Or spoiled, Sarah thought. She did not voice this aloud, though. She just nodded, and said, “Yes, certainly. I would be glad to look in on Mrs. Hamilton.”
“Thank you, Lady Iverson. That is very kind of you.”
Sarah nodded, and sat back against the leather cushions as Mr. Hamilton shut the door and the carriage jolted into motion.
She closed her eyes, and wished for once that she was the sort of female who carried hartshorn with her. She could certainly use a whiff of it now.
The Hamiltons had convinced her that it was the irate farmer who had destroyed her artifacts, in a petty act of vengeance for his humiliation at the hands of Lord Ransome. She had been sure it had been him—someone she did not know, someone whose rage was relatively impersonal and therefore not so difficult to understand. The thought that now it was probably someone she knew made her feel sick all over again.
Who could it be? Who could it be?
She pressed her gloved fingers to her temples, trying to force out the images of her shattered objects, the farmer’s dead body. She’d faced small jealousies and pettiness before in her life, but never true hatred. It made her feel ill and frightened to be face-to-face with it now—and she disliked feeling frightened.
She shook her head. She would not feel frightened now; she could not afford to. There was too much at stake. She had to find out what was happening, what was causing her world to spin out of control, and put an end to it. Before something even more dreadful, such as someone hurting her sister, could happen.
Sarah lowered the carriage window and leaned out. “Coachman!” she called. “Take me to Ransome Hall, please.”
Sarah stood in the drive of Ransome Hall, staring up at the house. It looked quiet and peaceful in the late morning light. It looked as if nothing evil or ugly could ever touch its hallowed stones.
What am I doing here? she thought. She did not know. She only knew that she had to see Lord Ransome, to talk to him, to watch his face as she told him all that had happened.
She did not, could not, think that he had anything to do with this horrid business. No man she had ever come to care about, as she had Lord Ransome, could possibly do such things!
Yes, she admitted to herself finally. She did care about Lord Ransome, more than was sensible. She could not help it, despite everything that had happened between them, despite the fact that he did not understand the true importance of her work. His kindness, his good nature, the fact that he was concerned about those less fortunate than himself, had touched her deeply, and would not be erased.
No man who had all those things could possibly harbor such cruelty in his heart. Could he?
Sarah wished that instead of studying ancient history all the time she had spent some effort in studying human nature. Perhaps then she would not be so confused, so bewildered.
She did not know what she would say to him when she saw him, but she knew that she could not turn back now. She climbed the front steps, and reached up to lift the polished door knocker and let it drop.
Only a moment had passed when the door opened, and Makepeace, the butler, stood there. She could not run away now.
There was a quick flash of surprise in Makepeace’s eyes, but he was too well-trained to let it stay. It was swiftly covered in bland inquiry. “Lady Iverson,” he said. “How pleasant to see you this morning.” He stepped aside to let her into the house.
“I must see Lord Ransome at once,” she said. “It is most urgent.”
Makepeace hesitated. “His lordship is in the library, my lady. I will see if—”
“I am sorry, Makepeace, but there is no time for politeness.” Sarah turned on her heel, and walked as quickly as she could down the corridor to the library, Makepeace sputtering behind her. There would be gossip about this, she was sure, but somehow she could not care. She just wanted to see him. To watch his face as she told him about what had happened.
She knocked briefly at the library door, and pushed it open before she could be summoned.
He stood behind his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He obviously had not expected company, for he wore no coat and his cravat was loosened. His shirtsleeves were pushed back, revealing strong, corded forearms, lightly dusted with pale brown hair. His expression, blankly polite when he looked up to see who had interrupted his work, turned startled when he saw that it was she who stood there.
“Lady Iverson,” he said, slowly putting the papers he held back down on his desk. “Is something amiss?”
Sarah felt frozen, her hand still on the doorknob. For one instant, she could scarcely remember what she was there for. The seriousness of her mission clouded at the actual sight of him, at being truly in his presence. Attraction, suspicion, exhaustion, it all tangled up in her mind, confusing her, disorienting her. She closed her eyes, swaying dizzily. In the darkness, she saw him as he had been in her dreams—a bold Viking.
She felt a touch on her arm, and opened her eyes to find him next to her. His hand was warm through the sleeve of her spencer; his eyes were kind, deeply concerned.
Could this man have possibly done those terrible things? Sarah, once so sure of all the things in her life, now could be sure of nothing.
“I am sorry, my lord,” she heard Makepeace say behind her, his voice distinctly breathless after chasing her down the corridor. She took the opportunity of the distraction to move away from Lord Ransome.
“I wanted to properly announce Lady Iverson,” the butler went on.
“It is quite all right, Makepeace,” Lord Ransome said. Even though Sarah had moved a few steps across the room, she could feel him watching her. “You may leave us now.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Sarah listened to the butler’s footsteps echo away, and only when she heard the door click shut did she turn around.
Lord Ransome leaned back against the wood of the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked most perplexed. “Would you care for some—tea, perhaps?” he said finally.
