The Rogue Who Rescued Her

by Christi Caldwell

  An errant bit of sweat trickled down her cheek, and dunking the trousers in her hands, she wiped the moisture away with the side of her elbow.

  The kitchen door opened, and she looked up from her task. “Good—”

  “Mr. Malin is gone,” Frederick stated without preamble, and rather than the fear that had riddled his features yesterday, now there was just curiosity. Frederick stalked over to the hook where his jacket hung, and going on tiptoes, he tugged it free.

  “Yes, I know.” And in just a couple of short days, he’d be gone altogether.

  And it felt like the cruelest of lies she’d ever perpetrated against her son. Even greater than the truth of who and what his father had been. Very soon, Graham would leave, and Frederick would find himself as devastated as he’d been yesterday.

  God help her for the pathetic mother she was. She could not tell him. Not yet. Soon. She’d not ruin the last couple of days of his happiness.

  Frederick skipped over, joining her at the trough. “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. He did not say, just that he’d return.”

  Scrub. Dunk. Rinse. Repeat.

  Frederick shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll gather more water for you.”

  “I have enough. Go for a ride. Guda needs the exercise.”

  He froze. His eyes formed round circles in his face. When was the last time she had encouraged her son to simply take the pleasure he could from life? Graham had shown her that. It was a gift he’d leave behind.

  She winked. “Go, before I change my mind.”

  With a wide grin, her son bolted for the door. “Goodbye!”

  As soon as he’d slammed it shut behind him, her smile fell.

  Goodbye.

  That hated word hung there, cruelly echoing in her son’s innocent tones. For there would be a goodbye. One that she desperately didn’t want to make.

  “You might always ask him to stay,” she said aloud, wringing the excess water from Graham’s trousers. “After all, you never asked.” The only thing she had asked him to do was leave. And there was so much she and Frederick would have missed.

  As soon as the selfish thought slid in, she shoved it away. From the moment she’d come upon him in the stables with Frederick that first day, she’d come to appreciate just how much Graham respected horses. He was one who belonged in a stable, and to keep him here, offering nothing, would be the height of selfishness.

  No, there would be some other woman someday for him. A woman who was not mired in scandal the way Martha was and who’d rightfully earn Graham’s heart. And she would be so very lucky for it.

  Until Martha drew her last breath, she would wish it could have been her.

  How different life would have been if eleven years ago, it hadn’t been the viscount her father had let into their household, but Graham. Her heart twisted. Those dreams, however, weren’t for women like Martha Donaldson. Martha shook out the garment and carried it over to the hearth where the other damp articles now hung, drying.

  A distant knock sounded at the front door that offered only one certainty about her visitor—it was not Graham. Graham no longer knocked. He entered the household as if he’d lived here the whole of his life, and in a wonderful way, it felt like he had.

  Aside from him, no good visitor had ever rapped on this door.

  Rap-rap-rap-rap.

  At that slightly impatient staccato, Martha wiped her wet hands down the front of her apron and reached the door just as the person on the other side knocked again.

  Martha drew the panel open and stopped.

  Of all the figures she’d thought she might find there—Squire Chernow, his angry wife there to shame Martha for whatever tale her husband had told—she’d not expected… this.

  An officious little fellow, two inches shorter than Martha, with a shock of white hair and wearing a crimson liveried uniform with gold epaulets upon padded shoulders, had not been it.

  “May I help you?” she greeted hesitantly.

  “I’m looking for a Miss Martha Donaldson,” he said impatiently in a nasally crisp King’s English.

  Martha partially closed the door, taking away the full view she’d previously allowed the man. Another man of an elevated station had come here on behalf of the Crown nearly two years ago. He’d left with her father and false promises to Martha about the security of her and her children. The warning bells rang out loud, signaling danger. “What do you want with her?”

  Despite the height disparity between them, the little fellow managed to look down his long nose at her. “You’re her.”

  “I’ll not ask you again,” she said tightly.

  “I’ve come to discuss a matter of business with you. May I come in?”

