He appeared capable of breathing out of his mouth, but then he started coughing. Good.
She held on.
Unable to catch his breath, the man came awake with a start, his eyes opening in surprise.
“Hell-o,” Sabrina said. “Who are you? What is your name? Do you have family?” The answer to those question would be very important if he died.
His brows came together. He had definitive brows, the kind that could express emotion on their own, the kind that made a man’s face interesting, appealing.
“What?” he grumbled out. “Couldn’t . . . breathe.”
“Of course, you couldn’t. I was holding your nose.” Sabrina clambered to her feet.
His scowl deepened. He’d understood her. “Me nose?”
“Your nose,” she confirmed. Me nose. What a quaint quirk, she thought, then realized he had the hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place. “Where are you from?”
He’d started looking around the bothy as if completely disoriented. She repeated her question.
However, instead of answering, he tried to help himself up, using the stones of the doorway for leverage, but he lacked strength. His arms could not give him support, and he fell back against the door between the two rooms, his expression dazed as if he didn’t understand what was happening to him.
Sabrina softened her voice. “Sir, you are very ill.”
Glassy brown eyes met hers. They reminded her of the color of good sherry when sunlight passed through it.
“What is your name?” she asked again.
“Enright,” he said.
“Enright,” she repeated, wanting to confirm what she’d heard. When he didn’t correct her, she said, “Mr. Enright, do you know where you are?”
Those expressive brows came together, but before he could answer, he began shaking. The chills were starting to come upon him, and she had nothing to use to help him fight them off.
“I need to fetch help,” she said, starting to rise. “You—”
She didn’t finish her sentence. With unanticipated swiftness and a strength that must have cost him everything he had, Mr. Enright grabbed her, placing a hand to the back of her neck, so he could look her in the eye. “No.”
The single word reverberated in the air around them.
“But you need help,” she said. Surprisingly, she was not afraid. “If you don’t receive care, you could die here.”
She watched as he processed her words and realized he’d already accepted the possibility of death. He knew how ill he was.
“Please,” she whispered. “It might not be too late.”
“No,” he repeated, the word spoken softer but just as emphatic. “No one else. Safe here.” It was taking great effort for him to speak. “Secret. Keep . . . secret. Promise me.”
For a second, Sabrina could imagine they were the only two people in the world. He was asking for her trust.
“If I promise, you must let me help you,” Sabrina said, uncertain even as she spoke the words why she should be willing to make such an offer, and yet there it was.
Suspicion came to those hard sherry eyes.
“You aren’t in a position to refuse me,” she reminded him gently.
A bark of rusty laughter escaped him, as if she’d made a jest only he understood. His hand slid from her neck to rest on his thigh. He slumped against the door, a wan smile of defeat on his lips. “Suit yourself,” he managed, and Sabrina felt a note of triumph.
She sat back on her heels. “I always do,” she admitted. “Is there anyone I should contact for you if the worst happens? A wife, perhaps?”
He shook his head. It was all he could do. His eyes were growing heavy, and his shivering grew stronger. Sabrina stood and fetched his jacket. She placed it like a blanket around his shoulders. “I will return shortly,” she promised, and left the bothy. She needed to fetch her pony cart. She could not leave Mr. Enright alone overnight. He would not survive without food, water, and good care.
And she would have to tell one person of his presence—her father. Certainly, Mr. Enright could understand the necessity.
Besides, she hadn’t given him her promise, not actually, although she would honor his wishes to the best of her ability.
Her feet didn’t slow until she reached the trees surrounding Kenmore village.
Little more than an hour had passed since she had walked out of the Kenmore Inn, but it seemed as if her confrontation with Mrs. Bossley was another lifetime ago.
The ladies of the Quarterly Meeting had apparently finished their luncheon and gone home. All the vehicles were gone. Only Dumpling remained, and he was lonely. He caught Sabrina’s scent on the wind and called to her.
