Betrayed (33 page)

“Ten quid more on the streetsweeper,” someone called out. “He's busted the general's lip.”

“And why not? The general called him a meddling old fool.”

“Only after Cholly said the general was a toad-kissing Lowlander.”

“My money's on the general. He's too quick for the likes of ol' Cholly.”

“Open your eyes, man. Cholly ain't old.”

Feeling more ashamed with every step, Sarah elbowed her way through the crowd of cheering onlookers. She spied Notch and his friends across the way. From atop the shoulders of Right Odd, Sally stared, eyes agog, at the spectacle.

Hemmed in by the jeering throng, the two men were locked in combat. Michael was facing in her
direction, but Cholly's broad back blocked her view. Michael feinted left to dodge a blow.

Now that he was in full view, Sarah looked for injuries. Blood from his cut lip stained his white neckcloth. His waistcoat and breeches were soiled and torn. A swelling high on his cheek made his fierce countenance all the more menacing. Her heart tripped fast with worry. What if he were permanently lamed or killed? That outcome was certainly possible, for his opponent was obviously skilled with his fists.

Without the blanket cape, the streetsweeper did look younger to Sarah. His back was broad, and his dull, unkempt hair gave proof of his lowly station in life. Did his face bear the marks of the fight? If he turned to face her, she'd have her answer.

His teeth gritted, Michael came on with a flurry of punches. She winced, knowing his opponent would suffer a black eye from the ferocious blows.

“Eh, mates,” the man beside Sarah shouted. “Lady Sarah's come to watch.”

Cholly roared a common Scottish curse and drew back his fist. Michael ducked, but the next punch caught him square on the chin. His head snapped back. He staggered. Seizing the moment, the street-sweeper crouched and charged like an angry bull, forcing Michael into a door. Wood splintered and the door gave way. Locked in combat, the men disappeared over the threshold.

Before the crowd could close in, Sarah dashed after the fighting men. Once inside the darkened space, she grasped the door, which hung crookedly on its hinges.

“Get back, all of you!” she yelled.

A reply came in the form of boos and protests.

Crashing noises sounded behind her. The nearest
spectators craned their necks to get a peek at the ongoing fray.

Sarah was just as determined to end it, and from the frenzied expressions on the faces of the crowd, none of them would help her. They were strangers.

She sighted Notch. “Get the magistrate,” she screamed. “And find Turnbull.”

Bless the lad, he nodded and dashed away.

Putting her shoulder into the damaged door, she wrestled at getting it back into the jamb. The sprung hinges protested. Sarah would not be denied. With a last push, the door fell into place. She slammed the bolt home.

Grunts and hisses filled the air. Pottery exploded to the floor. Whirling, she searched the dimly lit room. The shutters were drawn, allowing only bars of sunlight to penetrate the shadowy space.

“Michael! Stop it!” she yelled.

Another, louder grunt sounded. Other noises followed.

Desperate, she moved to the shutters and threw them open. The furnishings took shape; she saw a tapestry fire screen, and on a marquetry table, an array of pipes and a tobacco jar. She had a moment to notice the familiar items just before the brawling men careened into the smoking stand.

Clutching the streetsweeper's shoulders, Michael yanked him up off the floor and threw him into a chair. Light fell on the man's face, and she recognized him. Lachlan MacKenzie.

“Papa!” she screamed.

Drawing in a breath, he turned to her. In that moment, Michael's fist crashed into his face.

“Michael!” She ran across the room and grabbed
his arm. “Please stop. You must stop. Get away from him.”

Dazed, his chest heaving, his hands still knotted for battle, Michael shook his head.

Tugging on his arm, she said, “You're going to kill the duke of Ross. That's no streetsweeper. He's Lachlan MacKenzie.”

Blinking, struggling for breath, Michael finally noticed her. “What did you say?”

She dropped to the floor beside the chair containing a very still duke of Ross. “He's Lachlan MacKenzie.”

To her astonishment, Michael threw back his head and laughed.

The duke groaned and lifted a hand to his bruised cheek. “Sarah lass?” he said, in a groggy voice.

“I'm here, Papa,” she crooned, pushing his hair out of his eyes and searching for a life-stealing injury. But tears blurred her vision. Lachlan MacKenzie had been in Edinburgh for months. In the guise of streetsweeper, he'd watched over her.

Love squeezed her chest. “Say something, Papa.”

“Oh, Sarah lass.” He put his hand over hers. “I never thought to hear you address me so again.”

“I'm so sorry, Papa. I've brought you nothing but shame and dishonor.”

“Nay, 'tis me who is sorry. I should have come to you yesterday, in the cemetery, but I thought you loved that rounder.”

“She does love me, you interfering fool.”

Lachlan's eyes narrowed. “You'll pay for that, you despicable rake. By God, if Hamish were alive today, he'd help me bring you low.”

“Bring me low? You're the one who cannot get up.”

Relief sapped Sarah's strength.

Lachlan tried to rise from the chair.

“Cease this instant,” she said, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him down.

Looking up, she said, “Michael, find a damp cloth. You've made a mess of his face. Juliet will never forgive me.”

Lachlan grinned, but winced with the effort. “Elliot's lost some of his comely looks today, I'll wager. With that face, he won't be ruining another lass any time soon.”

“Hush, Papa.”

