Betrayed (16 page)

Above the mantle was a framed picture of a woman wearing a MacKenzie tartan sash. Judging from the old-fashioned dress and ducal coronet, she must be the duke's mother.

Mary's skill far surpassed accurate details. Her ability to capture the love and joy shared between father and daughter went beyond that of the great masters.

Sarah's knuckles were white from gripping the
frame, and tears dotted the bodice of her lavender gown.

“Is that your grandmother?” he asked.

She cried harder.

He took the painting from her and let it fall to the carpet. “Why does it trouble you so, Sarah? It's obvious he loves you. I know you're stubborn, but you cannot deny his affection. Surely you long to make amends with your family.”

Michael wrapped her in his arms and rubbed her back.

She curled kittenlike against his chest. “You don't understand.”

“I'd like to.” He discovered that she didn't wear stays, but Sarah MacKenzie needed no artifice. She needed a friend. Michael gladly took up the role.

In a cheerful voice, he said, “Did the duke crow, ‘Didn't I say so?' when you changed your mind about marrying Henry?”

“You sound as if you know him.”

“I'm beginning to. Then he commanded you to come home.”

She sniffed. “He knows better than to command me.

Michael fished out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “Of course he knows better. Or do you truly stay in Edinburgh to escape the best intentions of half of the Highland's eligible dukes?”

A change came over her; the weakness fell away like a discarded shawl. “Rose said that to Turnbull.”

The coil of her hair formed a golden eddy at the crown of her head. “You are Rose's favorite topic of conversation.”

“She exaggerated about the peers coming to Tain.”

“Thank goodness. I fair poorly when compared to dukes.”

“Even if he were a prince or a clerk's apprentice, I do not want a husband.”

“Not Claude DuMonde?”

Now completely alert, she wiped her eyes and sniffed with finality. “How did you know about him?”

Michael thought of another Highlander he'd seen of late. “From the doorman at the inn. He heard it from that streetsweeper, who will take up his broom to defend your honor.”

“That's Cholly.” She retrieved the painting from the floor and rested its face against the wall. “He knows all of the gossip before it's spread. I had Notch tell him he could also pick out new shoes.”

“I doubt Cholly rises that early, since he prowls the streets at night.”

She glanced toward the front door and cupped her hand to her ear. “Can you not hear the slide of his broom? That's him sweeping the stoop, even as we speak.”

The cocky laborer could sweep the rooftops for all Michael cared. Now that he'd helped Sarah master her sorrow, he phrased the question he'd been avoiding. “This Cholly fellow is welcome to come to the Cordiner's Hall tomorrow. At the moment, I would like to return to a bit of unfinished business between us.”

She looked wary and with good cause.

“I did ask Henry about the reasons for your speedy betrothal. Which brings me to the dreaded question . . .”

“Which is?”

“Why did you propose marriage to him?”

8

T
hat question and the ensuing quarrel still rankled the next day as Sarah stood in the stables and groomed her horse. Michael couldn't possibly know the truth, could he? He'd been speculating, fishing for confirmation of what he thought was the truth.

But how much of his actions were governed by loyalty? He often admitted that he was a stranger here and new to the problems facing the Elliots. What of his feelings for Sarah? One moment she thought his affections for her were heartfelt. The next moment she named him a knave doing poor service for his older brother.

Most of the time she felt confused. Yet sadness pervaded her uncertainty, because Michael Elliot possessed fine qualities. He'd been quick to take her side against Mayor Fordyce. He'd been quicker to offer immediate aid, in the form of shoes, to the orphans. But those kindnesses did not excuse his joining forces with Lord Henry and Lady Emily against Sarah—not unless he wanted her dowry for himself.

Why did you propose marriage to Henry?

Sarah had spent the night and morning remembering the doubt in Michael's voice and seeing the anticipation in his eyes. He couldn't know the reasons behind her promise to the Elliots; even a desperate Henry would not have revealed the details.

Sarah's dilemma grew, and she must harden her heart to him.

“I'll have me a horse someday.” Notch sat astride her sidesaddle, which Turnbull had moved to the block the day before.

Sarah had come to the stable to escape troubling thoughts of Michael Elliot. She grasped the diversion Notch offered.

“What kind of horse will you have?” she asked him.

He screwed up his face in disgust and rubbed his thigh. “Not a gelding.”

Rose poked her head out of the next stall where she'd been polishing the new window glass Turnbull had installed. “Watch your tongue in the presence of a lady. We'll have no vulgarities here.”

Notch eyed her assessingly. He'd long since stopped back-talking Rose, but he still considered a bold retort now and then; the practice of standing up for himself was too ingrained.

In acknowledgment of his good manners, the maid smiled at him. “You'll be smart enough by that time to know that a mare's the best, because she'll make little horses for you.”

He pondered that.

Sarah raked a brush through her horse's mane, the movement slightly awkward because of the bandage on her hand.

The lad said, “Having little horses is the same as paying her own way, ain't that it?”

“See, Lady Sarah?” Rose chirped. “Didn't I say Notch was a bright lad? He'll be strolling down High Street one of these days, a passel of governors currying after his favors.”

