The Groom Says Yes (9 page)

“Richard Davidson.”

For a second, he was stunned. His enemy, the man who could answer the question “Why,” was either here or close at hand . . . and all Mac had to do was wait.

T
he earl of Tay let Sabrina cool her heels for two hours before he entered the Morning Room, where Ingold, the Tay butler, had asked her to wait along with some light refreshments.

Her uncle did not look well.

The earl of Tay had once cut an imposing figure. Now, he seemed a seedy one.

His florid cheeks were at odds with the pasty skin of his neck and hands. His hair was grayer. He had a decided paunch and a stumble to his gait. He was still wearing his dressing gown over a shirt and breeches. His neckcloth had a large stain on it.

“You are
drunk,
” Sabrina said in weary surprise, watching her uncle head to a side table boasting several bottles of port.

“The day is advanced,” her uncle mumbled. He toasted her with a full glass, before saying, “Most of what I feel is from last night.” He downed the glass and poured another.

“Wait,” Sabrina ordered, moving to place a hand on his arm and prevent him from consuming another drink before she spoke. “I need your help.”

He stared at her through watery eyes. “Eh?”

Her first inclination was to slap sense into him. Instead, she forced a smile. “I need for you to call on Mrs. Bossley and tell Father he must return home.”

“Eh?”

Sabrina could feel her false smile stretch tighter. Her uncle tried to raise his arm to bring his glass to his lips. She held it down. “Father. Needs. You.”

“Not if he is with Mrs. Bossley,” the earl answered, sounding very lucid. He pivoted, escaping Sabrina’s grasp, and took a sip of his drink. “He’s probably very happy. He’ll return home by and by.”

“But he is making a spectacle of himself,” Sabrina said, as if it should be obvious—and momentarily forgetting to whom she was speaking.

He reminded her by saying, “Good for him. At our age, it is a mark of honor to be considered a spectacle. I hope Lilly shows him a good time.” He paused, eyed Sabrina, and added, “You might consider making a bit of a spectacle yourself, lass. You are too serious for your own good.”

If he’d known what a “spectacle” she’d made of herself already this day, he might not be so cavalier. And it was on the tip of her tongue to inform him. She’d had a good roll with a man whom, for all she knew, could be a common criminal.
Yes,
she had! And she’d let him have her in broad daylight, which, from her limited understanding, was practically unchristian.

But she held her tongue because her uncle might applaud such behavior.

Instead, with an exasperated sound, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the house, refusing to waste one more minute of her time conversing with a drunkard.

Dumpling was not happy to see her. The Annefield stables were the pony’s favorite place to visit since they treated him so well. Sabrina gave the stable lad a coin out of her meager purse and took the reins, snapping them to send Dumpling pulling the cart down the drive.

Her mind was in a tizzy. She had few options.

Calling on Mrs. Bossley was out of the question. Her father had made his choice, a fact reemphasized when she returned home and saw that her father’s horse was still not in his stall. Sabrina could only pray her father came to his senses soon. Then again, the earl of Tay was not going to serve as a proper role model.

Or maybe the earl had, and for that reason her father had deserted his family and all of his responsibilities.

Whatever was going on, she realized she had little power over his decisions.

Instead, she was going to have to take care of herself. The thought was daunting, and invigorating in a way she’d not imagined. In the process of unhitching Dumpling, Sabrina paused a moment, evaluating this new realization.

She
would take care of
herself.

The idea had never crossed her mind. She’d been more or less adrift in life, doing what was expected, anticipating others’ needs, not ever considering what made her happy. But what if she took Dame Agatha and even her uncle’s advice and changed? What if she decided what she would and wouldn’t do?

Sabrina had never imagined her life beyond the boundaries of her family.

She scooped out oats for Dumpling and came to a decision. “I’ll do my charity work and help those who value my healing skills, but I want to live for myself. And,” she added, leaning into the stall so that Dumpling could see she was very serious, “I won’t feel guilty for what happened this afternoon.” She rocked back on her feet. “No, I won’t,” she repeated. She would become like those Frenchwomen she’d heard about who ran salons and were valued for their intelligence.

