by Betina Krahn
Her surprise must have shown in her face, for he laughed softly and brought a hand up to run the back of his fingers down the curve of her cheek. She held her breath as the sensation spread through her, magnified by her awareness of his closeness, muscular frame, and haunting gray eyes.
“Such beautiful but benighted creatures.” His voice was so deep and full that her skin seemed to vibrate in response.
“Benighted?” She feared saying more would disrupt the moment.
“They spend so much time growing, preparing, spinning substance into possibility . . . only to spend their final beauty and vitality in a few short weeks. Their lives as mature creatures are heartbreakingly brief.”
“That’s all they live? A few weeks?”
“Sometimes just days,” he said. “But they manage to feed and meet and mate . . . make offspring . . . pollinate flowers . . . inspire awe . . .” Standing close, gazing down at her, he seemed to be searching for something.
His head lowered and she felt a trill of expectation along her spine. He paused, his gaze suddenly focused beyond her, on the window beside them, and he straightened abruptly.
“What is that?” he asked, his voice no longer low or soft.
“What?” Surprised by his sudden change, she shook herself mentally and prayed her face wasn’t as red as it was hot. She turned to the window and steadied herself on the sill. She heard him say “that” and saw he was pointing to the floral plantings in the center of the rear lawn.
“The butterfly garden,” she answered, puzzled by his reaction and ridiculously disappointed at what hadn’t happened just now.
Men always have other motives, other things on their minds.
“But a butterfly garden there?” he said, shaking his head. “When I was here before, it was . . .”
“Moved.” She tried to hide her annoyance. “When the old duke was here, he wanted to move his butterfly garden to a place with better drainage. So Daisy and Ash saw to it after Duke Arthur left. They wanted it to be a surprise for him when he came home. Only . . .”
He finished her thought and his own.
“He never came.”
Chapter Six
Arthur felt his way down the steeply pitched servants’ stairs and went straight to the duke’s chamber. The windows were open and a breeze was moving the gauzy inner curtains like an invitation.
He braced himself on the sill and stared at the flowers blooming in the large circular garden below. Anchoring the plantings was a paved circle at the center, set with benches and surrounded by flowering shrubs and simple topiaries. At the heart of it all were two central arches draped with what looked like climbing roses. Footpaths meandered through the eye-pleasing palette of color.
From his window—the duke’s window—he could see it all. Even now, after years away, he could name most of the plants. The local butterflies loved buddleia and oxeye daisies, hyacinth and lavender, showy lupines and geraniums. But other plants he saw were new to him. Where had they gotten additional varieties? How would they know which ones were good for food and nectar? As he watched, a cloud of butterflies rose from the shrubs, spiraled the arch, and then settled—one by one—on other flowers.
He sank onto his elbows in the window, suddenly feeling weak in the knees.
This was for him. They had done this for him. Ash and Daisy—the two people he cared most about in the world—had cared enough for him, even in his absence, to create something that would delight his heart. Clearly, they had expected him to return.
Something in his chest swelled at the thought that he hadn’t been forgotten. He closed his eyes tightly against the waves of feeling that battered his self-control. It surprised him that, after all he had been through, he was still capable of such powerful emotion.
* * *
That evening, Sarah paced the old duke’s study, thinking about what had happened in Arthur’s laboratory. She had convinced herself that she was fortunate a kiss hadn’t happened. She needed to get him well and on his way as quickly as possible. But, thinking of his departure, she experienced a sense of loss she knew meant he had already made a worrisome impact on her. He lurked on the edge of her mind, waiting to insert himself into every thought, each situation. And worse, every time she was with him, she had a nagging sense that there was something more . . . she should be seeing him . . . differently.
After their encounter he had confined himself to the duke’s bedchamber, and when she peeked in he seemed to be sleeping. Later, she sent Mazie in with a dose of her special medicinal powders, and had the kitchen send a tray of food up for dinner. The food, Mazie reported, was devoured so completely that it looked like he’d licked the plates clean. At least his robust appetite hadn’t been affected.
Something about the location of the butterfly garden had disturbed him. Going over his reaction, she realized it had to do with the garden being moved. He had slipped and said he had been to Betancourt before.
Abandoning the account books she was working on, she exited the study and was soon on her way to the rear lawn. She needed to see the garden and figure out why its location meant something to him.
It was sliding past dusk; shades of purple and blue were creeping over the landscape. As she rounded the last corner, she stopped dead. There, in the middle of the garden, stood her patient, booted feet spread, face raised to the oncoming night. Somebody had found his boots and, from the looks of it, had polished them for him.
She studied his broad shoulders and relaxed stance, wondering what he was seeing and feeling. Something about the darkness and the blended fragrances of the flowers, created a hum in her blood that she didn’t trust. But, this was her chance to get answers, and if she turned back now she might never know the truth.
She walked quietly along the path to the center, and halted a few steps behind him, sharing for a moment the sounds and scents of the night garden. He showed no sign of knowing she was there until he spoke in a low, quiet voice.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it.”
“It is.” She stepped to his side, looking around the garden that was drowsy with moon shadows. “A feast for the senses.”
