Betrayed (13 page)

But there was more to Sarah MacKenzie. Mingled with all of her appealing traits were a clever mind and a merciless determination. When it came to getting her way, she left no room for compromise.

“All right 'n' tight, m'lord.” The stableman passed the reins to the driver.

Michael climbed into the coach. He'd already solved the puzzle of how Sarah had entered into the betrothal with Henry. What Michael didn't understand was why.

He'd find out, and soon.

Turnbull stacked the packages, items Michael had brought from London for Sarah, on the floor of the carriage. As the valet stepped inside, he carefully arranged his coat.

Persnickety about his appearance, Turnbull carried himself with dignity, a trait he proudly admitted learning at the knee of his father. In India, Turnbull had been treated like royalty by the general citizenry, and adjusting to life at home was posing as many problems for him as it was for Michael.

The coach lurched into the lane. Michael settled in for the short ride to Lawnmarket.

The wind whistled around the corners of the buildings, and gentlemen and ladies in the lane held tightly to their hats. The stench of coal smoke smelled less abrasive to Michael, proving the oft-made statement that he'd get used to it.

What he couldn't accept just yet was the sound of people speaking Scottish, and he had to concentrate to understand the clickety-clacks in the pronunciation of his native tongue. Growing up in Fife, he'd learned Scottish first. Among Edinburgh's elite, English was the language of choice. When his mother realized he couldn't understand her, she had engaged a tutor and forbade Michael to speak Scottish. That edict was forgotten when her sojourn in Fife ended and she returned to Glenstone Manor.

Her hair had been light brown and very straight, same as Henry's. Michael had made that deduction, among many others, during his visit with Henry.

Anger welled up in Michael at the thought of his brother and the shame he'd visited on Clan Elliot. But times had changed in Scotland, and more so in London, during Michael's long absence.

In a nearby alley, a pair of mongrel dogs fought over the right to mount a passing bitch. A bucket of smelly slops cascaded from a window, and the animals quickly forgot their quarrel.

At the next corner, a carter took a switch to his reluctant ox. Michael smiled, thinking of the high value the Hindus placed on their cattle. Were an Indian stockman to visit cruelty on a Brahman, he'd find himself adrift in the Ganges, a rock tied to his feet.

“Sir?” said Turnbull, staring out the window. “Did I mention that Lady Sarah's maid had the nerve to thank me for providing her with a frolicsome time? Lot of vinegar in that female. I told her what the Indians do to bold women.”

Michael grasped the topic that had been high on Turnbull's list of complaints since their departure for London. “I doubt that endeared you to her.”

“She's an upland Scot. Before they learn there is a God to be worshipped, the Highlanders learn there is an Englishman to be hated.”

Michael couldn't help saying, “Perhaps you shouldn't have told her you're from Suffolk.”

“Didn't have to say it. She's got a hound's nose for English blood.”

Michael scratched his cheek to hide a smile. “I believe I recall your swearing that you threatened to cut off her nose.”

Working his gloves into a smoother fit over his fingers, Turnbull sighed. “I fear I've been in India too long.”

The presumed absolute authority of the English in India would be debated for years to come. Now Michael was glad to put those problems behind him. He had enough troubles of his own here in Edinburgh.

Foremost in his mind was his own behavior when last he'd seen Sarah MacKenzie. From the deck of the
Intrepid
with all of the Complement as witness, he'd acted like a lovesick beau, waving at and longing for a woman who did not bother to acknowledge him.

But when she met him in the hallway of her townhouse a few moments later, the subject that popped into Michael's mind had nothing to do with disappointing farewells or the lies she'd told.

7

W
hat have you done to yourself?” Michael asked.

She held up a bandaged hand. “A minor injury.”

“Ha!” said her maid, as she hung up Michael's hat and coat. “She could have crippled herself.”

Sarah smiled at the manservant who had accompanied Michael. “You must be Turnbull. How do you do?”

Still holding his hat, Turnbull bowed. “Quite well, my lady. Thank you. Mistress Rose said the lid on the kitchen coal box was loose. I thought to take a look at it.”

Sarah glanced at Michael, but said to Turnbull, “You needn't bother.”

All of Michael's uncertainties and questions about her came flooding back to him. But amid the confusion stood one undeniable fact: he was drawn to this intelligent and independent woman. Friendliness and the promise of something more lingered in the air about her.

The unknown drew him, and he smiled. “Repair of the coal box is between you and Turnbull.”

“It's no bother, my lady.” The valet stood taller and passed his hat and gloves to the maid. “Truth of it is, since coming here, I've little to do. If the box needs mending, what's the harm in taking a peek at it?”

Indecision creased her forehead. Michael now knew her age, but that was one of the few conclusive pieces of information he'd gleaned from Henry. According to Michael's brother, seeking guidance was foreign to her. Michael's perception differed greatly; he thought she was merely hesitant to ask for help.

But since it appeared she had passed the matter to Michael, he said, “Turnbull likes to keep busy. He's used to having an entire household to manage. And he's very handy.”

As quick as a seasoned general, she made her decision. “Rose, show Mr. Turnbull to the kitchen, and after he's rescued our coal supply, make certain he eats several of those scones you baked this morning. I doubt they have good Scottish fare in India.”