Maybe she would leave the valley. There was a thought to make her stomach churn with fear. However, there was a world beyond the parish and she’d experienced none of it. She’d been too busy feeling sorry for herself, just as Dame Agatha had suggested.

A thoughtful Sabrina started for the house with a length of rope in her hand. Evening had fallen. The moon was pale in the sky. No lights shone from the windows. Either Mr. Enright had left—which she hoped. Or, he had not regained consciousness, and she was going to tie him up. She didn’t know what she would do with him after that, but she’d improvise. It would be easiest if she could ask him to leave, and he did so without fuss.

Rolf bounded from his post by the step to greet her, and she gave the dog a hug. His presence by the house told her Mr. Enright was probably still her guest. She liked to think Rolf was a good watchdog. She interpreted his wagging tail as a sign all was fine, and yet, an unsettling feeling tickled the hair at the back of her neck. An awareness that perhaps she should be cautious.

Sabrina wasn’t one for signs, but the other day in the bothy, her senses had rightly warned her . . . and now, once again, she had a recognition of something she could not define.

She opened the back door, holding the coil of rope ready so she could use it as a weapon. The hall was dark. No one stirred. “Go inside,” she told the dog.

His shiny eyes looked doubtful in the moonlight.

“Don’t worry. Father isn’t here.” And he wouldn’t be.

Rolf went inside. She watched his shadow move down the hall. He didn’t sound an alarm, pausing first by the study door, convincing himself that his master was not home, then moving on to the kitchen, his favorite room in the house.

Meanwhile, Sabrina’s stomach rumbled. She’d barely touched the bread-and-butter sandwiches at Annefield. She could heat the stew Mrs. Patton had made and kept warm on the hearth or grab one of the meat pies always kept in the pantry for light meals. A glass of cider would taste good as well.

Then she’d have the energy to decide what to do with Mr. Enright.

Sabrina bravely walked into the house, her rope at the ready. She didn’t have to feel her way. She knew it even in the dark. Without bothering to remove her bonnet, she walked into the kitchen, set her rope aside, and placed a log on the dying fire in the hearth. Flames rose. The tub was where she’d left it. She would have to drag it to the door and pour the water out. She pulled off her driving gloves and placed them on the table before reaching for a taper on the mantel and lighting it off the growing fire. Warmth and light filled the room.

She started to carry the lit taper to a candle, when, once again, she sensed all was not as it should be. Rolf sat on his haunches by the table, ready for a treat. He didn’t seem unusually alert.

“Father?”

Her voice echoed in the darkness. It was silly to think he was there. His horse was not in his stall, and he would have lit the lamp in his study or candles in the kitchen.

She blew out the taper and placed it on the table. With catlike feet, she moved out into the hall. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. No one was there.

The door to her father’s study was halfway open. She couldn’t remember how it had been when she’d left. She placed her palm on the cool wood and slowly pushed the door open.

Moonlight flowed through the windows onto her father’s desk. The pen and papers were exactly how he’d left them several days ago. Sabrina couldn’t remember the angle of his chair behind his desk, but all seemed as it should be.

Everything was quiet save for Rolf’s panting. He stood by the kitchen door, waiting hopefully.

She released her breath. Her mind was playing tricks on her. There was no sound from upstairs. Her imagination was being overactive.

With the intention of returning to the kitchen, Sabrina started to pivot, and that is when a man’s figure stepped out from behind the door. Strong arms came down around her.

“Don’t struggle. Don’t fight,” said a deep voice with the hint of an accent she immediately recognized.

“Mr. Enright?” she said.

He spun her around, his expression as shocked as she felt. “Angel?” he whispered, and then blurted out in disbelief, “
Who are you to Davidson?
”

There was anger in his voice. Malice.

Her very good common sense—
finally
—reared its head, and she realized she was being attacked in her own home. This man should not be in her father’s study. She started to scream.

A hard hand was clamped over her mouth.

“Quiet, will you,” he said. “I’ll not harm you if you will be quiet.”

Harm her?

Sabrina decided now was a good time to begin taking care of herself.

She stomped on the toe of his boot with the heel of her sensible shoes. She put all her weight into the action and was rewarded with a very satisfying Irish grunt. His hold loosened. She pushed him away from her and would have taken off running except he grabbed her arm.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he claimed. “I want Davidson.”

