Rexanne Becnel (23 page)

Adrian lurched awkwardly in a full circle, trying to decide. He would go back to Eton.

No. He would run away to Edinburgh.

No. No, he would ship out on a North Sea whaling ship.

Again the crushing weight on his chest made it hard to breathe. Then his gaze fastened upon the faded sign of the Cock and Bow, swinging on its chains in the brisk morning breeze. Without pausing to think or reason out his purpose, he started across the street, half walking, half running, before he could change his mind.

He had to confess.

It was the only thing he could think of to do. He had to wait for the man in his room, where no one else could hear them. He would confess his crime, and if Mr. MacDougal wanted to march him straight over to the sheriff and the gaol, then…then march over there he would. He would shoulder his responsibilities like a man. He would own up to his mistakes like his Uncle Neville always said a man should do.

And he would be a man.

Only a few patrons sat in the inn’s public room, and Adrian easily slipped up the stairs without notice. There were four rooms on the second floor. Since three were open and empty, he made his way to the fourth and slumped against the closed door. His knees quaked and he felt limp with fear. His heart banged against his ribs hard enough to jump right out through his chest.

When he heard a woman’s voice, followed by the tramp of footsteps rising from the stairwell, he jumped to his feet. Without considering the consequences, he barged through the door and into the room, and when the steps drew closer still, he dove under the bed.

The maid stayed but a few minutes, refilling the ewer, replacing the candles, and making up the bed. Her toes in their worn leather slippers came within inches of Adrian’s face. Her skirt hem was frayed, and her stockings did not match. He held his breath, sure he would be found out.

What new trouble had he gotten himself into? But eventually she left, and eventually he could breathe again. He crawled out from his hiding place, then sat a few minutes just looking around. A leather satchel sat beside a square wooden desk under the window. At the foot of the bed a small trunk was partially packed.

Perhaps the American was leaving.

A stack of papers lay on the desk, and as the minutes ticked past and Adrian’s nervousness increased, he crossed to the desk and stared down at them.

A list of churches. St. Matthias of the Sea. St. Leonid’s. St. Anne the Poor. His gaze sharpened. Nearly half of the churches had a line drawn through them.

Curious, he lifted the corner of that page to peek at the one below. That one listed cities. Port cities, he quickly discerned. And again, some were crossed out.

He frowned. What was all this? Did the man mean to visit all those places? He did say he was on holiday. But who visited churches on holiday? And who wanted to go to Badensea? He’d been there once and it was a nasty hole of a town that stank of rotten fish.

Adrian shook his head. Perhaps the man was searching for someone in those places. Someone or something at those churches and towns. But what could it be?

He sifted through the rest of the papers. A letter of introduction from a Boston bank. A hand-drawn map of the area around Kelso, down toward Byrde Manor. He studied that a long while before lifting it to find a letter addressed to Mr. MacDougal. Another name leaped out from the body of that letter, however. Maureen MacDougal.

Was Marshall MacDougal married to some other woman while he pursued Sarah? Was that why she was so unhappy, because she’d found out he had a family in America?

But Maureen MacDougal was not the American’s wife, Adrian swiftly discovered. She was his mother and the letter was from someone in London who had been searching for information about her and about Cameron Byrde.

Adrian sat back in the chair, his brow furrowed in thought. Cameron Byrde. That was his Aunt Livvie’s father. But he’d been dead a long, long time. What would some American have to do with him?

Then all at once it struck him, struck him with all the clarity and pain that only a bastard child could understand.

Marshall MacDougal, given his mother’s name, but very likely the son of Cameron Byrde.

Adrian dropped the letter back on the desk. Hadn’t he gone by the name Adrian Kendrick, his mother’s name, until his uncle had insisted he be called by his father’s name? He was Adrian Hawke now.

And Marshall MacDougal must be Marshall Byrde.

But what did it all mean? And did Sarah know?

“What in the hell are you doing in my room?”

Adrian spun around so fast the papers went flying.

In the door stood the American, blocking his flight and demanding the truth.

Adrian’s eyes grew round with fear and his heels dug into the floor, scraping the chair backward until it collided with the desk. “I…I…”

“Spit it out boy, before I box your ears.” He stalked nearer until he loomed over Adrian. “What are you doing in my private room? Going through my private papers?”

