A Warrior's Taking

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A Warrior's Taking Page 12

by Margo Maguire


  Just a kiss? If he could dismiss it so easily, then he was far too worldly for Sarah. For she felt as though her very blood was afire, and was certain that he could hear her heart pounding in her chest.

  She made a strangled sound and pulled her hands away, then hurried down the steps alone. Lifting her skirts, she hastened back toward the house, hoping for a few minutes alone to compose herself.

  But Andy Ferris stepped onto the path in front of her.

  He had crumbs and bits of sweetened apple on his face, and he grinned adoringly at her. Sarah took a deep breath and calmed herself. She knew he was ill-treated in town and would not add to his misery. “Good morning, Andy.”

  He wiped his sticky hands on his filthy clothes, and Sarah realized either he’d come in and stolen the last of Brendan Locke’s pie, or Mr. Locke had given it to Andy himself.

  She glanced up to the castle wall again and saw him standing where she’d left him, his gaze still hot and intense.

  “Andy Ferris g-g-go.”

  It would be a kindness to take him to the house and get him a more substantial breakfast, but Sarah could hardly think clearly. She had to manage a few minutes alone to recover from Brendan Locke’s kiss.

  Andy went on his way, but Maud approached from the garden carrying two baskets laden with vegetables, and met her at the garden gate. “What’s happened, Sarah?” she asked, no doubt taking note of her flushed face and obvious discomfiture.

  Sarah could hardly mention what had just happened with Mr. Locke. Respectable young ladies did not allow such liberties with young men…especially strange young men who had no ties to the vicinity and would soon leave. She was no better than the rude young men in Craggleton had thought her.

  Her lips still tingled from Mr. Locke’s kiss, and she bit them. Deliberately slowing her breathing and composing herself, she looked at Maud. “’Tis nothing. I’m just winded from my walk.”

  Together, they went up the path toward the house, near the fountain. “When will Mr. Ridley arrive?” Maud asked.

  “Mr. Merton knew very little, but he said he thought it would be soon.”

  Maud clucked her tongue and took a seat on the low stone wall. “’Tis impossible to think the heir will turn the children from their house and home. And you, my dear girl—”

  “I’ve made some plans,” Sarah said.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to take the girls and let some rooms in town. I’ll offer my ser vices as a teacher and—”

  “But Sarah…in Craggleton?”

  Sarah’s hands went damp at the thought of it. “It’s been six years since I came to Ravenfield. I can do it.”

  “You despise that town. You know you never go unless you must.”

  “I can adjust, Maud. And besides, I’m not the same pitiful child that I was. I can take care of myself.”

  “And the girls? Won’t Mr. Ridley be their guardian? Will he consent to your taking them?”

  Sarah shrugged as though the heir’s wishes did not matter. She’d raised the girls since they were infants, and was not going to turn them over to some London gent who cared not a whit for them. Besides, Mr. Merton had made no mention of Mr. Ridley being the girls’ guardian.

  Maud shook her head in dismay, but then her gaze drifted off to the winged figure that stood in the center of the defunct fountain. “Sarah,” she said, her voice sounding strangely distracted. “What…what kind of man is Mr. Ridley? Did Mr. Merton tell you anything about him?”

  “Only that he’s fabulously wealthy, and lives in London,” Sarah replied. “And that he probably has no need of any more property than he already has. Nor will he have any interest in raising his cousin’s children.”

  Maud appeared dazed for a moment, then she looked up at Sarah. “I think you should wait and see for yourself what kind of a man he is before you take rooms in Craggleton. Perhaps he will want to keep Margaret and Jane at Ravenfield until they come of age. They—”

  “I didn’t get any such impression from Mr. Merton,” Sarah said, her heart heavy with worry. “Mr. Ridley is an unmarried man, Maud. He isn’t going to want children underfoot.”

  Maud clucked her tongue and scrutinized Sarah. “But what if he should marry?”

  “I still don’t think—” Sarah started, then she realized what Maud was suggesting. “We both know what an unlikely event that will be. I’ve no dowry, no family, no—”

  “Never say you have no family. You have us. And besides, you descended from the original Ravenfield family, did you not?”