Just as she had placated the mayor, Sarah had soothed the maid, for Rose said, “This way, Master Turnbull. I'll be making tea. And there's a tart gooseberry jam, straight from my mother's kitchen in the Highlands.”

In single file, the servants traipsed down the hall, the elfinlike, chatty Rose a perfect counterpart to the tall, studious Turnbull.

“You had a pleasant journey to London?” Sarah asked.

With the exception of his visit to Henry, the trip had been more than pleasant. Michael's investments in the East India Company prospered. Civilian life grew more appealing every day. “Very enlightening.”
He hefted the package. “I've brought you a gift and a message from your sister, Mary.”

“I see.” Sarah waved him into the library. “How thoughtful of Mary. Just put it down anywhere.”

Michael set Mary's gift on the floor between a chair and lamp table and surveyed the well-stocked library shelves. His hostess stood near a thriving potted palm and surveyed him.

He had expected shyness from Sarah; she wasn't the kind of woman to succumb to a quick seduction without feeling remorse, especially since she and Michael were newly acquainted. Henry swore that she lacked passion. Michael knew that for a lie. What of the other particulars about Sarah that Henry had supplied? How much was fact? How much was prejudice?

A thoroughly confused Michael decided to go slowly. His opinion of Sarah varied greatly from that of the brother he hardly knew. Weighing both opinions while trying to salvage the honor of Clan Elliot posed a challenge. Michael had spent his life in a foreign land overcoming obstacles; ironically, he was doing that very same thing again, only this time Scotland and England were the alien countries. He intended to make a place for himself among his family, and he would take his time in exploring his ungovernable feelings for Sarah MacKenzie.

“How did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

“With a hammer and poor aim.” She wiggled her fingers. “It's truly minor. Rose exaggerates.”

During their evening together at the Dragoon Inn, Michael had expressed an interest in seeing her wield a hammer. He smiled, thinking of how much spunk she possessed. He said, “How did the nail fare?”

“Poorly, I'm afraid. Notch declared that I couldn't hit the old castle with a whole apple. I was relegated to the position of inspector and advice-giver.”

“What words of wisdom did you offer?”

“When William wanted to know if my blood was truly blue, I told him no, but assured him that yours was. While not altogether unproductive, it was a frolicsome day.” A genuine smile enhanced the tale. “Still, I think you will be pleased with what we've done.”

“I'm certain I will.”

“How did you come to know my sister?”

He could easily grow accustomed to Sarah's directness. “From my brother. London is all abuzz about her, particularly with the earl of Wiltshire openly wagering that she'll marry him by Christmas. I was curious, so I went to see her. You look nothing alike.”

Affection shone in her blue eyes. “Mary is very beautiful and talented.”

“As are you.”

“Thank you.” She looked at her hand. “Though the talent part of your compliment is questionable.”

“You're much taller than she, and more quiet. Had I not been told you were related, I would not have guessed it.”

“I could say the same about you and Henry.”

“Who's the more quiet?”

“Neither of you.” She strolled to a cluttered desk near the front windows. “I've prepared an inventory and a preliminary work schedule of the repairs to be done on the customs house.”

Michael watched her rummage through stacks of books and papers. Bathed in sunshine and dressed in
a gown of pale lavender trimmed with delicate white lace, she looked like a confection fit for a king.

His sweet tooth throbbed to life.

She wanted to discuss renovating an old building; he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her again. But then he'd have to ask her the dreaded question. No, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer just yet.

She thinks too much
, Henry had said of her.
Inquire after Sarah MacKenzie's favorite mount, and she'll tell you who bred the very first horse, what the creature was fed, and where it now lies buried.

Michael kept his voice even and his tone friendly. The dreaded question would wait. “I thought you would want to open your sister's gift.” Her sister had spoken proudly of Sarah's intellectual and literary accomplishments.

Sarah glanced at the wrapped package, which was obviously a framed canvas. “What has she painted now? The members of Parliament riding to riches on the back of the common man?”

Her controversial sister was notorious for her satirical depictions of the leaders of England at their immoral worst.

Michael refused to be grouped with hypocrites. “I admit to being curious, but if you are insinuating that I peeked at this painting, you are wrong.” If a look could condemn, Sarah had found Michael guilty. He'd have none of that. “I did not invade your privacy. I am not that sort of man. This gift is your property.”

“I'm sorry I wrongly accused you.”

“Yes, well . . . I forgive you. Aren't you interested in what ‘Contrary Mary' has sent you?”

Sarah's elegant jaw clenched. “Is that what they're calling her now?”

He'd seen that same defensive expression in Mary when the topic strayed, as it often did, to Sarah. “You didn't answer my question, but yes, that is how the governing fathers refer to Mary. Depicting the twenty-five Scottish members of the House of Lords as bound and gagged in the back of the room has caused quite a controversy.”

She continued to shuffle papers.

“Sarah!”

Sighing, she glanced up. “As you often say, you have been away a very long time. The politics of Scotland and England have hardly changed. Mary's work is a sore reminder to all that the English think themselves better than their neighbors to the north.” She returned to the search. “Now where did I put those figures?”