The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (15 page)

Nigel had spent nearly the entire night searching for his friend.

Despite her brother’s obvious distress, however, Sarah was certain Jasper would be found.
Most likely asleep in his father’s barn
, she thought. This was not the first time one of the boys had gone missing, only to be found the next morning snoring peacefully in a farmer’s hay field. Nevertheless, the sooner Jasper was found, the better for all concerned.

She grasped the front door’s brass handle and noiselessly eased the heavy oaken door open enough to slip
through, waiting until Nigel was standing outside before carefully pulling it shut.

Nigel took off at a trot. Sarah hastily donned her boots then followed closely behind. The woods were dark, the faint morning light barely strong enough to seep between the thickly growing trees.

At last, they broke through the tree line and into the clearing, the sound of the waves reaching their ears.

“Come along, then,” Sarah said coaxingly to Nigel as she carefully began to pick her way down the narrow rocky path.

The two reached the cove and looked about, but saw only the charred remains of a doused fire to tell them the smugglers had been there.

“Check the caves,” Sarah instructed, gesturing down the beach toward the favorite haunt of Lulworth’s youth, “and I’ll go this way.”

Nigel nodded solemnly and turned north.

Sarah watched him go, his shoulders slumped as he walked away. There was every chance that Jasper had fallen asleep in the cave. She expected to hear a rousing “Oy!” from Nigel once he reached his destination and found the boy.

Still, she turned to her task, making her way across the rocks and onto the soft sand. The tide was just beginning to turn. With every step she took, the incoming waves wiped the small indentation left by her boot clean away. Normally she was entranced by the sea life here on the shore, but this morning she barely noticed the small crabs scuttling sideways in an attempt to avoid being swept away with the next lapping wave.

Sarah picked her way carefully around an outcropping of rocks. She’d played on the rocks as a child and gazed upon them perhaps a million times since. They were as familiar to her as Lulworth itself, and something
in the small tide pool just near the junction of the two main outcroppings did not seem right.

She stepped closer, squinting to bring the scene into focus.

The sight that met her made no sense at all. Sarah closed her eyes tightly and gritted her teeth, willing the truth before her to reshape itself.

And when she opened her eyes, Sarah found it had altered, though not in the way she’d wanted. The truth of it was still the same: Sarah had found Jasper Wilmington’s lifeless body. Only now, he appeared to her in deeper, more disturbing tones, as if the longer she looked, the more of the tragedy would be revealed.

Sarah staggered back, her hand pressed to her mouth to hold back the scream of protest welling within her. She heard the suck and squish of someone running along the wet sand. Twisting about, she saw Nigel racing toward her.

“Go and get Father,” she shouted, pointing toward the cliff path.

But Nigel continued to race straight toward her. “Is it Jasper?” he yelled, panic thick in his voice.

“Go, now!” Sarah replied, dashing toward him. She restrained him from going any farther, her hands gripping his arms tightly. “Do as I tell you.”

Nigel struggled against her hold, desperately trying to peer past her.

“Nigel.” Sarah instilled as much command into her voice as she could, willing it to remain firm as she forced her brother to meet her gaze. “Go. Now.”

He stilled, the hurt on his face nearly undoing Sarah.

And then he broke her hold and ran for the path, throwing himself up the narrow cliff trail as if the Devil himself followed.

Sarah turned and walked back to the tide pool. Jasper’s bloated body moved softly with the ebb and
flow of the water, his arm awkwardly crooked over the edge. She crossed the sharp rocks; she could no longer feel their sting through her soles.

Sarah knelt near Jasper’s head where it rested against the rocks. The brash young boy with the cheerful smile that she’d known so well was nowhere to be found here. His body was battered and broken, black bruises and dried blood all that remained.

Sarah instinctively reached out and touched his brow, tracing the length of it with her fingers.

Days before she’d threatened to kiss Jasper and he’d run for his life, his young, fit body allowing him to flee what was the most clear and present danger any young boy could encounter.

Sarah bent her head to Jasper’s and placed a light, sorrowful kiss on his cheek.

And then she began to cry, wondering if she’d have the strength to stop.