  She gave a weak nod. “So my mother used to say.” Sarah’s mother had also told her that the tin Luck resting at the bottom of her wooden chest had been given to the family by fairies. She’d said that at one time, the runes on the box had been visible, and in their ancient language, they’d read, Be thy casket lost or broak, Then Ravenfield’s luck will dissolve in smoke.

  After her father’s death, Sarah had been allowed to keep the tin box because it had no obvious value. Though it was cracked and wouldn’t open, it was her only keepsake from her mother, and so she’d kept it, all through the years when she’d moved from house to house, working for her keep.

  “Well, you’ll be attending the dragon lady’s soiree. There is sure to be more than one likely suitor there.”

  “For me? Without a shilling to my name?”

  Maud clucked her tongue, as though Sarah’s lack of dowry and connections were inconsequential. “Sarah, you intend to make yourself a new gown for Mrs. Pruitt’s soiree, do you not?”

  “I hadn’t thought there would be time.”

  “There will be plenty of time, since I’m going to help you,” Maud said firmly. “Why don’t you plan to go into Craggleton this afternoon and buy a few bolts of cloth. With Mr. Locke’s money, you can afford to outfit yourself as well as the girls.”

  Sarah tamped down a flood of panic at the thought of going into Craggleton alone, and it crossed her mind that Maud was using the occasion to illustrate Sarah’s long-held opinion of the people there.

  “But you do so much already—”

  “You sew the girls’ new dresses. I’ll make yours. It will be something magnificent.”

  “Oh but Maud, I—”

  Maud laughed and started toward the house. “You’ll have to indulge me in this, my girl. I know what suits you better than you do yourself.”

  Sarah took one of Maud’s baskets and fell into step alongside her as she headed for the house, so preoccupied with what she would do when Mr. Ridley arrived that she nearly forgot Brendan Locke and that kiss.

  “I have a few ideas of my own, my girl,” said Maud.

  Sarah raised an eyebrow.

  Maud nodded. “Do as I say, and you’ll have a husband before a fortnight’s done.”

  Brogan scrubbed one hand across his face in frustration. His brain had gone soft if his loins were in control. He went back up to the tower, keeping a wary eye out for the sìthean and the gathering clouds. The runes were worn and faded, just as they’d been in the caves. Nothing pointed to the location of the stone.

  He stepped carefully across the supports in the walls, tracing the etchings with his fingers and wondering how life must have been for Lord Dubhán, stranded here among the Tuath. Mayhap he’d had a Tuath wife.

  Brogan glanced down to the garden where Sarah stood talking with Maud in the presence of the dragheen. They would not know that the guardian could hear their conversations, that he could influence their thoughts.

  He hoped that Colm heeded his warning to refrain from influencing any Tuath man to take Sarah to wife.

  Brogan decided to make sure she knew how to use her own feminine qualities to attract a mate. Her lack of fortune would mean naught once she caught a man’s interest. Besides being beautiful and caring, she possessed many talents. And if she wore better clothes, loosened her hair, and softened her hands, even Squire Crowell would be hard-pressed not to notice her.

  And once he kissed her…

/>   Brogan swore under his breath when he cut his finger against a sharp edge of stone. There was no point in thinking about what would happen once the witless men of the parish took notice of her.

  Sarah had not yet recovered from Mr. Locke’s kiss when she heard the sound of horses galloping toward the house in the rain. She pressed her fingers to her lips and tried to put that brazen interlude aside just as Margaret scampered up the wooden steps to the second floor. “Miss Granger!” Margaret wrapped her arms ’round Sarah’s legs and held on, quivering. “’Tis Mr. Ridley! He’s coming!”

  Sarah’s knees started to shake at the news. She’d worked on drawings for the girls’ new gowns to divert herself from her encounter with Mr. Locke on the castle stairs. So preoccupied had she been, she’d done nothing to prepare for the heir’s arrival.

