by Betina Krahn
“It’s their favorite song,” she called, and started another round. “Drove she ducklings to the water . . . every mooorning just at nine . . .”
“That’s just ducky,” he muttered, declining.
Two more voices were added as the other goose girls returned with a couple of crusty loaves a bit past their prime. He heard a husky voice behind him and looked over his shoulder to find the rotund cook standing in the kitchen door, belting out the song. A couple of brawny farmers had paused in passing, and leaned on their shovels to listen, then to sing along. Two kitchen helpers, a young footman, and a groom who poked his head out of a stable window added to the songfest. Apparently everyone on the place knew this duck-loving “Clementine” and delighted in singing about her demise to a flock of entranced barnyard fowl.
What the hell kind of insanity is this?
The next thing he knew, he was holding a handful of bread and being told to break off pieces to throw to the upraised beaks. A group of pushy ganders apparently saw him as an easy mark and rushed to be first for a treat. He braced, refusing to be intimidated by a handful of greedy geese. For a moment, his strategy worked; he held his ground and fed the less aggressive birds first. But a determined gander soon flapped and jumped at the bread he held . . . catching both the treat and the hand dispensing it.
“Owwww!” He jerked back, appalled by the sight of blood on his finger. The damned thing bit him!
Sarah handed off her bread to one of the goose girls and insisted on seeing his injury. “It’s not that bad,” she announced. “Just needs cleaning and a wrap. You’ll be fine.” She produced a handkerchief to wind around his finger.
“It jumped up and bit me,” he said, still hardly able to believe it.
“They’re usually better behaved,” she said, turning him bodily toward the house. “Especially if we sing. If it’s any consolation, I doubt it was your finger he was aiming for.”
“That’s not a consolation,” he declared flatly.
She caught his irritable expression and paused for a moment, staring at him. Her green eyes seemed to darken, becoming mirrors in which he glimpsed his own petulance. He was bleeding, true, but it was hardly a major wound.
“Fortunately, you’ve got nine others,” she said, cheerily wiggling her fingers as she pulled him toward the front doors. “Next time, sing.”
* * *
Sarah watched him take a deep breath and brace as she dabbed alcohol on his cut. He was determined to be manly and stoic, but his jaw muscles hadn’t gotten the message. She lifted his hand and blew on his finger.
“What are you doing?” He looked at her as if she’d lost her wits.
“If you blow on it, it relieves the sting. Didn’t your mother teach you that when you skinned a knee or scraped an elbow?”
He looked between her and his injured digit, and made a face of grudging acceptance. “Didn’t have a mother for long. And, in my medical duty, alcohol was considered more desirable inside the body than out.”
“I suppose there is something to be said for the anesthetic effect of imbibing alcohol,” she said wryly, “especially if you have a difficult patient.” Then she fixed him with a tart look. “How about a belt of whiskey?”
Just then, Dolly arrived with Sarah’s medical bag and bandages, and was quickly sent for hot water. Sarah rolled up her sleeves and had him take off his shirt and sit in a chair she placed in the sun streaming through the windows. She had been dreading this dressing change . . . had already put it off a day or two and was surprised that he hadn’t called her on it. She could hardly admit to avoiding it because she didn’t want to deal with his hard, shirtless body at close range.
She cut the bandage, unwound it, and dropped it in a nearby dustbin. He bent to look at the wound at the same moment she bent to look closer at it. Their heads bumped and both froze in place. His exotically tanned skin, the musky scent of him, the warmth he radiated . . . for a moment she was caught off balance.
“It looks good,” she murmured. “Pink. Healthy. It’s already closed.”
“What is that you put on it?” he said, his voice low and thick.
“A plaster of honey and herbs.”
“You put honey on a bullet wound?”
“It has been reported that . . . direct concentrations of sugar . . . like those in honey . . . keep the germs that cause infection from growing.”
Her knees were going weak. All she could think about was that kiss last night in the garden and how she couldn’t allow it to happen again.
“Germs?” He tilted his head in an excessively handsome way. That was a kissing angle, if she’d ever seen one.
She should straighten, should start cleaning the blasted wound, should back away—far away from him—now!
“Animals so tiny you can hardly see them with a microscope—like the one Duke Arthur had in his laboratory.” Apparently she was incapable of doing any of the sensible things she had just enumerated, because she stayed where she was and licked her lip instead. “That’s the latest theory on sickness. Miasmas are outmoded. Germs are all the thing, these days.”
“How very current of you.”
He took a deep breath and pulled his gaze from her, breaking the connection that held her spellbound. She was both relieved and annoyed.
“I do try to keep up.” She wetted a cloth, dipped it in the hot water, and began to carefully clean the wound. But her disappointment came out in one final snap. “Let me know if you want a leather strap to bite on. I’ll have Ned fetch something from the barn.”
Chapter Eight
She was just tying the last knot on his bandage when voices came from the hallway, approaching the breakfast room. The sputtering one was Ned’s. The other one sounded less familiar, until it reached the doorway to the breakfast room, and came paired with a gentlemanly form and entitled manner.