  Something in his tones indicated he had no intention of leaving. “What kind of business?” she demanded, gripping the edge of the door, her nails leaving marks upon the wood.

  “It involves the Duke of Sutton.”

  A duke?

  Relief swept through her, and a giddy laugh spilled from her lips. “I’m afraid I cannot help you. I’ve certainly no ducal connections.” Which wasn’t untrue. Martha made to shut the door.

  The stranger stuck a hand out, preventing her from closing the door. “But… but… I have it on authority you do.”

  “And you have it on my authority that I don’t,” she said impatiently, giving the door a shove.

  He pushed back. “You have a son,” he exclaimed.

  Rage coursed through her. She yanked the door open so quickly, the stranger stumbled forward and promptly fell, landing facedown on his gold buttons. “Do not ever threaten my son,” she whispered. “Ever.”

  Scrambling to his feet, the small man went white-faced. “I’d never threaten a child.” He straightened his jacket. “I’ve come to provide assistance to you and your son.”

  That knocked her aback. “What? Why would you…?” None of this—his presence here, his words, his assurances, any of it—made sense. “Who are you?” She settled for the most basic query.

  “My name is Mr. Neville Barclay. I serve as the man-of-affairs for His Grace, the esteemed Duke of Sutton. May I sit?”

  Unlike Squire Chernow, who’d commandeered a seat before she’d granted him permission, this man… this… Mr. Neville Barclay remained standing, waiting. And she wasn’t the same woman she’d been years ago, trustful of the motives of unexpected visitors. “What do you want with me?”

  “We understand that the duke’s son Lord Sheldon Whitworth has been”—a shade of red to match his jacket splotched the man’s cheeks—“staying here.”

  “I’m afraid His Grace will have to look elsewhere. I’ve no connections to the nobility.” Not anymore. They’d all been severed by death or dishonor. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She started for the door.

  “His name is Lord Sheldon Whitworth,” he spoke on a rush. “His mount is a black stallion named Scoundrel.”

  She stumbled, catching the door handle to keep from falling. Her heart stopped and then resumed a slow, sickening thud. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, her voice coming as if from a distance.

  “His name is Lord Sheldon Whitworth.” The gentleman’s name was unfamiliar. “His mount is Scoundrel. He…” The buzzing in her ears grew. The man’s mouth moved, but she couldn’t bring any clarity to what he said or asked. All she heard was a whirring of confused noise through which one piece made any sense. His mount is a black stallion named Scoundrel. Scoundrel…

  It’s just a horse’s name. It means nothing. But it could mean everything…

  “Perhaps we might sit and talk for a moment?” Mr. Barclay was saying with a gentleness she’d not have expected from such an officious man.

  This time, instead of ordering him gone, Martha let her legs carry her to the nearest chair, and she collapsed onto the edge.

  “I don’t know a Sheldon Whitworth.” She spoke before he could again. Because as long as she filled the silences, nothing bad could come. Whatever secret
s he possessed that she didn’t want to know would remain buried. “I do not know the duke. I’ve never heard either of those names.”

  “His father has received word that he is here, however. Black hair.”

  Black hair. Her stomach muscles clenched. “That could be anyone.”

  “With a mount named Scoundrel?” he asked in such painstaking tones that she bit her lip. “I’ve been employed by His Grace for nearly twenty years. The duke and his son have long had a relationship that is…” He coughed into his fist. Yes, no family cared to have their enmity bandied about, and certainly not ducal families. “Fraught with… tension,” he settled for.

  My father despises me, but my mother has been only ever more adoring than I deserve.

  Nausea broiled in her belly. “I’m not certain what any of this has to do with me. I don’t know anyone by those names.” But you know… Deep down, you know…

  “The duchess was in the midst of hosting a house party when her son disappeared.”

  “A house party,” she echoed dumbly, knowing she sounded like a lackwit. But what Mr. Barclay spoke of was as foreign to her as Martha visiting the moon. Dukes and house parties.

