Shall we go? I am perishing for a cup of tea.”

She was perishing for a seat. If she stood any longer, she might simply collapse.

Even though it was still broad daylight, Sarah took the chance of discovery. The ladies were still out along the undercliff somewhere, and Artie inside practicing Scarlatti. Making very certain that she had no witness but Willoughby, Sarah made her way down to the cellar door. She noticed on her way past Boswell’s arbor that for a change, his rosebushes looked good. She was glad. Boswell loved those roses.

Slipping down into the hollow, she pushed past the screening bush. Since she’d never been to the cellar during the afternoon, she didn’t know what to expect. She dreaded seeing Corporal Briggs. Just the thought crawled through her like worms. She would not betray her fear, though. She would not give him the satisfaction.

The first thing she saw was Ian standing by his cot, hands behind his back as if at military revue, his stance rigid. Sarah thought it odd, but she was more interested in her news. She looked around to make sure Briggs was out of earshot.

He wasn’t there at all. “The corporal . . .”

“George came and got him. You won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Her attention caught by the blanket that remained on the floor by the crates, Sarah nodded absently. “Good. That will make this much easier.”

If she were a better person, she would hope that George didn’t treat the man too harshly. She hoped George broke his other arm.

Sucking in a breath, she turned back to Ian. “Your letter did not come in yet,” she said without preamble. “But there is something much more important.”

Seeing the flask sitting on the cot, she picked it up and opened it. “I saw her,” she said, pointing to those laughing blue eyes inside. “She’s here, Ian. At Lyme Regis. Someone betrayed you and sent for her. We have to do something.”

Oddly, he didn’t react. Sarah couldn’t understand it. “Did you hear me?”

Silence. Finally, “I did.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me what to do.”

“Oh, I don’t know Sarah,” he said, his voice very quiet. For some reason, the tone sent
frissons
slithering down her back. “I think you need to tell me what to do first.”

She frowned, completely disoriented. “About what?”

“About the body buried under your rosebushes.”

Even then she didn’t react, sure he meant something else. But he didn’t.

“Your husband isn’t coming home, is he, Sarah?” Ian demanded. “He isn’t coming home, because he’s already here, where you buried him.”

Chapter 12

Did you not hear me?” she demanded as if he hadn’t spoken. “Minette Ferrar is here.”

“Didn’t you hear
me
?” he countered. “I found your husband’s body.”

Perhaps she had simply had too many surprises, too many traumas packed into too little time. She wasn’t certain. But for the longest moment she could do nothing but stand there staring at the man she loved.

“You’ve been lying to everyone,” he accused. “Making them all believe he’s alive and coming home. But he isn’t, is he? Because you buried him under his own goddamn roses!”

Well, that she understood.

“Yes,” she finally said, suddenly cold. “I did that. I buried him in his favorite place in the world and lied about his returning.”

It had taken all night, in the absolute darkness, with the smell of wet earth and blood in her nostrils.

“For God’s sake, Sarah,” Ian retorted. “What happened? Did he come home at the wrong moment? Did he catch you in a lie, or cooking the books or conspiring with your good friend George?”

Another blow to her fragile equilibrium. “What?”

“Did you kill him?”

She didn’t even remember lifting her hand. She only realized she had slapped him when she heard the resounding crack echo through the cellar and felt the hard sting of contact in her palm.

How could he think she could kill anyone? Hadn’t he learned anything about her in the last days? Didn’t he at least want to believe in her a little? And if he thought so little of her, why answer at all?

He didn’t so much as flinch. “Answer me, Sarah.”

That hurt even worse. “No,” she said, “I don’t think I will. I believe you have this all figured out for yourself. Well, if you believe I am guilty, feel free to contact the authorities. I have too much work to do to wait here to be insulted. I am late today, you see. I was in town doing a favor for a friend.”

Before she could turn, he grabbed her by the arm. “You’re not going anywhere until you explain yourself.”

“Explain myself?” she countered, rearing back. “
Explain
myself? Who do you think you are?”

He was all set to shout back at her when suddenly his hand dropped. He stepped away and raked his hand through his hair. “Tell me,” he begged. “Please. What happened? How did he die? Why haven’t you told anyone?”

She was so angry. So disappointed. Undoubtedly she shouldn’t be. The evidence was against her. And no matter what she felt for Ian, he had no reason to suddenly trust her. Except for the fact that she hadn’t turned him in. She hadn’t turned him out. She had stood by him, when the consequences could still be fatal.

She kept shaking her head, as if it could help her clear out all the anguish, the frustration, the confusion. “I cannot talk down here,” she finally said. “Follow me.”

Turning around, she strode from the cellar. She didn’t stop until she was in view of the arbor. Haloed by the late afternoon light, it looked so peaceful. A place for contemplation and calm. For meditation. Not suicide.

