Rexanne Becnel (22 page)

“I would like to know his identity as well.” She looked up at him. “I had nothing to do with that cowardly attack on you, Marsh—I mean, Mr. MacDougal.” She swallowed hard. “I hope you know that.”

“Marsh.” His voice was low and husky. “I think after all that’s passed between us that you can at least call me Marsh.” His eyes were dark and intense. Too intense.

She shook her head and bit her lip. “I had nothing to do with it,” she went on. “Nor do I wish such a violent person roaming the countryside, for he poses a threat to us all. Should his identity be discovered in your absence, I assure you that I will press to have him punished to the full limits of the law.”

He did not respond, and for a long time they stood there, side by side, staring up the long, sloping hillside pasture, dotted here and there with skinny, recently shorn sheep.

“What will you tell them?” he finally asked.

“Who?” But she knew to whom he referred. “You mean my sister and mother.” She chewed on her lip. “I don’t know. Perhaps nothing. Especially my mother.”

“How will you explain withdrawing so large a sum of money from your accounts?”

She glanced sidelong at him. Why should he care? “I’ll think of something.”

“I know enough of legal matters in Britain to know a single woman—even an heiress—has little access to her own wealth.”

“You will get your money!” she snapped, suddenly furious at his fixation on the money when so much more had passed between them. But what she thought should be important obviously was not as important to him.

She glared at him. “You will have what you most value—a fat bank account—while I will retain what I most value—a happy family. You have taught me a hard lesson, Mr. MacDougal,” she said, drawing out his name until it was almost an insult. “I will never take my family for granted. Never. They are more important to me than anything. Money. Property—”

“And you think that’s all that’s important to me? Son of a bitch!” he swore, raking the fingers of his good hand through his hair.

She found herself suddenly on the brink of tears. “Well, isn’t it?”

He shook his head slowly, as if it were heavy and he was very tired. “No. No, Sarah. I came to you last night…”

She stiffened, pressing her lips together.

He went on. “I came to you to tell you…to apologize for the deal I tried to make with you. About making love to you,” he added.

They were the last words she expected to hear from him, and for a moment she was too shocked to respond. “That’s not what you called it before.”

“What?”

“You said…” She was trembling, even her jaw, for her teeth were chattering. “You said you want to…to fuck me.”

He let out a harsh breath. “I’m sorry for that. Sorrier than you can know.”

“You say that now.”

Again he shook his head. “What happened last night, it wasn’t what I planned. I had decided to release you from that abominable deal I forced on you. I was going to tell you. But then when I saw you asleep in that chair…” Again he exhaled. “I can’t undo what has happened between us, Sarah. God knows I wish I could. But I can’t.”

For a long moment their gazes held, hers still doubting, his filled with remorse. He
was
sorry, she realized. Yet that knowledge gave her little relief. He was sorry for the wonderful thrilling, terrifying things he had done to her. He wished he could take it back. Whereas she…she didn’t know what she wanted anymore.

The silence stretched out between them, long, tumultuous, but silent all the same. Then he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I, ah, I’m not exactly sure of the customs here, but in America if you…well, when you ruin a woman—not that I think you are ruined,” he added. “But, well, if you think we should marry…”

If he said anything further, Sarah didn’t hear it. She stared at him in utter shock. “Marry? You and I?”

He frowned and his jaw worked back and forth. “I thought it only right to make the offer.”

Like a dagger, those words tore a hole in her heart. Of course he was offering to marry her. Any man who would cross an ocean to make an honest woman of his mother would also feel an obligation to do right by a woman he had ruined.
Any
woman he had mined.

But Sarah didn’t want to be just any woman to him. So she shook her head. “I…I don’t think that would be wise.

He let out a short bark of laughter. “I suppose I should not be surprised, considering everything. Well.” He took a breath and made her a curt bow. “Since it seems our business is done, perhaps I’d better take my leave of you now.”

Without further word, he turned his back and strode away. Sarah stared after him, watching him go, yet unable to utter even one word to make him stay. He was leaving. Forever. Going back to America, where he belonged. Instead of feeling a happy relief, however, what she felt was devastation. He would have married her. He would have done the right thing by her, just as she now saw he always tried to do the right thing by everyone. His mother. Adrian.