“Strange how the night can seem so different around the world. It’s the same stars, the same moon, the same dark, velvet sky.” He took a deep breath and then quietly let it out. “It’s the scents, I think, that change it. Sand, dust, and hints of spice some places . . . jungle vegetation, crops in full season, or animal musk in others. Even at sea there are smells . . . the salty air . . . wet and swollen ropes, the tang of oil and steel . . . sulphur-tainted smoke from ship engines.”
“You’ve been a lot of places.” She ran her hand through some spires of lavender, releasing their fragrance and savoring that sweetness.
“I have.”
“Which place do you like best?” She recalled the places he’d named. “Egypt? India? Italy?”
He thought for a moment, then bent to pick a daisy that was nodding in the light breeze, near his feet. “America, I think.”
“But you said you’ve never been there.” She frowned.
“Exactly. That’s what I like best about it.” His voice made it seem his thoughts were miles away. “The next place is always the best place. The one where hopes and dreams and happiness are all still possible.”
The undercurrent of pain in those words went straight to her heart. As she grappled with how to respond, he tucked the daisy he held into her hair, just above her ear. That gesture unraveled what was left of her defenses. For good or for ill, she had to speak what was in her heart.
“Who are you, Michael?”
He studied her and her question for a long moment. “A man, long gone from home, now returned.” He straightened to a near military posture and nodded as if introducing himself. “Sailor . . . traveler . . . sometimes scribe . . . student of nature . . . psychic when needed . . .”
“Defender of dogs,” she whispered.
He chuckled. “That too, I suppose.” His gaze settled o
n her as if memorizing how she looked at that moment. “I am what you see, what you experience. My manners are rusty because living has not been easy for me. But I hold fast to my convictions and am not afraid of much.”
Those words resonated with her intuition. Still, she needed more.
“What are you doing here?”
He thought a bit too long before he answered.
He was being careful.
“I believe I said: visiting my home. Sometime or other, we all go home. At least, we want to.” He stroked her cheek as he had earlier in the laboratory. “And invariably, we find that ‘home’ has changed.”
“So, how has your home changed?” she said, feeling her attraction to him deepening.
* * *
“You.” It came out before he had a chance to think about it, but in retrospect it was the most truthful thing he could have said.
She was here . . . at the crux of his past and future . . . at the heart of all that had been his hopes and expectations . . . with her curvy frame and sun-polished cheeks and big green eyes that flashed her emotions like semaphores. So easy to read.
So easy to want.
Before she could respond, he bent to touch her lips with his.
At the instant of contact, a rush of warmth came over him unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Inside him something loosened; something, long bound, was set free. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her gently, relishing the lush contours of her mouth and the way she softened under his touch. Pleasure poured through him and for a moment he tried to capture it all. But sensations kept coming, overflowing his senses and overpowering his ability to store or categorize them. He finally abandoned that battle and simply immersed himself in that kiss.
Her lips were warm and sweet, and there was a hint of exploration in the way she fitted them to his. In his travels he’d kissed a number of women, usually ones with considerable experience. Their eagerness had a measured, practiced feel that was nothing like her earnest response.
The world around him fell away as her arms circled his waist and she met his embrace. He didn’t hear the movement, the quick thud of paws on the path, or the growl until it was too late.
It was probably no accident that he took the brunt of the impact . . .
* * *
Somewhere in that potent mix of sensation, the sound of a dog’s approach had registered in Sarah’s senses, but not as a threat. Nero’s growl and lunge shocked her as much as it did Michael. They both staggered.
“Dammit, dog!” he roared as he tried to shove her behind him as Nero growled and barked furiously.
She pulled free and bolted around Michael.
“No, Nero—stop! You know better than this!” She faced the big dog with her chest heaving. “What’s gotten into you?” She turned to Michael, whose fists were clenched, prepared. “He didn’t bite you?”
Michael eased and looked himself over. “No new holes, I think.”
The barking stopped, but it was clear the dog wasn’t ready to back down. He growled, even as he lowered his head to Sarah’s approach. She could feel tension radiating from his body and kept her voice calm and manner controlled.
“That’s enough. I’m fine.”
Nero raised his nose to her, giving her a good sniffing, as if verifying what she’d just said. Then he gave Michael a glare that spoke of unfinished business. “Go back to the house.” He didn’t move and she pointed. “Go. Now!”
Nero turned away and she could have sworn he scuffed his paws on the brick path as he went. She looked back at Michael, her face hot and her lips feeling thick and conspicuous, even in the dim light.
“I’m sorry. He’s always been protective,” she said. “He’s not used to seeing me . . . he probably thought I was being attacked.”
“Mazie calls him a hellhound,” he said. “Now I see why.” He took a deep breath, then nodded to indicate something behind her.
She turned and found Nero had stopped at the edge of the garden. He sat with his ears erect and eyes glowing. She took two steps toward him and pointed to the house again. “Go!”
He rose and took a couple of steps, then sat down again. Waiting. His obedience, apparently, had limits.