“
My father?
” The words rushed out of her in alarm. Mr. Enright had been lying in wait for her father? And he believed she found that reassuring?

As magistrate, her father had made enemies—and apparently she had allowed one of them to have his way with her. To think, she’d nursed this man back to health, and, on some level, had grown to trust him. But she shouldn’t have. He was a viper.

In fairness, he seemed equally shocked. “Your father?
I deflowered Davidson’s daughter?
” He didn’t wait for her answer but muttered, “This is not good. Not good at all.”

He was right, and to show him how right he was, she curled her fingers into claws and attacked.

M
ac didn’t know what startled him most—that his angel was Davidson’s daughter, or the ferocity of her attack.

Instead of running like any sensible woman should, she charged him without fear. Her eyes in the moonlight were alive with outrage, and as she surged forward, she reminded him of nothing less than a banshee, those demons of Irish lore.

He stepped back, bumping into the doorframe, then moving into the hall. She followed, ready to scratch the skin off of him.

Her dog had caught onto the melee and began barking and running around them. Mac almost tripped over the animal. The dog snapped his teeth and tried to grab his coat.

Mac didn’t feel he could fight back, but he did want her to stop hurting him. A time or two she landed a blow or a scratch that was not pleasant.

He kept retreating, leading her toward the kitchen, where there would be more space for him to maneuver than in the narrow hall. She ruthlessly went after him.

Inside the larger room, Mac ducked under her arms and reached for her waist. Using his superior strength, he easily lifted her off the floor and upended her over his shoulder. She kicked her legs wildly and attempted to reach around him in the most unladylike way possible to strike a blow.

He had to admire her. She was protecting her father. His business with her sire was deadly serious—however, she had changed the game.

Mac owed her his life. He might have survived his illness without her care but it would have taken longer for him to recover . . . and, while holding her struggling body against his, he realized that making love to her had done more to restore his spirit than any amount of nursing could have achieved.

This woman had true passion. Even now, he felt himself respond to her in spite of her wanting to rip the ears off of his head.

So she must stop this nonsense. He needed to find her father, and she was a distraction.

He set her on her feet with a thud and whirled her around before she could react. He grabbed both her arms below the shoulders and held her captive. He was ready to order her to behave . . . but the words died in his throat.

The fire from the hearth filled the kitchen with golden, flickering light. The bonnet she’d been wearing had come undone and fallen to the floor somewhere in their struggles. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in thick, round curls. Her eyes sparkled with defiance and, yes, fear. Luminous eyes that told him she was afraid but she’d not run.

Eyes that could bring a man to his knees.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said. “Not with you.”

And because he couldn’t help himself, and because it was what he desired, he kissed her.

It was the reasonable action in an unreasonable situation.

Nor was this kiss a common one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed a woman out of true, yearning desire and not to just to meet earthy needs.

There was also a question in his kiss as well. She had given to him what should have been her gift to a lover. He wanted to know why, to understand, and the mystery of her, combined with the tightening in his loins, was a potent mix.

The world faded away. He didn’t even register the dog’s barking.

Miss Davidson resisted. Oh, yes, she did. Her reaction was what he had anticipated. She was going to deny him. Her lips were hard and unyielding, but her body no longer strained away from him. Instead, she had gone still, unwilling to surrender and, yet, no longer ready to fight. He sensed her internal struggle. She was as attracted to him as he found himself to her. It was there in the kiss. A brush of the lips, and the energy between them changed even though she kept hers tightly closed. She was determined not to yield, and yet she didn’t shy from him either.

This woman was a challenge and, right now, he didn’t care what her relationship was to Richard Davidson. She attracted him. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted it very much—

Thwack.

The sound accompanied the force of a broomstick across his shoulders. “
Unhand her,
” a woman’s voice ordered.

Such was the power of the kiss, it took Mac a second to feel any pain. He raised an arm to defend himself, but he didn’t want to let his lips leave Miss Davidson’s—until he was whacked with the broomstick a second time. This time across the back of his ribs and with more force.

