Stand and Deliver Your Love (6 page)

Sarah worried her lower lip for a moment then gave Byron a triumphant grin as she captured
his knight with her rook. “My father taught me.”

Byron studied the board for a moment; no doubt making sure his next move was more strategic. “I did not think chess was part of a young miss’ education,” he mused, moving his other knight over to capture her offending rook.

“Not all women are raised to be mindless decorations.” Sarah gave him an acrid look as she moved her queen forward.

He pondered her for a moment, “You are the first woman I have ever met whose interests were not wholly dedicated to climbing the social ladder.”

Sarah shrugged and watched him move his king forward. “There is no social ladder to climb when you live at the bottom of society.”

“Then perhaps you are lucky.”

“How so?” She moved another pawn then looked at him with interest.

Byron studied the chessboard. “There are not so many rules to your game as there is to mine.”

“What rules?”

He moved his pawn to block hers before he answered, “In my game one is expected to marry the right girl
, one who says all the right things and has all the right blood. One who will advance you up the social ladder. Love is not even considered. If perhaps you are lucky enough to find love, then you are proclaimed to be this rare love match.”

Sarah moved another pawn. “Why is that such a terrible thing? I should think a marriage with love would be most enjoyable
.”

“In my case it turned out to be a nightmare.” Byron frowned, moving his bishop to block her rook.

She moved her queen. “How so?”

“When my fiancée died, I was supposed to mourn for a few weeks then bounce back to my old life.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Suddenly, I was this rich, tragic soul whom every young debutante wanted to rescue from despair with their undying declarations of love.”

“You poor man.” She let her sarcasm add bite to her words.

“It really was terrible!” Byron insisted with a look, so comically pained she almost laughed. “I felt like I was being hunted, and any woman who managed to capture me wanted to display my head on her wall like some kind of morbid love trophy.”

Sarah giggled at the mental picture, and then smoothed her face into a properly staid mask. “Is that why you hid yourself away in the country, because you were afraid of a bunch of women?”

Byron snorted and moved his queen. “I am not afraid. Any self-preserving man would have done the same thing.”

Smothering a second giggle she studied the chess pieces before she moved her queen. “So, despite your reluctance to be accosted by swooning ladies, you were returning to London?”

“My presence was requested by the king. I had a few things I wanted to clear up before I returned to…
.” he trailed off, a forlorn look crossing his face, “my seclusion. What about you? You are not happily married—have you not found your dream match yet?”

She shrugged. “I had dreams once, like every young girl does I suppose.”

“And…?”

“And, I am not a princess, and this is not a fairy tale. No prince is going to ride in on his
white horse to rescue me.”

“I see.” He studied the board. “So you gave up on your dreams and decided to play Robin Hood? That is a sad tale.”

She shrugged again, so as not to let him know how much her lost dreams really mattered.

“What about you? Have you no dreams or are you just rich enough to have no unfulfilled ones?”

He looked up at her. “I have only nightmares that come during my sleep and waking hours,” he paused looking thoughtful. “Until recently.”

Curiosity piqued, she met his gaze. “What has halted your nightmares?”

“A woman, I suppose.” He looked down at the board.

“Oh. I am not sure I understand your logic. Mayhap the acc
ident rattled your faculties,” she said with seriousness, then lightened her tone to jest, “I thought women were the source of your nightmares?”

“Mayhap.” Byron absently placed his fingers on his king then slid the monarch up the board to face her queen. “Perhaps this woman has more pleasing qualities I would like to further explore. That alone leads me to dream of wondrous things in the future.”

Sarah looked up knowing he had won this game, but unsure of the outcome of the game of words they still played. “What if this lady you speak of is not agreeable to your exploration?”

Byron smiled. “Her kiss tells me otherwise.” He laid her queen down at the base of his king before he looked up at her triumphantly. “Check and mate.” He leaned back against the pillows as she digested his meaning, waiting.

Swallowing, she quickly gathered up the chess pieces.

He stayed her hand
. “Will you play another game with me?”

“If I am not careful, your games will cost me more than I am willing to pay.” Without looking at him she shook off his hand and dropped the game pieces back in
to the little box. Not wanting him to see she was rattled by the double meaning in his words, she stood and returned the box to its place on the mantle. “You should rest. I have some sewing to do.”

Chapter
Six

Sarah tied a knot to secure the last stitch in Dickie’s new coat. After snipping off the extra thread, she folded the coat and tucked it into the basket at her f
eet. A quick glance at the bed proved Byron was still snoring softly. His face was still flushed with fever, but his breathing was less labored than before. Standing, she stretched her shoulders, which had become sore from hunching over her sewing. She glanced out the window and realized it finally stopped raining. The sun was peeping shyly out between a few remaining fluffy white clouds dotting the small patch of sky visible above the clearing. She walked to the table and leaned over Dickie who was completing his sums, face pinched in concentration, his bottom lip pressed between his teeth.

“How are you doing?”

“Almost done,” the boy mumbled.

She ruffled his curly brown locks. “There are still a couple of hours before dark, so I thought I would take Shadow out for some exercise. I should go and see h
ow the roads have fared in the storm.”

