Rexanne Becnel (11 page)

Behind him the baker escorted his ancient mother into the main dining room. The portly fellow nodded to them. His birdlike parent, however, eyed them both with suspicion.

“What are you two about?” she demanded to know. Then she called out to the innkeeper in a surprisingly strong—and candid—voice. “Mr. Halbrecht! Give these young people a room at once. ’Tis plain they need more privacy than a public dining room provides.” She smirked, her ancient eyes bright and knowing.

“Mother!” her mortified son exclaimed, shooting Sarah and Marshall an apologetic look.

But the old woman was serenely unrepentant. “There’s no place like the bedroom for a man and wife to work out their disagreements. That’s good advice, you hear? So take it.”

Sarah had been struck dumb at the woman’s initial remarks. This last portion, however, made her want to die! She wanted to disappear in a poof of smoke and never be seen again. At least not in Kelso.

But that was not to be. She was here, in the low-ceilinged main room of the town’s best inn, accused of lewdness by a venerable old matron who no doubt knew everybody in town—and who had no reservations about making her opinions known, even to complete strangers!

No. She hadn’t accused her of lewdness, Sarah consoled herself as she stood as if rooted in place. But pretty close. She stared aghast at the old woman, well aware that her cheeks were burning. “You are mistaken…. That is, he’s not my husband….” Dear lord, that only made it seem worse! She backed toward the door, desiring only to escape. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgettin’ your man.” The old woman pointed one bony finger at Mr. MacDougal. “Oh, shush yourself,” she scolded her son when he would have silenced her. “I’m eighty years old and I can say whatever it is I’ve a mind to say.”

Sarah shot a wild glance at Mr. MacDougal. But she should have known better than to expect him to be embarrassed. The outrageous cad had the bad manners to actually laugh at the old woman’s remarks.

Sarah muffled a most unladylike curse, and unable to say anything civil, she stalked from the room. Actually, she fled. She stood a moment, utterly confused, on the low front stoop. Then, spying her horse, she ran pell-mell toward it.

“Sarah!” Mr. MacDougal’s call from the front door only hastened her flight and increased her ire. Did he mean to humiliate her before the entire village?

Apparently so.

And he appeared to be succeeding, for just as Sarah snatched up her horse’s reins, Adrian and three other young fellows popped up from behind a hawthorn hedge beside the yard, clearly alerted to the contretemps by all the shouting.

“Sarah?” Adrian called as she wheeled her animal and took off at a gallop. “Sarah!”

Adrian watched Sarah disappear with a mixture of alarm and intense admiration. Hello, but she had a good seat, clinging to the horse like a burr. Added to that, she had a good
seat
. She looked almost as good from the back as she did from the front.

But what had her upset enough to depart so precipitously? When he looked over the hedge, the answer was plain. The American.

Adrian’s fists knotted as he glared at the man who stood there staring after Sarah.

“Is that the one?” Will Carter asked, jabbing Adrian in the ribs. “The one ’at took down Guinea with just one punch?”

“Yeah. That’s him,” another of Adrian’s friends answered. He punched at the air. “I hear poor Guinea didn’t have a chance.”

Adrian scowled at them. “‘Poor’ Guinea shouldn’t’ve been pawin’ at Sarah.”

“Sarah, is it? Sarah.” Will drawled out the name.

“Shut your trap! I can call her Sarah ’cause we’re related. But she’s Miss Palmer to the likes of you.”

Will shrugged, but mischief sparkled in his eyes. He gestured with his thumb toward the American. “Well,
he
ain’t her family, and he calls her Sarah. Wonder what that means—”

With one punch, Adrian knocked him down. Then, before he could stop himself, he tore around the end of the hedge and started purposefully toward the inn.

F
EELING
a mixture of satisfaction and regret, Marsh watched Sarah gallop away. He’d rattled her, which was good. She was not nearly as confident of her position as she pretended to be.

On the other hand, it was clear she meant to oppose him on this issue of his heritage, to fight him tooth and nail, and stop him any way she could. That worried him, for he too was not as confident of his situation as he professed.

