Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (12 page)

And his eyes. Oh, his eyes. He was weak and ill and injured, and yet the light in his eye was indomitable, fierce, the kind of light she thought would be seen in the Highlanders of old as they came streaming down a glen in full battle cry. He must have been a magnificent soldier.

“This is
Lady
Clarke,” George grated, still caught tight in Ian’s grip. “And you’ll treat her with respect or I’ll . . .”

“You’ll what, laddie?” Ian said to him with a sudden grin.

Sarah wanted so badly to laugh. But she had spent enough time with men to know that it was the last thing George needed. Bending, she finally picked up the gun.

“You can let him go now, Ian,” she said. “He would never hurt me.” Dropping the pistol into her deep pocket, she once again rescued her poor bucket from where it had fallen. “And thank you for protecting me, George. But I spoke the truth before. I am in no danger from the colonel.”

Ian complied, and George stumbled to his feet. Ian’s head dropped. He was on one knee, panting and waxy and trembling. George was trying to stretch out the shoulder Ian had strained.

Sarah bent to check Ian. He was bleeding again. “Come, George. Give me a hand.”

George scowled, but he settled Ian back against the wall and crouched before him. “Colonel?” he asked, scowling.

Ian grinned. “Highlanders. Ye?”

George gave that quick quirk of his head. “HMS
Indefatigable.
”

Ian grunted. “A tar. I might have known.”

George glared. “Bo’sun.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills.

Sarah sighed. “If you both will let me know when you have come to some accommodation, I will occupy myself making the garlic poultice.”

“I’m sorry, m’lady,” George said, not looking away from Ian. “But I think you should give me back my gun. I know you saw the posters in town.”

“I did, George,” Sarah said, once again rescuing her supplies. “But the colonel says that he did not shoot Wellington. I believe him.”

George stared at her as if she had just told him she was a French spy. “You
believe
him? Just like that?”

Rescuing a cloth, she put it into Ian’s hand, then laid both against the wound. “No. I went to school with his sisters. If he is the man I grew to know through his letters, he would never harm the duke.” She lifted the now empty bucket. “Now, if you would get me some more water, I will tend his wound so that eventually he can move on.”

“He’ll be moving on right now,” George protested, arms crossed. “I have a horse outside.”

“Water, please, George,” she challenged, the bucket held up. “And be careful of Harvey as you go by. He is in a snappy mood today.”

Finally conceding with a grunt, George grabbed the pail and stomped out, taking a wide berth around Harvey’s stall. Harvey lunged for him anyway, great horse teeth clacking together as George scooted past. Turning back to her task, Sarah pulled out the garlic mash she had prepared and opened it. The sharp scent stung her nose, reminding her of just what she would have to do the next few days to see Ian Ferguson off her land. If his fever was any indication, she was going to have to sneak out time and again to apply poultices, dose fevers, and change bandages.

She should let George take Ian off her hands, just as he wanted. George would get Ian away, and she would be left with no more to burden her than her daily struggle to survive. There would be no more divided loyalties, no speeding heartbeats or damp palms, no sudden, unfamiliar yearnings. No danger of any kind. Well, no
new
danger.

But Ian would be gone. And no matter how she should wish for that, she didn’t.

She realized suddenly that George had returned, pail at his feet. “Well?”

Her options collected in her chest like rocks. But then she saw the resignation in Ian’s eyes. He would agree with George, just to protect her. But he was too ill to travel. And George was too vulnerable to help him. At least that was what she told herself.

“No.” She turned back to spreading the garlic over a piece of linen. “Thank you, though, George.”

“But I can get him away,” George protested. “The ship’s in.”

She nodded. “And don’t you think Martin is waiting for you by the pier?”

Ian Ferguson abruptly looked up. “Bloody hell,” he said. “You’re right.”

She looked over to see the frustration written on those deathly pale features.

“Is that what you were planning?” Sarah asked him. “To steal a boat?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had so little luck traveling over land, and I’m running out of time. Wellington needs to know of the danger to him, especially from Stricker.”

George stared. “Stricker? The little ferret who’s taken up with Martin Clarke?”

Ian faced him. “The traitorous little reptile who did shoot at Wellington. I ken he’s leading the soldiers so he can silence me before I can accuse him.”

“Why?” George asked. “Why shoot the duke now, when the fightin’s done?”

Ian rubbed at his forehead. “Because a group of Englishmen are trying to topple the throne, and they know the general would be the first to stand in their way. Until Wellington is dispatched, they canna move. Which is why he is in such grave danger.” George stared hard at him. Sarah held her breath.

