He gave her hand a squeeze, then let her go, taking a step back, afraid that if he did not leave now, he would lose his resolve. “You’d best be takin’ your bath while the water’s still hot, aye? I’ll be just outside. Put out the string when you’re done.”
Then, hands clenched into fists to keep himself from touching her, he turned and walked out into the night, closing the door behind him.
* * *
F
ighting tears, Sarah stared at the closed door.
For shame, Sarah! What have you done? What possessed you to be so bold? What must Connor think of you now?
She supposed she should be grateful he’d behaved as a gentleman, even when she had not behaved as a lady. But she did not feel grateful. He’d said he understood, but how could he when he did not know the truth? He believed she would marry and find joy in another man’s arms. But he did not know that the matrons of London had pronounced her unmarriageable or that the
Daily Courant
had suggested her father send her to a brothel or that her family’s own priest had condemned her before the entire congregation.
In three days at most, she would be returned to Uncle William, who would welcome her and cosset her—and then send her back to New York to live under Governor DeLancey’s reproachful gaze until her parents sent for her. Then she would sail back across the sea to London to be deposited with some dour old dowager or married off to a stranger who wanted her father’s coin more than he wanted her. She would never experience what it was like to know love at the hands of a man who truly cared for her.
And it struck her suddenly as strange that Connor and Joseph had bled and shed blood to save her from a forced marriage to Katakwa only to deliver her to a family that would, if they could, force her into marriage with someone else. She would have no more say in the matter than she’d had amongst the Shawnee.
Feeling as if she were made of wood, she crossed the floor and drew in the string, able to sense Connor’s presence on the other side. Some part of her wanted to open the door and tell him that he was her only chance to know a man of her own choosing, but how could she do that without explaining everything? Besides, it would seem like begging.
She walked back to the tub and undressed—a swift task when one was not wearing stockings, petticoats, and stays—then stepped into the tub and sank into the hot water.
She couldn’t help but moan, the warmth soothing against her skin, melting away the stiffness in her muscles, chasing away the lingering chill. As she washed, she let herself imagine
what it would be like to live in this cabin with Connor. She would cook at this hearth, bathe and wash their clothing in this very washtub, bear his children in that bed.
And bury them in the cold earth outside.
Sarah did not know if she possessed the courage it took to make a home in this forlorn and wild place, surrounded by the dangers of the forest. And yet amid the deprivation and fear, the toil and the grief, the woman who had lived here had been blessed with something that Sarah, living in the safety and comfort of her father’s halls, had not—a sense of freedom.
Finished bathing, Sarah allowed herself a few moments to soak, the cabin silent apart from the crackling of the fire. And all at once, the exhaustion of the past week seemed to catch up with her. Weary to her very bones, she got out of the tub, dried off and dressed, barely able to keep her eyes open long enough to comb the tangles from her hair.
She remembered to put out the string before stumbling to the bed. The moment she lay upon the bearskin, she was fast asleep.
T
hat’s how Connor found her—already asleep, her head pillowed on her hands, her damp hair a tangle of honey gold against black fur, her slender legs bare to his view. He folded the bearskin over her, afraid she might catch a chill, then quickly and quietly undressed, taking advantage of the now lukewarm water to wash away the day’s sweat and grime. When he was finished, he opened the door and called quietly to Joseph, who bathed while Connor cleaned and checked his weapons, warm water being an indulgence they could not refuse.
Connor leaned his cleaned and primed musket against the table. “Are you certain you willna sleep by the fire?”
Although Joseph had been baptized by the missionaries, his Mahican roots ran deep. Connor knew he felt uneasy sleeping in the home of those who lay buried outside.
“The loft is warm and high above the ground.” Joseph rose from the tub and stepped naked onto the floor. “Only women and children need a fire at night. You’re growing soft, Cub.”
Connor glared at him. “Dinnae whinge tomorrow mornin’ about how scared you were sleepin’ all alone. I hate seein’ you weep like a bairn.”
When Joseph had dried and dressed, they slid the heavy washtub soundlessly across the wooden floor and dumped the water outside. Connor propped it against the wall where they’d found it, then watched as Joseph gathered his gear. “Have a pleasant sleep, brother.”
But Joseph’s gaze was fixed upon Sarah. “I do not know her as you do, but I have shared each step of this journey with her, watched her fight for her life, and held her each night while she slept. I cannot help but care for her.”
And suddenly Connor was glad Joseph had chosen to sleep in the loft.
Connor drew in the string, barred the door, and propped a chair beneath its handle—an extra measure of protection he hoped they wouldn’t need. He laid his bearskin coat on the floor before the fire and set his weapons nearby. But rather than lying down, he walked to the bed and sat beside Sarah, drawn to her like a moth to the flame.
It would be so easy to forsake his pallet upon the floor, slide into bed beside her, and gather her into his arms. He knew she would come to him easily, nestling against him, for she had done it each night when he and Joseph had switched places. But she had no need of his body’s heat tonight, not with four strong walls around her and a warm fire. And Connor did not trust himself to be too near her.
He’d resisted temptation once today. He did not think he could do it again.
I want to pretend it is our wedding night again.
Och, he was daft not to have taken her in his arms that instant. If he had, he might now be lying between her creamy thighs, his cock buried deep inside her, the sound of her soft sighs filling the cabin as he brought her release. But, nay. Clearly, the lass had spent her strength and needed rest far more than she needed to be tupped by him.
He bent down, pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Sleep, Sarah.”
At last seeking his own bed, he stretched out before the fire.
S
arah heard the door open and looked up from her needlework to see Papa enter. Heels clicking against the polished wooden floor, he walked across the room in quick, agitated
steps, his face red with anger, his mouth pinched, his gaze fixed on her. In his hand was the leather strap. “Mary, leave this room at once—and close the doors behind you.”