“I…I came here to…to confess.” His voice sounded like a dry croaking frog’s.

“Confess? What are you, a thief? A spy?”

Adrian couldn’t answer. His wide eyes lowered to stare at the man’s wounded arm in its sling, then slowly raised up again to meet the man’s suspicious glare.
That
, he wanted to say.
I did that
.

But he didn’t have to say it. He saw when the man understood, when his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.

“You son of a bitch!” The man grabbed him by the shoulder, pinning him in place with a grip like a hawk’s fierce talons. “You little bastard!”

Guilty, terrified, afraid for his life, Adrian latched on to the only weapon available to him. “I may be a bastard,” he finally gasped out. “But so are you.
Mr. Byrde!
”

T
HANK
God his other arm was injured and trapped within the sling the doctor had insisted on. Otherwise Marsh was afraid he might have struck the insolent brat he’d pinned in the chair.

He was the one, the one who’d shot him. Yet at that moment, it was not that crime which goaded Marsh to such fury. Rather, it was the accusation of bastardy.

When he’d called the boy a bastard, it had been an oath, nothing more. An expression of rage. But when the brat flung the ugly epithet right back at him, it had meant more. Much more.

“I’m nobody’s bastard,” he swore from between gritted teeth. His good hand tightened on the skinny youth’s shoulder and he bent forward until their faces were on a level and only inches apart. “Nobody’s!”

But as if he sensed Marsh’s one vulnerability, the boy’s eyes sparked now with a temper of his own. “You’re Cameron Byrde’s bastard, Don’t deny it. You’re one of his by-blows come here to try and get some money from his family. That’s why Sarah’s so scared of you!”

“Close, but—” Marsh caught himself just in time. Though he wanted to proclaim the truth—though it burned for release on his tongue—he couldn’t do it. He’d just finalized his bargain with Sarah, her money and her innocence for his silence. Though he didn’t want her damned money anymore, he couldn’t renege on their deal. Bad enough that he already felt like a heel for holding her to the agreement they’d struck in anger. Now he tasted the bitterness of the other side of that agreement. For he had to deny his own legitimacy to this boy.

He had made the deal. Now he had to live with it.

But what if Sarah had sent this boy to sift through his papers? If she were that underhanded, all deals would be off. And if she’d sent the brat to shoot him…

“Why are you here? Why the confession now?”

He took some satisfaction when Adrian’s chin trembled. He released the boy’s shoulder and stood back, staring sternly down at the lad. “Why did you try to kill me?”

The boy took a few deep breaths and a few hard swallows. “I thought you had hurt Sarah. She was afraid of you. I could tell.” Again anger sparked in the boy’s blue eyes. “And then down by the river I saw you kiss her.”

“You spied on us?” Marsh shook his head. As furious as he was, he had to give the lad credit, for he’d not missed a trick. He’d suspected something was going on and his suspicions were right on the mark. And how could he remain angry with the boy when he was so loyal to Sarah—especially considering Marsh’s own part in this whole mess? Added to that was the pointlessness of it all.

“You shot me because you thought she was afraid of me, or because I kissed her?” He snorted when the boy’s expression turned mutinous. “Aren’t you a little young for jealous rages?”

“I’m not too young to know she’s scared to death of you,” Adrian muttered. “And that she hates you.”

Marsh groaned and turned away. Yes. She hated him. But she also desired him, And he could probably make her desire him again. Only he couldn’t do that to her, because of their agreement.

She’d met her part of the bargain. He had no choice but to meet his.

Meanwhile, he had to deal with this new wrinkle. So he paced the room, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to reason out some solution to the problem this boy’s prying presented.

He turned and fixed Adrian with a stern stare. “You shot me. You intended to kill me. What do you think I should do with that sort of information?”

The boy paled and squirmed in his chair. But his sullen expression did not alter. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do. I should drag you down to the sheriff’s office by the scruff of your skinny neck, and I should tell him to lock you in his jail. I should stand in the front row and watch as they hang you. Hang you!” he furiously repeated. “Attempted murder is a hanging offense, Adrian. Do you realize that? Did you ever once stop to think about the consequences of such a reckless action?”