Bursting with pride, he arched his back and jammed his left foot into the dangling stirrup. “She'll be a sorrel,” he declared. “With a white sun 'twixt her ears and . . .”

Sarah said, “A mouth as soft as summer butter?”

“For a certainty, my lady.” He flapped his legs and jerked on invisible reins. Without the cap and oversized coat, he looked small and endearingly young.

He was also wearing new clothing.

“That's a nice shirt, Notch,” she said.

He touched the almost-new fabric of his sleeve. “A contribution from the mayor himself. I gave Pic my others. There's still a bit o' wear in 'em.”

Notch refused to refer to the items that came his way as charity. He accepted all of the “contributions,” then doled out garments, food, and precious pennies to the other children. One day soon they'd escape the darkened alleys and smelly mews. Once in the orphanage, Notch would spend his days in the classroom and his spare time—as he was now—simply being a boy. Precious moments like these would be the standard in his life rather than the exception.

He made clicking sounds and cooed praises to his imaginary steed. “Lady Sarah?” he said. “Cholly says the general's taking lunch today with that buttonmouthed ol' countess.” Sneaking a glance at Rose, he waited to see if she would reprimand him. When she
did not, he added, “Carried a satchel of papers with him.”

“I'm certain they had business matters to discuss.” It was better said that they had a lack of financial prospects to ponder.

“Will he be keeping his promise to contribute shoes to the cause?”

“Yes,” Sarah said without pause. Michael Elliot was unhappy with her, but he would not make the orphans suffer. For the sake of the cause, she would put aside their quarrel today. She had agreed to call for him this afternoon, and she would—but in an unexpected and, she hoped, convincing fashion.

“Mistress Rose?” Another subject captured Notch, and his voice broke. “Does that countess know how to read?”

The maid peered at a spot on the already sparkling glass. “She don't read anything to sweeten her bitter humors.”

Notch laughed and Sarah did too. But curiosity filled her. Lady Emily had been suspiciously quiet since Michael stepped foot on Scottish soil—not that Sarah frequented the same homes or merchants as the countess. Sarah enjoyed going to market with Rose, and she'd yet to see Lady Emily in the bookstore or the stationer's shop where Sarah purchased quills and ink.

They did not attend the same church; Sarah preferred the uplifting atmosphere at Saint Margaret's Chapel to the dour crowd at Saint Stephen's. Did Michael plan to attend services with his mother?

Like an awesome specter, a vision of Michael Elliot loomed in her mind.

Why did you propose marriage to Henry?

On his lips the question sounded like an accusation, which it was, if she believed his daring behavior and blatant promises of seduction. But if she were forced to defend herself to Michael, he should do the same. Were his reasons for wanting her honest ones? Nothing about their association was untainted. The Elliots wanted—needed—her dowry. Michael could not know the truth about the betrothal, on that she'd stake her very salvation. What troubled her most was her own ambivalence on the regrettable subject of her promise to wed Henry.

Notch cackled with glee. “Cholly says you marched the general out the front door yesterday and bade him take his scandal-ridden self elsewhere. Did you truly blister his ears and send him off with his tail 'tween his legs?”

Remembering the ugly scene, Sarah winced. “We disagreed on an important and private matter. I hope the streetsweeper can be trusted not to spread the tale to anyone else.”

Watching her, Notched looked puzzled. “Cholly laughed beyond measure at the telling of it, but he don't mingle with the gentry.”

Rose marched out of the stall. “Just to be sure, I'll be having a talk with that Cholly.”

Notch sprang from the saddle. “Oh, nay, Mistress Rose. Cholly don't have nothing to do with women. He swears they're no better'n the plague. You get closer'n a broom's length of him, and he'll run the other way.”

Drawing herself up, Rose huffed in disgust. “He oversteps himself.”

A common occurrence among the men of Edinburgh
,
Sarah thought. She was still boiling mad at Michael Elliot, but she couldn't help wondering how he fared in the meeting with his mother.

*  *  *

And stay away, Michael Elliot!

Oh, he'd darken Sarah MacKenzie's door again, but next time he'd be more circumspect in his questioning of her. He wouldn't be deceived by a pretty face and alluring manner, for beneath her ladylike exterior and charitable disposition lurked a veritable virago.

You're a conniving, deceitful Elliot.

He'd yelled back that he wasn't his brother.

You're worse.

Just as she slammed the door in Michael's face, an anxious Turnbull had come running out of the alleyway.

Women weren't supposed to guard their privacy or overvalue their own opinions. Michael thought she excelled at both.

She's a thinker,
Henry had said of Sarah.
Give her to the count of ten to ponder an answer, and you'll rue ever posing the question.

Michael blew out his breath in frustration.

“It's rather boring to me, too,” his mother said, misinterpreting his sigh.

Michael didn't bother to correct her; he was too confused about his feelings for Sarah MacKenzie.

Standing in a hallway in Glenstone Manor, he stared at the tartan-clad image of the fifth earl of Glenforth. If he ignored the dated clothing and beard, Michael could have been staring at a looking glass, so similar were his features to those of his famous ancestor. If the broadsword in Hamish Elliot's massive
hands were an indication of his prowess, Michael's great-grandfather had been a formidable soldier. He'd also been both a ruthless businessman and a notorious womanizer.