He put down his charcoal stick. “You should not go alone. I will come with you.”

“No, I shall be fine. Besides, who would stay and keep an eye on our patient?”

The boy looked at the sleeping figure on the bed and back at her with a worried expression.

She smiled.
“It will be fine, you will see. The marquis will sleep a while longer. If he wakes you can give him some more willow bark tea. There is bread and a small bit of butter left you both can munch on, if you get hungry.”

Dickie darted an anxious look at the man. “What if he should try to escape?”

“I doubt he will manage to even make it to the lean-to, let alone get on his horse,” Sarah gave him a reassuring smile, slipped her cloak around her shoulders and tied it securely at her neck. With one last look at the sleeping man, she opened the door and walked out into the fresh, damp air.

She shut the door
behind her as quietly as possible and picked her way through the puddles to the lean-to where the horses were munching their hay. Byron’s big black horse stood closest to the door and she approached him with caution. The animal barely acknowledged her presence as he picked the choicest bits from his pile of dried grasses. She crouched down and touched his swollen leg feeling the heat radiating from it right away. The animal pulled away, pinning his ears, but kept eating.

Sarah straightened, brushing a stray piece of hay from her skirt, then moved past the horse to her own peacefully munching mare.
“Want to go for a ride, Shadow?” she crooned, stroking the mare’s soft gray coat.

The horse turned her head to rub her shoulder
and nickered. Sarah bridled the mare and led her outside to a large chopping block. Hiking up her skirts she stepped onto the block and scrambled atop the horse bareback. She turned her onto the path leading out of the clearing as Byron’s horse looked up and whinnied.

“Sorry, fellow,” Sarah called quietly, “You will have to stay with only Dickie’s pony for
company.” The placid little brown pony dozing in the other corner of the shed twitched an ear but didn't open his eyes.

Once she passed through the almost hidden opening in the brush, Sarah let the mare jog along the narrow path at her own pace.
She enjoyed the feel of the horse’s warm muscles sliding against her half bare legs. There was nothing she liked better than to take a ride after a good spring rain. Everything always smelled so fragrant and clean. The forest looked so bright and new when the dewdrops caught the pale beams of light filtering through the heavy canopy to the vegetation on the forest floor.

If only she could ride like this every day, leave all her worries and cares behind. Now she had a new worry to add to the pile. Byron knew her face. That alone wouldn't worry her, after all, she doubted he would ever see her again once he was well enough to be returned to his own life of seclusion.
However, the fact she also let slip she looked after an orphanage would surely single her out and make her easier to find by the constables. She doubted she could convince Byron to forget all about her and her exploits. She could only hope there was something in his luggage she could use to blackmail him into silence. It was a long shot, but her only chance to ensure the future of all the helpless children she and her friends needed to protect.

When the mare was closer to the main road she reined her in, to a sedate walk, and listened.
Cautiously, she approached the roadside. There was no sound other than the birds chirping and a few busy bees flying about. Her mare stepped onto the soft side of the road and immediately sank, almost knee deep in loose mud. Shadow floundered for a moment then regained her footing. Sarah clutched the horse’s mane and looked both ways down the road. There was no one in sight. She turned west in the direction Byron had been coming from during the storm. The horse picked her way through the muck and broken tree limbs. As she rode she listened for any sign of a rider approaching. If she were found here she would be hard pressed to explain how she came to be out alone this far from any property.

Rounding a bend she came across a large black shape in the brush to one side. Her mare danced nervously and snorted. Upon closer inspection she realized it was the carcass of a dead horse. Crows already fought and cawed over the mud-caked animal as they tore through the hide to the f
lesh underneath. Pity for the dead animal she realized must be one of Bacchus’ unfortunate harness mates allowed a tear to slipped down her cheek. A little further on she came across the remains of another black horse and the wreckage of the carriage they must have been pulling. There was no sign of the fourth horse. Sarah guided Shadow to a nearby tree and dismounted, tying the reins to the sturdy trunk. She approached the overturned carriage cautiously. Something lying on the ground half under it drew her attention. It was a muddy silk handkerchief. She crouched down and gasped when she picked it up. A set of lifeless eyes stared back at her from a young man’s pale face concealed underneath. Jumping to her feet, she dropped the cloth back over the dead man’s face.

Slipping and sliding she made her way around to the other side of the carriage. Peering in the broken window she made out the twisted body of a second man inside. Her stomach twisted and rebelled as she forced herself to climb inside and look around for any luggage. Trying not to touch the body, she felt around until her fingers found a damp paper folder. She snatched it up and scrambled from the carriage. Once outside she crouched in the mud and involuntarily relieved her rebellious stomach of its contents.

After her insides settled she leaned back against the side of the carriage and wiped her sweaty brow with her sleeve. Death in the orphanage, although upsetting, was just a soft passing away of the soul compared to the sickening smell of rank bodies and twisted limbs she just discovered.