Sabrina had to step into the inn to collect her hat and gloves. The Orrock lad had been watching for her and had them at the ready. She had no doubt the ladies had thoroughly thrashed out what had happened between herself and Mrs. Bossley. The look in the lad’s eye told her that he’d heard a thing or two.
But Sabrina couldn’t worry about what people thought of her right now. She had to save Mr. Enright’s life.
She thanked the lad for his help, promised him a coin when she saw him next for his diligence, and left the inn.
Tying the ribbon of her bonnet under her chin, she crossed the road to her cart. As she approached the kirk, she caught a glimpse of a woman studying the markers in the graveyard around the church building. Because her mind was preoccupied, and since there was always someone paying respect to the deceased, Sabrina barely paid her a moment’s attention.
Instead, she gave Dumpling a pat, promised him an extra bit of oats after they finished a “special” errand, and climbed into her cart. It was a lovely little vehicle made of wicker and white-painted wood. The sides were solid, and the undercarriage and wheels were a deep green that reminded her of the forest. The only door was in the rear and very narrow. She feared she’d have a time of squeezing Mr. Enright through it. She prayed he was conscious enough to help.
She sat on one of the two cushion-covered benches lining the sides of the cart, pulled on her gloves, and picked up the reins. However, before she could leave, Bertie Kinnion, the Reverend Kinnion’s wife, came rushing up to her. She had been the person lingering amongst the gravestones.
Sabrina and Mrs. Kinnion were of the same age. Bertie was not an unhandsome woman, just a quiet one. She had been Dame Agatha’s penniless niece until the reverend had offered for her and given her a position in the local society. It had been a good match. Everyone said the reverend was devoted to his wife and she to him.
“Miss Davidson, may I have a moment?” Mrs. Kinnion asked, placing gloved hands on the side of the cart so that Sabrina would be rude to pull away.
Holding up the reins, Sabrina gave the reverend’s wife a cheery smile. “Only a moment. Father expects me.”
“Yes, yes, I’m certain he does.” Mrs. Kinnion did not remove her hold on the cart. “You left the luncheon abruptly. I hope all is well?”
Sabrina’s cheery smile stretched her face uncomfortably. “I needed some air.” Her words were true. She hadn’t been able to breathe in the inn when she contemplated a life under the Widow Bossley’s thumb.
Mrs. Kinnion nodded, but a frown had formed between her eyes, and she appeared as if she’d scarcely paid attention to Sabrina’s response. This was unlike her.
Puzzled, Sabrina asked, “Are you all right?”
Mrs. Kinnion crossed her arms tightly against her chest. There was a beat of silence before she said, “My husband is missing.”
“The reverend?” Sabrina asked, then felt silly because what other husband did Mrs. Kinnion have?
Instead of taking offense, Mrs. Kinnion nodded. “Everyone acts as if I know where he is, and I should. I pretend I do. He’d promised he would be home four days ago. I assumed his trip had kept him delayed; and then I feared I had misunderstood the date he’d told me he would return. His leaving was strange as it was.”
“Where ha
d he gone?” Sabrina asked. She hadn’t even heard that the reverend had been traveling. Usually, as an important member of the church, her father would have known. Or the gossips would have ferreted out his absence.
“Edinburgh. His uncle is a church vicar there. He sent a letter saying he needed my husband for a matter of some urgency.”
“Well, then, why don’t you write the uncle? I am certain there is a simple explanation. Travel can be so difficult. There could be a dozen different reasons for his delay.” She picked up the reins again, but Mrs. Kinnion reached for the rein nearest her and clenched a fist around it.
“I know my concerns sound a bit overwrought. I have no proof something is wrong, but inside”—she pressed her free hand to her heart—”I am certain my husband is in danger. I know it. Please, I can’t share my fears with anyone else. He’d be furious if I did. But he always said you have a great deal of good sense, and I must confide in someone, Miss Davidson, or I shall go mad. He’s all I have, and he is very dear to me.”
