The Old Tolbooth . . . and outside, beyond the building’s ancient walls, came calls for his execution. Disembodied voices shouted for his head on a pike. They were witnesses to his death, and he realized he was ready to give them what they wanted. He was tired. Done. Spent. Life had become a sorry burden, and for the first time in all his struggles, Mac was bloody exhausted from trying to hang on.
He was once again on the wrong side—always on the wrong side. Then again, he was Irish, it was his nature to rebel . . . but not any longer. He wanted peace—
“More. You must drink more.”
The command was clear, the woman’s voice distinct.
He looked around the cell. She was not there. He was still alone, and yet, he heard her again.
“Another bit,” she ordered. “A bit more. Please, do you understand me? You are making me angry, sir. If you don’t eat, you’ll die. Now, please, try.”
She was a bossy bit.
And yet, her voice was melodic and warm and concerned. Anxious even. He saw himself open his mouth, wanting, yearning for the tenderness that only a woman could offer.
Did they know how strong they were? How they could make a difference in the way a man saw the world?
Mac had a fondness for women, all of them—young, old, feisty, and calm. They intrigued him. They teased him, and he enjoyed teasing them back. They were poetry and song in his life, but they were not meaningful. No woman had been meaningful after Moira. He wouldn’t allow it. Moira had taken too much from him—
“Mr. Enright, another spoonful. Now.”
Instead of obeying, he tried to open his eyes. It took superhuman effort. He hadn’t realized they were closed. It was as if he was lost in the depth of a dream—
Light hurt his eyes, and his vision was not clear. Nor were his senses operating the way he expected. The analytical part of his brain, the physician in him, immediately registered how ill he was. His chest was heavy and his breathing labored. He wanted to fall back into that peaceful obscurity.
Still, he needed to see her face.
“You are awake,” she said, a sense of wonder in her voice.
He struggled to focus, and slowly, her features came into view.
She was an angel. He should have known.
And angels were just as lovely as his gram had claimed they’d be.
Her hair was sable rich, thick and curling. Strands of it hung around her face as if it had become unpinned.
She had crystal blue eyes and clear, creamy skin. There were freckles, the very faintest ones across her nose.
His angel smiled at him, but a tear escaped from her eye. “You must live,” she told him. “You must fight hard.”
Yes, he had to fight hard. The Irish always fought hard. There was no easy path for them. His angel should know that.
Mac wanted to reach up and touch her cheek, but he lacked strength. Indeed, his body was weighed down, his long legs stretched out. His gram had always called his legs his “long jacks.”
“Hurry your long jacks,” she would admonish him and his brother, urging them to quickly do her bidding. She’d feared laziness in either of them. She’d said their father had enough for the whole family.
And Mac had wanted to please her. She’d been the one to tell him the story of his country, of the myths and legends. “You have an angel watching over you, Cormac,” she had told him. “Listen to her.”
An angel.
Here she was. His Irish angel . . . and Mac felt himself murmur the words although he said them too softly for her to hear.
She leaned closer. “What?”
He wanted to repeat himself, but he couldn’t. He was drifting away again. He had to think to breathe. He would tell her later.
Mac returned to the hallway. That was good. He never wanted to see the inside of a prison cell again.
The hall was deep, under the earth. He understood that now. Earlier it had been unbearably hot. Now, he was chilled, shivering.
Needing to find warmth, he approached one of the doors. He pressed his hand upon it, marveling at the glow of light.
The door swung open and there was his gram.
She was not alone. A girl sat at a spinning wheel turning coarse wool into a silken cord. His gram stood over the lass, surveying her work.
Gram smiled, and, in her forthright manner, said, “Come here, Cormac. Come tell me what you’ve been doing. I hear you’ve had adventures.”
Mac moved forward, not feeling of the earth but not a part of this place either. Not yet. He put his arms out to give his gram a loving hug, for some reason expecting them to go through her, but they didn’t. She was solid. Real.
She nodded as if she understood his thoughts. “Come on, lad. Tell me a story. Make it a good one.”
He did as bid . . . and found himself telling her about the first time he’d met Gordana Raney and how the girl had begged him to take her with him. She had been afraid of a man she would not name. He’d forgotten that. He’d been deep into his cups at the moment and so hadn’t recalled until this moment with Gram. Gordana had told him she didn’t want to be “owned.” He’d laughed and asked if she meant like a slave and her answer had been “Worse.”
“How could I have forgotten that?” Mac asked his gram.
“There are many things that lurk deep within us that we never remember,” his gram answered. “Many things behind all of those doors out there . . .”
Her patient was shaking so hard with the chills the bed shook. Sabrina piled every blanket she could find upon him, including the counterpane she’d carried downstairs and the one off of her father’s bed. She lit the fire in her hearth, something she rarely did.
Finally, she’d added her own body heat, stretching out beside him . . . only then did he start to calm down.
And she fell asleep.
When she woke, it was well into the middle of the night. The room was dark save for the glowing embers from the fire, the door still open.
Mr. Enright slept, his chest barely moving. Rolf, too, slept. He lay across the doorway and snored gently.