“Tell me again he be no traitor,” George said, never looking away from Ian.

“He is no traitor,” Sarah said as calmly as possible.

“How do you know?” George demanded. “He mighta cozened you, Scot ’n all.”

She felt her heart give a little hiccup. Had he cozened her? Had she allowed her own loneliness and drudgery to so consume her that she would believe any man who looked at her with desire in his eyes and kissed like a starving man? Could she truly be ready to put everything she had left in this world at stake for a man she barely knew? A man who had been such a constant disappointment to his sisters?

She was suddenly so afraid that she would do just that. She would put all her trust in this man, merely because he was the first man who looked at her as if she were not an unpardonable mistake, as if, God help her, she were the answer to his needs. She was afraid she would protect him because he had
seen
her.

Oh, sweet lord, she thought, barely able to keep from touching her suddenly sensitive lips. It was humiliating to realize how frail she really was.

Then she realized that Ian was silently watching for her answer. And blast him if his expression wasn’t one of understanding.

Ian…no, she thought, with a shake of her head. Not Ian. The
colonel.
That was how she would think of him, not as the man whose exploits had been dramatic reading through four years of school, every girl’s dream. Not the handsome man with the devilish smile. A distant acquaintance. A formal relationship centered on his sisters. Not on his kiss. That
damn
kiss. That exquisite kiss.

“He is not a traitor,” she repeated, and turned back to her work.

“All right then,” George conceded. “What about Weymouth? We could get him on a ship there. It’s beyond where Clarke be searchin’.”

Sarah shook her head. “Princess Charlotte is in residence. The entire Royal Navy is attending her.” Leaning over, she exchanged the bloody cloth for her poultice, rousing the smell of garlic. “Here. Hold this.”

Ian wrinkled his nose at the pungent aroma. “I smell like a Spanish cook,” he complained, before looking up at her. “Could you get in to see her?”

She stared at him, sure she’d misheard. “The princess? Are you mad? What would make you think I knew the heir to the throne?”

“Your friend Pippin Knight does. And the other one. Lizzie something. Fiona is always writing me about it.”

“Pippin also lives in Wiltshire and is the daughter of an earl.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice that she didn’t speak of Lizzie. The last thing she wanted to do was involve Lizzie.

“You’re the daughter of some toff too,” George offered diffidently.

Sarah shrugged. “Some toff who never acknowledged me. Princess Charlotte would never receive an unknown by-blow, no matter how close I am to her friend.”

She didn’t want to see Ian Ferguson’s reaction to her admission, so she bent to retrieve a length of muslin. Pulling him away from the wall, she began to wrap the poultice against his bare torso. His skin was so hot, she kept thinking. He was expending far too much energy when he was so sick. He was hard, though, his body sculpted from heavy work. If nothing else, she thought, running her hands around his back, he was in excellent shape.
Excellent
shape.

Which, by heaven, she shouldn’t even notice.

“What do you think the princess could do?” George asked, still frowning.

Ian sighed. “Nothing, probably. It was just a thought.”

For a good few minutes as Sarah finished her work, nobody spoke. Over in his stall, Harvey gave the wall a good kick, and one of the goats bleated nervously. Sarah had just begun to hope that she would escape soon without any more distractions when Ian stirred. The
colonel,
she amended angrily. As if that would make a difference.

“You could mail a letter for me,” he blurted out.

She and George turned to him. “To the princess?”

His grin was fleeting. “To my friends. I’m nae the only one trying to protect Wellington. If I can get word to the right people, they can warn him.”

Again Sarah froze, a scissors in her hand.
No,
she thought.
No.
Agreeing to his request would take her from life-saver to co-conspirator. She could just see the soldiers coming upon her with that damning letter in her pocket.
Dear sir, I have Colonel Ian Ferguson in my stable. If you have the time, could you come collect him?
There could be no explanation adequate enough to keep her out of gaol.

“I cannot,” she said, and knew he could hear the distress in her voice. “It is too much.”

He was rubbing at his forehead, his eyes briefly closed. If possible, he was looking even worse. “Dinna you have a friend you can trust? Somebody you could write, who might forward a letter tucked inside a missive? So we could masquerade where the note actually came from?”

“Of course I do,” she retorted. “Your sisters. Who are half an island away. But I would never put them in that kind of danger.”

He shook his head. “It would take too long to get a message to them anyway.”

She split the end of the bandage in two, aware that the colonel would not give up.

“What about Pippa, Alex Knight’s sister?” he asked. “You know her.”

“Visiting relatives in Ireland.”

