The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (30 page)

Sarah lost her balance and pitched forward. Marcus caught her and pulled her close.

“No!” she screamed, twisting in his hold as she tried desperately to reach Nigel.

But Charles had already dragged Sarah’s brother with him deeper into the woods, the two disappearing beyond the thick of the trees.

“Wise choice,” Marlowe commented, testing the weight of the emerald in his hand with a slight toss. He pointed the pistol directly at them. “And I wouldn’t follow if I were you. Two boys have been killed—it would
hardly be an inconvenience for my associate to take care of a third.”

Sarah lashed out at the man, struggling to free herself from Marcus’s arms in an attempt to launch herself at Marlowe.

Marcus tightened his grip around her waist and held on, murmuring in her ear as Marlowe backed away, then turned and vanished.

“Are you going to kill me?” Nigel asked as another swell of cold salt water washed over the side of the small wooden boat.

A seagull cried overhead, accompanying the boat as it bobbed along.

The man Weston had called Marlowe looked down at him, his face unconcerned. “Come now, boy, don’t look so glum. There’s always hope.”

Charles rowed toward St. Aldhelm’s Isle, his large, muscled arms flexing with each stroke.

Nigel and his friends had heard often enough of the island being used by smugglers. The ghost stories told for generations had successfully kept away any curious customs officials and the like.

The three friends had planned a trip to the island at the end of the summer. Nigel had wanted nothing more than to set foot on the beach and claim it for his own.

But now there was nothing he wanted less than to touch its rock-hewn beaches. The island’s bulk loomed ahead of them, a blacker outline against the night, ominous and no longer fascinating.

“You’ll kill me even if you get the last emerald, won’t you?” he pressed, a sudden eerie calm settling over him.

“Shut up with ya,” Charles spat, sweat dripping down his ruddy face. His huge muscles bulged, flexing and straining below his sleeveless leather jerkin.

Marlowe nudged the boy with his knee. “Remember, boy, there’s always hope.”

Charles began to sing in time to the swells:

Nigel knew the song well. He’d sung it often enough with Jasper and Clive as they’d gone about their odd jobs for Charles and his men. It seemed almost perverse that Charles would choose the tune at such a time, but oddly enough it comforted Nigel.

Marlowe nudged Nigel a second time. “Come now, boy, sing along.” Nigel did as he was told, his voice low, near a whisper. Marlowe sang out as if every last creature in the ocean was listening, his voice strong and deep.

Nigel’s voice grew louder, until the seagull squawked with disgust. But Nigel hardly cared. He feared if he stopped singing, he’d be unable to hold back the tears that clogged his throat.

The three ended with great gusto and Marlowe threw his arm about Nigel as the last line grew to a crescendo and then faded away.

“ ’Tis a pity we’ll have to kill him, the boy has a good enough voice,” Charles said with a tinge of regret, starting in on “Old Maid in the Garrett.”

Nigel willed himself not to cry, holding fast to the strange nothingness that had plagued him off and on since Jasper’s and Clive’s deaths.

Nothingness, it seemed, was preferable to fearing for one’s life.

“Hope, boy. There’s always hope,” Marlowe repeated before joining Charles in song.

Sarah watched as Marcus closed her parents’ carriage door then conferred with the driver. A short conversation ensued between the two and the driver climbed atop his perch.

Marcus made his way to where Sarah stood fidgeting with the ribbons on her straw bonnet.

“How did you explain Nigel’s absence?” she asked, attempting to smile assuredly at her mother, who stared after the two.

Marcus looked to where they’d emerged from the forest minutes before. “I lied. They believe he’s with Stewart and Pattinson.”

Sarah nodded, trying desperately to control her emotions. “Why did you choose Nigel?”

Marcus scrubbed a hand over his face, his chin rough with beard stubble beneath his palm. “Sarah, there is no point in discussing this further.”

Sully appeared just over the hill alone, walking at a brisk pace.

“Where is Dixon?” Marcus demanded, his voice eerily calm.

The valet cleared his throat. “Gone by the time I arrived—must have woken up and made a run for it.”

“Accompany the Tisdales home. I’ll go back and try to find him,” Marcus said tersely.

“I’ll just fetch my horse, then,” Sully said plainly. “We’ll need to be off—”

“I’m well aware of the time. Go now. I’ll send Sarah over straightaway,” Marcus interrupted brusquely.

“There is every point in discussing this,” she said once Sully had gone, her voice growing frantic.

Marcus flexed his fingers then drew them into fists. “Because I could not bear for them to take you. There, is that what you wanted to hear?”

Sarah caught her breath, her lungs suddenly unable to draw air. “I’m sorry.” She reached for him, then realized she could not touch him as she wanted to—not here. “I didn’t think beyond the shock of the moment. Of course the choice must have been impossible for you.”

He bowed. Readying to take his leave, he pressed a kiss to the soft skin on the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat with frantic haste. “Please, Sarah, don’t apologize. I should have protected you both.”

“You could not have known that Marlowe was a traitor,” she replied softly.

“I should have sensed something was amiss,” he said darkly, his face grim.

“I’ll not let you blame yourself for this,” she said simply.

Marcus pressed one last lingering kiss on the warm skin. “Well, that’s hardly of concern at this point. My first priority is to retrieve Nigel.”

“Will we go right away, then—rather than wait for the last stone? We should speak with Thomas at the Boot first, as he deals in smuggled—”

Marcus pinned Sarah with a deadly serious stare. “Let me make this perfectly clear: There is no ‘we’ as concerns Nigel now.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to sit at home sewing while my brother is missing,” Sarah protested.

