Rexanne Becnel (3 page)

But was the man in residence at Byrde Manor?

He hesitated at the base of the stairs. Surely the innkeeper would know. But was it wise to reveal his hand so soon? In a town like this, gossip about a stranger was sure to spread quickly.

Fortunately, when he looked back, the innkeeper attached another meaning to his pause. “If you haven’t any of your own, I’ve all the fishing tackle you need, Mr. MacDougal. You came to the right place, that’s for certain.” He smiled helpfully. “You just let me know if I can be of any assistance to you. Any assistance at all.”

Marsh only nodded. No use to look too eager. Besides, he would know the truth soon enough. By this time tomorrow he might very well have come face-to-face with his father. Until then he needed to think on what he meant to say to the man, how he intended to behave.

Rage rose unbidden in his chest, as thick and choking as it had been when first he’d learned the truth of his parents’ history. The confrontation was coming. He could sense it in every fiber of his being. But he had to be ready. He had to be in control.

Then God help Cameron Byrde, for his unwanted son meant to crucify him.

Sarah did not know whether to weep in frustration or shout with joy.

“They all went up to Glasgow,” Mrs. Tillotson, the housekeeper at Woodford Court, told her. “They left just yesterday morning. Miz Olivia wrote your mother about their sudden journey. I was to post it when next I got to town.”

Sarah chewed the side of her lip. “All of them went, even the children?”

“Yes, miss. Himself had business to tend to—the Glasgow horse fair, it was. Your sister decided a jaunt north would be nice, ’specially now that the weather is warming up.”

Sarah made a face. She’d hardly call this warm. But the chilly northern climes were the least of her worries. Olivia and Neville were gone, leaving her alone at Woodford. Once her mother received Olivia’s post, she would summon Sarah immediately home again. Then James would probably insist that she be trundled off to a convent or some other equally unpleasant place.

Of course, that was assuming Mother received Olivia’s letter.

Sarah grimaced inwardly at such a devious thought. Yet once rooted, the idea would not go away. If her mother was not informed of Olivia’s whereabouts, she would assume Sarah was safely in her sister’s company. And indeed, for all practical purposes, she was. Under her roof. Under her protection. Just because Olivia and Neville were not physically in residence did not lessen their influence. Besides, the humorless Agnes was here like a dour shadow, dogging her every move.

Though Sarah had not initially wanted to come up to Scotland, the alternative had been far worse. Now that she was here, however, she was content to stay. Besides, now that she thought of it, Olivia’s absence was a perfect opportunity. What better way to prove that she was sensible and practical, and had learned to control her impulsive nature?

All she had to do was intercept Olivia’s letter.

“Are you all right, miss?” Mrs. Tillotson asked, drawing Sarah back to the present.

Sarah blinked, then turned her brightest, most deliberately sincere smile on the good-natured little woman. “Oh, of course. Of course. Well, I am disappointed, of course. For I so wanted to see them all. When shall they return?”

“Oh, they mean to be gone a good month and more. Perhaps you would like to join them in Glasgow.”

For a moment Sarah was sorely tempted to do just that. The city—any city—was sure to be more exciting than the quiet countryside. But if she arrived in Glasgow, Olivia would quiz her on why she’d been sent up from London, then proceed to boss her around as if she were still twelve.

Besides, Sarah decided, the excitement of city life was precisely what she did not need right now. “No. No,” she answered the woman. “I believe the best thing will be for me to go on to Byrde Manor.”

“Oh, yes. You’ll want to spend time with Bertie—I mean, Mrs. Hamilton.”

Sarah smiled, and this time without any deception. Her mother’s beloved longtime housekeeper and companion had remarried and retired to her native Scotland some years ago. She lived now with her crusty husband in the steward’s residence at Byrde Manor, the estate of Sarah’s half-sister, Olivia.

While Sarah’s own father had left her very well fixed, with numerous investments and income properties, plus an enormous quarterly allowance, Olivia’s father had left his one child only that modest estate, with its sheep meadows, home farm, and comfortable but rustic house. Still, Sarah had always enjoyed visiting at Byrde Manor. Staying with the Hamiltons would be like visiting with grandparents.

“Yes,” she said. “I believe I would like that. And if you like,” she added, “I’ll post Olivia’s letter to Mama along with my own. For I will want to apprise her of my safe arrival.”

Mrs. Tillotson bobbed her head. “Very good, miss. But let me fetch you a cup of tea before you go on to Byrde Manor. My, but Bertie shall be so pleased. Indeed she will.”