Disoriented, Sabrina sat up and almost fell off the bed when she realized where she was, and how neatly she had tucked herself in beside Mr. Enright’s long body. She should have been more circumspect.
And she shouldn’t have found his presence so comfortable.
Embarrassed, she stood and pushed her heavy hair back. Her pins were all hopelessly lost and her best dress wrinkled. She added some more fuel to the hearth and checked her patient.
He was hot again, but not as burning to the touch as he’d been earlier. Good. Still, he had deep circles under his eyes, and his skin lacked color and healthiness. She removed a few blankets, then realized, she needed to return one to her father.
By this hour, he must be home. She was surprised he had not noticed her door open, but she was thankful as well. Sometimes, he could be very absentminded, and so might not have noticed she had a man in her bed . . . although that didn’t seem plausible.
She decided she’d best explain before he discovered her with Mr. Enright. She also should shoo Rolf out of the house before he was discovered.
Lighting a candle off of the fire, she sought out her father. “Come, Rolf,” she ordered. “We need to scoot out of here before Father discovers you.”
Rolf rose and stretched as if he understood.
Sabrina walked to her father’s room, ready to knock on the door and explain why his bed didn’t have a blanket, but the door was still open. She held her candle high to take in the details of the room.
Now she understood why her father had not woken her. He wasn’t here. His bed was still made.
For a second, she couldn’t think.
Her father had never not come home except when he was away on business matters.
If he had wanted to make it clear to her that he had chosen Mrs. Bossley over his daughter, he could have chosen no better way than to not come home.
Sabrina dropped the blanket an
d backed away from the door. The hour had to be close to midnight. He was not returning. She knew it. He’d ridden off without a word to her as if she did not matter in his life.
Perhaps he’d been waylaid, wherever he was? She overheard women complaining about their menfolk coming home late after hours spent in the public houses. Could her father have stopped for a drink and been distracted by his friends?
“Why must I think he is with Mrs. Bossley?” Sabrina said to Rolf.
The dog yawned as if pointing out she was silly to believe otherwise.
“He could have had an accident,” Sabrina suggested, and began to worry. She thought about Mrs. Kinnion and her fears. Sabrina now understood and did a good job of convincing herself that her father must be in danger.
She put the blanket on his bed and went downstairs. She had closed the back door earlier when she’d fetched her counterpane. She should move the cart back to the stables, but that task could wait for morning. Instead, she ate a bite of the dinner Mrs. Patton had left for them, then went into the sitting room to wait for her father. She distracted herself by practicing on her pianoforte. She’d not put Rolf out. The dog’s presence comforted her, and he seemed pleased to be there.
After another hour had passed, Sabrina ladled more broth into Mr. Enright, closed her bedroom door, and returned to her lonely watch, perched on the upholstered chair nearest the front door in the sitting room.
And there, as the first birds began chirping it was morning, she fell into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
Sabrina woke to realize her head was tilted back and her mouth open. Her throat hurt from dryness. She sat up abruptly and realized she had fallen asleep in the sitting-room chair.
The morning was almost gone. Hazy sunlight streamed through the windows. She wondered why Mrs. Patton had not woken her, then remembered the cook would not be in today. Rolf was watching, his tail wagging. He looked hungry.
She rose from the chair and went upstairs. The door to her father’s room was still ajar. He’d not returned.
Mr. Enright was better, his breathing easier, but he slept as if exhausted. In the morning light, his huge body appeared odd in her very feminine room, with its soft hues of greens, blues, and snowy white muslin.
He also looked entirely peaceful while she felt cranky over her father’s disappearance and achy from a night spent in a chair. Even her eyes felt gritty—
Rolf barked, a reminder that he still hadn’t been fed. Dumpling must be impatient for his breakfast as well.
Sabrina combed her hair back with her hands and tied it in a knot at the nape of her neck. “One moment, Rolf. Let me polish my teeth and wash my face, and I’ll see to you.”
She pulled her serviceable brown day dress from its hook in the wardrobe and went to the guest room to change. About fifteen minutes later, she headed down the stairs, feeling almost presentable. Rolf padded ahead of her, anxious for his breakfast. She needed to feed Rolf, move the cart from the back door, then see to Dumpling.
Then she would consider the matter of having a complete stranger in her bed and no relative to provide a proper chaperone.
Or did that matter anymore?
After all, they called her the Spinster Davidson because they assumed she would never marry, and she probably wouldn’t. Mr. Enright was a patient. Nothing more; nothing less. It had been years since she’d needed a chaperone.
And if her father was too busy cavorting with the Widow Bossley to worry about appearances, well, she had to do what she had to do.
Indeed, just let him say something. Any contriteness Sabrina had felt over their argument yesterday was now gone. It was rude of her father to leave without a word, and so she would tell him—
A knock on the front door interrupted her dark thoughts.
Sabrina frowned. She was not expecting a guest.
She crossed to a front window and looked out.
Dame Agatha stood on her front step. She was dressed for calling in a dove gray dress, gloves, and hat. Even the feather in the hat was gray. Her driver walked the horses on the road in front of the house.
The dame had never condescended to pay a call on the Davidson household, and Sabrina was not going to let her cool her heels on the front step. She opened the door.