George Parker Graham stopped just inside the door, holding his hat and riding crop, still wearing his gloves and an expression of concern. He looked between Sarah and Michael, seeming genuinely shocked. A heartbeat later, his eyes lit with determination.
“I pray you will forgive the intrusion, Miss Bumgarten, but since our last meeting, I have been deeply concerned for your safety.” He swept the room with a look. “I have concern for all of Betancourt.” His gaze settled on Michael. “I have heard from a reliable source that there are unsavory elements in the neighborhood. I can see now, I was right to be concerned for your well-being and good name.”
Color drained from Sarah’s face. She was caught again, by the same gentleman, in an even more compromising situation. With a half-naked man. She drew herself up straight and stepped between them, blocking his view.
“I assure you, sir, that all is well.” With every second that passed, she recovered more of her self-possession. “I am tending to Mr. Grant’s shoulder. If you would be so good as to wait in the parlor.” She looked to the anxious underbutler behind him. “Ned, please show Mr. Graham the way.”
Ned was more than happy to do so, although he bent, spread his arms, and waved them at George as if he were shooing chickens. George looked at him as if he were a raving mental case, turned on his heel and strode out . . . drawing Ned—still shooing—in his wake.
She turned to Michael, who had risen and stood like a solid block of stone, staring at the door where George had disappeared.
“I believe it’s best if I handle this alone,” she said. “You should go to your room and rest a while.” She pulled his shirt from the back of a nearby chair and held it out to him. “You’ll need this.”
George Graham was back. She rolled her sleeves down and headed to the parlor. His presence again, so soon, wasn’t a good sign. But at least he hadn’t caught her wearing Uncle Red’s guns this time.
She paused for a moment and drew a deep breath. Her only course was to banish embarrassment and behave as if all were normal and expected. Answer every question, assume authority in all cases . . . and the minute he left, sit down and
write Ashton a letter—a telegram—demanding he return to England immediately. Betancourt needed a duke, even a reluctant one.
“Please forgive my earlier tone, Miss Bumgarten,” George began the moment she entered the great receiving room. “It was something of a shock to see you with that . . . unclothed man. I understand, from others in the area, that you are indeed considered a healer of sorts and that this man was brought to you injured. But surely you can understand my concern for your reputation upon seeing you exposed to such an indelicate display.”
“You should know, Mr. Graham, that I am not and never have been missish about such things. I am not a sheltered London deb, nor am I easily intimidated by society’s rules or those who would press them upon me.”
He stared at her for a moment, then affected a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I see that, Miss Bumgarten. Clearly the American in you. All the more reason to be circumspect in your dealings here. You must be aware that your feelings are quite the exception and you must remain above all suspicion.”
“And just what would I be suspected of, Mister Graham?” she said, thinking quickly. By his own admission he had been investigating her presence here and asking about her in the county . . . gathering evidence . . . but for what? What could he possibly gain from learning she was what she claimed? And if he hoped to discover otherwise, what would he gain then?
“You are a lovely young woman, alone in a great house without chaperonage . . . in company with a strange man who shows not the slightest trepidation about parading his unclothed body before you. Surely you know how that may be interpreted by the less charitable elements of society.”
“He is my patient, Mr. Graham.” She lifted her chin and clasped her hands harder. Maybe she should have worn Red’s guns. “Our encounters have been witnessed by Betancourt’s staff.”
“Staff? Like the fellow who shooed me into the parlor like a dotty old goatherd? If so, they are hardly in a position to vouch for his behavior. Or, I am sorry to say, for yours.” He set his hat and riding crop on the card table near the windows. “I have no doubt of the higher purpose in your dealings and nature, Miss Bumgarten, but what about him? What do you know about him? Where is he from? Are you certain he is not a thief or confidence man? Do you even know his true name?”
That last charge struck a nerve and it must have shown in her face. He moved closer and captured her gaze for a moment before she looked away. A moment later, she could have kicked herself for that small retreat.
“He seems able to move unaided,” he said, his voice more intimate, almost lulling. “Surely it is time that he removed himself to a less compromising location. For your sake.” He edged closer, pausing as if to judge the effect of his presence. “If you cannot see to his removal, perhaps someone else should.”
“And would that someone be you, George?” Michael’s commanding voice came from the doorway.
* * *
Sarah and George Graham turned at the same time to find Michael standing in the archway with both fists propped on his waist. He was using his injured shoulder. His gray gaze was cool and flinty.
“Michael, please,” she said, moving between them. “This is not your concern. I have asked that you return to your room—”
“It appears that George has made my presence here a point of contention.” His use of George’s first name was nothing less than a provocation and he knew it. His posture said he was prepared for George’s response, however heated or confrontational it proved. “I believe I am entitled to defend myself and, in so doing, defend your kindness to me.”
“It is not her kindness that is objectionable,” George declared, stalking to the side to face Michael directly. “It is the way her higher nature is being taken advantage of.” He drew himself up. “Who are you, sir, and what are you doing in these parts?”
“I have said. I was born and raised in these parts, and I’ve come home to visit,” Michael said tautly. “None of which is your concern. Your continuing challenge of Miss Bumgarten’s presence here and her care of Betancourt is more an affront to decency than my occasional lack of a shirt.”