  Dislodging Margaret from her legs, she took the girl’s hand. “Well, then…” She took a deep breath and bolstered her own courage. “Let’s go down and meet him.”

  “I’m frightened! What if—”

  “Let’s not borrow trouble, love. Surely Mr. Ridley won’t turn us out in the rain.”

  They reached the main floor and found Maud welcoming two gentlemen into the entryway. Their cloaks and hats were wet, and they were stamping the water from their feet. It was not until they removed their hats that Sarah saw that one of them was John Crowell. The man beside him was a stranger.

  “Ah, Miss, er…Granger, isn’t it?” said the squire, and Sarah blushed at the thrill of being recognized. He gave a short bow and turned to his companion. “This is Mr. Malcolm Rutherford, one of my guests up at Corrington House.”

  Sarah let out a shaky breath as she curtsied, grateful that it was not Mr. Ridley, but wondering what had brought the men to Ravenfield. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rutherford. Please come in and warm yourselves.”

  The men went into the drawing room, and Margaret pulled on Sarah’s skirt. Sarah bent down to listen to the child’s whisper. “That’s the man I saw on the fell yesterday. He looks mean.”

  “I’ll bring tea,” said Maud.

  As Margaret left the room with Maud, Sarah was left alone with the two gentlemen. She was glad she’d worn her best dress again, and that she’d been inside when the rain had begun. Her hair was neatly bound as it should be, and her shoes presentable.

  “We were on our way to Fullingham when my horse went lame,” said the squire as he hung his cloak on a hook by the door. Both men were very well-dressed, though Mr. Rutherford’s attire was rather too formal for the country.

  His waistcoat was a beautiful, multicolored silk, and he wore a jeweled stickpin in his cravat, one that matched the heavily jeweled ring on his right hand. The top of his walking stick was solid gold, molded into the shape of a ferocious tooth-baring beast. Sarah did not care for it.

  “We were caught in the downpour and hoped you wouldn’t mind giving us shelter until the squall passes.”

  “Not at all, Squire. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  “You might send someone up to Corrington House for a carriage,” Rutherford said to her.

  Sarah shook her head regretfully. “I’m sorry, but we have no one to send. And there’s no one to put the horses into the barn.”

  “The servant woman—”

  “Not to worry, Miss Granger,” Squire Crowell interrupted. “The horses are sheltering under the eaves. Once the rain passes, we’ll return to the house and collect another.”

  Mr. Rutherford went to the window and pushed the curtain aside. “Another castle here? It looks quite old.”

  “Yes,” Sarah replied civilly, even though she was irked by the man’s effrontery. How dare he suggest that Maud walk through the rain to fetch him a carriage? At least Squire Crowell had had the decency to reject such a suggestion. “Ravenfield has stood for many centuries.”

  “Fascinating,” their guest remarked, though his tone indicated he was not fascinated at all. Nor was Sarah interested in the haughty Mr. Rutherford, not when John Crowell stood so near. The squire had visited Ravenfield in the past, but his attentions had always been engaged by Captain Barstow. Sarah had never stood so close to him or felt his gaze as keenly as she did now.

  His clothing was expensive and well-made, and suited to a country squire. His shoulders might be only slightly wider than her own, but at least he knew how to tie a cravat. And he was a respectable denizen of Craggleton society who knew how to treat a woman. His boyish good looks were more than appealing. His cheeks were smooth, and if there were whiskers present, they were so light, they were invisible.

  His features were altogether the most charming she’d ever seen, bright and open, rather than dark and forbidding. He was a civilized Englishman who would make a fine husband for a worthy young lady.

  “Miss Granger is governess here,” said the squire to his friend. “She has been in charge here at Ravenfield ever since Captain Barstow was killed in Spain last year.”

  He smoothed his hair with his fingers and straightened his coat, giving a handsome smile as he did so.

  His familiarity thrilled Sarah to her toes, and she knew her regard was not misplaced. There was much to admire in such a steadfast gentleman, one whose solid presence would remain at Corrington House. Not even Mr. Ridley could object to raising his wards in such an environment. Looking at his pleasing form, Sarah couldn’t have provided a greater contrast to the uncivilized adventurer who was clambering over the castle ruins if she’d tried.

