Betrayed (10 page)

Persistent didn't begin to define his character, and his fingers were kneading her neck in the most delicious way. Sarah couldn't resist asking, “Why did you smile when you caught sight of us on the street yesterday?”

“Why I smiled at you is a tedious question.”

Flattered to her earlobes, she stifled a maidenly sigh. “Then Notch. What were you thinking when you saw him?”

“I was enormously happy, in spite of his cheeky way. I've never led the Complement into a Scottish town.” He shrugged. “I was glad to be home. Now, is there anything else you'd like to know before I kiss you again?”

His honesty further disarmed her, and curiosity took the fore. “Do you feel differently, dressed as you are now, compared to the tartan or the uniform of the Complement?”

The question surprised him, for he paused. At
length, he said, “The truth of it is, the helmet is a nuisance and the capes are not to my liking—rather showy for modern times.”

“And the kilt?”

A hint of color rose in his cheeks, and he scratched his nose to hide a budding smile. “A private jest.”

“But I'm from the Highlands. I know all about men and their kilts.”

“Such as . . .”

“Catching it on a bramble bush and dislodging the pleats. A hound pup once pulled down my brother's tartan. It pooled around his ankles. He was still a child and mortified.”

“Then I needn't mortify myself.” Clearing his throat, he added, “I will say that most of the time I prefer current styles. So, my inquisitive Sarah, if your curiosity is satisfied, I should like to get on with kissing you.”

She hovered at the edge of a swoon and rested there, basking in the lightness he brought to her soul. When he moved closer, she blurted, “Isn't there anything you'd like to ask of me?”

“Yes. Will you be so kind as to open your mouth. I have a fierce yearning to taste that tart tongue of yours.”

Before she could draw a breath, he turned his head to the side and took her lips in a kiss that stripped her of conscious thought. Her mind spun with dreamy visions of a lazy afternoon in an idyll—a blanket spread beneath an ancient oak, a nearby burn ambling gently to the sea, a man reclining beside her, plaiting posies into her hair and caressing her neck with the tips of his fingers.

Another image rose in her mind. She saw a massive
bed with cool white linens. She wore a virginal white sleeping gown and languished on the bed in anticipation of the man who would soon join her there.

She felt his hand slip into the bodice of her gown and cup her breast. At the first gentle drag of his palm over her nipple, she shivered with longing. A responding masculine groan vibrated against her lips, and then his tongue was plunging into her mouth in a beguiling rhythm that turned her insides to porridge. With every touch, each movement, she felt devoured, seduced, and flung toward complete surrender.

Frightened to her soul, she pulled back. “No. Stop. You're Henry's brother.”

His lips were damp from their kiss, and the expression in his eyes was pure heaven. “Very cowardly of you, Sarah.”

Bother him. She'd brought it on herself. “You cannot change the fact that your family has been ghastly to me.”

“Yes, well . . .” With his finger, he traced the curve of her mouth. “I shall miss you while I'm in London.”

He had the oddest way of speaking. He began with a softly spoken and very deceptive, “Yes, well,” then followed with an unrelated statement that made a lie of his original capitulation or changed the subject entirely.

That verbal trickery was something she had just noticed, and she intended to watch out for it, among other things about Michael Elliot. He had an answer for everything.

Miffed, Sarah said, “What will you tell Henry about me?”

He grinned like a well-fixed dandy in May. “Certainly not what I'm thinking.”

Sweet Saint Margaret; he could disarm the devil himself. “Which is?”

Mischief turned his smile boyish, but the look in his eye was all predatory male, and the touch of his hand on her neck grew familiar.

“Tell me.”

“Yes, well. I'm thinking that very soon I'll find out . . .” He slowly withdrew his hand.

“You'll find out what?”

He tapped her on the end of her nose. “Whether you can hammer a nail.”

He'd done it again. Baffled, she said, “What does hammering nails have to do with kissing me? And don't deny you were thinking about it.”

“I wasn't thinking about kissing you.” He rose and held her chair. “Like my thoughts, my intentions have gone far beyond mere kisses.”

5

B
undled in her sleeping gown and robe, her feet tucked beneath her, Sarah sat on the rug before the hearth in her bedroom. She poured two cups of warm, sweetened milk and handed one to Rose.

Seated across from her, the maid had traded her best dress for a nightrail and a floppy sleeping cap. The latter gave her an elfin quality. Peering up, Rose blew on the steaming milk. “Now will you tell me what the mayor said?”

Sarah dodged another onslaught of guilt over her wanton behavior with Michael Elliot late in the evening. As if the intimate exchange had not occurred, he had chatted amiably in the carriage. When he'd seen her inside her home, he had turned to leave, but stopped.

“Have you a message for Henry?” he had asked.

“Yes. He cannot have my dowry.”

“Because it rightfully belongs to the man you marry?”

“Yes, and I'll make a better choice next time.”

“My lady?” Rose looked worried. “Are you ill?”

Sarah banished the memory of her last conversation with Michael. “No. I'm fine, Rose.”

“I'll wager the mayor was impressed with what you plan to do, wasn't he?”

With little embellishment, Sarah relayed the discussion about the acquisition of the customs house.

“Bless Saint Margaret,” Rose exclaimed. As quickly as it had come, her elation vanished. “What if the countess refuses to give over her part?”

