Rexanne Becnel (9 page)

M
ARSH
was too wound up to return to his room at the inn. Two pints of ale in the downstairs room had done nothing to take the edge off his agitation, nor was the bottle of whiskey he’d purchased likely to do so. But it was better than stewing in his bed, he decided as he strode to the stables, the bottle clenched in one fist.

Good God! He could hardly believe tonight’s events. And all due to Sarah Palmer’s interference.

Damn the bitch for causing him to reveal his plan to her! Damn her for rousing him to such a fever pitch of lust that he’d fight a man over her!

At least she’s not Cameron Byrde’s daughter. She’s not your sister
.

He grimaced at the thought. Damn him for being a twice-damned fool!

“Duff! Saddle my horse,” he barked to the valet who sat with three other men, gambling over cards in the tack room.

The man opened his mouth as if to object. But a single glance at Marsh’s thunderous expression must have warned him that one of his flippant rejoinders would not presently be wise.

He threw down his cards, muttering to the other men. “You’re bloody lucky, Curly. Bloody lucky, for I would’ve cleaned you out—”

“Hurry up!” Marsh snapped.

The fact that his annoyance was caused of his own frustrations more than Duffy’s reluctance didn’t improve his mood at all. He would have to rethink his entire plan now. Completely rethink it. And all because he’d felt the idiotic need to come to the rescue of some high-class tart who neither wanted nor needed rescuing.

As Duff led Marsh’s horse out of the stall, he shot a skeptical look at the brown bottle in Marsh’s hand.

“I hope you don’t mean to run this animal through the dark, guv’nor. It ain’t wise for him nor for you.”

“I don’t make a habit of mistreating my horses.”

A glint appeared in the wiry fellow’s eye. “No. Only your hired help.”

Marsh refused to be baited, and in a moment he mounted, then rode out of the yard with no word of direction, destination, or when he expected to return.

But Duff was only mildly concerned about his master’s odd behavior. The American was well able to look after himself. Like lightning, news about the contretemps with that stupid Guinea had reached him almost immediately. One swift blow and the thickheaded fellow had dropped like a sack of grain. It confirmed a suspicion that had been growing in his mind ever since he’d hired on with the American. Marshall MacDougal.

The MacDougal.

As a fan of the great sport of fisticuffs, Duffy had followed the careers of all the fighters of any repute in England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. He had also known of several American fighters, The MacDougal among them.

Hoo, boy, wouldn’t it be something if this intense young employer of his was that MacDougal? No matter that the man had been retired from the American boxing scene for several years, all of Duffy’s cronies at the rings in Shepherd’s Fields, the Eel Room, and the private boxing club in Berwick would still be awfully impressed.

So he watched his employer ride away with little real concern. If he was that MacDougal—and Duffy meant to find out for sure—then he could take care of himself. Tonight had proven that.

Duff felt an undeniable curiosity, though. The man had a reason for coming to Scotland, and a reason for being so worked up tonight.

He looked across the yard toward the mayor’s brightly lit house to see a woman—a pale beauty who looked ethereal by moonlight—pause at the top of the steps. “I think somebody’s wanted to bring a carriage ’round,” he called back into the tack room.

A man named Cuthbery poked his head out. “That’s Miss Palmer. Where’s that boy Adrian what brought her here tonight?”

Duff’s eyes narrowed. So that was Miss Sarah Palmer. Of course. He stared harder at her as she paced the landing. She was the woman with the red cape, and she was also the woman Marsh had fought over tonight. Very interesting.

He rubbed his bristling chin and a slow smile crept over his face. He might have guessed a woman was at the center of whatever Marshall MacDougal was up to.

He hurried across the yard. “Can I be of any assistance to you, miss? Is it your coachman you’re wantin’?”

She gave him a distracted smile, then continued to peer into the gloom. “Not a coachman, precisely. A young lad by the name of Adrian Hawke escorted me here.” She sighed, then focused her attention on him. “I can take myself home without him. It’s just that I think he might be upset and so I would hate to abandon him.”

At that very moment a skinny young fellow with a shock of coal-black hair darted from around the side of the house. The lad was fashionably dressed in a neat wool frock coat and an embroidered waistcoat. But one knee of his breeches was torn, his cravat had come unknotted and dangled askew, and his shirtfront was streaked with dirt. His lip was cut and still bleeding, Duff noticed.