He rubbed one palm over his bristly jaw, vaguely aware of the querulous old woman behind him, terrorizing both her son and the hapless Mr. Halbrecht. Across the yard, his own servant, Duff, and a pair of stablemen had witnessed Sarah’s furious departure. Damn! If small towns in Britain were anything like small towns in America, by evening speculation about his confrontation with Miss Sarah Palmer would be the main conversation at suppers everywhere. Though he did not think it would damage his purpose for being here, it was nevertheless not the way he had planned things.

Then again, Sarah might possess the wherewithal to locate records he did not know existed. Now that she knew what he was up to, she might search out the proof he needed before he could. And when she found it, she was certain to destroy it.

Damn! He raked one hand through his disheveled hair as he watched the dust kicked up by her mare’s hooves settle back onto the dusty yard. Once again he’d revealed more to her than a wiser man would.

Why was he so consistently a dolt when it came to the prickly Sarah Palmer? He should never have jumped so swiftly to the conclusion that she was his half-sister. Nor should he have let his attraction to her dominate his real purpose for coming to this place. Since first meeting her, he’d not done a damn thing right.

He laughed out loud, though without any real mirth. He’d gone about everything wrong, and all on account of one irritating, infuriating female. But he couldn’t afford to behave that way any longer.

Unfortunately, matters were not going to improve anytime soon, he realized when he spied the lad stalking his way. Estelle’s boy Adrian. The one who’d leaped to Sarah’s defense last night. Marsh crossed his arms, waiting for what he assumed would be another unpleasant encounter.

He was not mistaken.

“What did you do to her now?” The boy scowled so fiercely, Marsh was tempted to smile. Apparently he was not the only one to play the fool for the ungrateful woman. Not only was the lad confronting Marsh now, it seemed he was equally willing to oppose his own mother on Sarah’s behalf.

But Marsh didn’t smile. No use to rile the young hothead any further. “She sought me out, Adrian. Perhaps you ought to direct your question to her.”

“But you upset her. I saw how she just rode off, like the devil was after her. What did you do?”

Marsh shook his head. “She doesn’t like me. That’s all.”

“Then why’d she come here, to the very inn where you are staying? And why
doesn’t
she like you?”

Marsh uncrossed his arms. Enough of this. He was not about to be interrogated by some unlicked cub carrying a torch for a woman much too old for him. “Like I said before, ask her.” When he turned back to the inn, however, the boy grabbed him by the sleeve.

Marsh reacted instinctively. He whirled, shoved, and in an instant stood spraddle-legged over the boy. Flat on his back in the dirt, the lad stared up at him, first in surprise, then in fury.

Marsh stepped back, chagrined by his violent reaction. “A little advice, son. Never grab at a man from behind.”

Ignoring Marsh’s proffered hand, the boy leaped to his feet and backed out of arm’s reach. “We don’t go for men like you around here. You dally with one of our women and then another. Go home, American, before somebody makes you sorry you ever came here.”

I’m already sorry
, Marsh thought as he watched the boy lope away. Sorry he’d gone to that dance last night; sorry he’d kissed Sarah Palmer; sorry he’d ever had to find out just what a pitiful excuse for a man his father had been. But he couldn’t undo any of it, and he wasn’t about to change his plans now.

“Hoo, but that lad is a feisty one,” came Duffy’s remark from behind him.

“Feisty?” Marsh snorted. “More like foolish.”

“Foolish to go tugging at a man twice his weight, p’rhaps. Proves he’s got ballocks, is all. But I saw him lay a facer on a bloke more his size. Laid him down with one poke, he did. With a natural talent like that, the boy oughta be considerin’ a career in the boxing. You know, in the ring.”

Marsh slanted his manservant a look. “The boy can do better than that.”

“I dunno, guv’nor. There’s money to be made in the ring. And you didn’t see the way he swung, not with his fist, but with his whole body behind it. Sorta like you did to that fellow last night.” When Marsh did not respond to that, the fellow grinned and spat. “Funny, I could swear both fights was over the same woman.”