“You shouldn’t do this, m’lady,” George protested. “Woman like you shouldn’t be mixed up in such dirty doin’s.”

“None of us should,” she said. “But that does not get Colonel Ferguson out of my stable or the Duke of Wellington protected.”

Oh, dear God. What had she just said? She couldn’t be considering it.

“Another classmate from Miss Chase’s, maybe,” Ian said. “Any one of them would do. After all, they weren’t sent to that school because of the color of their hair.”

Sarah blinked in confusion. “Pardon?”

Now it was Ian’s turn to look confused. “You know why you were sent there.”

“Of course. Because I was incorrigible.”

Because they had all been incorrigible.

Ian was staring. “
You?
” he and George retorted in unison.

“Bollocks,” Ian said.

“Daft,” George agreed.

Sarah had to smile. “Not misbehaving incorrigible. Shameful love child incorrigible. My adoptive parents believed that they would never get me off their hands without at least a semblance of training in the womanly arts.” She swept out her free hand, encompassing her world. “And of course they were quite correct. I don’t know what I would have done without the pianoforte lessons, proper use of cutlery, and, of course, globes. Although French actually has come in handy. I can converse with the odd smuggler who washes ashore.”

“You been a great help, m’lady.”

“Thank you, George. I can’t think how French or the proper use of a bouillon spoon could help you, though, Colonel.”

“Surely you know the real purpose of the school,” Ian protested.

Suddenly his mouth shut and he looked over at George. George looked at Sarah. Sarah sighed. “You might as well tell me. George will not leave ’til this is settled, and he is close as a clam. You rather have to be in his line of work.”

George scowled. “An’ then he can tell me how you got involved in all this.” Sarah thought Ian was about to, when Harvey whinnied. Sarah looked up to see him turned to the door.

Hoofbeats out on the drive. A lot of them.

“Bloody hell,” Ian snapped. “Not again.”

Sarah was almost too afraid to look outside. Tying the last knot in Ian’s bandage, she climbed to her feet and shook out her skirt. Passing Harvey another biscuit on the way by, she strode over to crack the great door open and look out.

A phalanx of mounted men in bright red were trotting up the drive. Sarah fought a surge of panic. At least they didn’t have Martin with them. They did have a chinless civilian wearing a bright yellow jacket with impossibly large brass buttons and a tall beaver hat riding alongside the officer.

They were stopping at the front portico, which gave Sarah a few extra minutes. There were times it was a benefit to have an octogenarian butler.

“Who is it?” George asked, never moving from where Ian sat.

“Soldiers,” Sarah said, returning to them. “Real ones.”

“What are they doin’ here so soon?” George demanded, standing.

It was a silly question. “If this man Stricker is noticeably absent of a chin and taste,” Sarah announced, closing the door. “He has accompanied them.”

Ian tried to push himself up. “That’s it, then,” he said. “I have to get away.”

“You won’t get fifty feet,” Sarah said. “George. See if you can get him to the chicken coop. I think that will be safer. They certainly won’t look for you there.”

“Not the coop,” Ian protested. “Those hens hate me.”

George ignored him. “You can’t face those men, m’lady.”

“I cannot ignore them, George. Now go, both of you. I will wait for a moment and head for the house.”

“I have a better idea,” George suggested, suddenly sounding diffident again. “Let’s put him in the west wing cellars. They’ll never find him there.”

Sarah shot him a scowl. “
I
will never find him there, George. The cellars are impossible to reach. The floors and stairs are rotted all the way down.”

By all that was holy, George was giving her a sly smile.

“What?” she demanded.

“Well,” he said, head down like a lad caught red-handed with a fistful of cookies. “Happens when Boswell and me was lads, he showed me a secret way in. Happens . . .”

Sarah felt the blood draining yet again from her head. She truly couldn’t stand too many more surprises. “You have used them?” she demanded, he voice rising. “You have stored contraband in those cellars? In the
manor house
?”

George ducked his head. “Once or twice. Nubody thinks to look there.”

“And where,” she asked, striving mightily to hold on to her temper, “is this way in no one knows about?”

“Over by Boswell’s arbor.”

Sweet Jesus. Sarah almost fainted on the spot. “His
arbor
? Where his good roses are planted?”

“On the other side. Down the hill a bit. There’s a little door tucked into that little hollow facing the sea, the one with all the bracken. Goes right to the cellar.”

She knew she was wasting precious seconds, but she simply couldn’t assimilate all this at once. Certainly not with a troop of soldiers knocking on her front door.

“You and I will speak later,” she warned the big man. “For now, wait ’til the soldiers enter the house and then get yourselves to safety. I will find you later.”