“Adrian?” Miss Palmer lifted her skirts and hurried down the steps. “What on earth? Are you hurt? Don’t tell me you have been fighting.”

The boy wiped one sleeve across his mouth, leaving a streak of blood on it. “It’s nothing. Are you leaving so soon?”

She pulled her shawl tighter across her bare shoulders. “I wish I’d left an hour ago. Maybe then—” She broke off. “You do not have to accompany me if you prefer to stay here, for I can certainly handle the phaeton myself. I do it all the time.”

“No, miss. You mustn’t do that,” Duff interrupted. “Not at night.”

“I’ll take her,” the boy said, stepping between her and Duff. He straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders. “I’ll take you,” he repeated to her. “I brought you and I’ll see you safely home. That’s what a gentleman does.”

“Indeed,” Miss Palmer echoed.

“Adrian!”

Everyone’s head swiveled around at the sound of another woman’s cry. Duffy’s eyes nearly popped out at the vision that stomped into view. The woman’s voice might be far less ladylike and refined than Sarah Palmer’s. But her breasts…

“Adrian!” the bellow came again. “You better get yourself back over here. I’ll be damned if you’ll be squirin’ around the likes of her!”

“Don’t start, Ma.”

“Shut up. And you!” The buxom creature came to a heaving halt in front of Miss Palmer, then planted her fists on her hips and stared balefully at her.

Duff stared hopefully at those quivering mounds of heated flesh. Would they burst out of the too-tight bodice? God, how he prayed they might!

The blue-clad Amazon shot him a quick glance—and a wink, God bless her. Then she scowled at the boy—her son, he realized. “You’ll stay well away from her, Adrian. And
you
stay away from
him
, you cradle snatcher,” she spat, advancing on Miss Palmer.

Duffy shifted from leg to leg. Dare he hope they might get into a good, no-holds-barred, rolling-around-on-the-ground cat fight?

To her credit Miss Palmer met the other woman glare for glare, the ice queen and the Amazon. “How truly awful it must be for Adrian to suffer such a mother as you, Estelle Kendrick. But far be it from me to countermand your orders to him. I would not dream of heaping more trouble upon his youthful shoulders.”

So saying, she lifted her skirts and made her way down the steps and past them, just like a haughty queen. As she strode by, however, it was clear that this particular queen did not put herself above mucking about in the stables and handling her own team.

“Bitch,” the woman Estelle muttered. But her epithet seemed to fall on deaf ears. The tirade she directed toward her son, however, did not. “You!” she said, rounding on the scowling lad. “You look a sight! Not fit to be in proper company.”

“And you are?” he snarled.

“Don’t you take that tone with me!”

The boy’s fists knotted at his side. “Living here is worse than Eton!”

“So go back! See if I care!”

He turned and stalked to the corner of the house, then broke into a run. She stamped her foot and spat on the ground. Then, recalling Duff’s presence, she shot him a smile, smoothed her hair back, then tugged her bodice up a fraction.

“Well, luv. Looks like you’ve heard more’n you expected to. And seen more too,” she added with a knowing laugh.

Regretfully Duff dragged his eyes up from her mountainous breasts to her smirking face. He whipped off his cap and made her an exaggerated bow. “Duffy Erskine at your service, Miss Kendrick. Anytime and anyplace.”

“Ha!” she laughed. “Ain’t you the dandy.” She gestured in the direction her boy had gone. “Got any kids?”

He shook his head. “Not as I know of.”

She cocked her head and studied him a moment. “Got any money?”

Duff grinned and patted his coat pocket. “As a matter of fact, I just cashed in my cards in a fierce game back there.”

Her smile increased. “Good. Good. So whyn’t you invite me out for a drink, and we can get to know one another?”

Duff did not have to be asked twice. But even as he calculated how much it was going to cost him to wallow between those luscious breasts tonight, he was mindful of all he’d heard, Estelle Kendrick was mother to a lad who must have been fathered by one of the Hawkes, the wealthiest family in these parts, from what he’d learned. The boy, for all his youth, flirted with Sarah Palmer, who was the same woman his employer had fought someone over. Meanwhile, Marsh had stormed off, the young lady was leaving, and the lad had bolted.

But he was still here, and so was his blue Amazon. He squeezed her hand and winked at her, and she winked back. A fistfight, a scandal brewing, and a willing woman on his arm.