He released Miss Davidson and faced his attacker, an older woman of indeterminate age. She had graying blonde curls beneath a jaunty flower bonnet. The same sort of flowery pattern was repeated in her violet-and-blue dress. Lace gloves covered her hands holding the broomstick.

His first thought was to Miss Davidson’s safety. This woman was obviously mad.

He reached to keep his captive protectively behind him, but she had already scampered away.

“Who are you?” he demanded of his new opponent.

Her response was to swing the broomstick with an impressive show of strength. It whooshed through the air, smacking him hard on the other side of his ribs.

Just as he winced from that pain, a good-sized pottery mug whizzed by his head.

He was under attack.

Miss Davidson had fled his arms only to begin pulling cups and bowls off the cupboard beside her. She threw them at him with all her might.

And then there was the dog barking.

Mac knew when to run.

Unfortunately, the flower lady blocked his escape to the door.

He leaped across the table, uncertain how he was going to extricate himself from this complication. He raised his hands to sue for peace.

Miss Davidson threw another cup. It hit him in the shoulder.

“
All right,
” he said, his temper growing. “Let’s talk about this—”

The flower lady swooshed the air with her broomstick.

Mac ducked in time to save his head.

He straightened, ready to grab that broomstick from her and break it in half—when he realized the women were no longer paying attention to him.

Instead, Miss Davidson, her hand in the air ready to lob a soup bowl in his direction, stared at her compatriot in openmouthed surprise. “
What
are
you
doing here, Mrs. Bossley?”

The flower lady had swung so hard, she’d stumbled a step, sending her bonnet down over her eyes. She pushed it back with her arm. “Helping
you.
” She spit the words out with equally fevered disdain.

“I don’t need help.”

“Apparently you do.”

Miss Davidson’s chin lifted. “Remove yourself from this house right this minute.”

“I will not,” came the staunch reply.

Mac shifted his weight, uncertain to trust this turn of events. Were they so angry at each other that they had forgotten about him?

He didn’t think that was a possibility. Women were very canny about being able to perform more than one task at a time.

However, they eyed each other with the air of avowed enemies.

And the dog had stopped barking. He stood between the two women, his tail wagging.

The unwelcome Mrs. Bossley brought her broom to rest on the floor. “I must see the magistrate,” she announced stiffly. “Once I’ve seen him,
then
I will leave—but not a moment until.” Her voice shook as she spoke, and Mac noticed for the first time her nose was pinched and her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

He felt rather sorry for her.

Miss Davidson didn’t. “Once you’ve
seen
him? Haven’t you been with him enough? Can you not
bear
a
moment
apart from my father?”

“
I must see him,
” Mrs. Bossley announced dramatically before throwing her broomstick to the floor, where it bounced on the wood floor. She went running out the door, shouting, “
Richard?
Richard,
please
. I need you, Richard. I can’t bear to be without you.”

Miss Davidson put down the bowl she’d been holding and charged after her. “
Where do you believe you are going?
Come back here. Come back here right now. This is not your house.”

And Mac found himself alone in the kitchen.

Footsteps pounded up the stair treads.

Miss Davidson snapped unheeded orders for Mrs. Bossley to remove herself from these premises. The older woman kept calling for “Richard” in the voice of the lovelorn. The dog had followed them, barking his opinion.

Mac could leave the house now. No one was paying attention to him.

However, if he did depart, he might miss more of the entertainment, and he discovered he was enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d felt so engaged in life. He had no doubt that Mrs. Bossley was calling for Richard Davidson. He was curious as to why Miss Davidson was adamantly attempting to throw the woman out of her house.

“Ah, yes, the mysteries just keep growing,” he murmured.

And he found he was interested in knowing which one would win. His money was on Miss Davidson, although the power behind Mrs. Bossley’s broom swing was a testimony to her determination as well.

So, instead of going out the back door, he followed the hallway to where a lively battle was being fought.

Miss Davidson stood halfway up the stairs, her body stiff with outrage. “You have no right to be going through this house.”

“Richard.
Richard,
” Mrs. Bossley cried, sounding half-mad with anguish to the noise of doors opening and closing.

Mac leaned on the banister, resting his chin in his hand. These were two very passionate women.