Marsh was in no mood for any of this speculation, not over his ability as a boxer, nor the reason he and Adrian had both been reduced to fisticuffs because of one Sarah Palmer. “Women are trouble, Duff. You’re old enough to have learned that on your own. We’d all do better staying the hell away from them.”

The man laughed. “Personally, I like women, ’specially the uncomplicated ones like that boy’s mama.”

Marsh didn’t reply, but only turned back for the inn. An uncomplicated woman. Yes, he could use one of those right now. Work out all this frustration and rage with an energetic tussle between the sheets.

But as he stalked through the inn and up the stairs, he knew he wasn’t going to find that sort of relief anytime soon. He and Sarah Palmer would clash, but not in bed, more’s the pity.

He threw his hat on a chair and shrugged out of his rumpled coat. God, but he was a stinking mess. After last night’s ugly scene and the way he looked today, she had every reason to look down her pretty, aristocratic nose at him. Brawling and drinking like some low-class ruffian. His mother would be just as appalled as Sarah.

Thinking of his mother, however, helped Marsh refocus on his reason for being here. This was not about Sarah Palmer, but rather, Maureen MacDougal Byrde.

His mother had been cheated out of the life she’d deserved. One man had let her down. He was not about to let her down too.

The next morning Sarah sat at the table in her bedchamber making a list. She’d had plenty of time to consider her options and they all led back to the same thing. If she couldn’t strangle Marshall MacDougal—and she sincerely wanted to do just that—then she must outwit him. She had to make sure no proof of a wedding between his mother and Cameron Byrde existed.

And if it does?

The pen in her hand trembled and a large inkblot promptly spread across the last three entries on her list. St. Mary’s of the Meadows was completely obliterated.

“Botheration,” she muttered. She tossed the offending pen aside, then crumpled the offending sheet of parchment as well. Chances were that the amoral Cameron Byrde had never wed the woman, and she would find no marriage recorded at St. Mary’s of the Meadows, nor at any other church in Scotland.

As for churches in England, she’d ruled them out. Mr. MacDougal had told her at their first meeting that he’d come from London. Probably searching for the proof there—with no success, she suspected. That’s why he’d come up to Scotland.

But he wouldn’t find proof here either. From everything she’d heard, Cameron Byrde had been a self-centered cad. Surely he’d been far too wily to be trapped in marriage by a woman of limited means. Mr. MacDougal’s mother had probably fabricated the entire story to protect herself and her young son from ostracism. That’s why he believed it so—it was the only story he’d ever been told.

For a moment Sarah felt a stab of sympathy for Mr. MacDougal. How hard it must have been to grow up fatherless. Like Adrian, he must have felt sorely the absence of any father. Try as he might, even Neville could not entirely fill the void for Adrian. Had anyone ever tried to fill that void for Mr. MacDougal?

Then she stood and, shaking off any vestiges of sympathy for the man, walked to the window. Outside, a dense row of apple trees rimmed the kitchen garden. They would bear a heavy crop this year. And the shepherds’ flocks abounded with new lambs. Byrde Manor thrived, thanks to Neville and Olivia, and all of Kelso and the surrounding countryside benefited. If Adrian did not, it was not for want of their efforts. And she meant to continue her efforts with him too.

But this business with that American came first. She would not let him claim the home that rightly belonged to Livvie, and to her children as well. It was her family he threatened. Hers. Perhaps she’d let them down in the past with her reckless, self-serving behavior. But this time she would not fail them.

She squared her shoulders. She had three weeks until Olivia and her family returned from Glasgow. If she could not prove the truth by then and send Mr. MacDougal packing, she supposed she would have to tell Livvie and Neville what was going on. Till then, however, the battle was hers to fight. And hers to win.

She snatched up her crumpled list of churches in the surrounding countryside. If they’d married, the records must exist somewhere, and she would not find them pacing the halls of Byrde Manor.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hamilton sat knitting in a sunny kitchen window. “Well, child.” She smiled when Sarah walked in. “I’ve learnt one bit of information.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. There was a MacDougal girl in service at Woodford Court, Mrs. Tillotson remembers her. A sweet girl, but she didn’t stay long.”

Sarah stood stock-still. “When was that? Did she remember?”