With every word the boy sank lower in his chair. He hung his head and said nothing.

Marsh clenched his jaw. “I ought to drag you down there right this minute.” He breathed deeply and his nostrils flared. “I ought to turn you over to the sheriff, and to hell with you. But I’m not. I’m not going to do that.”

The boy’s head snapped up. “You’re not?”

“No. Not if you answer a few questions honestly. Honestly. Remember, I know where you live. I can find you again and turn you over to the sheriff if I ever find out you lied to me.”

“I don’t lie. Not to anyone. That’s why I’m here now. I didn’t
have
to come.”

Marsh conceded that point with a nod. “All right. Why did you shoot me?”

“I told you. I wanted to help Sarah. It was the wrong way to help her,” he grudgingly added. “I know that now.”

“Did she put you up to it?”

“No!”

“What about this?” He gestured to the disordered desktop. “You rifling through my papers. Did she put you up to that?”

“No! Sarah doesn’t know about any of it. And anyway, that’s not why I came here.”

“Then why
did
you go through my papers?”

Adrian sighed. “I was waiting for you to come back. To tell you I was the one who shot you. I…I was nervous. So when I heard the maid coming, I hid in your room. Under the bed.”

“My papers are on the desk.”

Again the boy sighed and averted his eyes. “I just sort of looked at them. You shouldn’t’ve left them out where anyone could read them.”

“The maid here doesn’t
know
how to read.”

When there was no answer to that, Marsh ran his hand through his hair. Though it galled him, he knew he had to walk away from Adrian and Kelso—and Sarah. It didn’t matter if Adrian thought he was Cameron Byrde’s bastard. It didn’t matter anymore.

Still, Sarah ought to know what the boy had learned. If word got out that Marsh was Cameron Byrde’s son, who knew what else might eventually be found out? And if it
should
come out, he did not want Sarah to think he’d been the source of that leak.

It made no sense, of course. She already hated him. So what if she should someday hate him even more?

But it did matter. Marsh turned and stared at the gangly young boy slouched in the desk chair, trying desperately to affect the appearance of nonchalance. Would he keep secret what he knew about Cameron Byrde and the son he’d sired? Maybe for Sarah he would.

“Let’s go,” he ordered. He snatched up the papers, folded them, and stuffed them inside his coat.

The boy’s eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. His fingers tightened on the chair arms, but he did not rise. “Go where?”

“To Byrde Manor, To see Sarah.”

Clearly surprised, the boy cocked his head to one side. “Why?”

“I’m leaving Kelso. Today, if possible. Your wild speculations can’t hurt me. But they can hurt her.”

“I would never hurt Sarah.” Adrian lunged up from the chair, glowering. “Never!”

“Tell
her
that,” Marsh muttered.
Maybe she’ll believe your good intentions; she’ll never believe mine
.

“You have two callers, miss.”

Sarah looked up from the blank sheet of ivory-colored parchment that lay on the desk in her quiet bedchamber. She’d been staring at it for over an hour, staring at the only four words she’d yet written:
My dearest brother James
. That was it. She hadn’t yet figured a way to explain the mad tangle she’d become embroiled in.

Perhaps she should just take herself off to London and tell him face-to-face. But then she’d have to face her mother as well. With Livvie and Neville due back from Glasgow shortly, she knew she ought not leave Kelso. But she had to do something to explain the huge withdrawal she would shortly make from her investment accounts. A letter seemed her best choice. Only she could not think how to begin.

So it was that she looked up at the maid with great relief. Not that she was up to visitors. Still…“Two callers?”

“Yes’m. Young Master Adrian and that Mr. MacDougal.”

Sarah lurched to her feet, her heart in her throat. “Mr. MacDougal?”

“Yes’m.” One corner of the girl’s mouth curved up in a faint, knowing smile. “Mrs. Hamilton put ’em in the parlor. Shall I tell them you’ll be a minute, so’s you can freshen up?”

Sarah’s inner turmoil was too great to notice the girl’s mistaken assumption, let alone correct it. There was no need for her to primp for Marshall MacDougal. There could be nothing between them.