Her.

But he was leaving now, and all she could do was follow him with her eyes.

“Good-bye!” she whispered to his retreating figure. Good-bye to the man who’d taken her innocence—and not just the innocence of her body. She pressed her clasped palms against the center of her aching chest.

He’d taken also the innocence of her heart.

A
DRIAN
had not slept at home last night. Not that his mother would care. No doubt she’d had enough company to keep her otherwise occupied. Of late she’d taken up with that bandy-legged fellow who worked for the American.

His agitation increased at the thought. How could she?

But he knew how. Because she didn’t care about him. Nor did anyone else, No one would notice if he disappeared and never came back again.

He shivered despite the warmth of the morning. Ever since that disaster on the riverbank yesterday, he’d kept himself well hidden. He’d also kept watch on all the comings and goings around Byrde Manor. He’d seen Sarah drag the American out of the river, and then watched as everybody else had come to his aid.

The whole night he’d huddled in a holly thicket near the road, watching and listening, and he’d breathed an enormous sigh of relief to learn that the man lived.

Now the mayor and sheriff had come out to investigate and Adrian’s heart pounded a new panic-driven rhythm. Had the American seen him? Did he know who had wielded that ancient fowling piece? Would everyone be looking for him now?

The boy clenched his jaws to stop their trembling. Clenched them until they ached. He’d never meant to kill the American. Not really. He’d only wanted him gone far away from Sarah. Far away. For it was plain the man had some nefarious hold on her that was making her miserable. But Adrian hadn’t meant to shoot him.

Yes, you did
.

Adrian squeezed his eyes shut against the accusing voice that would not leave him alone. All yesterday evening, all night, and now again this morning the voice persisted.
You stole the gun from Mr. Hamilton’s collection of sporting pieces stored in the tack room. You hunted the American down. You raised the gun, you aimed, and you shot him
.

A shudder racked his body and he hugged himself close in the shadow of the well house. For the first time in his life he was glad he did not have a father, for a father would have taken him hunting and taught him how to shoot better, and maybe there would not be a hole in the American’s arm, but rather in his chest.

His stomach heaved and the bitter taste of bile rose into his mouth.

But it’s all right
, he told himself.
It’s all right
. The American would survive.

But as Adrian watched the man stalk away from Sarah now, a new fear rose in his chest. Sarah had saved him, yet the man was obviously furious with her. Why? Could he think that
she
had told Adrian to do him in? Had he made an accusation like that to the sheriff?

Adrian lurked behind the elder bushes until the American mounted his horse and rode away, his servant trailing behind. Then Adrian cut his gaze back to Sarah.

She stood stiff and unmoving where the man had left her, staring away from the manor house, away from the long drive. Away from the road Mr. MacDougal had taken.

Though he knew the chance he took—though he knew he ought to run away and never come back to this area—Adrian nevertheless started toward her. She looked so slight and frail in contrast to the vast open fields beyond her. So vulnerable. He had to be certain no one was blaming her for what he had done.

He tugged at his wrinkled coat as he made his way to her, and swiped at the leaves and twigs still clinging to his breeches. Then he spit on his hand and tried to smooth down his hopelessly rumpled hair. But all the while he kept his eyes fixed upon Sarah.

He had the awful, sinking suspicion that she and the American had become lovers. He didn’t like the idea—he hated it, just as he hated his mother’s numerous dalliances. But he’d learned long ago that there was nothing he could do about his mother, and Sarah was no different. Still, the American had left, and Sarah might need him. He was not about to let her down.

Standing beside the ancient dry-stack wall, Sarah clutched her hands against the flat top stone. She pressed hard, feeling every crevice beneath her palms, aware beneath her fingers of where last year’s dried and crumbling mosses gave way to the moist green of spring’s velvety new growth.

The hoofbeats had long since faded away. No dust cloud hung above the drive; no voices reverberated up from the road. He’d left silently, disappearing from her life with no mark anywhere to record his passing.

No mark except the invisible one he’d left in her. And though it too seemed a silent mark, inside where only she could hear, she was shrieking.

What was the point of all this? Why had he come here? Why did he have to leave?

