Betrayed (30 page)

He held out a small blue box. “Someone left this for you.”

Beside him, Sarah gasped. “Who?” she demanded sharply.

The man shrugged, and as propriety dictated, spoke to Michael although the message was meant for Sarah. “The doorman brought it. Said a stranger gave it to him.”

“Bring up two tankards of warm wine—straightaway.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Eager to get her away, Michael took the box and ushered her to his rooms.

Moving up the stairs, Sarah walked on leaden feet. Only moments ago, she had made her personal peace with Lachlan MacKenzie. As if he'd heard her very words, he'd sent the one possession that best symbolized the estrangement between them: the necklace from Neville Smithson. The box and the necklace were a birthday gift from her real father.

Just as she sat in one of the comfy chairs, Michael handed her the box. “I believe this is yours.”

Her hand shook as she released the clasp and lifted the lid. Resting on the satin lining was a folded note. Beneath it lay the golden beads, some broken, all unstrung as she had left them. The cruelty of Neville Smithson still ached like a raw wound. She had forgiven Lachlan MacKenzie. His words of explanation
and defense rang in her ears.
I would not have given you up, Sarah lass.

She closed the lid.

“Is it yours?” Michael asked.

“I do not want it. You take it. Give it away. Throw it in the rubbish bin.”

“Come now, Sarah. You're too brave to run away from a piece of paper and a handful of beads. Read the note.”

The command in his voice startled her.

A fierce knocking sounded on the door.

“Read it now.” Michael moved to see who was there, while Sarah opened the box and took out the paper. There, in the duke of Ross's distinctive hand, were the words

Come back to us, Sarah lass, for without you, we are as these beads, broken.

The plaintive note sent tears streaming down her cheeks.

Michael knelt beside her, a steaming tankard in each hand, his gaze fixed on the note. “I'll trade you,” he said, a tentative smile beginning to glow in his eyes.

She exchanged the box for the wine, and as her hands curled around the warm mug, her heartache eased. She had behaved like a coward these last few months, never considering the pain her family suffered.

And they
were
her family, the MacKenzies. Their blood did not travel in her veins, but their love dwelled in her heart. She'd spent her life among them,
rejoiced at the birth of each new sister and brother, grieved at the loss of dear Virginia.

At the remembered pain of that tragedy, Sarah knew that her desertion had dealt her family another painful blow. They did not deserve cruelty, not from a prideful woman who'd been raised with love and kindness.

She choked back a sob.

The mug was taken from her hand; then Michael lifted her from her chair and pulled her to stand in his embrace.

“Shush,” he soothed, patting her back and rocking from side to side. “All will be well, Sarah.”

How could it be? She'd stormed from Rosshaven Castle, too consumed with self-pity to notice the destruction she'd left behind. Her younger siblings wouldn't understand. Juliet surely blamed herself, and with sinking dread, Sarah knew her stepmother did not carry that burden alone.

Where was Lachlan?

“Oh, Michael. I've been such a fool.”

“Impossible. You could never be that.”

“I'm selfish. Even you said I was spoiled.”

“I exaggerated. You're headstrong and determined.”

“I'm reckless. I've hurt them so.”

He pushed a handkerchief into her hand. “Not apurpose, you didn't. You haven't the heart for cruelty, especially to the MacKenzies.”

“Oh, I do. Pride drove me away from them.”

“Why?”

“I felt as if I were in the way. Mary and Agnes were off on adventures. Lottie wed years ago to a man she
has loved since childhood. Lachlan and Juliet have another family.”

“You thought they didn't need you.”

“ 'Twas that and worse. I wanted my own family, and I wouldn't listen to Papa. He knew Henry was wrong for me.”

Michael held her at arms' length. Even through teary eyes, his concern was plain to see.

“Have you committed murder?” he demanded.

A yoke of misery weighted her shoulders. “Nay.”

“Have you compromised the sovereignty of the realm?”

She took a deep, shaky breath.

“Have you? Answer me, Sarah.”

She ducked his gaze. “Nay.”

“Have you stolen anything other than my heart?”

15

S
arah's pain ebbed, leaving a spark of hope. But she could not address his admission now, for too many things were left undone. Hoping he understood, she said, “I tried to steal the painting.”

In mock reprimand, he replied, “You're a wretched failure at thievery.”

“You're a knave for taking advantage of the moment. You know I'm too miserable to mount a defense.”

He grinned like a sailor home from the sea. “Guilty as charged. Why did you ask Henry to marry you?”

Drawing in a deep breath, she stared at the gold braid on his coat. “You will not believe me. My reasoning will sound too simple, which it truly is. Too much has occurred between us.”

“Enough has occurred between us for you to know that I am a man who makes up his own mind—when I am afforded the opportunity.”

His eloquent words answered all of her reservations. “I proposed to Henry because he was the first
man with all of his teeth who could even read my stipulations.”

A smile danced in his eyes. “And he agreed to them.”

“Yes. You see, I must have money and means of my own. I'm far too—”

“Stubborn.”

“Any man who refuses me a voice of my own is—”

“A fool.” He pulled her to his chest. “You're better off without him.”