She didn’t need to turn to know that Ian had followed her. She could sense him. She could smell the clean scent of him, feel that odd humming energy that seemed to surround him. That seemed to draw her inexorably to him.

“Sarah,” he said, laying his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. It’s just…so much has happened.” He looked around. “Here, lass, sit down a moment. Talk to me.”

She yanked her arm free. He gestured to the stone bench at the corner of the garden, where they could not be seen from the house. Well, Sarah thought, sitting down. At least they weren’t to sit in Boswell’s arbor.

Seating himself a careful distance from her, Ian reached out a hand. She ignored it and folded her hands in her lap.

“What happened to him, Sarah?” he asked.

She looked up only to see the sea. Boswell’s favorite view. The one that made her shudder, because she could still see him standing there silhouetted against it sun-reflected sheen. “Did you leave him where he was?” she asked.

“What else was I going to do with him?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Take him up to the house and destroy his mother.”

He actually looked hurt. “You can’t think I would do that.”

She looked over at him. “I can’t?” She laughed. “Why? You have already accused me of murder.”

“I’m sorry. I should have thought. I was just so . . .”

“Angry? Yes, I know how you feel. I have been angry now for a long time. Did you happen to look at Boswell’s wound?”

“Of course I did. A single gunshot to the head.”

It was safer to look at her hands, clenched in her lap. “Mmmm, yes. Pressed right up against his forehead. His hands were shaking so badly, I’m still amazed he actually hit what he was aiming at.”

She hadn’t reacted soon enough. She hadn’t believed him. He had always recovered before, crawled out of the black depressions that had plagued him since childhood. She had always had another chance to make it better.

Not this time. He’d waited until he convinced her that if he could just sit on that little bench to watch the sea, he would feel well enough to face his family. She had turned away. And then she had heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.

“You’re telling me he killed himself?” Ian asked. “Why?”

She spread her fingers, as if she could still see the blood splashed on them. “Because going to war was merely another mistake for him. Boswell was not made for it. He couldn’t bear the burden.” She looked out to sea. “He was so excited. He was going to be a hero. He would ride a grand horse into the greatest battle the world would ever see.” She shrugged. “Reality is a hard lesson. Boswell was not prepared for it.”

Especially the reality that sends an unprepared man into hell. Poor Boswell. She hadn’t known that he had failed until she read the note he’d left in his rucksack. He had run from the battle, and kept running. He had run all the way home.

“You mean he came all the way back here only to shoot himself?” Ian asked.

“In his arbor. Where the ocean could be the last thing he saw.”

“I canna believe it.”

She turned on him. “It is easier to believe I shot him?” she demanded.

He was on his feet. The pain she could see in his eyes should have satisfied her. “No…no. Of course I’ve seen men give into despair. But to come all the way home. To kill himself with his family nearby.”

“Oh, that he did not do. They never knew he was here.” She laughed, a dry huff. “I think he must have been living in that cellar for a week. He just showed up one day when his family was staying away overnight. It was only me. He did not want his mother to know what he’d done. So he begged me to let her assume he had died on the battlefield. And then before I could reach him, he put a gun to his head.”

Not looking on her as his last memory, or his home or the sky. The sea. He had looked at the sea.

“Why didn’t you tell me, lass?” Ian asked, his voice gentler, as if he could see the memory in her head.

She blinked up at him. “Tell you? Why should I tell you? You were supposed to move on as quickly as possible. Your stay here is temporary, Ian. Mine is not. Therefore it is my problem to handle.”

He looked as if she’d struck him. “You think that even now?”

Somehow she was on her feet too. “I think that especially now. You have problems enough of your own. Leave me to mine.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “But I canna.”

They stood faced off like that for the longest time, the world dimming toward night, the lights winking on in the house. Finally, Ian shook his head. “Oh, Sarah,” he murmured. And then, before she could stop him, he gathered her into his arms.

“Oh, lass,” he whispered against her hair. “I’m so sorry. Not just for Boswell. For me and my ridiculous suspicions. I’m a muckle fool.”

“Yes,” Sarah agreed, nestling against his shoulder. “You are.”

“I was just so surprised. Will you forgive me? It’s more than I deserve.”

That answer took her a bit longer. She was too busy cherishing this brief moment of comfort, of support. She was savoring the strength of Ian’s arms around her.

Could she forgive him? Not yet. His assumption stung. But honesty would do nothing to get Ian on his way. Which he had to do.

“Yes,” she finally said, her voice muffled against his chest, her eyes closed. “I suppose I do.”

Ian tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Were you ever going to tell his family where Boswell was?”

Sighing, she looked up at him. “Truly? I can’t say. I believe his mother would be happier if I did not. That way she can still think of Boswell as safely in Belgium waiting to come home. The only one who is anxious for resolution is Martin.” She shrugged. “He will eventually get the estate. But I need enough time to protect Boswell’s family.”