“A good thirty years, she said, for Mrs. Tillotson was still at home and not yet in service.”

Sarah’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “Does she know what became of her?”

Mrs. Hamilton made a face. “She thinks the lass married a fellow from Maxton. O’ course, that means she couldn’t be this American’s mother. Though she could be related to her. But I didn’t think it wise to ask Mrs. Tillotson too many questions about that.”

“Maxton.” It wasn’t much to go on, yet at least it was something. Sarah wasted no time. She would have taken a saddle horse except for Mrs. Hamilton’s adamant objection. Nor would the old housekeeper allow Sarah to travel in the lighter phaeton. Instead, within the hour Sarah and a driver set out in the traveling coach with a basket of vittles and strict orders to be back before bedtime.

With the roads dry and the weather promising, Sarah was certain she could reach Maxton by early afternoon, delve through the church records there, and return at an hour acceptable to Mrs. Hamilton. But should circumstances require she stay longer, she was fully prepared to do so, propriety be hanged.

The three-hour journey provided her too much time to think, however. And unfortunately, the topic uppermost in her mind was Marshall MacDougal.

By the time she reached the ancient village of Maxton, she was a bundle of nerves. As a result, she did not react well to the reluctance of the novitiate at St. Patrick’s to provide her access to the church’s records.

“Wot I want to know is wot is going on here?” the skinny fellow demanded to know. He’d invited her in, but once she made her request, he’d turned unpleasantly belligerent. He stood now in his cassock, his legs spread wide in a protective stance before the doorway of the priest’s office. “Why would you care about our church records? You say you’re come up from Kelso. But you sound more like a Londoner to me.”

Sarah tried to maintain a civil tone with the man, but it was hard. The fellow looked as if a breeze could blow him down, and at the moment she felt like a tornado.

Violence will not aid your cause
, she reminded herself.

But it certainly had aided Marshall MacDougal’s cause at the dance. One punch and he’d sent Mr. Guinea packing.

At the thought of Mr. MacDougal’ s high-handed behavior, a truly awful suspicion lodged in her head. She stared intently at the sallow-faced fellow before her. “I’m not the first one to come to you with this request, am I?” When he hesitated, she pressed on. “I know all about it, so you might as well stop lying. It ill suits your profession.”

This time he averted his gaze and his sallow complexion grew pink. She was right! Sarah’s elation on that score turned to fury at being upstaged. That wretched Marshall MacDougal had beaten her here.

She fixed him with a narrow glare. “I suppose he threatened to thrash you if you told anyone—especially me—about his visit. But don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

“You? Protect me?” The man tugged at his robes in an aggrieved manner. “Female minds understand nothing but drama. For your information, Mr. MacDougal made a very generous contribution. To the parish,” he hastened to add when her brows raised skeptically.

Though Sarah severely doubted that money had gone anywhere near the poor box, she was not about to be bested by Marshall MacDougal. She opened her reticule with dramatic flair. “I can be every bit as generous as can he. Now show me what you showed him.”

Sure enough, a Miss Magda MacDougal had wed in October of 1797. Not to Cameron Byrde, though, but to a Horace MacNeil.

Sarah rubbed her finger back and forth across the thirty-year-old entry. The paper was thin, the ink beginning to fade. But the name was clear. Horace MacNeil.

She looked up at the self-righteous novitiate. “Do they still live here, Magda MacDougal and Horace MacNeil?”

His head wobbled on his skinny neck. “He does. She died last winter and is buried in the churchyard.”

Sarah was silent on the short drive out to the MacNeil abode. Magda MacDougal McNeil could not be Mr. MacDougal’s mother, she realized, not unless this whole tale was an elaborate sham. She didn’t think that was the case, however. Mr. MacDougal really believed his mother had married Cameron Byrde. That meant this woman was, at best, related to Marshall MacDougal. Perhaps she was an aunt? The important thing was, did her family know anything about Marshall MacDougal’s mother and her relationship with one Cameron Byrde?

Then also, what if the American had already been out to question the MacNeils? Would they receive her now? And if they were as reluctant as that novitiate had been, did she have enough money left to coerce them?