You could have made him stay. You could have accepted his offer and married him
.

And married a man who didn’t really want to be married to her? A man who had every reason in the world to hate her family? A man who could wreak such havoc on the lives of the two women she loved most in the whole world?

She began to tremble and, stiff as an old woman, she wrapped her arms across her chest. When she heard a step in the stubby grass behind her, she jerked.

Had he returned?

She spun around, then could not disguise the disappointment in her expression when she saw Adrian.

At once she looked away.

“Don’t be sorry that he’s gone, Sarah.” The boy’s voice was low and imploring, rough and cracking. “All he does is make you unhappy. I hope he never comes back.”

His earnestness forced a sad smile to her lips.

“I believe you have nothing to fear on that score, Adrian. He is leaving for America. And I am glad,” she added, trying hard to sound convincing. “He really doesn’t fit in here.”

“Why did he come, then? Ever since he’s shown up, he’s made trouble for everyone. Scaring you. Beating up poor Guinea. Will says he used to be a boxer in America. That’s what the men in the livery all say.” The boy’s face lowered in a truculent frown. “Just a common, brawling ruffian, he is. He never had any business pesterin’ a lady like you.”

“He’s not a boxer,” Sarah retorted, even as she considered that he might very well once have been. That would explain his athlete’s body and graceful way of moving. “He constructs bridges and buildings. He has his own company with lots of other men working for him. But it doesn’t matter what he does,” she added with a vague wave of her hand. “It doesn’t matter why he came here. He’s gone now.”

She took a breath and let it out, then pasted a pleasant expression firmly on her face. “Dear me, but the day is nearly half gone and I’ve accomplished nothing at all. So tell me, what brings you here?” Then her eyes narrowed as she noticed his disheveled state. “My goodness, Adrian, where did you sleep last night? The barn?”

His eyes flashed, then looked away. Was that guilt she saw in their dark blue depths?

“Does your mother know where you are?”

He snorted. “No. Nor is she likely to care.”

“Come now. Don’t say that.”

“Well, she doesn’t. Except for the money my Uncle Neville gives her for me, she doesn’t care what I do.”

She reached out and squeezed his arm. “Neville and Livvie love you very much, Adrian. And so do I.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes shone with the intensity of his emotions. “I love you too, Sarah. I really do.”

He reached out to embrace her, but she backed away. There was a long awkward moment as they both recovered.

She’d not meant her words as he’d obviously taken them. Good heavens, could she do nothing right?

“Adrian, I…I’m sorry.”

“No. Um…” He shook his head, looking bewildered. Again she saw the struggle between the little boy he’d been and the young man he was becoming. He shoved his fists into his pockets. “I have to go,” he muttered. Then, just like Marsh had done, he turned and stalked away.

Sarah watched him go with a heavy heart. If only she were young enough—and innocent enough—to deserve the admiration of a lad like Adrian. She’d trade everything she had to go back three years, to have her coming out again and do everything right this time.

But what could she have done differently and still protect her mother and sister from the unexpected threat Marshall MacDougal had brought into their lives?

Nothing, she morosely decided. Nothing. And if that was the case, then she had nothing to regret—and no cause for this hollow feeling in her chest. Best that she focus on the details of her agreement with Marshall MacDougal.

So she squared her shoulders and started for the house. She had a letter to write to her man of business, one that would probably give him an attack of apoplexy and send him screaming to her brother.

She blew out a weary breath. She had better write a letter to James as well.

Adrian had never missed having a father as much as he did this horrible, wretched day. If his uncle had been here, he would know what to do.

Then again, when Uncle Neville found out he’d left Eton in the middle of the term, he might be too furious to listen to anything else Adrian had to say.

With one booted toe the boy lashed out at a stone lying innocently in the middle of the road. Then, with head down and shoulders slumped, he trudged on toward home. He’d hated Eton. From the very first day he’d dreamed of nothing but returning home to Kelso. But nothing had gone right since his return. Nothing.

His mother had only become more brazen during his absence. Or was it that when compared to his classmates’ families she only seemed worse?

