Rexanne Becnel (12 page)

She rummaged through her reticule. Why hadn’t she thought to carry more money with her? There was nothing like a shiny sovereign to tempt a person whose pockets more usually held pennies.

In short order the coach pulled up at the MacNeils’ cottage. It was a low, rambling affair, stuccoed and with two chimneys, marking them as a more prosperous family than their neighbors. But the yard was a disordered mess, and behind the cottage the laundry flapped perilously near to the ground, hanging from carelessly propped-up poles.

Two dogs rushed out, fur up and legs stiff, to announce her. On their heels came five little children, two women, and finally one bowlegged old man. She stared at him, with his braces stretched across his bulging belly. Perhaps he was Mr. MacNeil, husband of Magda.

He stomped across the yard, scowling with every step. As if they sensed his mood, the dogs grew bolder. Sarah’s driver had to keep a firm hold on the nervous pair of horses.

“Get on wit’ you!” the old man shouted, gesticulating with his fists at the carriage, not the dogs.

With his whip the driver deftly flicked one of the curs that came too near, then scowled at the old fellow. “Here, now. Call off yer dogs. There ain’t no cause to be ugly-like.”

The man only shook his knotted lists harder. “If she’s come around here for the same purpose as that other one, well, she can just be on her way now. We don’t talk about them that has sinned and been sent out of the family. I tol’ him that, an’ I tell you the same. That Maureen weren’t worth the dirt under my Magda’ s shoes. Now go on. Go back to America with that bastard son of hers!”

Stiff with outrage, Sarah called out before the driver could argue, “Drive on.” Marshall had been here already—and no doubt had been just as rudely rebuffed. Still and all, she’d learned enough from that rude old man to guess the rest. Marsh’s mother must have been this Maureen, sister to Magda MacDougal MacNeil.

And her sin?

Sarah stared blindly at the vacant squabs opposite her. There was only one sin she knew of that would cause a young woman to be ostracized by her family that way. Maureen MacDougal must have been pregnant without benefit of marriage.

A cold shiver ran down her back. With no husband, Maureen MacDougal had been sent away—all the way to America, it seemed. Cameron Byrde might have been the woman’s lover, but just as Sarah had suspected, he’d never been her husband.

Mr. MacDougal had no proof of a marriage and he would not find one here. She was now certain of that.

And then, the man had referred to Marsh as a bastard.

But as the coach made a circle on the rutted road and started back for the road to Kelso, Sarah did not feel nearly the satisfaction she’d expected. Instead, an image of a frightened young woman, alone and with child, kept rising in her mind’s eye.

How would she feel in just such circumstances? Not that she would ever allow herself to get into such circumstances. Nevertheless, to be abandoned by everyone: lover, sister, family. To be sent all the way across an ocean to make your own way in the world. To be the sole support of yourself and your helpless little child.

It was a terrible thought, and despite her distrust and dislike of Marshall MacDougal, she felt a real pang of sympathy for his unknown mother—and for the fatherless boy he must have been. Neither of them had deserved the fate handed down to them. Most especially he did not deserve the lingering censure of that thoroughly unpleasant Mr. MacNeil.

She pulled off her gloves and untied and removed her bonnet. Was that the sort of treatment that had driven Adrian from Eton, that mean-spirited sort of contempt?

No doubt it was.

Sarah sighed. She would have to redouble her efforts on the boy’s behalf, she decided as she settled in for the long return journey. And perhaps once Mr. MacDougal returned to America—for surely he must be disheartened by today’s revelation—she might confide all this in Neville and caution him not to be put off by Adrian’s brave show of nonchalance. The boy needed a father, else he was bound to grow up as difficult and unhappy as the troublesome Mr. MacDougal.

Sitting in the shade of a chestnut tree outside the squat posting house in Rutherford and nursing his third glass of whiskey, Marsh clenched his jaw in unconscious rhythm. That sorry son of a bitch! Thirty years gone by and with his own wife dead and buried, yet still Horace MacNeil had shunned Maureen MacDougal—and also her son. If that was the way her family had treated her, no wonder his mother had denied having any family left in Scotland.

Marsh tossed back the hard Scotch whiskey, reveling in its burning heat. Anything to keep his mind turned away from the doubt that had grown so quickly to life in his mind. Could it be true? Could his mother have been sent away heavy with child and without a husband? Could Cameron Byrde have refused to wed her? Could she have lied in order to ease a little boy’s desperate longing for a father he could never have?

His hand trembled and he set the heavy tumbler down.

Of all his setbacks—the long, wearying sea journey, the dead ends in London, the leads and misleads since he’d arrived in Scotland—today’s confrontation with his mother’s family had hit Marsh the hardest.