  “Correct.” The servant beamed like she was the cleverest of students. “He is… That is… His Grace is determined to keep his son from scandal. And if you are”—if he turned any redder, his blush was going to set him afire—“keeping company with Lord Sheldon, His Grace is prepared to offer you a generous compensation to… to… stop.” Mr. Barclay withdrew and handed over a sheet of folded velum.

  With numb fingers, she accepted the ivory page and stared at the blood-red seal of a falcon atop a crown, its wings spread over three shields. She angled her head. Or was it a hawk, mayhap? Yes, she rather thought it was a hawk.

  A half-mad giggle swelled in her throat, choking her with the inanity of what she debated in her mind. Sliding her jagged nail under the seal, she broke it and read.

  One thousand pounds.

  There it was. The sum a duke would pay to keep his son from dallying with a woman outside his station. But I’m not that woman, and Graham isn’t that man.

  Lying… You are lying to yourself…

  “I am so sorry, Miss Donaldson.” And oddly, by the aching quality of that apology, she believed him.

  Martha neatly folded the page. “I don’t know this man, the duke’s son. The only person who lives here with me and my son is our stable master.”

  The servant sat up straighter. “A stable master, you say? What is his name, Miss Donaldson?”

  Tell him. Tell him that your Graham Malin is different than his Lord Sheldon Whitworth and send him away. So why could she not bring forth that admission?

  My father had expectations and hopes that we’d be accomplished scholars. They were. And I? I was not.

  Crushing the page in her hands, Martha dug her fingers against her temples and rubbed hard, willing his voice and those tellings gone.

  Horses always made sense. In ways that books never did.

  “Graham Malin,” she whispered. “His name is Graham Malin.”

  Avoiding her eyes, Mr. Barclay removed the smudge-free spectacles from his long nose and, collecting a kerchief, wiped the glass lenses, his silence telling.

  Her gaze locked on that scrap of fabric. And the hum in her ears grew like the swarm of bees that Frederick had knocked free of their hive three summers ago. “Miss Donaldson?” Mr. Barclay’s concerned query came from a distance.

  No.

  Jumping up, Martha went running to the kitchens. Already knowing. She’d known the moment he’d said the name Scoundrel. And yet—

  She staggered to a stop at the trough, catching the edge of it. Reaching into the dirty, soapy water, she withdrew article after sopping article. Tossing them. They landed in a noisy heap around her, splattering the floor, soaking her garments, dampening her hair. Until her fingers at last collided with the small piece of linen.

  She drew the item out and stared at the kerchief Graham had so tenderly cleaned her with last night. A lifetime ago.

  SGMW.

  Sheldon Graham Malin Whitworth.

  No.

  *

  When he’d risen that morning, Graham had resolved to put as much of Martha’s life here to rights before he went.

  Graham adjusted his naval satchel on his shoulder and started down the narrow graveled path to Martha’s cottage.

  As he did, he acknowledged the truth he’d known… It wouldn’t be enough. When he took his leave, neither she, nor Frederick, nor the daughters she’d mentioned would ever be forgotten by him. He wouldn’t allow it.

  His rank within the Brethren would afford him the opportunity to see that she didn’t again fall forgotten by some shift in power at the Home Office.

  It was the smallest of consolations, and yet, also the most important. His feelings and regret at losing her were secondary to Martha’s well-being.

  He reached the front door, and as he let himself inside, the first thing he registered… was the silence.

  But for the crack and hiss of the fire blazing in the hearth, only empty quiet greeted him.

  Unease tripped along his spine.

  Slowly setting the bag down so it landed silently at his feet, Graham withdrew his pistol, doing a search… and finding her at the fireplace.

  The tension left him.

  “Martha,” he greeted, striding over. And stopped. It was Martha, but not as he’d come to know her these past days. Seated, her arms layered to the sides of her chair, she stared at him with empty, hardened eyes. “What is—?”

  Then he noted that which had escaped him until now.

  His belongings packed and resting at her feet.

  His heart sank in his chest and then knocked fast against his rib cage.

