The Groom Says Yes (14 page)

“You are a beautiful woman.”

Sabrina almost drove the pony cart off the side of the road.

She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“
Please,
” she said, infusing in that one word her dismissal of his comment.

“Do you believe I jest?” he asked. He had brought his feet in the cart so that he could better turn toward her.

“I’m not vain,” she said. “Nor am I fishing for compliments.”

“I’m not paying a compliment. I’m stating a fact.”

She felt heat rush to her cheeks. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was flattered he had called her so.

“I’m not a fool,” she protested softly. “You would just like another tryst with me.”

“That I would,” he admitted readily. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t a lovely woman.”

For a second, she was tempted to halt Dumpling and throw herself in his arms. She didn’t even dare look at him in case he could read her thoughts in her eyes. He was uncanny that way. It was as if he could read her mind . . . or perhaps, his thoughts echoed hers?

Once again, dangerous ground.

“Thank you,” she murmured, speaking as if he had told her she had good driving skills.

And, of course, he wasn’t one to accept that. “Who convinced you that you weren’t lovely?” he asked.

“A mirror,” she replied.

He shook his head as if she spoke nonsense.

“You don’t need to flatter me, Mr. Enright,” Sabrina said, deciding this nonsensical conversation could not continue. “I’m not like other women, who feel all they have to offer are their looks. I have a mind. I read and try to improve myself all the time.”

“A bluestocking,” he murmured.

“Yes, I am a learned woman,” she said proudly. “During my mother’s illness, books sustained me. Reading refreshed my spirits. However, I do not lack social graces.” She wanted that understood.

“Social graces are overrated.”

“They are never overrated. Did you not have a mother? Did she not teach you that?”

There was a flash of straight white teeth. “She tried her best, my lady.”

“I imagine you were a handful,” Sabrina had to observe.

“I imagine you were the same,” he countered.

“No, I always obeyed,” she said. “Although I admit to having an independent mind. Perhaps that has been my problem. But I do try to make good use of my life. It is not very much now, but someday it will be. Yes, it will,” she tacked on, realizing how empty her words sounded.

Empty.
There was a word she did not like.

“And if you could do anything you wished, be anything, what would you want?” he asked.

Sabrina shot him a dubious glance. “We don’t have choices in life.”

“Of course, we do. Life is nothing but choices. However first, you must answer the question, what do you want?”

She focused on the road a moment. What did she want?

“Children?” he suggested. “A husband, home, and hearth?”

She considered the matter. “Well, yes, but I also think I’d like something more.”

“And what would that be?”

Sabrina shook her head. “Sometimes, it is not good to think about wants. There are things we should have and things we shouldn’t.”

“Thank you, Reverend Davidson,” he said, laughter in his deep voice. “But what if we could?”

“What would you ask for?” she countered.

“Freedom,” he said.

“I can imagine so. I would not want to hang for a crime I did not commit.”

“That is true, but I was not thinking of my sentence.” He studied the top of the trees lining the road a moment before saying, “I’m realizing I made my own chains. Right now, I do feel free. Free of regret, of sorrow, of grief. I made poor choices because I felt entitled.”

“And you wish freedom from those feelings?”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, swinging his gaze back to meet hers. “I don’t know why life takes the turns it does or why we have the experience that we do, but I believe I’m done with doubt.”

“How can we do without doubt? How would we know we were taking the right paths in life without it?”

“Perhaps we’ve been on the right path all along but didn’t realize it,” he answered. “Maybe each of us has to go through what we experience to live our lives fully.”

Sabrina laughed. “You are very philosophical, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Miss Davidson,” he answered. “In truth, I usually am the furthest thing from a philosopher.”

He reached over and took the reins from her. “May I?” She let him have them. They traveled a little ways, then he said, “Miss Davidson, don’t be afraid of life. Don’t hold back and don’t delay.”

“I have nothing to hold back or delay,” she answered. “My world is very small.”

“It won’t be once you know what you want.”

“And what of you, sir? Will you find the answers to the questions you ask?”

A slow, confident smile found its way across his face, his gaze on the road ahead. “I believe I have. For better or worse, I want my future.”

Such a cryptic answer tickled Sabrina’s curiosity, but before she could ask questions, they arrived at Annefield’s drive. Dumpling, always ready for oats, knew where they were and picked up his pace.

So it was that they pulled into the stable yard with a bit of energy and what style one can muster when driving a pony cart. Sabrina could have directed them to the front door, but family usually went straight to the stables, then walked the path leading to the house.