Fear twisted in Sarah’s stomach. He used the strap for one thing only—punishment. But she’d done nothing wrong.
Mary hurried from the room in a swirl of skirts, the doors closing with a quiet click.
Sarah stood, set her needlework aside, and curtsied. “Papa.”
The blow took her by surprise, pain exploding inside her skull as the back of his hand struck her cheek, knocking her to the floor.
He glared down at her. “You filthy sybarite! You will be the ruination of us all!”
She pressed her palm to her face, stunned. “Papa, what have I done?”
“You know very well what you’ve done, and so does all of London!” He glared at her, a look of utmost loathing on his face. “You’ve brought dishonor upon this family! Would that I could end your miserable life and purge this abomination from our midst! Do you know what you’ve done to us?”
End her life? An abomination?
Had her father gone mad?
He raised the strap.
Her heart thudded, fear rising in her throat. “No, Papa! Please tell me why—”
The first blow struck her arm and shoulder, the pain stealing her breath.
“We believed Lady Margaret had reformed you, but she has led you to the gates of hell!”
Another blow. And another. And another.
“Papa, please stop!”
She looked up to find that it was no longer her father beating her, but Katakwa and his men, cruel clubs striking hard upon her back.
She screamed.
“Sarah! Sarah, lass, wake!”
She awoke with a gasp—and discovered she was not in London or the Shawnee village. “C-Connor?”
“Easy, Princess. I’m right here.” He drew her against him,
one hand stroking her hair, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill in her blood. “’Twas just a dream.”
Shaking, her cheeks wet with tears, she clung to him, still able to feel the bite of the leather strap, hear her father’s angry shouts, taste the horror of that terrible afternoon when her world had come crashing down.
Would that I could end your miserable life and purge this abomination from our midst!
Her father had called her an abomination.
Oh, Papa!
Slowly the nightmare faded, and she became aware of other things. The strength of Connor’s embrace. The steady beating of his heart. The scent of soap on his skin. And her trembling began to subside.
Connor spoke first. “Would it help you to talk about it?”
“N-no.” She could not tell him about the dream without exposing herself. If he knew the cause of her nightmare, the gentleness in his eyes would turn to disgust and loathing, and that she could not bear.
He brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “Do you trust me, Sarah?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then tell me what happened in London. Why did your father send you away?”
Sarah’s heart gave a hard thud, and she stared mutely up at him, his question catching her by surprise. “I…I cannot.”
He sat beside her, took her hands in his. “Am I not already the keeper of your deepest secrets? No man kens you as I do.”
And she knew he was speaking of their forced marriage and union.
She looked down at their joined hands. “Why must you know?”
His voice was soft, reassuring. “A burden is always greatest when carried by one alone. My shoulders are broad, lass, my back strong. Let me share the weight of this.”
Oh, how she wished it were so simple! But every person who knew the truth had turned away from her. “I cannot further dishonor my father by—”
“The father who hurt you? You cried out to him just now, beggin’ him to stop.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Sarah, look at me.
Look
at me.”
She did as he asked.
“I’ve bled for you. I’ve killed for you. I’ve held you in my arms and done my best to make love to you. I’d give my life to protect you. Now I sit beside you, askin’ you to trust me. What happened in London?”
Sarah felt trapped by his gaze. “Y-you will hate me.”
He shook his head, raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed them one by one. “I could ne’er hate you.”
“That is what you say now.”
He exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed in a pensive frown. “Did you kill somebody?”
“Kill?” Sarah’s mouth fell open. “No!”
“Did you drink too much and wander naked into some earl’s bedchamber?”
She shook her head, fighting an urge to laugh at the notion. “No. I never drink—”
“Then what did you steal?”
“Nothing! I would never—”
“Aye. You would never steal or kill or drink, and we both ken you were a virgin. So why were you sent away?” When she did not answer, he pressed on. “You’re a good and virtuous lass, Sarah. I dinnae believe you capable of great evil. Trust me. Let me help. I promise I willna forsake you.”
Sarah looked into Connor’s eyes, some part of her wanting to tell him, wanting to believe she
could
tell him and yet remain in his affections. And all at once it was too much—long months of loneliness, of bearing guilt she didn’t understand, of hiding her grief.
Trembling again, she drew a deep breath, willed her reluctant tongue to speak. “It began the night I met Lady Margaret.”
C
onnor could feel Sarah’s fear. Whatever she was about to tell him, she truly believed he would despise her. He could not fathom how this could be true. What in God’s name could she have done to so anger society and her family? He linked his fingers through hers, held fast to her hand, waiting for her to continue.
Avoiding his gaze, she drew a breath as if steeling herself, and went on. “Two Octobers past, His Majesty commanded us to attend his birthday celebrations at court. Though Papa enjoys talking politics with the other members of Lords, my mother cannot abide court, likening it to Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Connor was not surprised by this. “And how do you feel about it?”
Her face lit up. “It was very exciting. Great-Grandfather’s halls are resplendent, and wherever one goes, one hears the most beautiful music—at church, during dinner, even strolling in the gardens. Mother tries to keep us behind the doors of her chambers whenever we stay at Kensington Palace, but my grandmother often commands us to attend her at meals, on walks through the gardens, or excursions into London.”
Connor found it strange and more than a little sobering to hear Sarah speak of the German heretic he’d spent his life loathing as “Great-Grandfather”—or to think that her
grandmother was the woman whose womb had brought forth Wentworth, bastard that he was. How their blood could flow in Sarah’s veins escaped Connor.
Two different worlds, laddie, and dinnae you be forgettin’ that.
“One night, Grandmother bade us join her at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden to take in a performance of Master Handel’s sacred oratorio,
Messiah
. Have you heard of it?” Sarah looked expectantly at Connor.