The man had called him a bastard, not a remark that generally bothered him. But this time…this time he’d begun to believe it might actually be true.

He closed his eyes, picturing his mother as he’d last seen her. So pretty and frail, and always smiling at him with love shining in her eyes. He’d been the center of her world. He understood that now. And he’d taken that exalted position entirely for granted. Only now, when she was gone, did he finally understand how important her love and faith had been to him.

Would he ever be that important to anyone again?

So he sat there as the late afternoon shadows drew purple across the yard. it was not his way to wallow in self-pity. Yet this day he allowed himself that dubious luxury.

Across the yard Duff waited, unconcerned as always about where they might spend the night. The man was curious about what Marsh was up to—and about his quick fists. Though Marsh was not ashamed of his early career as a boxer, it was not something he bragged about. He should have expected that a sporting man like Duffy Erskine might recognize the name MacDougal. But that was immaterial, a part of his past. What concerned him now was an even earlier part of his past.

Marsh watched as a plump maid came out of the kitchen for the third time to flirt with Duff, then heaved a great sigh. He wished his life were once again that simple and uncomplicated.

A carriage creaked and rumbled into the yard, and Marsh idly followed its progress. Something about it looked familiar. Then he spied a woman in profile within its dim interior and suddenly his every sense came into heightened focus.

Sarah Palmer. She must have followed him.

His heart began to beat at a heavier, faster pace. So she was here. That meant life was about to get even more complicated now. He should not be surprised, for she was nothing if not determined. And intelligent. He had to give her that.

But was she smart enough to have discovered the MacNeils and their connection to the MacDougals?

He watched the carriage halt near the stables and the driver leap down; then he stood and raked his hands though his hair. Every aspect of his brief bout of self-pity disappeared as he contemplated the opportunity her presence here provided him.

He’d been rebuffed by Horace MacNeil as a bastard.

It would interesting to see how Sarah Palmer felt about bastards.

S
ARAH
reached for the carriage door, then abruptly fell back against the leather squabs. No! He could not be here!

But, of course, he was. Marshall MacDougal, striding across the yard, making straight for her carriage. Oh, why of all places must they stop here to water the horses? A little over an hour and she would have been home. Even a half hour later and they could have stopped in Trows instead.

But no, she was caught here, without a maid and with nightfall fast approaching—and Marshall MacDougal clearly intent on confronting her.

Distracted, she pushed a damp curl back from her brow. All right. So he wanted to confront her. Let him. She had nothing to be ashamed of for being here. She was only protecting her family interests, a commendable goal by anyone’s standards. And anyway, she was in a stronger position now than she’d been before—assuming that the unpleasant Mr. MacNeil’s remarks were true.

So she made herself smile, the lofty, assured smile that she’d long ago learned was a necessity for anyone intent on sailing the rough waters of social discourse, especially when dealing with difficult persons like Marshall MacDougal. And she completely ignored the fact that her heart was racing from any emotion other than irritation.

He halted outside the door, his head on a level with her window. “Why, hello, Miss Palmer,” he said in a suspiciously hearty tone. “Fancy running into you here. The gods must be smiling on me today, to provide me with such welcome company.”

Welcome company? Her eyes narrowed. If it was a game of mock and taunt he wanted, she would show him that she could thrust and parry with the best of them.

“My, my. How you do go on, Mr. MacDougal. I’m afraid, however, that our delay here shall be brief. We stop only to refresh the horses before continuing on to Kelso.”

“As do I. I’d be pleased to accompany you.”

“I’m sure that will not be necessary.”

“But I insist. I’m sure your mother would not want you traveling these country roads alone—”

“Ha!” she interrupted him. “As we both know, you are the last person to concern yourself over my mother’s wishes. Besides, I have my driver.”

“As I said,” he continued as if she hadn’t broken in, “you should not be traveling these country roads alone, especially after dark. I’ve been warned that highwaymen are rampant in these parts.”

Though Sarah had been warned of the very same thing, she was not about to agree with him. “I’m sure that’s pure exaggeration.”

“I don’t think so.” He was grinning now, a cheeky, triumphant grin that made it very hard for her to maintain any semblance of serenity.

Thrusting out her jaw, she decided to be forthright. “Let us drop this ridiculous farce, Mr. MacDougal. You do not care for my safety, and given your bad feelings toward my mother, you cannot seriously cast yourself as someone considerate of her feelings. Besides, as you well know, we have not met here by accident. Like me, you are recently come from Maxton, apparently arriving there before I did. I suspect, however, that we have both come away with the same interesting bit of information. Of course, I suspect I enjoy it a little better than do you.”

It was like watching a curtain fall across his eyes. The taunting light went out, replaced by wariness. “The same bit of information?” He enunciated the words carefully.