Sabrina lowered the reins. “I’m certain there is a simple explanation for his late return. He may have been distracted with business. A delay of several days is really nothing to worry over, especially on the roads between here and Edinburgh. Last spring, my father made that trip quite often. He experienced numerous delays—”
She stopped, struck by what she was saying. Had her father been delayed on his travels from Edinburgh, or had he been cozily ensconced in Mrs. Bossley’s bed while she thought him elsewhere? The idea revolted her, especially since he would never have tolerated such behavior in his daughter. Why did men believe they were so special anyway?
“I never knew when to expect him,” Sabrina finished lamely.
Mrs. Kinnion nodded agreement, but the air around her crackled with tension.
Sabrina reached for her hand. “I have known Mr. Kinnion for a number of years. He is the most reasonable of beings. What trouble could he find?”
“Yes, you are right,” Mrs. Kinnion said, but she didn’t sound convinced. “I appreciate your listening to me. I am so scared something has happened to him or could happen to him, I feared I was not being rational.” There was a beat of hesitation, then she confided, “I cannot return to my aunt. I can’t. She is very difficult to please.”
After the trick Dame Agatha had played on her today, Sabrina could well imagine, especially in light of her own possibly changing circumstances. The thought made her shudder.
“I also hate to think my husband might have had an accident and be broken and alone in a ditch or in the care of strangers,” Mrs. Kinnion was saying. “He may need my support.”
Her words reminded Sabrina that she needed to help Mr. Enright.
“What a dramatic mind you have,” she chastised the reverend’s wife. “You are believing the worst, and there is no reason to do so, not yet. Your husband is probably busy arguing theological tracts with his uncle and has lost track of time. However,” she continued, “if it will reassure you, I’ll ask my father to send a message to your uncle. Do you have an address?”
“Thank you, Miss Davidson, I do—and I appreciate your listening. It helps to finally express my fear out loud. I feel much better. His uncle Ebenezer Kinnion is rector at St. Jude’s in Grassmarket.” She hesitated, then said, “I hope my husband will forgive me for sharing his business.”
“Father will be discreet,” Sabrina assured her. She lifted the reins again. “Now, if you will excuse me, the hour grows late. Dumpling wants his dinner.” The pony swished his tail as if agreeing.
“Of course. Thank you.” Mrs. Kinnion stepped back, and Sabrina was on her way.
Dumpling was very happy to be heading home and not at all pleased when instead of taking the road to Aberfeldy, she turned him in the direction of the moors. He even dared to grumble at her, but Sabrina was accustomed to ignoring Dumpling’s grumbles. He was an opinionated pony.
Reaching the bothy, Sabrina drove the cart right up to the front door and set the brake.
Mr. Enright was leaning against the open doorway between the two rooms where she’d left him. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be asleep, which was probably the best thing for him. She almost hated disturbing him, but she did. He needed a warm bed for the night.
Shaking his shoulder, Sabrina said, “Sir? Please wake up. I will need your help. You are too heavy for me to move you alone.”
He didn’t budge or indicate in any way that he heard her. He was completely drawn into himself, his face pale.
She considered her options.
Her mother had been fragile, especially toward the end, but she had still been difficult to move. A deadweight was a heavy weight.
However, Sabrina was no fragile flower. She might have the strength to drag him to the door, where Dumpling impatiently waited.
She hiked her skirts up, tucking them between her legs to fashion breeches of sorts so that they would be out of the way. Straddling his body, she said, “I’m going to lift you, sir.” She hooked her arms under his, feeling the pull of muscles along her back. If anyone came upon her at this moment, they would be in for a shock, but she didn’t care. This was the only practical way to move such a big man.
Her face close to his, she said, “If you could help, I would appreciate it. There now, one, two, three, lift—”
He didn’t move.
She repositioned her hold and put more of her back into it, the way she’d seen workmen try harder. Nothing. He didn’t budge an inch.
