Betrayed (20 page)

He hadn't considered what Peg's life was like on the street. To him, Peg was a quiet 12-year-old in cast-off clothing. His generosity couldn't be faulted.

“Tell him, Lady Sarah,” the girl pleaded. “Them shoes ain't for gatherin' thatch from Bruntsfield.”

Sarah picked up one of each of the shoes and
compared them. “I agree the buttons are stylish.” She handed that one to the cobbler. “But Peg has a need for boots.” Catching Michael's gaze, she lifted her brows. “Perhaps we'll choose the button-ups next time for Peg.”

He understood. “Then boots it is for Peg.”

Sarah took up the post of observer, commenting only when Michael solicited her opinion. He looked at home in his philanthropy, and she wanted to ask him to share his feelings on the day. But how could she and still keep him at a distance? Eventually, the quandary drove her outside.

When Right Odd's time came, he lifted Sally from his shoulders. Just as he set her feet on the paving stones, she wailed and tried to scramble up his arms. Her tiny fingers clutched him in a death grip, and her cherubic features were pinched with displeasure. The pink shawl Sarah had knitted for the girl only two months ago was already tattered and soiled. The special bond she shared with the burly Odd brothers was born of something stronger than blood. Sarah had asked Notch about it, but he brushed off her query. Loyalty kept him mum on the subject, and she understood. Until Sarah had learned the truth of her birthright, kept secrets had been a rarity among her and her half sisters.

The cobbler's wife emerged from the shop, a stick of candy in her hand. She held it before the fretful girl.

As if burned, Sally jerked and turned her head away.

Right Odd groaned. “She don't take to strangers offerin' up sweets to her. Gently, Sally.” He jostled her on his hip. “None's to lay a hand on you.”

Sarah cringed inside at the possible reasons for such behavior in the adorable child.

“Give 'er to me,” Notch said, holding out his arms. “C'mon Sally, it's just ol' Notch to look after you. Will you bide a wee with me so Odd can get shod with his fine new brogues?”

Her cries turned to hiccups, and she peered cautiously at him.

He further cajoled her with, “We'll be frolickin' in the greensward with our new shoes, won't we now?”

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving a trail of clean, pink skin.

Waving the riding crop, he said, “The general give me this special tool to keep all the mates in line. But look there.” His face contorted in a comic grin, and he waved the crop toward the waiting children. “It's a bunch of scattered Turks they're acting! I'll need someone stout of heart to help me with the lot of'em. Will you lend a hand, Sally girl?”

She giggled and grabbed for him.

He scooped her up, and with a grunt, perched her on his shoulders. “I knew you be after rescuin' ol' Notch.”

She snatched the crop, and squealing with laughter, whacked him on the head.

“Oh-ho, brigands! She's a fearsome taskmaster, our Sally is.” With a firm grip on her thighs, he skipped the length of the line, whinnying like a kicked horse all the way. Right Odd hurried inside the hall.

The other children waved at Sally; one eager lad of about nine tried to take the crop. Sally clutched it to her skinny chest and shook her head violently.

Her movement tipped Notch's balance. “Hey, leave
off, Patrick,” he yelled, bracing his legs. “Let Sally have 'er fun.”

Looking like the princess of the ragamuffins, Sally urged Notch on. As they moved down the line of orphans, she dubbed each of them with her magic wand.

Michael came outside and called Notch's name. Taking giant steps and hefting Sally with each one, the lad moved to the door.

“You're next,” Michael said. “Then we'll start with the little ones.”

“But what about Sally? It's just me and the Odds she'll let handle her. I'll wait.”

“You'll go now. We're at the cobbler's disposal.” Michael plucked the girl from Notch, but winced at her near-deafening cries. “Look!” he said, holding her at arm's length. “It's a pink horse.”

Legs dangling, she stopped in midscream and jerked around. “Where?”

“There.” He shifted her to his hip and pointed to a dappled gray.

“ 'S white,” she said, as peevish as could be.

“You know, I think you have me there, Sally. What color is my horse?”

“Red.”