“That's right, Ross,” Michael said, touching Sarah's shoulder in a possessive way. “Because I'll be marrying Sarah just as soon as she's tended your battered face.”

“A Stewart will again sit on the throne at Westminster Abbey before I give her to you, you foosty scunner.”

“Sweet Saint Mary,” Michael cursed. “Are all of the MacKenzies as stubborn as the two of you? I wonder why they allow you into civilization at all.”

Michael did want her for his wife. In spite of the spectacle she'd made of herself, and even though she wasn't of noble blood, he wanted her.

Delightfully happy, she dried her tears and gazed lovingly at the man who had donned tattered clothing and swept streets to watch over her.

Lachlan must have sensed her joy, for he said, “Do you truly want that brawling Elliot for your husband?”

Michael growled a warning. “Much more of that, your grace, and I'll bar you from the ceremony.”

“Oh, please, stop squabbling,” Sarah begged.

“It'll take more than a quick left fist to keep me away. But what about the rest of the Elliots?”

The events of the morning came rushing back, and Sarah grew melancholy again. She craned her neck to look up at Michael. “I'm very sorry for the things I said to your mother.”

“I'm sorry for not getting between the two of you sooner than I did. She deserved your wrath. She also sends her apologies to you.”

“You have conveyed her false apologies before—on the day I met you.”

He slapped a hand over his heart. “On my honor, she spoke her regrets to you.”

“Honor,” huffed Lachlan. “What would an Elliot know about honor?”

“Hush, Papa.”

“Why did Lady Emily go to London?”

“To repay Richmond.”

“But how? Mr. Coutts refused her my dowry. Where would she get that amount of money?”

Looking suddenly sheepish, Michael pressed the cloth to his bruised cheek.

Lachlan chuckled. “Will you tell her the truth, Elliot, or shall I?”

Baffled, Sarah glanced from one man to the other. “Tell me what?”

“I gave her the money,” Michael admitted.

“There's more, Sarah lass, but make the scunner squirm when he tells you all of it.”

“All of what?”

“I made a tidy sum over the years, investing in the East India Company.”

Chuckling, Lachlan said, “To hear our friend,
Cameron Cunningham, tell it, the only time Michael Elliot lost a quid in the company was a shipment of tea that set off a rebellion in Boston Harbor.”

Sarah didn't know whether to admonish him for keeping secrets or fly into his arms. She settled on logic. “All of the money in the world will not free Henry if he doesn't apologize.”

His expression turned sad. “True.”

“I know Richmond well,” Lachlan said. “He wilna let the slight go, and perhaps New Holland's the place for Henry. Then the title will pass to you.”

Pride filled Sarah. “He doesn't want it, Papa. He wants to stand on his own for the House of Commons.”

The duke of Ross flexed the fingers on his right hand, then held it up to Michael. “You'll need that sort of gumption to manage my Sarah lass.”

She huffed.

Michael helped the duke to his feet. “I do have one question. If you are not her father, who is?”

Lachlan pressed his hands to the small of his back and stretched. “You tell him, Sarah.”

Michael draped an arm over her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “Yes, you tell me.”

Secure in Michael's love and reunited with the only father she'd ever known, Sarah told him about Neville Smithson.

When Sarah had finished the story, Lachlan cleared his throat. “I'm deeply sorry, Sarah lass, for the way in which I told you.” Sorrow wreathed his face. “But I couldn't see past the loss. He was my friend.”

More like brothers, folks often said. With that admission, healing came to Sarah. Sensing it, Michael pushed her toward Lachlan, who held out his arms.

She basked in the embrace, a renewal of a lifetime of loving concern.

“Neville would have claimed you Sarah, but I could not let you go.”

A crash sounded behind her.

“Good Lord!” Michael exclaimed. “Who is that?”

Lachlan looked past Sarah, his blackened left eye wide with shock.

Sarah turned around. And groaned.

There on the threshold stood a very angry and extremely dangerous woman. In each of her hands she held a primed pistol.

“Michael,” Sarah chirped. “May I present my sister, Lady Agnes MacKenzie.”

Epilogue

One month later

S
unlight streamed through the vaulted stained-glass windows of Saint Margaret's Church, casting a brilliant shower of jewel-like colors over the flagged stone floor. Standing in the vestibule, Sarah tilted back her head and gazed up at her husband.

He grinned down at her. “No second thoughts?”

“I've given up thinking today. I'm only feeling, and deliriously happy is my watchword for the moment.”

“Good, because Lachlan MacKenzie swears he will not take you back.”

As if she would consider leaving Michael Elliot. “That's because you broke his nose. Juliet will not stop teasing him. She has the entire family and the population of Tain making fun of him.”

Sudden vulnerability wreathed Michael's features. “He's a wonderful father, Sarah. Will you forgive me if I do not succeed as well with our children?”

Love filled her to bursting. “Oh, I think you'll manage admirably, Michael. Unless you think the MacKenzie brood is perfect.”

His laughter echoed off the ancient walls, mingling with the sound of dozens of conversations going on in the nave of the church. In a few moments, Sarah and
Michael would formalize their spoken vows by signing their names in both the Book of the MacKenzies and the family Bible.

“Behold the harmonious Clan MacKenzie.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “Hear them?”

Sarah thrilled at the familiar sound, and if she concentrated she could separate Agnes's sultry tone from Lottie's sophisticated speech. Lachlan's hearty laughter floated above the din as he assumed the role of proud father.