Sally MacKenzie Bundle (162 page)

He heard a rustle of cloth, the sound of shoes stepping through grass. That girl—Molly—that whore was coming toward the oak. She had called him a bastard. She and her friend had made him look foolish in front of James. He had hated them for that. He had wanted to hurt them, to break that one bitch’s wrist. He had backed down then; he would get his satisfaction now.

The girl came closer. Stupid. She was as stupid as all the others. He grabbed her. She started to scream, but his mouth came down hard on hers, cutting off the sound and grinding her lips into her teeth. She struggled, but he was much larger and stronger than she. He thrust her up against the oak’s trunk. God, this was better than when he’d taken her in her room. Much better. He was already hard. He managed to loosen his breeches, to raise her skirts. His anger and lust mixed together. He rammed into her, crushing her up against the tree as he pumped his hate into her helpless body.

She got her hands free as he pulled back. She went for his eyes, but his arms were longer than hers. He wrapped his fingers around her neck and squeezed. Her hands flew up, pulling on his hands, but she was not strong enough. Stupid sow, to think she could match his strength. He watched her eyes, the one still purple from where he had hit her before, fill with panic. Watched them bulge, her mouth opening in a silent scream. Watched her face collapse.

He smelled death.

He ejaculated again against her corpse, then let her body slide down the oak trunk to huddle on the ground.

He felt much calmer.

James gazed out the window of his study. Rain ran in sheets down the glass.

“So you think your cousin Richard shot at us?”

“At me. I’m certain he—or rather his accomplice—was aiming only at me.”

Sarah moved. He could see her now, reflected in the window. She was wearing one of her new gowns. He wished Mrs. Croft had made the neck lower. That frill of lace trimming the bodice was quite unnecessary. Her lovely throat and lovelier bosom should be displayed to better advantage. He smiled. He would have her—and Lizzie, too, of course—to a London modiste as soon as they got to town. London fashions were definitely more appealing.

“How can you smile?”

He turned and took her hand. “I was admiring your gown. Did you know it makes your eyes blue?”

“My eyes are not blue.”

“They are tonight.” He bent his head to breathe in her light, sweet scent. “Another section for my treatise.”

Sarah pulled her hand free. “You are being absurd, your grace.”

“James.”

“Your grace.”
She stepped back, putting the corner of his desk between them. “Didn’t you say your aunt and Lady Amanda were to chaperone my stay here? They are somewhat conspicuous in their absence.”

“Perhaps they have concluded that since the horse has bolted, there’s no need to lock the stable door.”

Sarah’s eyes shot blue sparks. “The horse has
not
bolted.”

“Well, no, but wouldn’t she like to?”

James closed the distance between them, lightly imprisoning Sarah’s wrists. She pulled back slightly, her cheeks flushed.

“She certainly would not!”

“No? Not even a little?”

“Not the tiniest bit.”

“Are you sure?” James pulled Sarah’s hands gently forward, drawing them behind his back and bringing her up against his body. “It can get terribly stuffy in a stable.” He dipped his head, feathering his lips along her hairline.

“Wouldn’t the horse like to poke her nose out the open door?” he whispered. “Feel the breeze? Smell the night air?”

Sarah’s eyes had drifted closed, so he detoured to brush his lips over her lids before he traveled across her cheekbone to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. She made a funny little noise in her throat, half mewl, half sigh, and tilted her head so his lips could find the place easily.

He buried his face in her hair.

“Sweetheart.” He dropped her wrists so he could put his hands to better use. Perhaps he could do something about that annoying frill around the neck of her bodice. It was most definitely in the way.

“Your grace!” Sarah dodged his hands and returned to her fortified position behind his desk. “Behave yourself.”

“Must I?” He looked around his study. “This would be a splendid place to engage in a little misbehavior.”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Very certain. We have more important matters to occupy our minds.”

“We do?”

“Today’s murder attempt!”

“All the more reason to misbehave. If I have limited time left on this earth, I would love to spend it with you in that comfortable chair by the fire—or even on that nice, thick rug.”

“Stop it!” Sarah turned and gripped the edge of his desk. “How can you make light of this?”

James sighed. Apparently Sarah could be as single-minded as a terrier.