Like a kindred spirit looking for his match, he melded her to him. His strength of will seeped into her, urging surrender, demanding that she see the truth that was in his heart.

She languished in his arms and reveled in the feel of his power, for she knew without doubt that Michael Elliot was constant in his desire for her and honorable to his soul. He had not tried to stifle her with arrogant male authority; he had, at almost every turn, employed patience and understanding.

And seduction, she had to admit.

Cupping her face in his hands, he pressed his lips to her eyes and cheeks and kissed her tears away. With a gentle smile, he turned to the side and moved his lips a touch away from hers. He smelled of exotic places, and he embodied her every dream of chivalry.

On a breathless sigh, she said, “You're seducing me.”

“Only as a prelude to ravishment.” His mouth settled on hers, and he breathed the words, “By my oath, I love you, Sarah MacKenzie.”

Desire poured over her, and as he deepened the kiss, she let his vow spin round and round in her mind, until she grew dizzy with need of him.

As if in answer, he slid his hands down her back and drew her forward, showing her the fierceness of his desire. She clung to him, wanting more, struggling to get closer, to put out the fire that raged between them. But the flames soared, and his tongue thrust into her mouth, fanning the inferno, feeding her wanton cravings, and sending her delving after the greater joy that was sure to come.

His hands kneaded her; his hips ground against her, and when the cadence of his movement slowed to a steady, constant rhythm, Sarah couldn't hold back a moan.

He swept her into his arms, as if she were thistledown. “Hold on.”

“As if I'd let you go,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

A chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, and the furnishings in the room sped past in a blur. Once in the bedroom, he again set his mouth to hers in a kiss that went beyond bold, past seduction, for it held a promise too precious for words.

Relaxing his arms, he let her legs slide slowly to the floor. Her knees wobbled, and the room whirled like a spun top. With suspiciously expert movements, he loosened the intricate fastenings at the back of her dress and worked it down to her hips.

The cool air teased her naked arms and turned her skin to gooseflesh, but the touch of his hands on her breasts obliterated any notion of a chill. Her own aggressive nature came to the fore, and taking his lead, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and tunneled her fingers beneath the satin lining. When she tried to ease the garment from him, he shrugged, sending it to the floor.

Her thumbs and fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and noticing her dilemma, he broke the kiss long enough to grasp the front of his shirt and rip it off.

Buttons clattered against the wall.

Sarah gasped at the sight of his thickly muscled chest and arms. Broader and stronger than she had imagined, Michael Elliot loomed before her, filling her mind with contradictory impressions: power and gentleness, elegance and might.

He grew still. “Have I frightened you?”

Never could she fear him; his strength enchanted her every feminine illusion. “No. You're . . . beautiful.” She could have told him he had warts on his chin, so anguished was his expression. She quickly added, “In a perfectly masculine way.”

“I'm relieved, then.” He pulled off his boots. “But you have on too many clothes.”

Sarah's gaze followed the narrowing line of jet black hair on his belly to where it disappeared beneath the waist of his velvet breeches. His hands moved to the placket there but stopped.

Glancing up, she saw him watching her.

Haste forgotten, he moved toward her, and Sarah's heart began to pound like the drums at All Hallow's Eve. Locking his gaze to hers, he grasped her waist and lifted her until they were nose to nose. Holding her there, seemingly without effort, he resumed the kiss. Again, his strength beckoned, and she sent her hands roaming his arms and shoulders and neck. He felt rock hard and robust; yet beneath his manly exterior thrived a gentle, loving soul.

Dragging his mouth from hers, he lifted her higher, and when his lips touched her breasts, Sarah teetered
on the edge of a swoon. Her head fell back, and her hands cradled his head, pulling him closer, glorying in the feel of his silky hair sliding between her fingers. The drag of his tongue on her nipples and the soft suckling of his lips sent shafts of desire to her belly and lower. She grew damp in hidden places, and as he continued his loving assault on her senses, she discovered an odd feeling of emptiness deep in her woman's core.

The rush of his heated breath against her skin made her shiver with longing. Her toes curled, and her legs hung useless and dangling in air. Seeking purchase, she tried to wrap herself around him, to clutch his hips with her knees, but her bulky skirts were in the way.

He tore his mouth from hers, and when their eyes met, she saw her own passion reflected in his fierce gaze. Gasping in ragged breaths, they spoke without words in a language springing from want and need and soul-deep longing.

How do you feel, love?
his expression seemed to ask.

Safe with you,
her heart answered.

He smiled and lowered her to the bed. Looming over her, he worked her remaining clothing over her hips and tossed dress, petticoats, and chemise to the floor. Then his hungry gaze embarked on an intimate roaming that began at her breasts and ended at her loins.

The air in her lungs turned to fire, and anticipation filled her, but her hands tingled with the need to hold him again. She lifted her arms in entreaty. Smiling, he took her wrists, turned her hands over, and kissed her palms. Her eyes drifted shut, but he said her name in a whisper, compelling her to observe.

With maddeningly slow progress, punctuated by hums and groans of approval, he tasted and savored her from the tips of her fingers to the soft, sensitive skin under her arms. When his mouth moved over her ribs to her navel, she felt a great well of need open inside her. When his hands eased between her legs and spread her to his view, she gasped in shock.