The stable lads called a greeting and rushed to help her from the cart, but Mr. Enright was there. He opened the door to the cart, climbed out, then offered his hand to her.

For a second, Sabrina hesitated. When he left, and he would leave either to be hanged or to travel on with his life, she would feel
emptier.
He would move toward his future. She would stay behind.

That was an unsettling thought, one that made her sad.

She distracted herself by noticing a lad dressed in maroon-and-silver livery coming down the road from the main house. He was leading a high-stepping gray pulling a high-perched phaeton with yellow wheels. She knew the owner of the rig, and her fear hollowed her out.

Coming here today had been a mistake.

Mr. Enright immediately noticed the change in her manner. “What is the matter?” he asked.

“That rig,” she said, leaning toward him so that the lad wouldn’t overhear. “It belongs to Owen Campbell.”

O
wen Campbell.

Good God, it could not be mere coincidence that Owen Campbell, owner of the Rook’s Nest, where Gordana had been murdered, was calling on the earl of Tay. Especially at the time when Mac had escaped hanging, and Richard Davidson had gone missing.

Something was afoot. Mac was willing to stake his life on it.

“We should not talk to my uncle now,” Miss Davidson was saying. “We need to wait until Mr. Campbell is gone—”

“Oh, no,” Mac countered. “This is the perfect time. However,
you
will stay here.” He’d met Campbell only once where they looked each other in the eye, but he’d observed him around the Rook. There was something about the man that Mac could not like. He seemed secretive, and he agreed with Mrs. Bossley’s description of Campbell as greedy. Mac knew officers of that stripe, and he’d learned not to trust them.

Seeing a well-marked path leading through a line of beech trees to the house, Mac set off, anxious for a confrontation. He’d spent months puzzling over the whys of Gordana’s death, and while he wanted to save his neck, he also wanted the mystery of her murder answered.

He had just reached the sheltering trees when a hand hooked itself around his elbow and pulled hard. He stopped, annoyed to see that Miss Davidson had not listened to his order.

“What?
” he snapped.

“You will not go up there,” she commanded.

“Yes, I will.” He shook off her arm, but she held on, digging her heels into the path’s soft ground. Impatience brought out his iron will. He whirled around. “
What
is it?”

She had not been expecting his temper. Blue eyes widened.

Mac knew his power. When he spoke in that tone of voice, even hardened soldiers knew to beware. They certainly knew to obey. He expected her to perform an about face and march smartly back to the pony cart where he’d told her to stay.

However, instead of obedience, determination lifted her chin.

He could have sworn under his breath. He was in for an argument now.

“You mustn’t go there,” she said. “Do you believe Campbell doesn’t know who you are? You are accused of murder in an establishment he owns, and you believe he will happily ignore that the authorities wish to hang you? Wait until he leaves. Then I will take you to talk to my uncle.”

Mac looked at the house, looked at her, and started walking again up the path—except she had not released her hold. The woman had the strength of a sailor in her arms. She used all of it to yank him back.

He could have roared his frustration. “I
am
going there.”

“Did you not hear me?” she said as if he were a simpleton. “They will hang you. My uncle is as befuddled as they come, and he might not have an issue with you, but Owen Campbell is cut of different cloth. If he is involved in this, Mr. Enright, he’ll run you through and act innocent all the while. He’s capable of such.”

“I’d relish crossing swords with him,” Mac said. “As for hanging? I want answers, Miss Davidson. I’ve spent months and most of my sanity plagued by the ‘whys.’ Furthermore, years on a battlefield have taught me there is only one way to engage the enemy, and that is by going forward.”

“But what if Campbell had nothing to do with the girl’s murder? Then you could be jeopardizing your life on a goose chase.”

“It is my chase and my goose,” he replied. “Now, return to the pony cart, and if you see a hanging party,
leave.
”

With that order, he started up the hill again.

Of course, she didn’t listen.

He hadn’t gone more than a few yards before she came walking up beside him . . . and then passed him—her bonneted head high, her arms pumping.

“Miss Davidson?” he said.

She paused, her feet marching in place, her arms swinging, the brim of her bonnet bouncing. “Yes?” she answered with the hauteur of a duchess.

“The pony cart is in the stable yard.” He pointed in the direction behind him.

“Are you going back there?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, then, I’m not either. Someone needs to rescue you when you find yourself in trouble.” She took off up the path.