“How dare you question my right to see to my family’s good name and welfare?” George reddened. “Who do you think you are?”
“Who I am is not important,” Michael said, his voice dropping and acquiring that rasp that always sent a shiver through Sarah. “What I am is the issue . . . a man grateful for the mercy Miss Bumgarten has shown me and the effort she has put into bringing this gracious home back to life.”
“I have searched the county, made inquiries, and can find no trace of a family of Grants having lived hereabouts,” George declared. “That is who you claim to be, is it not? Michael Grant. Born and raised near Meridian land.” He turned to Sarah, fists clenched. “He lies, Miss Bumgarten. I will bring affidavits, if you require them. This man is a brawler, a bully, a purveyor of deceptions. I can provide witnesses, should it come to that.” He stalked still closer to Michael, raising his voice. “I ask again, who are you? What is your real name and what are you doing here?”
* * *
Michael took a deep breath, realizing that the time had come . . . as he knew it would. He looked to Sarah, seeing the doubt in her eyes, hoping that she would forgive him— at least give him a chance to explain. But for now, his most pressing desire was putting George Parker Graham in his place.
“My full name is Arthur Michael Randolph Graham.” He paused for a moment, allowing the impact of that to be felt. “I was not born near Meridian lands, but on them, in this very house. I was named the sixth Duke of Meridian at the age of twelve, and for years afterward was the ward of my uncles, Bertram and Seward . . . Bertram being, through another family connection, the Baron Beesock.”
“P-preposterous,” George declared, jerking his chin back. “You? A duke of the realm?”
“I was.” Michael stepped forward. “And you, George Graham, are the son of Bertram Graham. Which makes any claim you put forward or action you take regarding Betancourt or myself... suspect.”
“That is the most outrageous thing I have ever heard!” George declared, turning to Sarah. “Did you know of this ridiculous claim? Is this why you allowed him to stay in this house and besmirch your good name? His claim to be Arthur, Duke of Meridian? Can you not see him for the liar and opportunist he is?”
* * *
Sarah stared at Michael in shock. Arthur and Michael, both? Graham, not Grant? He was that Arthur? When he looked at her, locked gazes with her, she felt a jolt of recognition that took her breath. Was that why she had those fleeting feelings of familiarity with him? Pieces of the puzzle dropped into place: sailor, adventurer, self-taught naturalist, sometime physic . . . he had traveled . . . just as Duke Arthur had. The way he seemed to know about Betancourt and Ashton at school . . . did he know about them because he truly had been there? And the butterflies and insects in the collections . . . he knew about those because he had collected them?
Her face flamed. How had she not recognized him? She tried to conjure a memory of the old Arthur for comparison and got only a soft, indistinct image that might have fit half of the gentlemen in London. But she did remember dancing with him . . . the stiff way he held her . . . the softness of his hands . . . the awkwardness of his movement. If he truly was Arthur, he had changed so much that none of the staff still doddering about could recognize him. Not even Bascom could tell who he was, and she was fairly certain he had seen Arthur numerous times, years ago.
Why would he claim such a thing? How did he think he would get by with it?
“I-I don’t know what to say, except . . . I shall have to research this.”
“Dearest Heaven, Miss Bumgarten, can you not see what he is? He wishes to insinuate himself into your good graces . . . to lower your guard . . . while plotting to get his hands on Betancourt’s riches.”
“Riches?” Michael laughed angrily. “There are precious few here now, thanks to your father. He and Uncle Seward and Aunt Sylvi
a drained, sold off, and outright stole nearly everything of worth at Betancourt. And it would appear the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.” He advanced on George, who stepped back, and then farther back. His voice dropped to that low, raspy register that made it sound like a pronouncement of Fate itself.
“What are you doing here, Cousin? Why are you suddenly so concerned for the noble house your father beggared and the title he tried to usurp?”
George stumbled back against the table where his hat and riding crop lay. He grabbed them and dragged them before him like a shield.
“I will not abide such loathsome charges against my father’s memory.” His voice grew strained. “If you truly were Arthur, you would know that my father spent the best years of his life caring for you and seeing that you had the finest education and the most comfortable life possible. He worked his fingers to the bone to care for this estate . . . neglected his own offspring to cater to your every whim . . . such was his devotion to Betancourt and the precious Meridian heir.”
Michael towered over George, forcing the smaller man to look up into his fierce gaze. “My uncle is dead?” His fists clenched. “Then he has already received his just reward . . . in Heaven . . . or the other realm.”
Sarah gasped and would have intervened, had George not bolted to the side, out of Michael’s reach. With the threat of violence lessened he became once again the aggrieved relation bent on purging the estate.
“Beware, Miss Bumgarten. You do not know whom you are dealing with. I intend to see this imposter exposed and removed from Betancourt as quickly as possible.”
Both Sarah and Arthur Michael Graham watched in charged silence as George strode furiously out of the parlor, through the hall, and out the front door . . . leaving the latter standing open. After a long moment a panicked nanny goat came racing into the hall, followed closely by Nero and Gwenny.