“Your father wishes to do so.” Dame Agatha took a step toward her. “You are a proud woman, Miss Davidson. So proud, you’ve put up a wall between yourself and others.”
This statement sent Sabrina stuttering. “A wall? Why, I’m out and about more than any other woman in this valley.”
“Oh, yes, doing your charity work. You are so busy offering advice here and giving your time that you haven’t given a thought to living your own life. You act as if you are afraid to consider your wants and needs. However, if you don’t change, Miss Davidson, you are in danger of being alone forever.”
Her words struck a deep, uncomfortable chord inside Sabrina. “You speak as if I have power over my fate. I don’t. You must understand, my mother was very ill—”
“For a very long time,” Dame Agatha chimed in. “I know, I know, and I am sorry for it. Her life was not what she’d wished. However, and I’m sorry if this offends you, I believe it was wrong for your parents to ask such a sacrifice of you. You should not have been asked to give up your prospects to care for your mother.”
“Who else would have cared for her? Father?” Sabrina asked, her throat suddenly tight. Dame Agatha sounded as if she had not approved.
The dame pounced on the suggestion. “Aye, he could have hired someone and let his daughter have the chance at a full life. Instead, he expected you to give up your opportunities. And here you are. How old are you, my dear?”
“Too old,” Sabrina managed to whisper, her whole sense of herself shaken. Never once had she questioned what her parents had expected of her, until now. “You don’t sound as if you admire my father,” she responded.
“I see his faults. Lillian does as well, so I’ve reconciled myself to this marriage, and you should, too. Live, Miss Davidson. Take hold of your own life.”
But that was easier said than done in the cloister of the valley where everyone had expectations of her.
Or had she cloistered herself?
Honesty ran deep in Sabrina. There was a challenge to Dame Agatha’s words, a challenge that hit upon Sabrina’s fears, her doubts. She thought of Mrs. Kinnion, who had been in the uncomfortable position of being at the dame’s beck and call . . .
“Is this the same lecture you gave the reverend’s wife?”
If the dame heard the challenge in Sabrina’s tone, she didn’t take offense. “Bertie was born to be a church mouse. I despaired of ever making her discontent with her lot in life. She’d have hidden out under my care forever. But I believe she is happy now.”
And she was. Everyone knew that the Kinnions had a good marriage, and Sabrina was surprised with the knowledge that Dame Agatha had been deliberately contrite to her niece.
Or that being content was not to be desired.
“I am not hiding,” Sabrina said in her defense. “I have never been the sort to attract attention. I’m not like my cousins.”
“Pffftttt,” Dame Agatha said, rejecting Sabrina’s protest with that obnoxious sound. “You are a handsome woman. You could have had lads. I’ve watched many a time as the local boys have worked up their courage at the dances to ask you for a turn around the floor, but you hide behind your music.”
“I have not noticed anyone looking at me.”
“Because you don’t allow yourself to be vulnerable.” Dame Agatha pressed her gloved hand against her heart. “Is it that you fear what others think of you and your choices? Or are you one of those women who expect a man to be perfect? I’ll warn you now, there isn’t a one of them that is. They all have their peculiarities. You may scorn Lilly, but she is always open and willing. She has been hurt from time to time. The earl of Tay is a randy fool, to my way of thinking, but I also know he lost the opportunity to have a woman in his life who would have been good for him.”
“If my uncle used her, it is because she allowed him to do so.”
“It happens,” Dame Agatha replied with a shrug. “But if Lilly followed your line of reasoning and hid behind her pride—”
“I’m not that proud—”
“Oh, but you are, Miss Davidson. You are. And if Lilly had been like you, then she wouldn’t have met a man who does appreciate her—your father.”
Sabrina wanted to reject her argument, but a new thought caught her off guard. She hadn’t been that upset all those years ago when her father had denied Mr. Burnett permission to call on her. She did have enough spirit that she would have challenged him, however Mr. Burnett hadn’t intrigued her, not the way Mr. Enright interested her—
Immediately, she wanted to strike such an idea from her mind. The idea that she could be attracted to him was ridiculous. They had barely spoken to each other. He was ill, a soul in need of care.