“So. It is all set,” Sarah said out loud when Mrs. Tillotson trundled off to fetch the tea and letter. And if she was being deceitful, she consoled herself that it was not really so terrible a thing she did. She would write to her mother to assure her of her arrival. But Mother needn’t know about Olivia’s absence. Nor did Olivia need to know just yet the unpleasant circumstances surrounding Sarah’s unexpected sojourn to Scotland.

For the next month, at least, she could enjoy a trouble-free existence.

A
T
Byrde Manor Sarah went to bed early, slept like the dead, and arose just as the sun broke over the eastern horizon. Even then, Agnes was already up, as was Mrs. Hamilton. It was plain that the aging housekeeper and the rigid London maid were not going to get along.

“My Sarah is a good girl,” Mrs. Hamilton’s voice carried from the dining room as Sarah made her way downstairs. Sarah smiled. Trust Mrs. Hamilton to defend her, no matter what she did. “If she has high spirits, so be it. Her mother was the same and I dare you to name another lady so gracious and well loved as Augusta St. Clare.”

“Humph,” the reply came, and Sarah’s smile faded. She could just picture Agnes’s hatchet-faced scowl. “Lady Acton is indeed a gracious lady,” the maid retorted. “Gracious and wise enough to know Miss Sarah courts disaster at every turn.”

Sarah chose that precise moment to sail serenely into the room. Mrs. Hamilton looked ready to unload a tirade on the outspoken maid. Agnes, however, did not appear in the least perturbed. Nor did she have the good grace to look at all chagrined that her unflattering remarks had been overheard.

Sarah decided to simply ignore the situation. Well, perhaps not entirely ignore it. There were ways to deal with unpleasant servants, even those given special dispensation by an irate brother to take a headstrong sister in hand.

“Agnes,” she began. “I noticed my traveling suit is stained on the hem. Also, one of the buttons is loose. Would you be so good as to tend to it before you leave us? You catch the coach tomorrow, am I right?” She smiled. “And while you’re at it, you might examine the rest of my wardrobe and press out any wrinkles from the trunk. And do take special care with my scarlet cloak.”

The woman pursed her lips, but with a curt nod she complied. While she had instructions to keep a close eye on Sarah, that did not give her leave to shirk her other duties.

When she stalked from the room, Mrs. Hamilton blew out an exasperated breath. “What a prune of a woman. Whyever did your mother send her with you?”

“Don’t worry, she’s not staying. Mother has given her leave to spend a month with her family in Carlisle—probably so that she would not have to deal with her,” she added with a chuckle. “Agnes is one of my stepfather’s longtime retainers and so cannot be sacked.”

Mrs. Hamilton poured a cup of tea for Sarah and indicated the table. “He’s too softhearted, he is. But come, now. Sit and eat and tell me all the news.”

“Only if you sit too,” Sarah said.

So it was that they were well immersed in a good gossip, with no reference yet to Sarah’s recent imbroglio, when another of the servants approached Mrs. Hamilton.

“There’s a gentleman at the door. Come to inquire about fishing in the river.”

“A gentleman?” Mrs. Hamilton asked.

“Yes’m. A fine-looking gentleman. Mr. Marshall MacDougal, he gives his name.”

Sarah tensed in sudden awareness. Marshall MacDougal, of the broad shoulders and insolent gaze. A satisfied smile curled the corners of her mouth. Had the bold fellow followed her?

Fortunately Mrs. Hamilton’s attention remained focused on the maid. “What sort of fellow is he?”

The maid gave a saucy grin, then, spying Sarah, squelched it. “A sporting fellow, by the look of him. Well mannered, well dressed, and riding a horse Mr. Hamilton would approve of.”

“Very well, then,” the housekeeper said. “Let him fish in our stretch of the river, and good luck to him. I’m certain Mr. Hamilton would not mind. So,” she went on, turning back to Sarah. “You’d rather stay here with the old folks than follow your sister up to Glasgow. Lud, child. You must be taken with the fever. I’ve never known you to choose the countryside over the city—at least not since your come out.”

Reining in her curiosity about Mr. MacDougal, Sarah picked up her cup and swirled the tea in a slow circle. “Everyone needs a change of scenery now and again. I swear, all those parties and routs and balls. All the tittering girls and posturing mamas. All the same men making all the same small talk.”

