by Cheryl Holt
He’d managed to wrench a smile from her. “He is tedious—and cruel and greedy and pompous. I hate him!” She blanched at her vehemence. “No, I don’t hate him. I don’t hate anyone, but if I could wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze until he was dead on the floor, I might be inclined to do that.”
“Remind me not to tangle with you when you’re angry.”
“I’m a fighter, and I don’t like to lose or give up.”
“I’ve noticed that about you.”
She stared at him, and the strangest charge of energy was flowing between them. He’d never experienced a similar sensation, and suddenly, he felt very close to her, intimately connected, as if it was perfectly acceptable that she’d show up at the Haven, perfectly acceptable that she’d sought him out.
When had that happened? How had it happened?
“I should find Noah and Pet,” she ultimately said. “They’ll be wondering where I am.”
“They can wait.”
“You don’t know Noah very well.”
He thought of the little despot and how he blustered forward into places where he wasn’t welcome. He was so much like Sir Sidney that it was uncanny.
“I probably know him better than you suppose,” he said.
“I insisted we shouldn’t come to Hero’s Haven, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“I think a failure to listen might be a family trait.”
“He intends to talk to you—man to man—before we go. I doubt he’ll agree to depart until he has the chance.”
Sebastian studied her, trying again to deduce what had happened. He was no longer incensed, so he was…what?
He couldn’t decide, but he was suffering from the oddest impression that—if he permitted her to skitter away—he’d always wish he hadn’t. He couldn’t be shed of her. Was there some sort of fate drawing them together? Was there a destiny he was being urged to pursue?
Having spent twenty years wallowing in dangerous locales where it had seemed he had nine lives, and he’d recklessly used up several of them, he was superstitious as a sailor. He wouldn’t ignore a potent sign, and it appeared Miss Robertson was meant to tarry for a bit.
Besides, he had one group of guests leaving and another arriving. Then he had to ride to Selby to speak with Nathan. After that, the inquest would commence.
He didn’t have time to be distracted by her. Later on, he might throw her out, but just then, he couldn’t pick a different conclusion.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said before he could persuade himself not to intervene.
“I have to. The day’s waning, and we should return to London. A friend of my father’s runs a poorhouse. He offered to let us stay with him for a few weeks while I reflect on what to do.”
Sebastian winced with dismay. “You’re not staying in a poorhouse.”
“I’ve exhausted all my other options, and it will be all right.” She nodded vigorously, as if convincing herself. “While I’m there, I’ll be able to rest and focus. I’ll figure something out.”
“No. You’ll remain here. I have an empty cottage out past the lake. It’s not fancy, but it’s furnished and habitable. You and the children can have it.”
“Until when?”
“Until…until…I have absolutely no idea, but you will lock yourselves in and try to be invisible. I won’t have Noah and Petunia trotting about the estate and declaring their paternity.”
“So you believe me then? You believe they’re Sir Sidney’s children?”
“I never didn’t believe you.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s find Mr. Shawcross.”
“My favorite person in the world,” she muttered.
“He’ll escort you to the cottage and get you settled. I’ll send some servants to tend you.” They would be his most discreet ones too, the kind who could keep their mouths shut.
She stood too, and for a moment, he worried she might foolishly decline the shelter he’d proposed, but she wasn’t stupid.
“I guess we can do that,” she finally said.
“I guess you can too.” She was so glum that he could only laugh. “I’m saving your sorry hide, Miss Robertson. Could you at least claim to be grateful—even if you’re not?”
She chuckled, but miserably. “I’m very grateful, Mr. Sinclair, and you’ll never regret helping me.”
“I regret it already,” he grouchily snapped, “but I’ll pretend I don’t.” He gestured to the door. “Would you please adjust your expression so it doesn’t look as if I’ve been flogging you? I’d rather not be scolded by Noah ever again.”
She flashed a smile, and he felt it clear down to his toes.
“How’s that?” she asked. “Any better?”
“It was quite grand.”
He was aghast to have voiced the compliment, and lest he start to wax poetic, he whirled away and marched out. He didn’t glance back to see if she’d followed him. He didn’t dare. With how she overwhelmed him, there was no telling how he might behave.
CHAPTER SIX
“I’ve never lived in a house,” Petunia said. “It’s nice, but quiet.”
“The orphanage was loud, wasn’t it?” Sarah asked.
“Loud—but in a good way. I miss all the other children. Do you suppose they’re all right without us?”
Petunia had been delivered to Sarah when she was a baby, so she’d constantly been surrounded by a gaggle of children. Although it had been an orphanage, they’d structured their routines so it would seem their charges were part of a large family.
Over the years, orphans would come and go. They’d grow up and move onto apprenticeships or university scholarships or military service, but others would quickly take their place.
After Cuthbert had sold the building, it had been particularly trying for everyone. With each child whom she’d conveyed to another location, she’d grieved over the loss, but Petunia had felt them even more poignantly.
Sarah would worry forever about the children she’d abandoned. She’d also worry about those who might need her services in the future. What would happen to them? No doubt they’d wind up in public orphanages, which would be a travesty.