And another bit of charity to keep her mind off of living her life?
For the first time, Sabrina realized that she’d adopted the hurt her mother had confided she’d felt when her husband had spared his wife only fifteen minutes each day. Her mother had believed she had become an encumbrance, a duty, an obligation, and she was. The thought had filled her with guilt.
And now, Sabrina realized, she had spent her life trying to prove that she could earn her worth, that she had a meaningful place in her father’s life.
Dear God, Dame Agatha was right.
“I see I have given you a thing or two to consider,” Dame Agatha said. “It is fine with me if you wish to remain alone. I do, and I’m happy for it. My husband made the earl of Tay appear a saint. I live a good life, but I live fully. I’m not worried what others believe of me.” She moved into the hall and placed her gloved hand on the door handle. “Give your blessing to a marriage between Mrs. Bossley and your father, Miss Davidson. You will find in Lillian a special friend, and I think you need one.”
On those last words, she opened the door and let herself out.
Slowly, Sabrina sank into the closest sitting-room chair. With the dame’s departure, the room, indeed the whole house, seemed to have lost an energy, a vitality. Sabrina looked over at the sherry decanter, tempted to pour herself a full glass.
What if the dame was even partly right?
What if Sabrina released herself from the task of worrying about others? And always doing the right thing?
Her heart skipped a panicked beat. Did she know herself well enough to know what she wanted? She’d never once thought to be anyone other than who she was.
Outside, their visitor gone, Rolf barked, reminding her that he had not been fed. There was a bone in the pantry with his name on it, and well he knew it. Sabrina imagined that Dumpling was also pawing for his breakfast as well.
She threw on an apron and started her chores, but her mind still worked on her conversation with the dame.
Introspection was something Sabrina had believed she practiced. Dame Agatha had proven her wrong. It was not introspection to just make excuses for oneself, and Sabrina realized she’d developed quite a habit of it.
Now that the lid had been taken off the kettle, so to speak, what did she want to do with this new perspective? What could she do? Time had passed her by. The decent lads who had once admired her were married and gone. The ones left were available for a reason. The opportunities she’d shied away from would never come her way again.
Such thoughts made her uneasy, especially when she realized that others, like Dame Agatha, had noticed.
If her father had been here, she might have confided in him. Sabrina usually kept her own counsel, even with her cousins. People turned to her with their problems, not the other way around. Her pride—
Her mind stopped on the word.
She would never confide in anyone. She wouldn’t let anyone see her weaknesses. If she was lonely, she hid it. If she was angry, she swallowed it. If she was tired, she pressed on. If ill at ease, she faked confidence.
She would not wear her feelings for all to see because then she would be admitting she could be hurt. She’d feel exposed.
Sabrina prepared a bowl of broth for Mr. Enright. She tore a piece
of bread to soak in it, reasoning he might be able to digest a bit more than liquid today, and it would be good for him. She went upstairs.
He lay on his back exactly where she had left him. He didn’t appear to have moved, not even an inch. She stood in the doorway a moment and listened. To her relief, she heard the sound of a deep, even slumber. He was beginning to recover.
She felt his brow and was relieved. It was cool to her touch. His fever had broken and would not return. The danger of chills had passed. All he needed now was time to regain his strength.
Setting the bowl on the bedside table, Sabrina raised a hand as if to thank God, but, instead, was suddenly overcome with a wealth of emotion that had nothing to do with her patient.
He was going to survive. Something had finally gone right in her life . . . but now what?
Now what?
Huge, racking sobs that she could not control escaped her. She broke down completely.
There were tears for herself, for what she’d sacrificed, for what she’d lost. Some of the tears were the ones she’d held back when her mother had died. These tears had been inside her all this time. A Davidson did not show strong emotion, not over something like death. One carried on.