For one moment, she longed desperately to go to him and lay her head on his shoulder, feel his strong arms about her, keeping her safe. She felt like she had been alone, had been the strong one, for so long, and his shoulder looked sturdy enough to hold all her burdens.
But the memory of her artifacts shattered on the stable floor, the farmer with the knife in his chest, held her where she was.
“I do not need tea,” she said.
“You look as if you need something a great deal stronger,” he answered. He pushed away from the door and crossed the room to pour her a measure of brandy from the decanter on the desk. When he came back to press the glass into her hand, he said, “What is amiss? Are you ill?”
“No.” Sarah stared down into the amber depths of the liquid. Its heady fragrance beckoned her to its warm comfort, and she swallowed it, gasping a bit at the bite at the back of her throat. It helped to steady her, to ground her in the moment.
It also made her dizzy, though. She sat down unsteadily on a nearby settee.
Lord Ransome followed her, kneeling at her side. He took the glass from her hand, and put it down on the carpet. “Then is your sister ill? Please, Lady Iverson, I want to help if I can. There must be a reason you have come here today.”
“Yes, there is.” Sarah looked at him closely, trying to judge his expression as she talked. “Some terrible things have happened. Last night, someone broke into the stable and vandalized our artifacts.”
He looked deeply shocked. His lips parted, but no sound emerged. In the silence, he reached out to touch her arm. Finally, he said, “You were not there when it happened? You were not hurt?”
“No, no. I could not sleep, so I went to check on some of my work, and found the—the destruction.” She choked on the remembrance, and wished for more of that brandy. She was grateful at the steady support of his hand.
He had to be innocent. Not even Kean himself could be such a fine actor as to appear so shocked. Sarah felt a rush of relief, a warm wave th
at almost drowned out her terrified doubts.
“I was able to salvage many of the objects,” she said. “But some were lost beyond repair. It was a truly vicious act.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his mouth tightened. His shock turned to anger, an anger as deep as Sarah’s own had been in the stable last night. “Do you know who did this?”
She shook her head. “I could not say. I did have my suspicions.” She bit her lip. One of her suspects had been him. She could scarcely tell him that.
One of the others had been the dead farmer.
“Who?” he said shortly.
Sarah looked down at her lap, at their hands joined together there. “The vadalism was not the only occurrence, I fear. Do you recall the dreadful man who tried to drown Mary Ann’s kittens?”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “How could I ever forget?” His hand tightened on hers. “Was it that bast—man who did this?”
“I had thought so, at first,” she admitted. “But then this morning, when Mr. Hamilton and I went to confront him, we found him . . .” She could not say it. Again, her voice failed her, and she wished for the brandy. For something to make her forget that vision. “Dead. He was dead.”
“Dead?”
“Murdered. Someone had stabbed him,” she said, all in a rush, to get the words out and send them away.
Lord Ransome rose up from his knees and sat beside her on the settee. He said no words; he just put his arms around her and drew her close.
He was strong, and warm, and to be close to him felt like the safe haven Sarah had imagined it would be. She gave in to her longings, and rested her head against his linen-covered chest. She felt his heartbeat, strong and steady.
“You should never have had to see such a thing,” he said gently.
Sarah smiled weakly. “I am hardly a sheltered young miss. I have seen bodies before.”
“But not, I would wager, one that has been cruelly murdered,” he answered, his arms tightening around her. “I should have been there, to help you, to protect you.”
Sarah drew back a bit to look up at him. “You could not have known.”
“I should have known.” He framed her face in his hands, looking down into her eyes with a strange, intent glow in his sky-colored eyes. “Lady Iverson—Sarah. This will sound lunatic, but I feel some—connection with you that I have never felt before with anyone. I have tried to deny it, to explain it away, but I cannot. God knows, I would go back onto the most hellish battlefield I have ever known before I would see you have any more pain.”
Sarah stared at him, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel. Could this be Lord Ransome, speaking to her so passionately? She could scarce believe it. How could he feel the same way she had, that something very odd connected them, something unexplainable but quite undeniable?
She had felt caught in a dreamworld ever since she opened the stable door last night. Now that nightmare shifted into something sweet, but just as unreal.
She reached up and covered his hand with hers. She had no words, and let her actions be her voice. She rose up, and captured his lips with hers.
They were warm and surprisingly soft, parting beneath hers. How she had missed this intimacy in her life, longed for it from Miles! She had not even known how much until this moment.
His clean, masculine scent enveloped her. She wrapped her arms about his neck, and rose up onto her toes to be closer to him, ever closer. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound that moved through her like a warm bolt of lightning, and drew her against him. They fell back onto the settee in a tangle of limbs and skirts, their kiss deepening, hands reaching desperately, hungrily.
After an eternity—or was it only a moment?—they drifted apart, slowly, sweetly. Sarah rested against his shoulder with a sigh, her senses still humming and alive. Never had she known a kiss like that before!
Miles stroked her tumbled hair back from her temples. “Can you doubt how I feel?”
“No.” No more than she could doubt her own feelings. For one more instant, she rested in the golden emotions, until she could hold the outside world at bay no longer. There was still great evil lurking somewhere in her life, waiting for her.