Sarah hesitated before speaking. “I’ve been to see Mr. MacNeil.”

The wariness turned at once to ice. “Mr. MacNeil is eager to make his ugly opinions known. Whether that opinion is supported by fact, however, remains to be seen. But I’m glad to know you are content with his pronouncements. Sarah. Perhaps you will no longer feel the need to follow me about the countryside.”

With that he made her a short bow and departed. Not at all what she’d expected. He hadn’t even allowed her time to berate him for using her given name without permission.

Though Sarah had kept her distance from the open window, now she leaned her head all the way out, watching as he strode stiffly away.

A part of her felt sorry for him. He’d come so far—halfway around the world—only to learn that he was the casual by-blow of a man who had lived his life without any regard for the people he hurt. How painful that must be.

Surely he would return to America now.

The next quarter hour, Sarah remained seated in the carriage, mulling matters over as the horses were tended. With each passing minute, unfortunately, she grew more convinced that Mr. MacDougal did not mean to give up this easily. No, not him. Was she, therefore, wise to assume victory on the strength of one rather nasty and vindictive fellow’s remarks?

But even as she worried about whether or not Mr. MacNeil’s cruel words were the whole truth, a small part of her also worried about how those words might have wounded Mr. MacDougal.

Why she should give even passing thought to his feelings, she could not fathom. Perhaps it was due to Adrian’s similar circumstances. After all, she would not like to see the boy belittled for the circumstances of his birth. So how could she enjoy seeing Mr. MacDougal treated in the same cruel manner?

Then there was the fact that despite everything, he was very likely Olivia’s half-brother. That meant he was also an extended part of her own family.

She shifted uncomfortably on the bench seat. If only he would behave like family instead of their enemy. Knowing her sister, Sarah was certain that Livvie would accept him as her natural-born brother. In time she supposed even their mother might grow accustomed to the idea of her second husband having had an outside son. He certainly wouldn’t be the first man to have done so.

But none of them could ever accept Marshall MacDougal so long as he insisted that he was Cameron Byrde’s rightful son and heir, and that his mother was Cameron Byrde’s true wife.

Sarah grimaced and massaged her temples, which had begun to throb. Everything was in such a muddle!

By the time they started off again, it was dark enough that the driver lit the front lantern. A crescent moon provided some illumination of a pale and erratic sort. But within a couple of miles a thick layer of clouds rolled in, and darkness settled over them like a heavy, smothering hand.

Sarah perched anxiously beside the window, staring out into the gloom. She could hardly make out anything beyond the lumpy mass of the occasional hedgerows and stone fences, and the infrequent light from a distant house or cottage. Added to that, her curt discussion of highwaymen with Mr. MacDougal had left her jumpy in the extreme.

She should have taken a room in Rutherford. Though her driver had not voiced his opinion, she’d known by his expectant stare that he’d hoped for just that. But she had promised Mrs. Hamilton that she’d be back tonight. Plus, Marshall MacDougal had been there, with his arrogant attitude and his unsettling appeal. As a result, instead of making a logical decision, she’d let emotions rule her thinking.

Why was it he always managed to rattle her so? Why was it she got her back up whenever he was around?

Somewhere in the distance the dull flash of summer lightning provided momentary relief to the stifling dark. After a few seconds, thunder rolled low and threatening over them.

Please don’t let it rain
, she prayed. That was all she needed. Already they’d slowed to little more than a walk. A storm would bring them to a complete halt.

Then she heard another sound. Horses’ hooves and a man’s voice. At once she recalled Marshall MacDougal’s words:
Highwaymen are rampant in these parts
.

Dear God, please do not let that be true!

Oh, why had she been so unwise as to chance returning home after dark?

“Miss?” came the driver’s voice. He sounded nervous. “Best you hold on tight. It might be rough going.”

Rough going?

That proved to be an understatement of the grossest nature. For with a snap of his whip, the carriage surged forward and though Sarah kept a death grip on the window stile and her feet planted firmly on the floor, she was still buffeted side to side and jounced violently up and down.

Dear lord, how could the driver keep his seat? And how did the team see their way down the pitch dark roadway?

Yet those concerns were nothing to her bigger fear. Were the highwaymen gaining ground?

“Hold up!” She heard the cry behind them.

“Go faster!” Sarah shouted through her chattering teeth.

“Sarah! Slow down, damn it!”

He knew her name? Sarah thrust her head out of the window. Did she know that voice?

“Sarah! Make your driver slow down!”

Though the darkness surrounded them, it did not disguise that voice, nor the broad American accent.

“Stop! Stop!” she cried out to the driver. That was no highwayman at all, but rather, Mr. MacDougal. Thank God.

As quickly as the driver pulled the laboring team in, however, Sarah’s relief turned to outrage. How dare that man spook them that way!