For a long time, they just stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms watching the leaves skitter across the lawn and clouds dapple the sea. It was quiet here for a change, the animals still. Sarah wished with all her heart it could just stay this way, suspended in time like a soul in limbo, like Lady Clarke’s memory of Boswell.

It couldn’t, of course. Just as always, reality intruded. So no matter what she wished, she lifted her head and stepped out of his arms.

“I’m not certain if you heard me earlier,” she said. “But time for you has run out. We can no longer wait for your friends to contact you.”

“I heard you.” He led her back to the bench and seated them both. “You’re sure it was Minette you saw?” he asked, reaching once again for her hand.

“Hers is not a face you can forget.” Sarah’s smile was weary. “I am no longer surprised she caused such havoc among your friends.”

“She did, that.” He sighed. “And now she’s here. I wonder who peached on me.”

“Someone obviously intercepted your letter. She was standing by the postal office speaking with Mr. Stricker as if they were chance met. She is posing as a new widow. Very affecting.”

Ian’s head abruptly came up. “Stricker? You’d think he’d be more careful.”

“Perhaps they think his presence will draw you out.”

“Perhaps.” He reached down and ran a gentle finger down her cheek. “My brave lass. I have imposed on you quite enough already.”

She lost a moment thinking of what it would be like when he left again, and struggled to ignore the gaping hole he would leave behind.

Suddenly Ian turned to her. “Come with me,” he said.

Sarah whipped her head around. “What?”

“I need some kind of guide. I haven’t been able to wander far enough to know the area well.” He motioned to the house. “You could show me the way past the soldiers. And people are looking for one tall redhead. Not a couple. We’d be a grand team.”

She was already shaking her head, the brief, heady temptation of adventure vanishing. “How could I explain my disappearance? How could I defend the women against Martin, or keep the estate going?”

How would I survive one more day with you?

“Let George do it.”

She huffed. “I think even you know better.”

He needed to get away before he was caught, before she was lost. She could never tell him how close she had just come to saying yes.

Suddenly he grabbed her hand. “Sarah,” he said, his voice urgent. “I mean it. Come with me. Not just to see me through. To get away from here yourself.”

She turned, a sharp rejoinder on her tongue. It was a very unfunny joke, after all. But the light in his eyes was bright; it was intense; it was perfectly sincere.

Pulling her hand away, she stepped back. “Are you mad? I can’t leave here.”

Ian didn’t move. “Yes, lass,” he said, lifting his hands. “You can. What do you have here? A life of drudgery without relief or support. George told me the old woman won’t even address you by your proper name.”

Did everyone need to remind her of how unwanted she was? “What does that have to do with anything? This is the only real home I have ever had, Ian. I won’t give it up. “

“I can give you a new home. Change your name, find a little place for you to live, so that if Boswell is found, no one will hurt you. I owe you that at least.”

Owed her what? Another life of loneliness? The chance to be close to him but never his? How could he be so cruel?

She refused to let him see the pain he was inflicting. “You want me to simply walk away.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t you like your own little place?” He stepped up before she knew it and claimed her hand. “I could make sure you’re comfortable. Not scraping by. You deserve better, Sarah.”

“I see. And where would you be in this equation?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere you wanted.”

Maybe she was tarring him with the same brush as other men. But the sound of this offer was too familiar.
You could have a small cottage, a townhouse, a carriage.
After all, what could she expect, a by-blow and all. She certainly wouldn’t be lucky enough to nab another baronet. How could she ever believe she could expect more?

Poor, deluded her. She couldn’t expect more. All the same, she had wanted it.

“I’m sure the offer is generous,” she said, her voice as icy as her heart. “But I’ll have to decline it all the same.”

“Why?” he demanded. “What holds you here?”

Self-respect. Pride. The only wholly owned treasure of a bastard child. The only possessions she would never give away.

Stepping back, she wrapped her arms around her waist. Could she grieve for the fact that he was as human as the next man, wanting to have everything with no cost to himself? Did he even realize yet what he was asking? She wasn’t really certain.

“When you think on it a bit, Ian,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even, “you’ll come up with the answer. Until then, you would be better served finding a way to get to your friends.”

“I
have
a way to get to my friends.”

She nodded. “Good. Because your enemies are closing in fast.”

And then, before she could humiliate herself further, she turned away.

He didn’t let her. Before she could get two feet, he caught her by the arms and was turning her back to him. “Come for this,” he growled, and pulled her into his arms.

And then he was kissing her.

She should have fought. Later she swore she would have if she hadn’t been so surprised. She would have slapped him, stepped on his foot, lifted a knee into his groin.

She didn’t, though. She
was
surprised. For two or three seconds. And then she was overwhelmed, devastated. Compelled, consumed by a fire that swept through her as if she were nothing more than dry kindling. It wasn’t the power of his arms around her, although it was. They were a fortress, a bastion, protection and prison, enclosing her so tightly she could feel the buttons of his jacket imprint on her suddenly tender breasts.