“I have to take him in,” she said, telling herself it was probably just as well. She looked at Michael, wishing she could bring herself to ask even a small part of what was in her mind. In the end, she gave him a simple: “Good night.”
“Good night, Sarah Bumgarten.”
* * *
She grabbed Nero’s collar and steered him to the house. A glimpse over her shoulder showed Michael standing in the garden, still, savoring the night. It was that image of him that stayed with her after she settled into her ivy-canopied bed and relived that soul-drenching kiss.
What was wrong with her? He was a stranger with secrets, and secrets held that tightly were almost always about disagreeable, dishonorable, or outright terrible things. Then, why did she have this feeling of knowing him, of having met him before? She had no business risking her slow-healing heart in a flirtation with a man she couldn’t trust to tell her where he lived. She had an estate to run, a title to guard, a living to procure for the people of Betancourt. She knew only the barest bits of his background, and nothing of his purpose in being here.
By dawn, she had decided firmly that no matter how pleasant it was, or how potent its lure, that kissing business would never happen again. As Uncle Red was wont to say, “No sense stickin’ yer toe in the water if you ain’t fixin’to go swimmin’.”
* * *
“Damned inconvenient, her turning up.”
That same night, George Parker Graham lounged in a weathered chair with his polished boots propped on a scarred table and his pricey top hat resting on his knees. The ramshackle stone-and-timber cottage not far beyond Betancourt’s borders was one large room that smelled of old sweat, spent ale, and the bad habits of the men who sheltered there. He winced and brought his handkerchief to his nose.
“On the other hand, she’s a tasty little thing, all light hair and big, bold eyes . . . once you get past the firearms, of course. Fresh and far too willful for her own good. American through and through.” He looked at the rough-clad men in various stages of consciousness—some with heads on the tabletop, others sprawled and nodding off around the room. The ale and whiskey he provided kept them occupied and kept their presence in the area a secret. “If I play my cards right, it could be a bit of a bonus, claiming that juicy bit.”
He frowned, thinking of yesterday’s encounter with Sarah Bumgarten, then picked his gentlemanly hat off his knees, and placed it on his head. The one wretch at the table with eyes still open sat straighter, watching him.
“Wot next, yer lor-sship?” the fellow asked.
Your lordship. George rose and smoothed his vest. He liked the sound of that. His father, the old baron, had kicked off just in time. Your Grace would sound better, but realistically, that would never happen. He would have to be content with controlling Betancourt’s assets.
“You lot stay put while I check into this business of Arthur handing off the title to his younger brother. Damned nonsense. Nobody abandons a dukedom, even an impoverished one. The only way that could happen is if the heir is dead.” He froze for a moment. “Is that what they’ve done . . . declared him dead? The courts have to wait seven years to declare a person dead. This could work to my advantage. I have a connection or two in the Inns of Court. If he’s been declared dead and the new duke is absent and neglectful . . . we could claim it’s a special circumstance . . . the title and estate in dire straits . . . desperate for a proper steward. Which of course would have to be a devoted family member.” He looked at the man, whose eyes were rum-glazed and whose head was sinking. “The dire straits is where you lot come in.”
Moments later he grinned as he stepped out into the night, thinking again of that magnificent old house, those rich and productive lands, and the curvy little spitfire he would claim along with them.
* * *
After a sleepless night on the rack of unrelenting logic, Sarah rose early, saddled Fancy Boy herself, and rode into Betany straightaway. Mazie had revealed that their patient claimed to have stayed at the Iron Penny and said he had a valise and a horse there. Rather than send Eddie to fetch his things, she decided to go herself and spend a few moments with Bascom.
The innkeeper was glad to hear his guest was found. He answered her questions as best he could while he collected the man’s belongings.
Sarah’s heart sank when she learned her patient had given the name “Art” when he hired a room at the inn. Michael? Art? Which name was really his? Maybe neither. She’d never been so unhappy to be right.
According to Bascom, the ruffians that threatened her dog had appeared that same night in his tavern, and they brought with them a big, nasty brute of a friend. When they started trouble, “Art” stepped in and saved the innkeeper from damage to his tavern and his person.
“Fought like the devil, he did,” Bascom said, leaning an elbow on his bar. “That big feller had a knife half as long as my arm. Never seen the like. They traded blows that’d knock a bull to its knees. But Art laid ’im out flat, an’ sent fer th’ constable. Got that big bloke locked up in Pankhurst’s barn even now, waiting for th’ magistrate.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “My guess? It was them cursed dog-baiters that lay in wait an’ shot ’im.”
Sarah returned to Betancourt with just as many misgivings as she had when she left. He seemed to have spoken the truth when he said he wasn’t afraid of much and he certainly had proved that he would fight to set things right. But he had used two names, at least one of which was false. Only a man with something important to hide would do such a thing.
Chapter Seven
Arthur stood atop the roof of Betancourt as the sun came up that same morning. The roof had been restored recently—at least sometime within the last year. He toed the edge of several pieces of slate with his boot and found them firmly secured. It should last another century or two. With a deep breath, he walked the front wall of the house and squatted at the southwest corner to watch the estate begin the day.