“I’m not really making light of it, Sarah. I am doing what I can to protect myself and my family, but it’s a little like fencing with shadows. Richard is devious.”

Sarah picked up the silver penknife from James’s desk, turning it over and over in her hands, running her fingers over the engraved pattern.

“Why do you think it’s your cousin who is trying to kill you?”

“Who else can it be?” James shrugged. “I’m no saint, but I play fair and pay my bills. I take care of my properties; I stay clear of other men’s wives and daughters—present company excluded, of course.” He paused and leered at her—she waggled the penknife at him.

“None of that, your grace. This is serious. I mean to get a straight answer from you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I can see you were an exceptional teacher in your previous employment. Did your students ever have any fun?”

“Very rarely—and certainly not if I had anything to say about the matter. Now answer me.”

“No one but Richard has a reason to wish me dead.”

“Because he’s your heir.”

“Yes, but more because he thinks I’ve stolen the dukedom from him.”

Sarah frowned. “How can that be? Aren’t your laws of succession quite clear?”

“The laws are clear, it’s the facts that are murky. My father and Richard’s were identical twins. My father, as the elder by ten minutes, was the heir. Richard believes there was some confusion at the birth—the midwife was not expecting twins—and that the babies were switched. According to him, his father should have inherited when our grandfather died, and so Richard, not I, should be the current duke.”

“That’s ridiculous—isn’t it?”

“Well, perhaps not ridiculous, but certainly unlikely. As far as I know, no one except Richard has ever questioned the matter. His father never did.”

Sarah gripped the penknife so tightly, the pattern on the handle dug into her fingers. If she ever needed proof that the English system of inheritance was nonsensical, even dangerous, this was it.

“So how can Richard accuse you of stealing the dukedom when his father never accused your father? That was the rational time to contest the succession.”

“True, but Richard isn’t rational.”

“Your system of primogeniture isn’t rational! That’s what’s at the root of this problem.” Sarah pointed the penknife at James. “If England would get rid of all its titles and hereditary falderal, people like your cousin would not spend their lives waiting for someone else to die.”

“It’s not quite that simple.”

Sarah tapped James on the chest. “Richard is a parasite—admit it.”

“I admit it. Are you planning to stab me with that?”

“Oh.” Sarah looked blankly at the penknife. “No.”

“Good.” James took the knife and laid it back on his desk. “You will not hear me defending Richard, sweetheart, but I can’t believe there are no hangers-on in your own country.”

“Well, perhaps there are, but it’s not the same at all.”

“I don’t know about that. You may not call them ‘lord,’ but I believe you have a number of wealthy men in your country whom someone—a son or other relation—would not mourn if they went prematurely to their heavenly reward, leaving behind their earthly treasures, of course.”

“It is still not the same!”

James lifted an eyebrow and opened his mouth to reply, but a scratching at the door interrupted him.

“What is it, Layton?”

“A message, your grace.” The butler handed James a folded sheet of paper and withdrew.

James scanned the contents, then crumpled the paper in his fist.

“What is it?”

“Molly, the girl at the Green Man, was just found dead, strangled, outside the inn.”

“Richard?”

“I’d bet my life on it.” He put the crumpled paper on his desk and pulled her close. His amber eyes were dark, and a deep frown etched a line between his brows. Sarah wanted to smooth it away with her fingers.

“Sarah, it would be much easier to keep you safe if you were my wife and not just my houseguest.”

“But wouldn’t being your wife put me in more danger, your grace? Now I’m only a poor American nobody. If I married you, I’d be a duchess, wouldn’t I? And, I suppose, eventually…” Sarah bit her lip and studied James’s cravat. “Well, once you have a wife, you could have a son. And a son would definitely upset Richard.”

The edge of James’s hand pushed gently on her chin. Reluctantly she raised her face. His eyes were no longer dark. They were lit with a most disturbing fire.

“Very true, sweetheart. If I had a wife—if I had you as my wife—I would work most assiduously to produce a son. Morning and night.”

“Morning?” Sarah squeaked. Could people do whatever they did to make babies in the daylight?

“Most definitely. Before and after breakfast. Perhaps in the afternoon as well.”