That moment in Miss Sarah Tisdale’s barn had ruined any hopes Marcus had harbored for sleep. After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, he’d gone and saddled Pokey at dawn and rode aimlessly along the cliff tops. Miss Tisdale dominated his thoughts. The last thing on his mind was Nigel’s late-night wanderings with his friends.

Until the youth nearly unseated him when he appeared from the mouth of the cove path and launched himself toward Marcus.

“My father. I need to find my father,” the boy said, a troubling quaver to his cadence.

Marcus reassuringly patted his horse then swung his leg over Pokey and dismounted. “Nigel, what are you doing out of your bed at this hour?” he asked firmly.

The boy grabbed Marcus’s arm and pulled, urging him toward the cliff path. “It’s Sarah. She’s on the
beach. I don’t know what happened—she wouldn’t let me near. You’ve got to help.”

Marcus’s gut clenched at Nigel’s words. He swiftly handed the reins to Nigel and backed the boy and horse up to a safer distance from the cliff. “Take Pokey. And ask that your father fetch the constable as well.”

Marcus waited long enough for the boy to nod before he took off for the path, navigating the drop with as much speed and precision as his leg would allow.

He reached the beach and looked about the cove, catching sight of Miss Tisdale near a rocky outcrop. Ignoring the pain in his damaged leg, he ran across the pebbled verge and onto the wet sand, cutting a direct line to where she sat.

He slowed as he drew near, relief flooding him when a closer view told him the woman was not injured. She appeared to be wearing men’s clothing, the cotton fabric of her white linen shirt soaked and streaked with muddy sand. She stared at a tide pool just beyond her.

“Sarah—Miss Tisdale,” he corrected himself, calling softly to her.

Her hands lowered slowly from her face as she turned to look at him. The movement allowed Marcus a better view of the tide pool beyond.

A body lay twisted and still, half in, half out of the water.

Marcus closed the space between them and pulled Sarah into his arms. He turned her to shield her body with his own. “Are ye all right?” he demanded roughly, his Scottish burr becoming more pronounced.

She buried her face against his coat, nodding wordlessly.

Sarah’s head tucked beneath his chin, Marcus looked over the crown of her head at the body in the pool. The dawn light was brighter, clearer, and it allowed him to see the color of the boy’s skin. The ashen pallor told him
the lad had died a few hours ago—perhaps a day at the most.

“Sarah,” he repeated gently, his arms tightening about her protectively. “Do you know this boy?”

Her sobs lessened, the weight of her body against his easing as she composed herself and attempted to step back.

She flattened both palms on his chest and pushed, her thick lashes lowered to conceal her gaze.

Marcus reluctantly loosened his hold, every inch of his body fighting the necessity of releasing her.

“I apologize, Lord Weston,” she said barely above a whisper. “I needed a moment to compose myself.”

“Do not apologize for having compassion and a soft heart, Sarah,” Marcus insisted, her statement piercing his heart. “Not to me—not to anyone.”

She looked up, her green eyes dark with shock and pain—and relief. “Thank you,” she replied, fresh tears trailing their way down her cheeks.

She wiped them away quickly and swallowed hard. “It’s Jasper Wilmington. He is a dear friend of Nigel’s.”

She turned to look at the cliff path and above, as if waiting for her brother’s appearance.

Marcus gently caught her arm. “I sent him on Pokey. I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” Marcus told her reassuringly.

They slowly began to walk toward the cliff, Marcus deliberately moving Sarah away from the site. “Was Jasper one of the boys involved with the smugglers?”

“Yes,” she answered, affection vying with grief on her expressive face. “Nigel, Clive, and Jasper are a fearsome bunch to be sure—or were, rather,” she amended in a whisper.

She stopped suddenly, her brow furrowing. “Nigel mentioned that Charles was in a foul temper last night,” she said, her voice filled with dread and foreboding.
“But I cannot think this was anything other than a horrible accident, can you?”

Marcus didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d seen black and blue bruising encircling the boy’s neck—indicative of strangulation.

He paused, dropping his gaze to the rocky shore while contemplating an appropriate response.