She sighed. As her father used to say, they couldn’t save the whole world. They could only save little pieces of it. She’d provided what shelter she could for as long as she could, and if she was lucky, she’d reopen her facility someday.
They were in the cottage Mr. Sinclair had opened for them. It had been a hectic afternoon and evening after Mr. Shawcross had brought them to their temporary home.
The house was small with a main floor that had a cozy parlor on one side of the foyer, and a dining room on the other. There was a kitchen at the back, with a maid’s closet behind it. Up the stairs, there were two bedchambers. She’d picked the maid’s room for herself and had given Noah and Pet their own rooms. After living at the orphanage, it was a treat.
The residence had been shuttered for ages, the furniture covered with cloths, the air stale. As promised, Mr. Sinclair had sent over a bevy of servants to scrub, mop, and clean the hearths. They’d left coal and blankets and food.
When they’d finished and had traipsed out to return to the manor, they’d explained that a housemaid and footman would arrive to tend them in the morning. At the notion of having servants again, she’d nearly burst into tears.
All of it had transpired with a snap of Mr. Sinclair’s fingers. It was as if he’d waved a magic wand and her most pressing problems had vanished. She never ceased to be amazed at how effortlessly a rich man could fix what was wrong.
It was late now, the sun having set, and they were weary from pitching in to get their new lodging in a habitable condition. They’d washed and dressed for bed, and they were in Petunia’s bedroom, chatting, but not able to call it a night.
“How long will Mr. Sinclair let us stay?” Pet asked.
“I have no idea,” Sarah told her, “and we won’t fret over it. This cottage is a huge blessing, and we’ll
merely be grateful about it. And we’ll have to work hard to not be a nuisance to him. We can’t ever supply him with a reason to kick us out until we’ve figured out where we’ll go next.”
Noah was with them too. “Mr. Sinclair won’t kick us out.”
“We’ll hope he won’t,” Sarah said, “but we shouldn’t be surprised or hurt if it occurs.”
“He won’t behave badly toward us,” Noah claimed.
“How can you be so sure?” Pet asked.
“He’s exactly like our father, so it means he likes people to view him as being generous and kind.”
“Was our father generous and kind?”
“Always.”
Noah’s mother had been a favored mistress of Sir Sidney, and she’d flooded Noah with stories about the great man. Sarah couldn’t guess if the portrait his mother had painted was accurate. She might have simply created a fantasy in her mind to justify her infatuation. Or perhaps Sir Sidney had truly been wonderful to her.
“We should get to sleep,” Sarah said. “We had a grueling day, and I’m exhausted.”
“I’m afraid to be alone,” Petunia said. “It’s odd to be all by myself.”
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Sarah insisted. “It’s different here, but it’s not scary.”
“I’ll be across the hall,” Noah added. “Or—if you like—I can sleep with you. Would you like that?”
Pet hesitated, looking as if she wished she was braver than she was, but in the end, she nodded. “Could you tarry? Until I doze off?”
Noah was an excellent big brother, and the bed was wide enough for him to lie down. Sarah tucked them in, then blew out the candle.
“Goodnight, Miss Robertson,” they said in unison, and they giggled.
“Goodnight, you scamps. Tomorrow will be better. I’m certain of it.”
“Today wasn’t so terrible,” Noah said as he yawned. “Our brother helped us. It’s the best conclusion we could have arranged for ourselves.”
“Yes, it is,” Sarah agreed.
She couldn’t predict how their relationship with Mr. Sinclair would unfold, but for the moment, he’d guaranteed their security. It was an incredible boon.
She stepped over and rested a palm on Pet’s head, then Noah’s, as she murmured a silent prayer for both of them to always be safe. Then she eased away.
In every way that mattered, they were her children, and she was growing more and more attached to them. She’d spent weeks trying to find a home for them, but clearly, their home should be with her. Why not? No one else wanted them, but she did.
They quickly drifted off, and as she watched them, it dawned on her that they had her questioning whether she might like to eventually have a husband, so she could be a parent. She’d been too distracted to ever think about marriage, and in light of her reduced circumstances, it wasn’t as if she ever met suitable candidates.
If she wed, her burdens would become her husband’s burdens. He would take care of her rather than her having to take care of herself.
She struggled to envision that type of existence, but it was such a queer picture that she couldn’t bring it into focus. She’d been on her own for much too long. What sort of wife would she be? Not much of a one, she figured. She was too stubborn and bossy. What man could put up with such a brash female? He would have to have a strong character to tolerate her brand of confidence.
She tiptoed out, and she said another prayer in the hall, one of thanks and relief. She didn’t know what would happen the next week or the next month, but Mr. Sinclair had furnished her with some space to ponder her path. With how horridly the morning had started, who could have imagined the day would end in such a marvelous fashion?
She walked down the stairs, skirted through the dark kitchen, and entered the tiny maid’s room she’d selected for her own.
“Hello, Miss Robertson.”