  “Good afternoon, Graham.” Her lips curved up in an icy smile that raised gooseflesh on his arms. “Or should I call you Lord Whitworth?”

  Oh, God. The earth dipped. Moved. Swayed, and somehow, he remained standing. “I don’t…”

  She arched a red brow. “I’m sorry, do you expect a curtsy? You must forgive me. I’m unfamiliar with the rules of how to address a duke’s son.”

  She knew. Somehow, she’d gathered the truth of his identity. His stomach pitched like the first time he’d set foot on a naval ship. And he was at sea as he’d been then, a lad of eighteen, fighting to keep in the contents of his stomach.

  Then, finally, whatever mastery of control she’d managed snapped.

  “Do you have nothing to say?” she cried, exploding to her feet.

  “I can explain,” he said hoarsely. Except, he couldn’t. Not truly. More lies. He could offer her nothing but more lies.

  “Can you?” she demanded, her strident voice pitched and ricocheting through his heart. “Can you… please?” That last word was a whisper, an entreaty.

  Graham settled his hands on her arms and rubbed lightly, trying to will her to see the truths that had existed between them. “Nearly everything I told you, Martha, has been in truth. About my love of horses and my relationship with my father and my brothers. All of it.” He’d shared pieces of his life with her that he’d never before shared with anyone. Or would again.

  A frantic little giggle spilled from her lips. “Do you expect me to be honored? Or trust you?”

  He briefly closed his eyes. “No.” He had no right to the former and no reason to expect the latter.

  “You are no stable master. You never have been.”

  “No.”

  “And you weren’t here ‘looking for work’?”

  How to explain that? “No,” he said carefully. Did she pepper him with those questions to hammer home for herself the mistruths he’d given her?

  Martha stifled a sob with her fist and began to pace. “I knew. Of course I knew, and I ignored those instincts yet again. Strangers don’t come here, and you…” She paused so quickly, her skirts whipped angrily about, slashing the air. She looked at him with such derisi
on and hate that it ripped a hole through his chest. “You with your fine speech and fancy ways and fine horseflesh. I knew.” Martha wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. “I knew,” she repeated on an agonized whisper. “You spoke of Renaissance artists.”

  He stretched a hand out imploringly, taking her fingers, those same fingers that had a short while ago run along his back and explored all of him. “All those stories… they are true,” he said, fumbling for words. “The only part I withheld is that I am, in fact, a duke’s third son.”

  “Lies,” she hissed, yanking free of his touch, recoiling like she was repulsed by him.

  Everything ached—his heart, his head, his soul. All of him. Make it right. Say something to make it right. But there was nothing to say. She’d see only the betrayal, which it was. “Yet again, I’m the fool for letting you in. What was it, Graham?” She stopped abruptly, her gaze stricken. “Lord Whitworth.”

  “Graham, my name is Graham,” he begged, wanting to hear it from her lips, the only one to speak that preferred name.

  “Were you a bored nobleman escaping your mother’s house party? How very terrible for you. Was she perhaps trying to play matchmaker between you and some respectable miss who’d never do for a rakish lord like yourself?”

  Heat splotched his cheeks at how unerringly on the mark she was. And yet, completely off target at the same time.

  Martha’s eyes rounded. “That is it?” she whispered. “I’m correct.”

  “You are not…” He dragged a hand through his hair. What could he tell her? That he was here at the request of the Home Office? That she’d been an assignment. In that, she’d view his role here as work and their every interaction together as fabricated to break down her defenses.

  The fight faded from her eyes. “Will you not say anything?” she whispered.

  “I am so sorry, Martha,” he said, his voice rasping. “I never meant to hurt you, and these past days together have been—”

  “Not another word,” she said tiredly, sinking into her seat. “I don’t want any more of your lies.” All the fight seemed to drain from her, and she rocked back and forth like a wounded creature nursing its suffering. He took a step closer, wanting to take that pain from her. Only, he’d caused that misery and had lost the right to hold her.