Miss Davidson started up the stairs, stomping on the treads as if to promise a reckoning once she placed her hands on Mrs. Bossley.

She was precluded from her actions by the older woman’s appearance on the top step. Mrs. Bossley had torn her bonnet from her head. She held it in one hand by the ribbons while her other hand rested on her temple as if her head was splitting with pain. She weaved back and forth as she begged, “Where is he?”

Miss Davidson pulled up short. “Where is he?” she repeated with disbelief. “He’s been with
you
since last night.”

“With
me
?” Mrs. Bossley dropped her hands to her side in surprise. “Since last night?”

Miss Davidson’s response was a bark of disbelief. “You don’t have to pretend,” she said, her words wounded and strangely affecting. “You have won. He’s chosen you over his reputation, his honor, his responsibilities.”

“You believe your father has been with me?” Mrs. Bossley countered, as if wishing to perfectly understand the accusation against her.

Crossing her arms tightly against her chest, Miss Davidson did not reply but studied a point on the staircase that was of interest only to her.

“He has not been with me,” Mrs. Bossley said. “I haven’t seen him since you and I had our little tiff at the Ladies’ Quarterly Meeting.”

It took a moment for Miss Davidson to process this information. Her brows came together, then her head shot up. “You have not seen Father?”

Mrs. Bossley shook her head so vigorously, several pins dropped from her hair, upsetting her style.

“Since before the luncheon?” Miss Davidson prodded.

“The night before,” Mrs. Bossley added for clarification. “I was expecting him last night. You can imagine I had a few matters I wished to discuss with him. You spoke to him, didn’t you?” Now Mrs. Bossley was the accuser. “You told him about our conversation.”

“I did,” Miss Davidson admitted stoutly, “as well I should. And then he left the house, and he hasn’t returned since. Are you saying, he did not go to you?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying. I have not seen him. I expected his visit, but I’ve had no word or sight of him, and considering how upset you were when we spoke, I assumed he avoided me.”

Miss Davidson shook her head. “Well, if he wasn’t with you, and he hasn’t been with me—where is he?”

It was at this point that Mac felt he could offer something to the conversation. He cleared his throat, gaining their attention, and announced, “He might be dead.”

The idea had just occurred to him, but considering the events that had ruled his life, and that Davidson had helped orchestrate his escape, the possibility was real.

Both women started in surprise. Mrs. Bossley practically came tumbling down the steps to stand on the same stair tread as Miss Davidson. “Dead?” she repeated, her hand rising to clutch her dress at her heart.

Mac rested his elbow on the newel post and nodded. The staircase was made of good sturdy wood and not ornate. In fact, everything in his house spoke of a simple, humble life, and not the home of the sort of Captain Sharp who would patronize the Rook’s Nest as Davidson had done.

“Yes,” he informed the women. “Richard Davidson could be dead.”

Mrs. Bossley was ready to come undone. She began drawing big, shuddering breaths, but Miss Davidson had enough spirit to challenge him.

She came down a stair. “What makes you say this?”

“Because he apparently was playing with some nasty fellows,” Mac answered.

“My father would not consort with anyone disreputable,” she informed him.

“Did he consort with the Reverend Kinnion?” Mac asked. “Because I fear there is a strong possibility, the good reverend might also be dead.”

“Dead?” Miss Davidson repeated.

“Yes, shot.”

“
What
is this man talking about, Miss Davidson?” Mrs. Bossley demanded, shrilly. “
Why
is he here anyway?”

Miss Davidson shook off her companion’s questions. She came all the way down the stairs so she could stand eye level with Mac. “The Reverend Kinnion has been missing for several days. Why do you believe he is dead?” she asked, her voice calm, the gaze of her blue eyes intent as they met his.

This woman was a cool player. A good one to have on one’s side in a fight, but he’d learned that when she’d attempted to scratch the eyes out of his head.

And, whatever had been going on between her and Mrs. Bossley was of little consequence at this moment. She truly was concerned for her father and wanted answers.

“I heard the shot that might have killed him,” Mac said. “I stumbled over his body, and he did not respond.”

“Are you certain he is dead?”