However, the need to grieve had been there. Always there.
And while she was crying, she might as well let loose a bout of temper over how easily her father had gone on. He’d taken a mistress. The valley was not London. Tongues wagged, and eyes saw everything. By now, a good number of people probably suspected that he was staying with Mrs. Bossley. They knew Sabrina was unimportant.
That last word made her wince.
It also brought her to her senses and forced her to end her indulgence in tears. Crying never solved anything. Her mother used to say those words.
Sabrina crossed to the washbasin and splashed cold water on her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her fit of tears had not enhanced her looks. Her cousin Tara always looked so fetching when she cried. Sabrina was not like her.
She blew her nose and faced her reflection. “From now on, I shall think of myself first.” Her statement didn’t sound convincing, even to her own ears.
“I shall think of myself first,” she declared, her voice more determined.
Now she sounded like a fool.
Sabrina faced her patient. He’d slept through her fit. Her cousin Aileen had always claimed that a good cry eased the soul. Sabrina didn’t feel “eased.” She felt as if she could curl up on the bed beside Mr. Enright and sleep for a week.
Drawing a fortifying breath and releasing it, Sabrina attempted to feed him a bit of the broth, cooing encouraging words as she did so. When she had poured as much of it as she could down his throat, she rolled up his shirt and removed the herb poultice she had wrapped around his chest.
Dipping a cloth into water from the washbasin, she began washing the remnants of the ointment off of his skin. He made a face as his skin dried in the air but did not wake. The man was exhausted. She’d seen patients sleep twenty-four hours and more after overcoming the fever he had experienced. His body was repairing itself. Sleep could do more for a soul than all the leeches and medicines of the healer’s art.
What was interesting was that, last night, she had been so worried about him, she had barely noticed the lean muscles of his rib cage and the hard planes across his chest. He had a scar along his side. She wondered about the story behind it.
He was also younger than she’d first imagined. A shave would transform him, and curious, she fetched her father’s shaving kit. Sabrina sat on the bed close to her headboard and lifted his head to rest on her leg. She lathered his chin and jaw. She’d shaved patients a time or two before. She now ran the razor across his skin. He had a strong, noble nose and well-formed lips. It was a pleasure to watch the character in his face revealed. He was not classically handsome but had a look that would turn heads whenever he passed.
And soon, he would go on with his life.
She looked down at the peacefully sleeping Mr. Enright.
Yes, she did find him attractive. He was far more handsome than Mr. Burnett and was definitely the sort of man a woman would like to kiss.
An idea struck Sabrina. A desire.
She could hear Rolf barking outside, probably at a rabbit, but here, in this room, there were no sounds other than their breathing. She was alone with this man. He didn’t even know her name and yet, she felt close to him. He’d been delivered to her care and he would survive. In a matter of days, their lives would go in different directions.
So, what would be the harm in stealing a kiss? To discover what it felt like? To pretend for just a moment that she had a sweetheart?
If she was with him, there wasn’t a woman in the valley who wouldn’t feel a touch of jealousy.
Sabrina looked down at the man resting on her leg. He had very kissable lips. She’d never noticed that about a man before. But then, there was a presence about Mr. Enright . . . and his lips. They were thin, masculine, tempting.
She told herself a kiss was an impulse, a bit of curiosity, that and no more . . . but she could also feel the reckless pull of desire.
Before she let doubts arise, Sabrina bent over and placed her lips over those of the sleeping man.
Chapter Seven
The doors were driving Mac to madness. He jogged through the cavernous tunnels, opening one glowing white door after another. His gram was no longer here. She’d left him. While he’d been talking to her, she had disappeared, her image growing fainter as she listened to his story.
She was gone. They were all gone, just as in life—his brother, his mother, Moira. And now, when he opened the cavern’s glowing doors, he returned to his cell at the Old Tolbooth, the Condemned Man’s Cell, with its foul smell and the rickety cot.