His nostrils flared as though preparing to emit flames.
“You’ve advised me to begin with Thomas, which I will do. Your place is with your parents now.”

“Bollocks!” she whispered vehemently. “You want me safe and sound, locked up tight where—”

“It’s enough that Nigel’s been taken,” he asserted ferociously, his jaw clenching with the effort. “So yes, I want you where no harm will come to you. I cannot do what needs to be done unless I know you’re safe.”

The hard cast of his features brooked no argument, no appeal. “You will remain at Tisdale Manor while I go in search of Nigel—wherever the hell Marlowe may have taken him. On this I will not waver. Do you understand?”

Sarah’s heart swelled with love for the man, even though she found herself supremely frustrated by the situation.

She understood it all perfectly well. And she’d done her best to abide by his terms up till now—something she’d never considered for anyone else.

But she could be useful—should be useful, especially at such a time.

“I want my brother back, Marcus, and I’ll do whatever it takes to bring him home.”

“He’ll be home soon, Sarah. You have my word,” Marcus swore, as he escorted her across the grass to where her parents waited with Sully.

One way or another, she’d hold him to his promise. Even if she had to take matters into her own hands.

“Do you take me for a fool, Miss Tisdale?” Sully asked with a deep frown. He stood in front of Sarah’s doorway, blocking the threshold, his arms crossed.

Sarah considered telling him that he’d prove himself one if he didn’t get out of her way, but she suspected that a sweeter tack was needed. “Mr. Sully, I’ve a bargain for you.”

“It’s just Sully,” he told her, unmoving, “and I’m not interested in bargaining.”

Sarah bit the inside of her cheek, considering her options. “Really? Then am I to understand you’ve no interest in Mary O’Riley?”

His stony expression didn’t ease, though Sarah noted with pleasure that a slight tic seemed to be developing near his left eye.

“What’s Cook have to do with this?” he asked suspiciously.

Sarah crooked her finger, beckoning him to come in.

He obliged, frowning when Sarah closed the door.

“Lord Weston warned me about you, so don’t go getting any ideas—”

“Mary’s had an offer of marriage from one of the local farmers,” Sarah interrupted, nearing to stand directly in front of him, her gaze fixed on his. “He’s a good man—and, quite honestly, Mary would be a fool to refuse him.”

The tic increased in speed until Sully appeared to be
winking at her repeatedly. “She’s said nothing of this to me.”

“She would hardly want it to seem as though she’s blackmailing you, now would she?” Sarah replied determinedly.

The tic intensified until Sarah wondered if it could do permanent damage. “Sully, if you’ll help me, I’ll make certain Mary refuses the farmer.”

“You’d ruin Mary’s chance at happiness?” Sully ground out the words through clenched teeth.

“Hardly. Mary admires the farmer, but she does not love him,” Sarah continued, stepping closer to him, her voice lowering to a whisper. “She
loves
you.”

The tic stopped. “Are you lying?”

“I would never lie about such a thing,” Sarah assured him. She willed herself to remain still though she could feel the seconds slipping by.

“Dammit all, Miss Tisdale,” he muttered, walking around her toward the fireplace. “Lord Weston will have my hide if I don’t look after you.”

Sarah took a deep breath, feeling victory within her grasp, and turned. “Sully, I think I know where they’ve taken Nigel—and the emerald—or at least I have the means of finding out. And I’d insist that you accompany me, of course,” she added. “I’d hardly go traipsing about after dark on my own.”

She held her breath. His expression told her he was considering her words, but she knew the battle was not yet won.

He paced, frowning. “You would do exactly as you’re told?”

“Of course.”

Turning, he paced back and forth, muttering to himself.

“And this information, how likely is it that Lord Weston will have any luck tracking it down on his own?”

Sarah clasped her hands behind her back in an effort to contain her surge of hope. “I’m not sure he could secure this information on his own. I don’t know how much the townsfolk truly trust him yet, and he must talk to them for answers. Sully, I can help.”

He walked toward her, his eyes hard. “You get yourself into any trouble and it’s my head—and I’ve got a nasty side to me. You understand?”

Sarah swallowed hard. “Of course.”

“I’ll wait in the hall while you dress.”

Sarah looked down at her linen shirt and pair of breeches and boots that she’d bought off a local boy. “I am dressed.”

“You … you can’t mean to go out in
that
?” Sully asked disbelievingly. “I thought you’d dressed to visit your animals.”

Sarah glared at him. “Are we going to stand here and argue about my clothing?”

Sully grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. “No. And saints preserve us,” he muttered, guiding her through and closing the door behind them.

Marcus crashed through the aged door of the Boot with such force that every last occupant of the tavern looked up from their cups, owl-eyed and confused.

He hardly had time for explanations. He’d returned to the fair only to confirm that Dixon was truly gone, whether dragged off by who the hell knew or having left of his own accord, Marcus could not say.

It did not matter, as Marcus could do nothing about it. Carmichael had promised to send more men if he could, but the man didn’t know the immediate urgency of the situation. Sully was watching the Tisdales, and Stewart and Pattinson were waiting in the harbor, leaving Marcus alone to find Nigel.

He stalked to the back of the tavern, not stopping until he was standing across the bar from Thomas.

“You’ll not be getting any brandy tonight, Weston, so if that’s what you’ve come alookin’ for, you might as well leave,” the tavernkeeper said pointedly.

“Nigel Tisdale has been kidnapped, and I have reason to believe you can be of some help,” Marcus ground out, willing himself to remain somewhat collected.

The man could not hide his concern for the boy, but he hesitated just the same.

“Your cousin Henry, he’s a footman in my home, is he not?”

“What’s that to you?” Thomas countered, distrust coloring his countenance.