They discussed the color and size of every horse passing in the lane, of two dogs tussling over a bone, and even a somberly dressed porter whom Sally dubbed a black beetle.

Right Odd came out wearing black shoes with sturdy wooden buckles. Michael yielded the girl, then approached Sarah in what closely resembled a manly swagger.

“Not altogether a poor effort,” he said, “even for a conniving, deceitful Elliot.”

He fancied himself good with children, and she had to admit that he was. “I'm sorry for calling you names, but I haven't seen you tripping over your boots to acknowledge me for putting aside our quarrel.”

He walked in a circle around her, searching. “Where have you put it?”

He could lend patience to Job. “Do stop, Michael.”

“I will, when gulls bay at the moon.” Halting before her, he grew serious. “You address me as Michael, but I cannot address you as Sarah.”

“Have you a title other than general?”

“Yes. Viscount Saint Andrews.”

Sarah reconsidered her opinion of him and added modesty to his growing list of good character traits. “Truly?”

He looked bewildered. “Nay, I'm actually a room-setter in Cowgate North.”

She couldn't help but laugh. “Why keep it to yourself until now?”

“You did not ask.”

Feeling as if she'd received a well-deserved set-down, Sarah gave him her best curtsy. “A thousand pardons, Lord Michael.”

“Actually, it's recently bestowed.”

She remembered that he'd shared luncheon today with Lady Emily and knew the source of his newly bestowed position in society. The conclusion troubled her. Had he thrown in his lot with his mother? Sarah hoped not, for the countess of Glenforth tainted everyone she touched.

As always, Sarah was concerned about his feelings on the matter. “Are you pleased?”

He shrugged, but she thought he rather liked the idea. “Will you take a seat in Parliament?” His brother hadn't bothered with public service.

“My preference would be to stand for one in the Commons.”

He'd chosen the difficult path, facing election among the voting citizens. He also comforted frightened little girls and robbed unsuspecting women of their good judgment. “Will you enjoy the long stay in London during the sessions?”

He looked at her askance. “I haven't won yet.”

But he would. She'd stake both of her dowries on that. “Were I given a ballot, I'd cast my vote for you.”

“My lady!” The aproned cobbler leaned out the door. “We need your help with the wee ones.”

Reluctantly, Sarah left Michael on the walkway. Effortlessly, he always drew her into conversation, and whether the topic proved congenial or controversial, she delighted in the exchanges.

Later, when the youngest lad had been fitted in his new shoes, she was still anticipating the next lively exchange she'd share with Michael.

On that encouraging thought, she walked outside and saw the mare, alone in the street, a sidesaddle strapped onto the animal's concaved back. Sarah's gelding and Michael and all of the other orphans were gone.

Between gales of laughter, the tanner gave her a message from Michael: if she wanted her horse back, she was to follow the crowd to the customs house.

*  *  *

“You infuriating wretch.”

Michael ducked just in time. Her gloves whizzed over his head. “Not a boor?” He held up his hands to ward her off. “I thought all Elliots were boors.”

“They are, especially when they behave like common thieves.”

Standing on the stoop of the partially renovated customs house, Michael coughed to hide a smile. “Will you excuse us, Notch?”

Neither the lad nor his cohorts moved.

Sarah tapped the quirt against her thigh. “Yes, please. I intend to show the high king of the pranksters what harvest his tricks have reaped.”

“If you strike me with that crop, I'll turn you over my knee.”

“You'll have to crawl out of your Elliot cave first and drop your club.”

Eyes agog, Notch looked from one to the other. “You ain't for beatin' Lady Sarah, are you, general?”

In the absence of the duke of Ross, someone had to take this woman in hand. Michael relished the job. “A lamentable event, Notch, I'm forced to admit.”

Grasping Sarah's arm, Michael led her into what would become the library. “Close your mind to her screams, lad, and cover the ears of the younger ones.”

The moment the door closed, Sarah's senses sharpened. The musty smell of damp plaster and mildewed wood grew pungent, and the hammering noises from the floors above echoed on the ceiling. Dust sifted to the cluttered floor. Anticipation thrummed through her.