  “I understand there will soon be a new owner here,” the squire remarked.

  Sarah nodded. “’Tis true. We’ve just learned that Captain Barstow’s cousin—a Mr. Charles Ridley—will inherit the estate.”

  “Such as it is,” drawled Rutherford. Sarah wondered at his attitude. If he truly was the man Margaret had seen on the fell, then he’d already seen Ravenfield in its entirety. Yet he’d given the impression of not realizing there was a castle here.

  Perhaps Margaret was mistaken.

  She turned to Squire Crowell and ignored his friend’s offensive tone. Ravenfield might be a notch below the grand houses he was accustomed to, but it was a fine and venerable estate, nonetheless.

  “I should think the new heir will want to clear away some of that rubble,” Mr. Rutherford added.

  “No doubt,” said Squire Crowell. “There’s good pastureland wasted here. Your Mr. Ridley will likely enclose it and start growing grain. The way the army is paying these days, only a fool leaves his fields for the sheep.”

  Sarah felt her face heat with dismay at the realization that the squire agreed with Mr. Rutherford. He could not be so callous as to think Ravenfield would be better served by removing any part of the ancient building. Where was his sense of history, of their noble heritage?

  She dearly hoped Mr. Ridley would not clear any part of her beloved castle. If only he shared Mr. Locke’s respect for the structure, its continued existence would be secured.

  Yet it was not for Sarah to say. She would soon have no reason—or time—to visit Ravenfield again. It gave her a pang of sorrow to think she would never see the castle or grounds again. She and the girls would not have the freedom to walk the beach as they willed, or climb in the fells whenever they liked.

  The changes were going to be difficult for all of them.

  Unless she married.

  Maud returned to the parlor, carrying a large tray with their tea, and Sarah knew this would be one of her few opportunities to make an impression on the squire. Her gown was acceptable, her hair in place; she was clean and articulate. Now she needed to show him that she was a competent hostess.

  Sarah poured, careful to perform the ritual with as much grace and elegance as possible to demonstrate her wifely skills. But when she suddenly took note of her red and chafed hands, it was all she could do not to sit on them.

  Even as she hoped the squire hadn’t seen her work-worn hands, she told herself it did not matter. Everyone knew that times were hard at Ravenfield. It was com
mon knowledge that Captain Barstow’s pay had stopped upon his death, and that Mr. Merton had not yet managed to sell his commission. If the lack of army pay had escaped anyone’s notice, their selling cockles and pies in town would have told the tale.

  In any event, Sarah did not doubt that the squire would take note of her character rather than her rough hands and tattered surroundings. Surely he was astute enough to understand that character was what made a good spouse, not the garments a woman wore or the contents of her purse.

  “Come along, Rutherford, and sit,” said Squire Crowell.

  Mr. Rutherford dropped the curtain and draped himself without decorum in a chair near the table. He cast Sarah a look that she could not fathom, one that made her feel like a lowly villein of old when the lord of the demesne deigned to visit.

  Had Squire Crowell come alone, she’d have sat down and joined him. But Mr. Rutherford’s indolent superiority made it clear that he would not welcome the company of a lowly governess. She finished pouring and smiled graciously. “I’ll just leave you gentlemen to your—”

  “No, no, Miss, uh…Granger. You must join us,” said the squire.

  Sarah took a seat in spite of Mr. Rutherford’s sour expression. Maud would never forgive her if she did not make the most of this opportunity to impress the squire with her affability.

  “How are you enjoying Cumbria, Mr. Rutherford?” she asked, in spite of her uneasiness.

  The man sipped his tea before answering. “’Tis tolerable.”

  He did not openly ridicule her, but Sarah felt degraded by Mr. Rutherford’s disdain. There was no kindness in him, and yet he was a friend of John Crowell. Sarah realized it would be the responsibility of the squire’s wife to play the gracious hostess to friends such as these. If she ever became his wife, she would hope to influence him to improve his acquaintances.

 

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