“From your mother’s letters I would never have thought it, but you’re beginning to sound like your sister did, way back when. And you know what happened to her.” Mrs. Hamilton cocked her head knowingly. “When she quit lookin’ for a man, she found one. And an exceedingly good one, I might add.”

Sarah laughed. “If I could find a man half so marvelous as Neville Hawke, I would snatch him up at once.”

“Well. You’re in Scotland now, and we’re a land of brawny men. Not so refined as to be boring, mind you. But not so coarse as to be crude.”

“Like your Donnie-boy?” Sarah laughed again when Mrs. Hamilton’s face pinkened. “Perhaps I should wait, like you did, until my hair is gray to marry.”

“Get on with you, girl. Don’t you dare make the same mistake I made. I could have married Donnie Hamilton when I was three-and-twenty. But I was too proud and too headstrong. ’Tis a blessing that God allowed me a second chance with him. And speaking of my Donnie-boy, he’ll be wanting his tea—and also to see you. Whyn’t you come out to the stables with me and tell him hello?”

“Yes. That would be nice. And perhaps he will saddle me one of the horses, for I’m in the mood for a long ramble. Does he still keep that pretty sorrel mare?”

Less than an hour later, Sarah was mounted and trotting down the curving drive that led up to the river road. The stone fences were in good repair, she noticed. The apple trees were green and healthy, and a border of Nodding Marys danced in the breeze like lavender-clad ladies as she rode by.

Though Olivia lived with Neville at Woodford Court, across the River Tweed, she kept Byrde Manor up, for it had been her childhood home and was all she owned from her father, Cameron Byrde. She primarily used it for overflow guests during the grouse season, for it was a simple manor house, and considerably smaller than Woodford Court. But Sarah had fond memories of it from her own childhood. Its expanse of fields and forests was especially picturesque.

Now, as Sarah guided the mare across the road and through the wooded stand alongside the river, she sucked in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, very glad to be here. The whole world smelled green and verdant today. The alder and birch and sycamore trees, filled with birds, twittered and swayed with the burgeoning season.

She paused in a long, angling field of fescue already nearly knee-high, then breathed deeply, and gazed about her. It was so beautiful here. So wild and exhilarating—and so unlike London. Why on earth had she dreaded this journey? At the moment she would rather be no other place on earth.

Her peaceful meditations, however, were broken by a high-pitched cry and the thunder of hooves. Up came her mare’s head, and Sarah twisted about. There, back on the roadway, a horse shot along at a full gallop. A young man hunched over the animal’s neck, urging it on with a crop. In his wake two other fellows raced their mounts, shouting curses and exhorting their laboring horses to greater speed.

In a moment they were gone, leaving only a plume of dust and their echoing cries as evidence of their passing. Boys—yet they would soon grow into the brawny Scotsmen of whom Mrs. Hamilton was so proud.

Sarah turned away, envious of the boys’ complete freedom, yet also vaguely disapproving. She hoped they walked their animals after such a rousing run. But though the thought of just such a heady gallop tempted her, she had another mission in mind.

Who was this Marshall MacDougal, this American who looked like a gentleman but carried about him the air of a brigand? And why was he here in Lowland Scotland, in Kelso, of all places—fishing in the River Tweed practically just outside her door?

A sudden suspicion occurred to her. Could he be some friend of her brother’s, hired to follow her and spy on her? Perhaps even to test her, then report everything to James?

Her mouth turned down in a frown and she chewed her lip. As outdone as he’d been with her, surely James would not stoop that low. Besides, James wasn’t likely to know any Americans, and Mr. MacDougal had said he’d only been briefly in London. There could be no connection between the two men. Could there?

There was only one way to find out.

She urged the mare down the path that led to the river’s edge. She would confront this Marshall MacDougal and determine the truth, for one thing she prided herself on was her understanding of men.

Well. Perhaps Lord Penley had taken her in.

But that was a first. Besides, she was wiser now than she’d been then—though it was but five days ago. Still and all, she was convinced this American would not be able to deceive her, no matter what his nefarious purpose.

Standing on a mossy bank, Marsh cast his line out to a still portion of the river. The fly fell into a small pool framed by a fallen log and a newly emergent stand of reeds. At once he began to play the fly along the surface. But his mind was occupied by far more than thoughts of game fish.

He’d learned little enough when he’d approached Byrde Manor on the pretext of fishing. He’d left Duff in Kelso with instructions to circulate about town—primarily to the local pub—and take the lay of the land. Who was who. Where the power lay. Who was complacent; who were the malcontents. Marsh well knew that servants gossiped among themselves, and he wanted to know all the gossip about Byrde Manor, although he wasn’t ready to confide that fact in Duff.