It was not a time for undiluted basking in romance. She had far too much to worry about to try to puzzle out where their places could be in each other’s lives.
But, for this one moment, it felt so delicious to not be alone any longer.
She sat up, feeling suddenly cold at the loss of his closeness. Slowly, she came back into herself. She straightened her hair and clothes in a rather bewildered haze, almost unable to believe that she was the same person who had given in to a passionate impulse only seconds before.
A true wanton, that was what she was. She giggled at the thought.
Miles sat up beside her, looking as dazed as she felt. His hair was adorably tousled, and Sarah reached up to tidy it.
He smiled at her, catching her hand in his and lifting it to his lips for a quick kiss. “We must speak of this later, Sarah.”
“Must we?” she said, teasing him for his oh-so-serious tone.
“You know we do. But first, we have to find who has been doing these terrible things.”
A little more of the glow faded at the reminder of the awful scenes that had brought her to Ransome Hall today. “You mean I must. These are my difficulties. It could cause quite the scandal if Lord Ransome was thought to be involved in a murder.”
He caught her shoulders, turning her back to him. “We must. And I will hear no arguments.”
She smiled at him. “I am not arguing.”
“Very good. Then you should go home to your sister, while I look into some things. I will call on you later this afternoon.”
He sounded quite the officer-in-charge. She almost laughed, but then decided that was not perhaps the most appropriate reaction. And it felt nice to know she did not have to be alone in this confusion any longer. “I do want to be certain that Mary Ann is all right, and that she has obeyed my orders to stay at home today.”
He nodded, still serious and distracted, as if plotting out a battle strategy. “Did you come in your carriage? Shall I send some of the footmen to escort you back to the hunting box?”
“I came in the Hamiltons’ carriage.” She gave him a teasing glance. “Did you think I was driving my phaeton all over the countryside?”
He kissed her forehead, and gave a wry laugh. “With you, one never knows. I will send two of the footmen with you, anyway.”
Sarah nodded, and stood up to cross the room and peer into a small mirror that hung on the wall. Her hair was a tousled mess of curls, quite beyond redemption, even as she tried to push it back into its pins. Reflected behind her, she saw Miles take his coat from the back of the chair where it hung and shrug his arms into it.
For a second, it was as if she stood before the polished bronze Viking mirror again. His coat and cravat were gone, replaced by tunic and leather leggings.
She blinked, and the vision vanished.
“You will send a message to me later, will you not, and tell me what you discover? If you cannot make it to the hunting box,” she added. Her voice shook, even to her own ears.
“Of course.” He came to her, and laid his warm hands on her shoulders. His lips pressed to her temple, all too briefly. “Don’t be frightened, my dear. I am certain we will find whoever is behind these terrible acts, and he will be stopped.”
Sarah covered one of his hands with hers. “I am not frightened.” And truly, she was not. How could she be, with the memory of their kiss glowing in her mind?
Only later, when she was alone in the carriage going home, did she think that perhaps she should be frightened. After all, someone—perhaps someone she knew—had destroyed her artifacts and committed a murder. She had been so busy feeling like a giddy schoolgirl over a kiss that she had almost forgotten all that.
She sank back against the cushions with a little frown. That had been fo
olish of her, she admitted to herself, and she would not do it again. It was imperative that they find the villain and put a stop to his activities—before anyone else could be harmed.
After he was caught, well, that was a different story. She certainly would not mind another of those kisses then.
But did kisses, no matter how passionate, mean that Lord Ransome—Miles—would allow her to continue her work at the village? In all the confusion, she had misplaced that point.
And that was not something she could afford to forget at all.
Miles watched Sarah’s carriage roll away down the drive. He had promised her that he would go and do his best to seek out the villain who had done this, but all he really wanted to do was make certain she was safe. Sending her away, even with the escort of two armed footmen, was the most difficult thing he had ever done.
The sight of her pale, frightened face as she told him of the destroyed objects, the murdered man, had aroused such a storm of fury in him! That anyone could hurt her, or frighten her, was unendurable, unforgivable. Every primitive instinct in him, buried for so long under the polite world, screamed out for revenge, for blood.
Not even in Spain had he felt this way. There, battle had been heated but strangely impersonal. Now he wanted to murder someone with his bare hands.
It was frightening—and strangely exhilarating. He felt a great rush of strength, and he knew that he would not rest until he had found his man.
He watched Sarah’s carriage until it was lost to sight, then turned and went back into the house, to the library. The first sight that greeted him there was the settee where they had kissed so sweetly, so passionately.
Where he had never wanted to let her go until he made her his completely.
He looked away from the settee. He could not think of that now. It would distract him from his mission, from what he must accomplish.
He could not even think of what might happen after.
Instead, he crossed over to his desk, opened one of the drawers, and took out a carved and inlaid box. Inside, resting on a bed of blue velvet, was a pair of gleaming pistols.
After, he and Sarah would have to face their differences and their attraction. But now he had a battle to face.
One Touch of Magic Page 15