That possibility hadn't occurred to Sarah. But Michael had made a promise, and he appeared to be the sort of man to honor his word. “Her younger son is very persuasive.” An understatement; since saying good night, Sarah couldn't stop thinking about him, his charitable gesture, his hand fondling her breast. No man had ever touched her there.

She trembled at the memory.

“Are you chilled, my lady?” Rose moved to rise. “I'll toss more coal on the fire. The Odd lads filled up the buckets today.”

“No. Sit down.”

Rose settled in again. “He has a charm about him,” she said. “But didn't Lord Henry, too?”

Sarah had to agree, but Henry's affability lacked excitement. Both brothers had asked permission before kissing her. Only Michael hadn't waited for an answer. “If charm is a family trait, it passes through the
men
of Clan Elliot.”

“Ever so true,” said Rose. “It's a fine thing he's doing. The orphans will have a safe roof over their heads. Poor mites. They need a helping hand. After talking with Master Turnbull, the general's valet, I cannot say as how I'm surprised that you talked him
into it. Turnbull speaks highly of the general, and not because he's in service. We know the difference.”

Sarah suspected that Rose thought highly of someone else in the Elliot household. “Tell me about Michael's valet,” she said.

“Master Turnbull ain't one to gossip.”

Sarah tasted the milk, then added another dollop of honey. “What did you talk about?” Obviously something that pleased Rose.

“The general. That's what the first officer is called.”

“They address Michael as general? Like England's Gage and Percy?”

“Not when there's others to hear. It's a secret amongst the Guard—that's what they call themselves.” She sniffed in disapproval. “They're fat with the swearing of manly oaths and ceremonies.”

Sarah smiled. “You don't consider that gossip?”

Balancing the cup on her knee, Rose pushed the sleeping cap out of her eyes. “I was hoping to wheedle something important out of him. Such as learning if the general's married or betrothed. Never did learn that. Master Turnbull goes quiet, same as Lady Juliet when she's miffed at his grace.”

Michael. Married. Sarah hadn't considered that, and were she honest with herself, the possibility that he belonged to another woman troubled her. “But this Turnbull—he speaks freely of the Complement?”

“He has a journal about it. Memoirs.” Rose dragged out the French word. “Must have bindings leafed with gold. That's how he came into the service of the general.”

“To write a book or because he was a presser of goldleaf?”

“Neither.” Rose leaned forward and in her best tale-telling voice, said, “The book was burnt, you see, in a nefarious and mysterious fire in Calcutta. So Master Turnbull tells it.”

Sarah could picture Rose enthralled by a well-traveled manservant. “He sounds quite melodramatic, your Master Turnbull.”

Rose's skin flushed to crimson and she stared into her cup. “He's much too sophisticated for a Highland maid.”

Sarah felt a burst of righteous anger. “That's a dreadful thing to say. You're as good as anyone in the king's own household. You're pretty, and you've never been one to let a handsome footman turn your head.” Sarah recalled a favorite Scottish saying. “You're a Highlander, Rose, the best o' this island and beyond.”

Rose's chin came up. Cocking her arm, she picked up her cup and drank with the grace of any duchess. “I told him I could read his book in Scottish and the king's scrawling language, too, if I took a fancy to. That's when he said it was burnt to cinders, but the knowing of it was in his head.”

Rose, too, had felt the isolation, for she seldom expressed so much interest in an outing. Perhaps boredom was why Sarah had allowed the conversation with Michael to drift to the intimate. Bother him and her girlish notions. Dozens of other topics interested her more. Thousands. Such as Rose's evening, which had been uplifting for the maid.

Sarah put down her cup. “It seems to me that Master Turnbull likes to talk about himself.”

“Not so much as to manage the conversation. He often inquired about you.”

Sarah toyed with the end of her night braid. “I doubt he wheedled any gossip from you.”

Rose preened, and with a toss of her head, flipped the cap out of her eyes. “When he asked why we didn't pack up and go back to the Highlands, since you refused to marry Lord Henry, I said you were weary from turning down marriage proposals from half the eligible dukes in Scotland. I said the peers flock to Rosshaven Castle after you like lint to a velvet footstool.”

Sarah chuckled. “You lied to him.”

“Only after he said the general kept a harem house of fifty women. Even your father never had fifty women, and he was a rogue of the kind ain't been seen since he mended his ways.”

Lachlan MacKenzie's exploits in seduction were legendary. Rumor said he'd broken more hearts than all of his contemporaries combined.
Oh, yes,
Sarah thought,
be she lover or daughter, the female who trusted the Highland rogue was doomed to heartache.

Resolutely she put Lachlan out her mind. Images of Michael Elliot crept in.

My intentions have gone far beyond mere kisses.

At the memory of his lusty declaration, she trembled inside. Overconfidence had led to her temporary downfall, but she was sensible Sarah MacKenzie. She had suffered a brief lapse in judgment. Henceforth, she would set the tone of their meetings, and keep their association amiable—certainly no more fondling.

“Don't speak well of the India women, if fifty of them would gladly share the same house and man,” Rose grumbled. “Wouldn't Lady Lottie have something to say about that?”

Something unrepeatable and indefensible, Sarah was certain. “What else occurred with Turnbull?”