Suddenly there was a strike on his line. Caught off guard, he did not react fast enough. When he jerked his rod to set the hook, it was too late. His hook flew high, absent any fish. To make matters worse, merry laughter broke out just behind him.

“You’ll never catch any of these wily fellows that way.”

Startled, Marsh swung around to find a young woman staring at him from her seat upon a horse at the edge of the trees. She was in shadow and her features were difficult to make out, but he would have known that confident, cultured voice anywhere. Though she wore a plain green riding habit this morning, with no scarlet or sable in sight, it was nonetheless the girl from the traveling carriage.

To hell with the fish; he’d rather catch a pretty green woods nymph any day.

With studied nonchalance he began pulling in his line. “Has no one ever warned you not to startle a fisherman at his work? Had you not made so untimely an entrance, I would easily have landed the fish.”

Again she laughed, which was his intention, and she urged her mount nearer, which was his hope.

“You may blame me, if it eases your offended pride, Mr. MacDougal. I don’t mind.”

The sun caught on her dark hair, glinting chestnut highlights on the long plait which trailed beneath her narrow brimmed straw hat. Despite her well-cut riding habit of some rich spruce-colored cloth decorated with a double march of gold buttons, that casual coiffure gave her an altogether different look from yesterday. She no longer appeared a proper London lady, or even like one of the society chits he was used to in Boston. Instead she looked more like an ordinary woman—an American woman—especially sitting astride as she did.

He propped the fishing rod in front of him, never taking his gaze from her. “So, Miss No-Name. You speak to me now, when no one is here to make note of your social
faux pas
.”

She did not rise to his teasing, but turned her eager mare in a neat circle. She rode well, he noted, with a light touch of her knees and an easy grip on the reins.

Encouraged, he went on. “Are you going to reveal your name, or must I continue to think of you as Red Riding Hood?”

At that her deliberately haughty expression collapsed in a wry grin. “Red Riding Hood. I like that. But tell me, are you the Big Bad Wolf whom I must fear?”

Oh, yes
, he thought.
You’d better fear me, for you are a delectable morsel and I’d like nothing better than to eat you up
.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’ve nothing to fear from me. I’m here mainly to fish and enjoy a holiday—and do a little business, perhaps.”

She studied him with mock severity. “And what sort of business would that be?”

He smiled. “I’m sure I could answer your question better, did I know to whom I am speaking.”

Sarah did not know what to think. Actually, she knew what she did think: that he was impossibly handsome, in a brutish sort of way, and that he was impossibly bold, in what must be an American sort of way.

But she didn’t know what she
should
think, nor how she ought to answer him. Whether he was her brother’s spy or simply a stranger, it would behoove her to play it very cautious.

“Answer my question, Mr. MacDougal, and perhaps I shall be moved to answer yours.”

For a moment he only stared at her with the intent gaze of a very big, very bad wolf. Then with a slight nod he conceded. “I construct things. Buildings. Bridges. Or perhaps I should say that the company I own constructs them.”

Interesting
. “I see. Is that why you are here, to build something?”

He shrugged, a wholly masculine gesture. “As I said, I’m primarily here on holiday. I’m not opposed, however, to viewing some of the finer examples of Scottish architecture. Perhaps you would be good enough to act as my guide?”

She tilted her head, still smiling. “I don’t believe that’s very likely.”

“No?” He shifted his stance. He even moved like a predator, she noticed. Confidently and with more grace than she would expect in such a big man. The silence between them began to grow awkward before he added, “I answered your questions. It’s your turn to answer mine.”

Beneath Sarah’s tight grip on the reins, the mare responded, pawing the ground with one nervous hoof. Sarah blew out her own nervous breath. “I…I am Miss Sarah Palmer, though I ought not to reveal even that much to you. Should we ever finally be properly introduced, I trust you will be good enough to pretend we have not previously conversed.”

He shook his head, and the wind brushed the longish locks of his dark auburn hair across his brow. “What complicated games society women play.”

“Society women?” She gave him a haughty look. “I assure you that it is society men, more so than women, who attach so many rules to the behavior of their daughters and wives. Were it left to us, we would cut our hair, ride astride, and smoke cigars. In public,” she added, then was amazed at such an outlandish declaration. Wherever had that come from?