Surely
that
could not be possible.

“You are being absurd, your grace.”

“James.” He ran his thumb lightly over her lips. “You said it very nicely this morning.” His eyes traced the path his thumb had just traveled. His voice took on a deep, husky note. “Say it, Sarah. Please. I want to hear my name on your lips.”

“This is most inappropriate, your grace.” Sarah had intended to speak forcefully, but it was hard to be sharp when someone was nuzzling one’s temples.

“James.”

Somehow her fingers had found their way to his chest and were tracing the pattern on his waistcoat. They slipped over the smooth silk, and she remembered with shocking clarity the smooth feel of his naked chest.

“You are a duke, your grace.”

“I am a man, sweetheart.” His lips teased the corner of her mouth. “Very much a man.” They moved to the other corner. “Please. A good American like you should not take note of titles.”

His touch was most distracting. Sarah turned her head to meet his lips, but he pulled back.

Wanton. She was acting like a wanton again. She pushed hard on his chest. He loosened his hold on her.

“Come, Sarah. I know you can do it.”

“You are ridiculous, your grace.”

“James.”

“Sir.”

“Start with the
J.
It’s not a hard sound to make. Try it with me. ‘J-j-j.’”

“Oh, for goodness sakes—James! There—will you let me go now?”

“Do I have to?”

“I will call you ‘your grace’ if you don’t.”

“You don’t play fair.” James grinned and leaned forward as if to kiss her, but Sarah slipped out of his arms and fled before she could give in to her wanton wishes.

James poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down by the fire. He sincerely wished that he had Sarah on his lap, but at least he had gotten his name from her lips. He would not let her go back to “your grace” with him.

What was he to do about Richard? He would make inquiries, but he would wager that no one could connect Richard to Molly’s death. It was possible that Richard was not involved, but, as he had told Sarah, he wouldn’t bet his life on it. He certainly would not bet her life.

Had Richard killed before? There
had
been rumors about that girl at University. He had ignored them, thinking them groundless. Had he been wrong?

How could he keep Sarah safe? She was right. Their marriage would put her at some risk, but she was already at risk now that Richard had connected her with him. If they were married, he would have the right to protect her. He could lock her in her room—in his room. Chain her to his bed.

He smiled, sipping his brandy and imagining all the lovely ways he could keep her busy and out of Richard’s reach.

Sarah thought about Richard and the shooting as she walked down to the stable the next morning. She wasn’t worried for herself. Richard wasn’t stupid. He would realize immediately that the Duke of Alvord could not marry penniless Miss Hamilton from Philadelphia. But what of James? He did not take the danger he was in seriously.

“Sarah!”

She looked up. James was standing by the stable door, the sun lighting his golden hair and the strong planes of his face. Her heart thudded in her chest and her lips spread into a wide smile.

“Hello, James.” She saw his grin get even wider.

“Ah, McGee, did you hear my name on Miss Hamilton’s lips?”

A short man with gray hair led a horse out of the stable. “Sure, yer grace. I ain’t lost me hearing yet!”

Sarah smiled and nodded at McGee. “You are being very silly, your grace.”

“No, you can’t go back—it must be James from now on, right, McGee?”

Mr. McGee contented himself with rolling his eyes.

James’s expression turned serious. “We’re going to stay close by the house for this lesson, Sarah. McGee says no one has seen Richard or any strangers about, but there’s no need to take unnecessary risks.”

Sarah noted that McGee had spat in the dirt at Richard’s name. “That’s fine with me.” She eyed the horse whose reins McGee was holding. “Isn’t that a rather large animal, Mr. McGee?” She was not completely successful at hiding the quaver in her voice.

“Here now, miss, no need to worry yerself. Rosebud is as gentle as a lamb.”

“Rosebud?” Sarah looked at James. He shrugged.

“Lizzie again,” he said. “But McGee is right. Rosebud is very calm. Come here and meet her.”

James took the reins from McGee and led the horse a few steps toward Sarah. She carefully put her hand on Rosebud’s neck. Even through her glove, she could feel the warmth and the rough texture of the horse’s coat. Rosebud shifted and her neck twitched. Sarah whipped her hand back and looked up at James. He was trying very hard not to laugh.