Sabrina straightened. “You could be more help,” she informed him, not even bothering to speak loud or distinctly in her “invalid” voice. “It would make this a bit easier.”
Of course, he had no answer.
So, Sabrina sucked in a deep breath and used all her might. She managed to raise one of his shoulders. She tried to turn him so that she had a straight path to drag him to the front door. Determined that success would be in her reach, she tripled her effort—
The smooth soles of her leather shoes slid. Her legs came forward and out in front of her—and she landed on top of the man with a thud.
Right on his genitalia.
If she’d received a reaction from him by holding his nose, it was nothing compared to his response to her flattening his privates.
Men were always funny about this part of their anatomy, but Mr. Enright’s response was a bit excessive. He practically jumped to the ceiling, sending her tumbling off his lap, before pulling back his fist as if ready to ward off an attacker.
For a moment, Sabrina sat in shock, her skirts in complete disarray. Her gaze froze on his hand, ready to deliver a blow.
He glared at her but then seemed to take in his surroundings from the hard, cold bothy to her stocking-covered legs. Slowly his hand lowered. “What the devil were you doing?”
Thankful she wasn’t about to be bashed, Sabrina scrambled to her feet, shaking out her skirts and reclaiming her modesty. “I’m trying to save your life.”
His scowl deepened. “By jumping on me balls?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the crudity. “That was very common,” she scolded.
“I’m commonly attached to them.”
“You’re Irish,” she answered, finally placing his mysterious accent.
Those strong brows of his pulled together in bewilderment. “Who are you?” he demanded before a bout of chesty coughing swallowed his last word. He had the good manners to try to cover his mouth.
“I’m someone you are lucky to have found you. You are very ill. And if you want to feel better, you’d best find yourself in that pony cart.” She pointed to the door, where an impatient Dumpling stamped and snorted his surliness.
“I’m not leaving here,” he answered.
“If you stay, you could contract pneumonia, then you could have an even graver problem. You don’t need to fear me, Mr. Enright—
“How do you know who I am?”
“You told me your name.”
He shook his head, not b
elieving her.
Gently, Sabrina said, “You don’t remember because you are that ill. Please, sir, you must trust someone. You will not survive out here alone. And I didn’t mean to be so personal. It was an accident.” She held out her hand, and promised, “I will not even breathe your name to another soul if you come with me.”
He stared at her as if not believing one word she’d spoken. She wondered what or who had created such distrust in him—
His body began to spasm. He turned from her, leaning over, as dry heaves racked his body. The man had nothing in his stomach. All he could do was suffer through the convulsions.
Sabrina inched closer to him to tempt him. “You need nourishing food. A good broth will help you. Without some substance and a safe, warm place to stay, you will die.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His body collapsed as he drew in great, shuddering breaths. Sweat beaded across his brow. His eyes started to close.
Sabrina dared to place her hands under his arms. “Help me lift you,” she urged quietly. “It is only a few steps to the cart. And then you may sleep.”
She could feel the struggle within him. He didn’t want to comply, and yet he had no choice. She attempted to help him stand and after the briefest resistance, he staggered to his feet. She slid his arm around her shoulders and directed him to the cart. He didn’t try to open the narrow door into the vehicle but fell forward over the side, where he landed on the floor.
Dumpling gave a snort of surprise.
“Steady,” Sabrina cautioned both of them, but Mr. Enright was beyond caring. He curled up and appeared to fall asleep.
She fetched his jacket and neckcloth, then opened the cart door and did her best to climb in without stepping on him. He took all the room on the floor of the cart. She covered him with his jacket and had no choice but to set her feet upon him as lightly as she could. She lifted the reins, and released the brake.
“Let’s go, Dumpling.”
The pony wasn’t pleased with the idea. He knew he had no choice, but he groaned mightily to let her know he was pulling what he considered an intolerable load.
The Groom Says Yes Page 3