She was out of the carriage almost before it swayed to a stop. Mr. MacDougal had to pull his snorting animal up short to avoid colliding with her.

“You had better be a highwayman,” she bit out. “For you have absolutely no other reason for terrifying me so!”

The man who rode up behind Mr. MacDougal let out a bark of laughter. “I b’lieve the chit wants tying up and ravishing, guv’nor. More’n one lady is peculiar that way.”

“Shut up,” Mr. MacDougal muttered. To Sarah he said, “I did not begin to chase you until you began to run. Up to then I was content to keep my distance.”

Sarah planted her fists on her hips. “Why are you following me at all? You could have stayed in Rutherford.”

“Believe me, I would have,” he threw right back at her. “Only I was uneasy about you traveling alone after dark.”

Behind them her driver cleared his throat. “Excuse me, miss.”

But Sarah kept her glare upon Marshall MacDougal. In the dark he loomed big and threatening, and she didn’t trust him any more than she’d trust some highwayman. “I do not need you to look out for me.”

He dismounted, though that didn’t lessen at all his threatening aura. Indeed, when he stopped just in front of her, she felt more threatened than ever. Did highwaymen ravish the women they stopped? Was he considering ravishing her?

A rush of heat went through her at the very thought, and she let out a little groan of dismay. How could she react to him that way? Him, of all people?

“Excuse me, miss,” her driver again said from beside the still excited and blowing horses. “Excuse me, but this here horse, he looks like he’s done for.”

Done for? Sarah whirled around and stared at the man. She wanted to cry. She wanted to stamp her foot and pitch a fit—not that it would do any good, of course. But it would provide an outlet for the confusion of emotions roiling inside her—chief among them, frustration. Instead she summoned every ounce of her self-control and addressed the coachman. “What do you mean, ‘done for’?”

Even in the dark she recognized his nervousness. “Well, he’s pulled up lame. Must’ve stepped wrong or somethin’ in that madcap race.”

Thunder echoed across the sky, nearer now, and Sarah felt an impending sense of doom. “Can he continue on?”

“Well, he’ll have to walk home hisself, back to Byrde Manor. But I dinna think he can pull any sort of weight. Not on this leg.”

“But he will recover?” Sarah asked, concerned now about the poor animal’s injury.

“Oh, I believe so, miss. I believe a week or two of rest will see him all right again.”

Relieved of that worry, Sarah faced her own dilemma. What was she to do now?

Something awfully near to a snicker came from the vicinity of Mr. MacDougal’s outspoken manservant.

“Can the other horse manage the carriage alone?” she asked her driver.

“If he weren’t already weary, if we didn’t have Gannet Hill to climb, well, maybe. But considerin’ all that…”

“We can put one of our horses in the traces,” Mr. MacDougal offered, much to Sarah’s surprise.

“I don’t think so,” she began.

“I insist. I cannot leave you here, and I feel responsible for your predicament.”

“Well, I’m glad you at least admit that. Nonetheless, I do not believe your horse is up to the task. A fine saddle animal is not used to being in traces.”

“My man’s animal is temperate enough for the job,” he insisted. “He can then ride my horse while I accompany you in the carriage. But if you dislike that alternative,” he went on, “you can ride with me.” He patted his animal’s neck. “Dukie is more than capable of carrying the two of us.”

He paused just long enough for her to imagine how disastrous that possibility would be. Her sitting before him, nestled in the circle of his arms, pressed against his chest.

Sarah’s frustration dissolved into something akin to panic. Good Lord! That would never do!

“Either option is acceptable to me,” he continued. “The only thing I will not allow is for you to spend the night here in this carriage. One way or the other, you must be delivered home.”

Behind him his man dismounted and went over to the carriage team to confer with her driver. That left Sarah relatively alone with Marshall MacDougal, alone to answer him, though she liked neither of the answers open to her. She crossed her arms, angry, upset, and agitated. Was there no other way?

“You can’t stand it, can you?” he whispered in a voice that did not carry to the two servants.

“If you refer to being stranded in the middle of the night with a storm bearing down on me, then no, I cannot.”

“I mean you cannot stand me being right.” He was closer now.

Her chin came up. “What is it you want, Mr. MacDougal? Does it please you to put me in such a predicament? I concede that I find both options unpleasant.” She paused. “Repugnant.”

He chuckled. “If it were the good vicar, or even Mr. Halbrecht, you would not be so upset. Admit it. You would ride before Mr. Liston, and you would happily suffer Mr. Halbrecht’s presence within your carriage. But with me…” He let his words trail off.

“Do you blame me?” she retorted in a sharp whisper. “Neither Mr. Liston nor Mr. Halbrecht harbors any intentions of harming my family.”