As he did so, he caught sight of Sarah’s boots, one tinged with blood just near the toe.

She followed his gaze and looked down, sweeping the length of her rumpled, stained clothing before settling on her boots. “You’ve truly seen me at my worst, Lord Weston,” she said quietly, her gaze returning to him. “And you’re still here.”

The pull of the emotions racing through his body and mind threatened to break loose. He didn’t want to respond to what was surely more than just a simple statement.

He couldn’t.

And so he gave in to his Scottish drive for action and firmly lifted her into his arms, and made haste for the cliff wall.

Not fully realizing that he’d answered her all the same.

He’d carried her the entire length of the cliff path until they’d reached the top and discovered Nigel, her father, and the constable about to descend the path themselves.

Marcus had carefully placed her on Pokey’s back and instructed Nigel to walk her home, where he would meet them after assisting Sir Arthur and the constable.

She’d not wanted him to let her go.

Now Sarah stared unseeingly at the ceiling above her bed, knowing that she should prepare for the daunting day ahead.

But she could not quite pull herself from the comfort
and warmth of the familiar linens, especially in light of such a revelation.

She’d not wanted Lord Weston to put her down, even though she knew full well the man’s leg must have ached from the effort of carrying her.

Even though he’d failed to acknowledge the weight of what she’d said.

Even though she was covered from head to toe in mud and sand, sea air and salt water.

She’d wanted to stay in his arms.

Forever.

Sarah rolled to her side, allowing the coverlet to dip below her shoulders.

She sensed that there was a side to Lord Weston that he hid from the world.

An untamed one that he feared polite society would never countenance from a man such as he.

It completely enthralled Sarah.

And in truth, his brusque treatment—such as she never would have accepted from any other man—was the only reason she’d left the beach with some semblance of her sanity intact.

She’d needed him to take control, and he had.

Sarah blew out a breath and willed herself not to cry.

She’d feared that she would perish on the beach alongside Jasper, the task of continuing on in the face of such a horrifying loss seeming too much to bear.

Strength and fortitude had never been attributes Sarah found lacking in herself; on the contrary, they were what she relied upon most.

But the sight of Jasper’s lifeless body had forced her to doubt.

And then Lord Weston was there, asking little but doing so much.

Suddenly her vulnerability felt more an asset than a weakness.

“Sarah?”

She turned to find Nigel standing in the doorway, the purple-hued smudges beneath his eyes stark against the unnatural paleness of his skin.

He slowly walked toward her, the once-confident, carefree twelve-year-old slipping away to reveal a shocked and weary young boy.

Sarah pushed herself to a seated position and held out her arms in wordless comfort, as if the past years of his fearless independence had never existed.

He swiftly closed the distance, dropping to his knees and laying his head in her lap. “We did it for a lark—that’s all. We never thought …”

Nigel’s voice trailed off as he pressed his face into the bed linens.

Sarah wanted to cry. Or scream. She wanted to tell Nigel that everything would be all right, because it always had been.

Before today.

Before today, she’d marched her way through life with the knowledge that if she did not do for herself, no one else would. She’d found comfort in that fact and always taken for granted her ability to accomplish every task without aid from another.

Before today.

She softly stroked Nigel’s fine hair with one hand while the other rested reassuringly on his shoulder. The growing boy shuddered as he began to cry, sobs shaking his small frame.

The memory of Lord Weston’s sudden appearance at the cove flashed in Sarah’s mind, compelling her to admit what she’d been struggling with since returning from the beach: Lord Weston’s help had not only been welcome, but wanted. Wanted.

And freely given.

Despite the sadness that filled her heart for Jasper and
his family, Sarah felt an odd sense of hopefulness, as if all, within reason, could be put back together. “Shhhh, Nigel. I’m here,” she murmured soothingly.

Marcus joined Sir Arthur in the drawing room. The older man’s color had improved considerably in the hours since Marcus had left him on the beach, but he still seemed haggard. Marcus took a seat in an armchair near the window, noting the brandy bottle balancing precariously on the mahogany table just to the baronet’s left.