She jumped a foot and pounded a fist on her chest, demanding her pulse slow to a manageable level so she didn’t suffer a massive heart seizure.
Mr. Sinclair was sitting over by the window, on the only chair. Moonlight shone in, silhouetting him in shades of blue and silver.
“For pity’s sake,” she gasped when she could speak again. “You gave me the fright of my life.”
“Why are you always tardy? Is it a habit of yours to keep people waiting?”
“You mad wretch! What are you doing in here?”
“I was curious as to how you settled in, and I decided I should check.”
“You couldn’t stop by at a sane hour? Such as tomorrow around eleven?”
“I’m busy tomorrow. I have guests coming.”
“You always have guests.”
“What can I tell you? I’m a popular fellow.”
She’d expected to climb into bed, so she was wearing just her nightgown, and it was sewn from a summery fabric, the material faded from many washings. Her hair was down and brushed out, her arms bare.
If he’d been a gentleman—which he definitely wasn’t—he’d have apologized for catching her in such a scandalous state, and he’d have left. But of course the notion didn’t occur to him.
Manly aromas emanated from his person—fresh air, horses, tobacco—but there was a distinct odor of alcohol too. Was he a drunkard? In the times they’d interacted, she couldn’t recollect him being particularly sober.
“Have you been drinking again?” she asked.
“What makes you inquire?”
“I can smell it on you.”
“If it’s that obvious, I won’t deny it.”
“Is it an addiction?”
“I only imbibe when I can’t sleep.”
“How often is that?”
“Constantly?”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“Because I have bad dreams. Why would you suppose?”
“Why do you have bad dreams?”
He stared at her, and just when she assumed he’d tell her, he asked instead, “How are the children getting on?”
“They’re grand and very grateful.”
“It’s quiet here, and the upstairs windows are open. I could hear you tucking them in. You’re so…nice.”
He pronounced the word nice as if it were an epithet.
“Have you a problem with kindness?” she asked. “I view it as a positive trait.”
“Kindness never took me anywhere,” he absurdly insisted.
“You misjudge yourself. It was kind of you to let us stay in this house.”
“No, it was deranged to let you.”
“Probably,” she concurred. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Probably,” he shot back.
She was amazed that they were conversing so casually, as if it was perfectly appropriate for him to be in her bedroom. Yes, it was his property, but still!
He was being extremely brazen, and she was nervous as to what had driven him over to see her, just as she was fretting over how she could persuade him to leave. While she wasn’t afraid of him, it was late, and they were alone. The situation was a recipe for disaster.
What could he want? How could she provide it to him without stirring any trouble for either of them?
“You’re good with children,” he said, as if in accusation.
“I guess I am. It’s my profession to deal with them.”
“Why didn’t you ever marry and have a few of your own? Why waste the years caring for the children of strangers?”
“If I hadn’t done it, who would have? And as to my personal circumstances, why would I marry? In my opinion, men are fools.”
“All men? Or just some of us?”
“All men. Why would I shackle myself to an idiot? It would simply hand him the legal right to boss me and beat me if I didn’t obey.”
“Why indeed?” he mused. “Don’t you seek more for yourself than what you’ve been given?”
“Doesn’t everyone? We’re not all as lucky as you. We don’t all have famous fathers who discover diamo
nd mines.”
He snorted with derision. “Your sister wed Mr. Maudsen. How did she manage it when you couldn’t find anybody suitable?”
“She’s always had a different path than me. She met Cuthbert at eighteen and was determined to have him.”
“Would that be the same Cuthbert who has nearly gambled away her home?”
“Yes, that would be the one.”
“She has no sense.”
“Not much, no. Why would I hope for a husband when there’s a chance I might end up with an oaf just like him? He seemed fine in the beginning”—a huge lie—“and his flaws only became noticeable after it was too late for her to escape.”
“Don’t you deem yourself to have better judgment than her?”
“Absolutely.”
“You might stumble on a terrific choice.”
“Perhaps, but why risk it?” She chuckled. “I can’t believe you recall my sister’s foibles. The details of my life are so boring. I must be making more of an impression on you than I realized.”
“Yes, you’re making an enormous impression, and it’s bothering me.”
“Why?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I don’t know whether to be delighted or alarmed.”
“Are you a sorceress? Have you cast a spell on me? You’ve lodged yourself in my brain like a painful thorn, and I can’t pluck you out.”
“I’m a thorn in your brain? I would have thought I’d be located closer to your backside.”
“That too.”
She was hovering by the door like a frightened rabbit, which she hated.
There was a candle on the dresser, and she turned and lit it, moving slowly so she’d have something to do other than gape at him. She could feel him watching her, studying her feminine shape in a manner that was annoying, but thrilling too.
Once the candle flared, she spun to face him.
“Would you go?” she asked.
“No.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. Please tell me what you want, so I can give it to you, then send you on your way.”
“You shouldn’t talk about giving me what I want,” he told her. “You’re a maiden, so you can’t imagine how risqué it sounds.”
Her cheeks heated. “I stand corrected.”