He’d slam one door shut and run to the next, then the next.
Sometimes, he heard the voices of his brother and Moira. She had been known for her laughter almost as much as her fresh-cheeked beauty. Beautiful Moira. The woman he had loved . . . and lost.
Occasionally, as he tore through the tunnels, Mac thought he could hear the sound of children. He knew without being told they were Lorcan and Moira’s. He’d never met them.
Gone. All gone.
Overwhelming sadness settled upon him, and his only salvation was her voice. His angel.
Mac was immersed in the moment, but he also knew he dreamed.
A part of him still had reason. He’d had patients so exhausted by illness they slept as if dead. When they were well, they’d tell him of their dreams. Some even believed they had gone to another side, the place where Death resided, and returned.
Mac didn’t put any faith in their words. After almost ten years of fighting Napoleon’s war, he’d seen enough of Death to know there was nothing supernatural to it. What waited for both sinner and saint was emptiness, the same sadness that filled his life and had done so for a long time.
Now, as he wandered the halls, he wondered when he’d lost passion for life. That loss had been his reason for returning home, of wanting to reach out and forgive what had happened between himself, Lorcan, and Moira. Perhaps then, he’d feel a sense of purpose.
But they were all gone.
And he would have happily given himself over to Death as well if not for his angel.
He heard her cry and silently rejoiced when she’d found her spirit and began speaking to him again. The melodic lilt of her words was sweeter than music.
And she was close . . . somewhere behind one of these doors. He just couldn’t find her—
Lips brushed his.
The caverns with their maze of doors disappeared. Mac was in Edinburgh in the room he’d rented, and it was night, the night Gordana Raney had joined him in his bed.
He’d not invited her. The girl had taken it upon herself to be there. He’d been drunk, almost to the point of a stupor, as he’d been most nights. He’d been lost in grief and regret. His brother’s ghost haunted him.
Gordana was such a lovely lass, but she was young, and Mac didn’t want the burden of using her. She had kissed him, but he hadn’t wanted her. He was done with using people. He was done with anger. The time had come to leave self-pity behind. He’d made the decision that night—a drunken promise to change.
The girl had not taken his rejection happily. She’d left and, hours later, had been murdered.
And now she kissed him, the taste of her sweet.
When she pulled away, he found he craved her kiss.
Too soon, he wanted to say, and couldn’t. He could not speak at all. He struggled to find his way out of the darkness, to call her back, then she kissed him again.
As Mac remembered, Gordana had been very aggressive. She might have been young, but she knew her business, and she’d wanted what he had.
In contrast, now, there was a shyness to her, as if she had liked the feeling of her lips against his and wanted to explore more. Her kiss stirred him with its gentle question, and he felt himself come roaring to life. Heat surged in his loins. He lived.
They had not killed him yet.
She started to pull away again.
Mac reached for her, hooking his hand around her neck and pulling her down to him.
There was a moment of resistance, then her lips were against his, and this time, instead of being a passive partner, Mac kissed her back.
Nor was this just any kiss. He searched for something, something hard to define, and yet, it was here in her kiss . . .
This was not Gordana. He knew that now. He kissed the angel, the woman whose kindness had kept him alive.
There was magic in this kiss. Hope.
And he was not about to let her go.
Mr. Enright’s lips were harder than hers, and yet soft at the same time.
Sabrina had meant to offer no more than a peck, the sort of kiss one gave the cheek of a relative or friend. She’d experienced no other sort. The moment she’d kissed him, she’d felt silly.
Hers had not been the sort of kiss that poets praised. They talked of hearts and earthiness and delight.
Sabrina’s kiss with Mr. Enright had been more of a rubbing of lips, and not a very long rubbing at that. She tried it once, then tried again, more out of curiosity the second time, and a hope not to be disappointed because kissing, apparently, was an anemic thing. She’d prefer the camaraderie of a hug—
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