Willing her hands to stop shaking, she opened the folder. The ink on the papers was smudged by rain and mud, but clear enough to make out ledger columns. From what she could gather it appeared someone had been embezzling funds from the government war accounts. Flipping through, the pages showed more unbalanced totals and named two possible sources of the discrepancies. The Earl of Winchester, whom she had never heard of, and the Marquis of Hampton. Byron.

Sarah shoved the papers back into the folder and stood. Making her way back around the other end of the carriage she came across a small trunk and a satchel. She lifted the lid on the trunk and found clean gentleman’s garments, as well as various grooming accessories. His lordship’s clothing, she assumed. Opening the satchel she found more official looking documents regarding various investments and holdings, pertaining to the lord, and a sack of coins. She shook the coins out into the palm of her hand and counted them. The sack contained a measly thirty pounds. She supposed a man as wealthy as the marquis had no need for coins; he probably purchased anything he needed or wanted on accounts. Sarah sighed, it wasn’t much, but it would pay the rents for another two months.

The trunk was too heavy and awkward for her to carry, so she untied her cloak and spread it out on a small grassy patch near her horse. Then wiping her hands on her skirts in an attempt to clean them, she made her way back to the trunk. She gathered up as much of the contents as she could and hauled them back to the cloak. After a couple of trips she had most of the trunk’s contents bundled and tied with a broken harness strap across the back of her mare.

She hoisted the satchel and the folder from the carriage, across the mare’s withers and then led her to a burned out trunk of a tree to mount. Once she was seated in between the two awkward bundles, she headed back down the road to the hidden trail, trying not to look at the dead horses as she passed. When she was once again safely hidden on the little deer trail, she gave the mare her head and allowed her mind to wander. If Byron was in fact guilty of stealing from the king, then why was he heading to London? Had he made up lies to cover his thefts he thought the king would believe? Maybe he wasn't going to London after all. Could he have been hoping to sneak out of England?

Maybe he wasn't even going to see the king. Perhaps he was going to meet with someone else involved in the deceit, an accomplice.

Sarah shook her head. What did it matter? She had the papers she needed to ensure Byron’s silence. That was all she wanted. After all, he must be worth a large amount of money.

She could count on his financial support for many years to come unless he wanted his dirty little secret to be whispered into the king’s own ears. They came to the turn into the clearing. Why didn’t she feel elated her secret would be kept? Guilt nagged at her for betraying the king and extorting money from the marquis. Pushing the feeling away, she advanced through the thicket into the clearing telling herself she was only doing this for the children. There was no other way. There were no other options.

Sarah was snapped out of her gloomy thoughts by a child’s shriek. She jumped from her horse while it was still moving and ran to the cottage. Pushing open the door she stopped on the threshold and surveyed the scene. Byron, clad in only a long sheet, held Dickie by the shirt front. The child squirmed and cried out in terror.

Grabbing the broom which was closest to the door she advanced on them. “Release him this instant or you will rue the day!” she avowed, raising her makeshift weapon above her head.

Byron’s gaze swept to hers, his eyes narrowing when he spied the object in her hand. “What the hell,” he bellowed in surprise as she swung. The broom connected with his injured shoulder causing him to let go of the boy. With an amazing burst of speed he snatched the weapon from her hand, tossing it to the floor behind him and advanced on her. His eyes flashed with rage. Sarah panicked and backed toward the door. Whatever made her think she could handle such a powerful man on her own? If she made a break for it and ran to her horse she would leave poor Dickie on his own. She slid past the door and edged along the wall, watching the advancing red-faced lord carefully. Her eyes settled on the gun tucked against the wall beside the hearth. Looking back at Byron she held his gaze, inching her way toward the gun, trying to block out the child’s hysterical sobbing. Byron lurched toward her and she darted to reach the gun. Her fingers closed around the stock as he grasped her arm. She spun around so the muzzle rested against his bare chest.

Byron stared
at her for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching. “Check and mate, huh?” His eyes pinned hers and she fought to keep from looking away. “Do you think you can fire the gun before I can take it from you?”

Sarah raised her chin with false conviction, glaring and fighting to keep her voice from betraying her fear. “I know I can.”

If he called her bluff he would find out she had no idea if the gun was even loaded, let alone be competent enough to actually shoot. Her rapid breathing was the only sound in the room as they stood face to face, frozen in contemplation. He was first to break the silence. “You could not shoot anyone.”

Swallowing, she called forth every ounce of courage she could muster. “Try me.” When his eyes flickered in hesitation, she felt confident enough to add, “You were going to hurt Dickie, which is reason enough for me to shoot.”

He glanced at the frightened boy cringing in the corner who watched them with wide eyes. “I was not trying to hurt him. The little jackanapes stole my pocket watch!”

“Dickie would never steal anything.”

With a perturbed look he let go of her arm. “Oh? Is that so? Then ask him why he had my pocket watch in his hands when I awoke.”

She opened her mouth to spurn his suggestion but thought better of it. “I am sure there is a reasonable explanation.”

“There sure is. He stole it,” Byron growled.

A shadow fell across the doorway. There was a dull thump. A look of pain and surprise replaced his glare. He swayed on his feet and collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Sarah was relieved to see Bert standing in the door way with a stick of firewood in his hand.