Hoo, boy, could matters get any better?

“You must tell me everything you know.” Sarah leaned forward and took Mrs. Hamilton’s gnarled hand in hers. “You’ve known my mother longer than anyone, and you know this man’s charges would simply destroy her.”

Mrs. Hamilton’s face lowered in a ferocious scowl. “That no-good scoundrel. That selfish…selfish bastard!” she exclaimed. “I knew the man was no good, for all that he had the charm of ten men. But I never suspected he would stoop so low.”

Sarah nodded, gritting her teeth. She could not agree more. Marshall MacDougal was an utter wretch. “I am afraid he is far worse than any of us could have guessed.”

Mrs. Hamilton stared at the small fire in the kitchen hearth. “I swear, if he weren’t already dead—”

“Dead? I only wish he were.”

Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. “’Tis Cameron Byrde I’m speakin’ of, child. He’s the true scoundrel here. He’s the one at fault.”

Sarah flopped back in the wooden chair, pursing her lips. The whole night long she’d tossed and turned, raging at Marshall MacDougal and the threat he presented to her family. Though Cameron Byrde might be the source of the problem, for her his horrible American progeny was the manifestation of it. “Well,” she said. “Cameron Byrde’s son is just as bad—if indeed he actually is his son.”

Again the old woman shook her head. “He obviously believes he is. And he does have that same dark russet hair—just like Olivia’ s.”

Sarah slumped down in her chair and dropped her forehead into her palms. “Oh, my God. Poor Olivia. We have got to find a way to stop that man!”

“Let me think. Let me think.” The old servant drummed her fingers on the table. “The pity of it is that he probably is Cameron Byrde’s son. The question we need to answer is whether or not his mother married his father—and if he did, did he do it before he wed my sweet Augusta?”

Sarah pondered that a moment. “Can you remember anything from those days? Any particular woman? Do you think her name would be MacDougal?”

“P’rhaps. That’s a Highlander name. Being a Highlander meself, I b’lieve I would recall any MacDougals hereabouts. But remember, child, if he met her before your mother, I wouldn’t’ve paid any attention to who he was cavortin’ with. Though I was a youngster when I came to Byrde Manor, I didn’t come into house service until he wed your mother.”

They were silent a moment, then Mrs. Hamilton asked, “D’you think he’s told anyone else about this quest of his?”

Sarah sighed. “I don’t know, But I don’t think so. I only became suspicious because he acted so surprised when he found out I had a sister. He wanted to know who her father was. He
demanded
to know.” She clenched her fist. “Ooh, he is so devious. He was all that is charming and flattering—until he thought I was his sister. Then he couldn’t avoid me enough! But now that he knows I’m not a blood relation at all, he thinks he can—”

She broke off when she realized how much she’d almost revealed. But it was too late.

“Now that he knows you’re not a blood relation, what?” the old housekeeper asked, with brows raised and eyes sharp.

Sarah felt a wash of warm color come up in her face. “He’s quite the ladies’ man—or so he believes. And he was fool enough to think he could sweet-talk me. That’s all.”

“But he didn’t succeed?”

“No. Not at all. And now he never will, for I know just what sort of selfish, spiteful creature he is.”

“Well. I can see why you would believe so. But think, Sarah girl. You can hardly blame a man for lookin’ for his absent father. Not everyone is so fortunate as you with your dear father.”

“How was I fortunate? My father died when I was ten. I don’t call that fortunate at all.”

“Yes. That’s true. Still, he was a wonderful man and he loved you dearly. For that matter, he was a wonderful husband to Augusta, and a very fine employer as well.”

“And a good father to Livvie and James,” Sarah added, beginning to catch Mrs. Hamilton’s drift. “He was everything that Livvie’s father was not.”

“Precisely. But Mr. MacDougal couldn’t know his father’ s true nature, so of course he wanted to find the man.”

“I think you’re mistaken, Mrs. Hamilton. He didn’t come all this way to find his father for a friendly reunion. He made it clear that he hates the man. He’s come here for revenge. Nothing else. And since Cameron Byrde isn’t here, I fear he means to vent that revenge upon us. Upon Olivia and Mother, that is. That’s why it’s so urgent that we stop him. Not for Cameron Byrde’s sake—I hate him. But for Livvie’s and Mother’s. That’s why I need your help.”