Dame Agatha had been gazing across the lawn in the direction of the bridge. She now turned and smiled, the expression slightly acerbic, like her personality. “Good morning, Miss Davidson. I hope it is not too early to call.” She didn’t wait for a response but walked right through the door and into the sitting room, pausing in the front hall long enough to notice Rolf and comment, “A dog? I don’t let dogs in my house.”
“Some people do, some don’t,” Sabrina responded, and shooed the hungry Rolf out the front door. She followed Dame Agatha. “I am so happy for your visit. May I offer you refreshment? Mrs. Patton is not here today, but I’m certain there are scones in the pantry and sweet butter, and I can put on water to boil. Or would you prefer sherry—?”
“This early in the day?” the dame asked, interrupting her. “Please, Miss Davidson, my constitution would not allow it.”
“Of course, how silly of me—”
“And this is not a social call,” the dame continued, standing as if she were posing for a portrait titled Haughty Lady Beside Pianoforte. “I wish to talk of what happened yesterday.”
Sabrina stiffened. “Are you speaking of the Ladies’ Quarterly Meeting?”
“And your leaving in an unexpected, hurried manner.”
This was not a conversation Sabrina wanted.
“Unfortunately, Dame Agatha, now is not a good time for a visit, social or not. You will excuse me, please?” Sabrina moved to the door to open it and hurry her guest out as quickly as she had Rolf; however, the dame’s next words stopped her in her tracks.
“You will accept Lillian Bossley as your stepmother and you will do it gracefully.”
Slowly, Sabrina faced her. “And if I don’t?”
“Then life might become lonely for you in this valley, Miss Davidson,” Dame Agatha said. “Very lonely.”
Chapter Six
A flare of temper, wild and almost uncontrollable, shot through Sabrina.
Her father and Mrs. Bossley were sending Dame Agatha to threaten her. There could be no other explanation.
Her father was ensconced in his lady’s boudoir, and Sabrina was expected to accept the situation and pretend to like it? To push all her natural and right sensibilities aside for his pleasure?
He’d always held her to a high standard. He’d chastised her to not be like her cousins, the earl’s daughters. Aileen had scandalized London when she’d been divorced, and Tara was known for her vanity and for being headstrong.
Sabrina had been expected to be a paragon, and her father hadn’t given a care for what such loyalty, such devotion had cost her.
Her smile grew brittle. “I don’t see how this is your affair,” she informed the dame.
The older woman blinked, as if startled by Sabrina’s bluntness. And why should she not be? Always before, Sabrina had kept her tongue in check.
However, this was different. This was her life.
So Sabrina stood her ground, head high, shoulders back.
Unfortunately, Dame Agatha was doing the same. And she had a great deal more experience at it.
“You must understand, Miss Davidson, that Lilly and I are old friends. She is a good person.”
Sabrina remained quiet. She knew the dame would not like her response.
Dame Agatha crossed to the door as if she considered the battle won. “Your father and my friend will marry. If you keep your wits about you and behave, then all will be well.”
“And what if I kick up a fuss? What if I speak my mind?” Speech gave her courage. “Mrs. Bossley has informed me that I might find myself in a very difficult place in the household. I am thinking that no matter what I do, there won’t be enough room under this roof for both of us.”
“You ar
e strong-willed women,” Dame Agatha agreed. “Unfortunately, you are the unmarried one.”
“And someone to be pitied?”
“Or foisted off onto other relatives unless you can find a willing but awkward gentleman to marry you.” The dame’s words were a direct reference to Mrs. Kinnion, and Sabrina’s temper was outraged, especially since she didn’t want to be considered in the same class.
“I was my mother’s caretaker. I believe I have earned my keep and my father’s respect.”
Dame Agatha waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, yes, that is true, but life moves on. It is a sad fact. You have nothing to win, girl, by being difficult,” she explained, her tone not unkind. “Your father and Lilly are in love. People will be sympathetic to them. They will even forgive all the times that Lilly has been, well, shall we say, a bit too ahead of herself.”
“Which is a good reason for my father to avoid her. He would expect the same of me if our positions were reversed.”
“Ah, but love has its ways,” Dame Agatha said. “If you’d ever been in love, you would know.”
“Who says I have not been in love?” Sabrina countered. “Why does everyone assume I have no experience in life? Years ago, a young man Daniel Burnett was visiting the parish, and he asked my father’s permission to call on me.”
“And?”
“And Father said no. He said Burnett wasn’t the proper sort. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Dame Agatha made an impatient sound. “Men are different from women. Your father was looking after your welfare.”
“Well, I am looking after his. It is too soon for father to remarry.”
“You would say that of anyone he chose.” Dame Agatha’s voice had softened. “I understand that this will not be easy for you, especially in light of the many financial difficulties you’ve had—” She held up a hand to stop the protest Sabrina was about to utter. “Don’t pretend. We all know that your uncle has your father under his thumb, and we sympathize, which is another reason a match between Lilly and your father is good. Lilly’s husband left her very well-off.”
“So we overlook her transgressions?”
The Groom Says Yes Page 6