But her heart nonetheless raced and she was hard-pressed to catch her breath. Why had he come? They’d made their deal. Surely he did not mean to go back on it now?

Most certainly he could not have come to renew his duty-bound offer to marry her.

Trying to regain her composure, Sarah pressed her lips together, then smoothed out her rumpled skirts. “No need to delay. I’ll see them directly. Have Cook send a tea tray, will you?”

Schooling her features, the girl curtsied, then disappeared. But Sarah took a few moments before following. He’d come back, but with Adrian in tow. What could that mean?

She learned quickly enough.

Adrian’s confession shocked her. He’d been the one to shoot Marsh? “But why? Why, Adrian?”

The boy hung his head and stared morosely at his feet.

“He thought he was protecting you. From me,” Marsh said. Sarah’s startled gaze swung back to his and held.

Such power there was in that long, breathless lingering of their eyes. Such an intimate connection. It was almost too intimate, beyond even the physical intimacies they’d shared. She almost fancied she could see all the way into his heart, past his anger and his need for revenge and deeper, to the part of him that had once been a fatherless boy. She clenched her fingers together, then, when he spoke, had to blink back the unreasonable burn of tears.

“I cannot entirely fault him for defending you, Sarah. It was a foolish act. That of a boy, not a man.” He fixed a stern gaze on Adrian. “But in coming to me, in confessing his crime, he has proven himself more a man than a boy.”

His gaze returned to her. “I don’t plan to report any of this to the sheriff, or to anyone else.”

Sarah could hardly believe that Marsh did not mean to seek revenge on the misguided boy. Yet there was another part of her that was not in the least surprised. This was so like him, she realized. “Thank you,” she choked out as gratitude swelled in her chest. She could see from Adrian’s relieved expression how thankful he was also. “This means so much to me,” she managed to add. “And to Adrian.”

“Unfortunately, there is more,” Marsh said, his face still somber.

“More?” Sarah looked from Marsh to Adrian, then back again.

“He has found out my secret.”

“Your secret?” Sarah shook her head in bewilderment, then gasped when she understood. “Your secret! You mean that you—”

“That Cameron Byrde was my father,” he interrupted her. “That he sired me before he wed your mother.”

His gaze was intent upon her, as if he meant to imbue his words with more weight than merely their spoken meaning. Sarah hesitated. “He knows…everything?”

“Just about.”

Still unsure of the complete extent of Adrian’s knowledge, she addressed the boy, choosing her words carefully. “How did you find out?”

Adrian shrugged. “I waited in his room to tell him I was the one that shot him. And then I saw some papers and a letter and, well, it wasn’t so hard to figure out. He’s a bastard, just like me. And he’s Aunt Livvie’s half-brother.”

Sarah’s gaze darted to Marsh’s face. But he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he was staring at the boy, his face wiped clean of any expression. Adrian’s words seemed to hover over them all. “He’s a bastard, just like me.” Marsh wasn’t really a bastard, though. But it seemed she and he were the only ones who would ever know the complete truth.

When Marsh’s eyes shifted to meet hers, Sarah knew with absolute certainty that he could be trusted to keep his side of the bargain. If he could suffer that aspersion without dissent, it proved to her that his word was reliable.

Feeling as if a monstrous load finally had been lifted from her shoulders, she took a deep breath, Livvie’s secret was safe; her birthright and good name would never be threatened by this man.

But at the same time an inexplicable sense of sorrow washed over her. He’d come so far, all the way across an ocean, for revenge. For justice. That he would depart a far richer man than before seemed to mean very little to him. Indeed, in some ways he departed with far less than he’d arrived with, For he knew that he had another family, but he would never be able to acknowledge it. Though she’d been surrounded by family all her life, Sarah had only begun in recent weeks to understand how precious—how priceless—that family truly was.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, holding in a multitude of emotions she would never be free to express to him. How she understood that it was love more than hate that had brought him to Scotland to confront his father. How she understood now that he would not deliberately hurt her or her family. How she respected him for earning his success through hard work, not family connections.

How she wished the two of them could meet afresh and begin all over again. She swallowed hard. Oh, how she wished they could.