Stepping over rags and broken glass, Michael moved toward her. “I'm surprised that you cry foul
when all I did was give you a taste of your own bitters.”

He was correct, but she wasn't about to admit it. “You're a heartless Elliot troll, and stop glaring at me. You look just like your grandfather.”

“Ah, the Elliot tragedy again. I'd forgotten that you've been a guest at Glenstone Manor.”

“A visit I regret.”

“Tell me this. Were you suffering from another romantic disappointment when you met Henry?”

She stepped around a dented pail. “Bruised pride did not drive me into your brother's arms.”

He plopped down on a keg of nails. “Henry says you kissed him only once. All of the other times he admits to wooing you.”

All of the other times? He made her sound forward, and her time with Henry a courtship. Her first impulse was to challenge him, but the subject of Henry always brought trouble between them. Michael's gift of this building and their shared concern for the orphans should form the boundaries of her association with the dangerous and charming younger Elliot son.

She surveyed the windows on the east side of the room. “Do you think shutters or sashes will do for this room?”

“Both, if you intend to protect the books from rot and fading.” He unbuttoned his coat and folded his arms over his chest. “Why were you so eager to wed?”

“Obviously I am not.” She moved on to the new shelves in the near wall. “You'll be glad to know that the bookbinder in James Court has contributed four boxes of books for this room.”

“Another change of heart? One might call you fickle, Sarah MacKenzie.”

“One might take himself off to the fires of hell.”

“Or one might find an ally, if she were truthful. How did the betrothal come about?”

She wasn't afraid to tell him, but before she explained herself, he'd have to bare his soul to her. “You want to know what transpired between me and Henry?”

“Every dance, every passionate embrace, every sigh.”

None of that had happened. “Will you in exchange tell me your deepest fear?”

His gaze wavered.

She had him on the run, but the chase was shortlived, for he said, “Do you deny proposing to Henry?”

“Unfair.” She kicked the pail and sent it clattering across the floor. “You must go first or content yourself with your brother's version of the story.”

Cunning settled into his demeanor. “You wouldn't like to hear my suspicions?”

She gazed out the windows. “Keep them to yourself. Ah, there's Rose and Turnbull. Shall we join them outside?”

Michael took her arm and whispered, “You're stubborn, Sarah MacKenzie.”

And he was acting on old news. “Astute men are delightful. Stop frowning, or I'll start calling you Hamish Elliot. Wasn't he renown for wearing animal skins and clubbing his prey?” She shook off his arm and yanked open the door.

Easily catching her, he drew her back into the room and slammed the door hard. Plaster rained from the ceiling. “And I suppose the MacKenzies snuggled into
loincloths of sheared beaver and sipped their tea from pearly shells?”

His anger was a palpable force; Sarah put a distance between them. “You're predictable.”

“You can remedy that by telling me which Sarah MacKenzie I'm addressing.”

She picked her way through piles of sawdust. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Then stand still and I'll enlighten you. The Sarah I saw at Cordiner's Hall was a woman brimming with love and hope for a band of ragtag children. She's the one who melts in my arms and kisses me with the sincerity of a lost soul in sight of paradise.”

His words poured over her, and her composure faltered.

“But another Sarah lurks behind those bonny blue eyes. Oh, she's equally lovely and as brilliant as an Oxford scholar. She can volley clever ripostes with the skill of the most seasoned wit at court.” His gaze slid to her shoulder. “That Sarah breaths fire at the mention of my family's name.”

The flame of her anger dwindled. “Then do not mention their name.”

“Their
name? Impossible, for I, too, am cut of the cloth of Clan Elliot. Ponder this, if you will. Suppose I were the enemy of the duke of Ross, and you loved me. Could you disavow your MacKenzie heritage?”

Her attention wavered at the word
love
. But the answer came easily for two reasons. She gave him the one most relevant to the situation. “Yes.”

His gaze sharpened. “To which part of the question do you reply, Sarah?”

Quick to ferret out a double meaning, Michael
Elliot became a predator, a man prowling after his woman.