He’d thought he was too smart for those spoiled rich boys with their valets and riding masters. But all of a sudden he did not feel very smart at all. He was a rich man’s bastard—a dead rich man’s bastard—and while his uncle had been good to him, how long could Uncle Neville be expected to continue on in that vein? Especially when the results were so spectacularly bad.

He was an idiot. A fool. He was so stupid he’d even convinced himself that a fine lady like Sarah Palmer might develop an attachment for him.

He grimaced to even remember his idiotic declaration of love just now. How stupid he must look to her. How childish. And then there was the shooting.

His chest heaved, yet no matter the great gulps of air he sucked in, he still felt as if he could not breathe. So far no one seemed to suspect him—at least the sheriff and mayor had not said anything to Sarah. Still, guilt weighed heavily upon his shoulders, nearly crushing him when he thought how close he’d come to killing a man.

Killing
him.

Had he truly believed Sarah would be glad if the American were dead? Today she’d looked utterly devastated by the man’s departure.

He reached Kelso and stared past the bridge that arched over the River Tweed toward the cluster of stone cottages were he and his mother lived.

He didn’t want to go home.

He twisted his head to stare toward town. Did he dare go into Kelso? What if Marshall MacDougal were still there? It seemed that the man had not identified him as his attacker. Maybe he’d forgotten. But what if he saw him and then began to remember everything?

Even though Adrian was terrified of being found out, he could not turn away from town. Something drew him there, something twisted and perverse. Maybe it was guilt, he speculated as he forced himself to walk into town, his head high this time, his hands stuffed nonchalantly in the pockets of his breeches. Maybe he would feel better if he was caught and accused and hauled off to the gaol.

His chin trembled and came down a notch. That’s what he deserved, being thrown in the small village gaol.

A gusty wind ruffled his hair as he looked around at the town, and his skin prickled. It looked just like it did on any other day. Shoppers made their way from butcher to baker to greengrocer. The milliner’s simple-minded daughter washed their square shop window. The wheelwright worked in his open stable doorway, and stout Mayor Dinkerson burst frowning from the sheriff’s office, banging the door, then striding purposefully toward his own house.

Adrian shrank back into the shadow cast by a pair of stacked kegs, then jerked around when someone shoved into him.

“Where ya been?” a boyish voice chirruped.

It was all Adrian could do not to punch his sometime cohort Will. “None of your business,” he muttered, pushing Will back. Though his heart thudded with alarm, he covered it with a threatening scowl. “Next time you sneak up on me I won’t be so easy on you.”

“Bet I know somethin’ you don’t know,” the smaller boy taunted, dancing out of Adrian’s reach.

“So what?” But once again alarm speeded up Adrian’s pulse. Did Will know what he’d done?

“So a lot. Somebody shot that American fighting bloke. Shot ’im and almost killed ’im.”

“Really?” Adrian struggled to look interested. But not too interested. “How’d it happen?”

By the time Will finished spinning out the tale, complete with his own theory about gypsies and highwaymen and other sorts of dastardly troublemakers, Adrian was reassured that at least
he
was not a suspect. But it didn’t make him feel a whole lot better.

“Look!” Will elbowed him in the side and pointed. “There he is.”

“Who?”

The American. And like the mayor, he was coming out of the sheriff’s office.

Adrian stared at him, at the arm cradled in a sling, and the dark scowling expression. The man’s servant followed on his heels, then swiftly departed toward the public stable. But the American just stood there, staring around as if he were studying the town—or else looking for someone. When his head swung around and his hard gaze alighted upon Adrian, the boy lurched back.

“Holy weezus,” Will muttered, then tore off in the opposite direction. Adrian wanted to run also, but his boots might as well have been rooted to the ground. He could not move an inch.

For a long, terrible moment the man’s stare kept him pinned there. For an hour, a whole day, it seemed. But then the American nodded, a curt jerk of his head, before striding down the swept stone walkway.

Adrian watched him until he turned into the vicar’s front yard, and all the time his heart pounded like a herd of Clydesdales in full gallop. Sarah was wrong. The American wasn’t leaving at all. He was looking for the person who’d tried to murder him. He had the sheriff, the mayor, and now the vicar helping him. He might not yet know who the culprit was, but eventually he would figure it out.