For a moment, Mac was so angry, he couldn’t move. No one, absolutely
no one,
had ever countermanded him.

Then again, he’d never met anyone as stubborn as Sabrina Davidson. “Now I understand why you aren’t married,” he muttered.

“What did you say, Mr. Enright?” she called over her shoulder. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“That is probably a good thing,” he returned, and began walking up the path, lengthening his stride to catch up with hers.

Together, they presented themselves on the earl of Tay’s doorstep.

The house itself was a country manor that had seen better times. Mac knew the sort. He’d grown up in just such a place. The trim needed painting and the stones repointing. He imagined it was quite drafty when winter winds blew.

Miss Davidson, headstrong lass that she was, didn’t wait for him but rapped on the door.

The hinges creaked as a butler, a tall man with a stoic presence, opened the door almost immediately. He smiled with genuine warmth at Miss Davidson while, in that manner all butlers seemed to have, gave Mac a disapproving stare.

Mac returned his look with open curiosity. Something about the man stirred a memory. The butler had a long jaw, and his large shoulders had a bit of stoop to them. There had to be Viking in his ancestry.

Their paths had crossed before, but when would Mac have met a country butler?

“Miss Sabrina, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Ingold. I wish to see my uncle.”

The butler shifted his weight as if he’d been anticipating the question and had an answer. “I’m so sorry, Miss Sabrina, but the earl is indisposed.”

“Because he has a guest? We know Mr. Owen Campbell is here, but it is imperative I speak to my uncle.”

“Unfortunately, that is not possible,” the butler said as if he truly regretted saying those words, but he was already closing the door.

Mac leaned forward and pressed his forearm against the wood panel. “Tell your master the
earl
of Ballin requests a moment of his time.”

The earl of Ballin.

For the first time in his life, Mac had used the title without remorse. It had come out of him as if he owned it. As if it were his to use.

That was freedom.

He’d not realized how much he’d held back out of guilt until this moment. But the title was his. Ballin was who he was.

And his use of the title was not about impressing anyone. It was about allowing himself the right to it.

Later, he would mull over this change of attitude, but for now, he didn’t wait for the butler’s response. He pushed the door hard, forcing it open.

To her credit, Miss Davidson ducked under the servant’s arm and placed herself inside. “Yes, please, Ingold,” she said. “My uncle
needs
to see us.”

The butler wavered in indecision, then confided, “Miss Davidson, you do not want to be here. There are bad doings going on. Please go.”

“We know, Ingold. Announce us. After all, the ‘earl of Ballin’ is here.” She threw out Mac’s title as if she was put out with him. He was rather pleased with himself.

“No, Miss Sabrina,” Ingold answered. “It is not good. Not good at all.” But he turned and walked down the hall—and that is when Mac placed where he’d seen the butler.

Ingold had been at the prison the night of his escape. He’d been the first man to run up to Kinnion after he’d been shot. Mac had not had a good look at his face because he had what he considered the more important challenge of saving his neck in mind, but he could not forget the man’s gait or the way his shoulders stooped.

Kinnion was from this area. The butler? Campbell—?

“Ingold is going to my uncle’s study. That is where Campbell is,” Miss Davidson observed, interrupting his musing.

Mac nodded. “Let us not wait for permission. Let us join them.” He placed his hat on a side table. He was tense, yet anxious, ready for battle. “Would it do any good if I suggested you wait here?” he asked as he started toward the study.

“No,” Miss Davidson said, falling into step behind him. And then she whispered furiously as if he had not noticed her earlier jab, “
Earl?
You have a title? Or did you make that up?”

“I haven’t made up any of my titles.”

The butler had stopped to knock on a door.

Mac raised his hand to signal for her to halt. They stood partially hidden from view by a wall supporting a staircase. “But yes, I’m an earl. Surprised?”

She scrunched her nose in what he found to be the most adorable way possible. “Not truly. Do you have any other titles of which I should be aware? You seem to run the gamut from felon to titled lord, with everything in between.”

He smiled at her sarcasm. He couldn’t help himself. This Scottish lass was a good ally to have on his side. “It is an empty title. No money, no land, and I’ve just inherited it.”

Her lips parted in understanding. “Your brother’s death.”

“I haven’t quite managed to grow comfortable with it. It seems wrong that he dies and I benefit. Where is there joy in that?”

“I can understand,” she murmured, and he knew she did. She was quick. Smart. A man didn’t have to spend his day explaining his thoughts to her.

A voice from inside the study had called for Ingold to leave them alone. The butler knew they followed. He wasn’t blind. He looked to Mac, who nodded with a silent order for him to be persistent.

The butler knocked with more force on the door.

The study door opened. “
What?
” an angry voice snapped.

Mac could hear Ingold explaining that the earl of Ballin was insisting that he must see Tay.

“Ballin? I’ve never heard of a Ballin,” Mac overheard another man say. He recognized the voice—Owen Campbell’s.

“Stay here,” Mac said to Miss Davidson, “and I mean,
stay right there.
”

He moved forward swiftly, coming to stand beside the butler, just as Campbell said, “Send him away.”

“Too late,” Mac said, very pleased with himself as he pushed his way past Ingold. “I’m here.” He enjoyed the start of alarm on Campbell’s face as he recognized who the earl of Ballin was.

The library was a large room. Shelves filled with books lined one wall, and there was a large, ornate desk by the window to take advantage of the light. At one time, the earls of Tay must have had wealth.

The current earl of Tay was sprawled out in one of the upholstered chairs in front of a cold marble hearth. He was a tall man with a decided paunch and a complexion lost to his dissipations. However, right now, his cheeks were red, as if he’d been struck repeatedly, and tear-stained.

Owen Campbell stood by the door, his leather gloves in his hands. He was not what one would call a handsome man. He combed his hair forward to hide his baldness and had a taste for military style. His jacket was the cut of a Prussian officer’s, with a double row of silver buttons. His shining Hessian boots, sporting silver tassels, would have made even those vain German officers jealous for the quality of the leather.

Overall, Mac thought him a mockery of a man.

The earl recognized Mac. He gave a low groan and covered his face. “This is worse. It keeps growing worse—”

“
Quiet,
” Campbell ordered. “What the bloody hell are
you
doing here?”

“Careful of your tongue,” Mac answered. “We have a lady present,” he pointed out, as Miss Davidson came charging into the room, as he’d assumed she would.

“
Sabrina,
” the earl said, alarmed. “Why are you with this man?”

“She’s not
listening
to me, I can tell you that,” Mac informed him. “She is far from obedient. I order her to stay in one place, she does as she pleases. Do you have that problem with her as well?”

Miss Davidson shot him a look of annoyance as she hurried to her uncle’s side. “Don’t listen to him. He prattles—”

“Prattles?” Mac repeated, offended.

She waved him away with a gloved hand and knelt by the earl’s chair. “But look at you, Uncle. You look terrible. What is the matter?”

“I need a drink,” was the reply. The earl lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the decanters on a side table. “It will be all right. It will. It will—”

“You have had enough,” Campbell said, and the earl stopped dead in his tracks. His reaction was so abrupt, it was almost comical. Mac wondered how Campbell had that sort of power over him.

Apparently, so did Miss Davidson. She came to her feet. “What have you been doing to him?” she demanded of Campbell.

“We were visiting,” was the answer, then he countered with, “What are you doing with Enright?” He asked the question rhetorically.

“Are you surprised?” Mac asked, enjoying the moment.

“Yes. When we heard you had escaped,” Campbell said, “everyone assumed you would flee the country.”

“Leave Scotland?” Mac repeated. “Just when I’m having a good time?”

Campbell’s smile thinned, and his eyes filled with malice. Although the man had not attended the trial, Mac sensed he’d been very interested in the outcome. “Well now, it appears we will have our hanging.”

“Over my dead body,” Mac had to answer.

Miss Davidson started forward, her gloved hands curled into fists. “You were beating my uncle,” she charged, and she would have taken after Campbell, but Mac hooked an arm around her waist.

“Steady, my girl, steady,” he warned, speaking close to her ear. He looked to Campbell. “Miss Davidson is a woman of passion. You are lucky I am here to keep her in check.”

“You will
not
touch my uncle,” she informed Campbell, but she wisely stayed close to Mac’s protection.

Campbell’s beady eyes dropped to Mac’s possessive hand resting at her waist. Indeed, he seemed riveted by the sight—and Mac had a memory, something Gordana had told him.

And that’s when Mac understood. It all fell into place and was so obvious, he was shocked he hadn’t suspected earlier.

He looked to the earl of Tay, whose cheeks were still red, either from his drinking or from being slapped by Campbell’s gloves, a humiliating gesture. Campbell had not only wanted to cause pain but to make Tay do his will, and to what purpose?