The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Sarah’s head tucked beneath his chin, Marcus looked over the crown of her head at the body in the pool. The dawn light was brighter, clearer, and it allowed him to see the color of the boy’s skin. The ashen pallor told him the lad had died a few hours ago—perhaps a day at the most.

  “Sarah,” he repeated gently, his arms tightening about her protectively. “Do you know this boy?”

  Her sobs lessened, the weight of her body against his easing as she composed herself and attempted to step back.

  She flattened both palms on his chest and pushed, her thick lashes lowered to conceal her gaze.

  Marcus reluctantly loosened his hold, every inch of his body fighting the necessity of releasing her.

  “I apologize, Lord Weston,” she said barely above a whisper. “I needed a moment to compose myself.”

  “Do not apologize for having compassion and a soft heart, Sarah,” Marcus insisted, her statement piercing his heart. “Not to me—not to anyone.”

  She looked up, her green eyes dark with shock and pain—and relief. “Thank you,” she replied, fresh tears trailing their way down her cheeks.

  She wiped them away quickly and swallowed hard. “It’s Jasper Wilmington. He is a dear friend of Nigel’s.”

  She turned to look at the cliff path and above, as if waiting for her brother’s appearance.

  Marcus gently caught her arm. “I sent him on Pokey. I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” Marcus told her reassuringly.

  They slowly began to walk toward the cliff, Marcus deliberately moving Sarah away from the site. “Was Jasper one of the boys involved with the smugglers?”

  “Yes,” she answered, affection vying with grief on her expressive face. “Nigel, Clive, and Jasper are a fearsome bunch to be sure—or were, rather,” she amended in a whisper.

  She stopped suddenly, her brow furrowing. “Nigel mentioned that Charles was in a foul temper last night,” she said, her voice filled with dread and foreboding. “But I cannot think this was anything other than a horrible accident, can you?”

  Marcus didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d seen black and blue bruising encircling the boy’s neck—indicative of strangulation.

  He paused, dropping his gaze to the rocky shore while contemplating an appropriate response.

  As he did so, he caught sight of Sarah’s boots, one tinged with blood just near the toe.

  She followed his gaze and looked down, sweeping the length of her rumpled, stained clothing before settling on her boots. “You’ve truly seen me at my worst, Lord Weston,” she said quietly, her gaze returning to him. “And you’re still here.”

  The pull of the emotions racing through his body and mind threatened to break loose. He didn’t want to respond to what was surely more than just a simple statement.

  He couldn’t.

  And so he gave in to his Scottish drive for action and firmly lifted her into his arms, and made haste for the cliff wall.

  Not fully realizing that he’d answered her all the same.

  He’d carried her the entire length of the cliff path until they’d reached the top and discovered Nigel, her father, and the constable about to descend the path themselves.

  Marcus had carefully placed her on Pokey’s back and instructed Nigel to walk her home, where he would meet them after assisting Sir Arthur and the constable.

  She’d not wanted him to let her go.

  Now Sarah stared unseeingly at the ceiling above her bed, knowing that she should prepare for the daunting day ahead.

  But she could not quite pull herself from the comfort and warmth of the familiar linens, especially in light of such a revelation.

  She’d not wanted Lord Weston to put her down, even though she knew full well the man’s leg must have ached from the effort of carrying her.

  Even though he’d failed to acknowledge the weight of what she’d said.

  Even though she was covered from head to toe in mud and sand, sea air and salt water.

  She’d wanted to stay in his arms.

  Forever.

  Sarah rolled to her side, allowing the coverlet to dip below her shoulders.

  She sensed that there was a side to Lord Weston that he hid from the world.

  An untamed one that he feared polite society would never countenance from a man such as he.

  It completely enthralled Sarah.

  And in truth, his brusque treatment—such as she never would have accepted from any other man—was the only reason she’d left the beach with some semblance of her sanity intact.

  She’d needed him to take control, and he had.

  Sarah blew out a breath and willed herself not to cry.

  She’d feared that she would perish on the beach alongside Jasper, the task of continuing on in the face of such a horrifying loss seeming too much to bear.

  Strength and fortitude had never been attributes Sarah found lacking in herself; on the contrary, they were what she relied upon most.

  But the sight of Jasper’s lifeless body had forced her to doubt.

  And then Lord Weston was there, asking little but doing so much.

  Suddenly her vulnerability felt more an asset than a weakness.

  “Sarah?”

  She turned to find Nigel standing in the doorway, the purple-hued smudges beneath his eyes stark against the unnatural paleness of his skin.

  He slowly walked toward her, the once-confident, carefree twelve-year-old slipping away to reveal a shocked and weary young boy.

  Sarah pushed herself to a seated position and held out her arms in wordless comfort, as if the past years of his fearless independence had never existed.

  He swiftly closed the distance, dropping to his knees and laying his head in her lap. “We did it for a lark—that’s all. We never thought …”

  Nigel’s voice trailed off as he pressed his face into the bed linens.

  Sarah wanted to cry. Or scream. She wanted to tell Nigel that everything would be all right, because it always had been.

  Before today.

  Before today, she’d marched her way through life with the knowledge that if she did not do for herself, no one else would. She’d found comfort in that fact and always taken for granted her ability to accomplish every task without aid from another.

  Before today.

  She softly stroked Nigel’s fine hair with one hand while the other rested reassuringly on his shoulder. The growing boy shuddered as he began to cry, sobs shaking his small frame.

  The memory of Lord Weston’s sudden appearance at the cove flashed in Sarah’s mind, compelling her to admit what she’d been struggling with since returning from the beach: Lord Weston’s help had not only been welcome, but wanted. Wanted.

  And freely given.

  Despite the sadness that filled her heart for Jasper and his family, Sarah felt an odd sense of hopefulness, as if all, within reason, could be put back together. “Shhhh, Nigel. I’m here,” she murmured soothingly.

  Marcus joined Sir Arthur in the drawing room. The older man’s color had improved considerably in the hours since Marcus had left him on the beach, but he still seemed haggard. Marcus took a seat in an armchair near the window, noting the brandy bottle balancing precariously on the mahogany table just to the baronet’s left.

  “Someone provide Lord Weston with a glass,” Sir Arthur commanded, gesturing toward the bottle. “We all need a little fortification right now.”

  Sarah rose from the upholstered settee and crossed to her father. “Of course,” she said simply, taking the bottle from the table.

  Marcus ran a weary hand over his stubbled chin, wincing as he realized how mortified Sully would be over his appearance. In fact, he was surprised Sarah’s mother had allowed him into her drawing room.

  Sarah. He’d used her Christian name for the first time that day.

  He supposed there was a perfectly good explanation for using such familiarity. Death was never easy, especially for those inexperienced with such things. And the death of a child?
Marcus counted himself lucky to have never borne witness to such a crime.

  Until today.

  Given more time, he would have taken better care with Sarah after discovering her on the sand. Perhaps he should have been gentler, less forceful, but his instinct to protect had demanded he remove her from the scene immediately. Her tears and grief had stirred a possessiveness that, even now, he refused to regret. She was safe here in her father’s home, and that was all that mattered.

  His brooding gaze followed her as she walked the length of the room to a rosewood serving table. Wordlessly she poured him a glass, and then crossed to where he sat.

  Marcus looked up into her face as she handed him the drink, her freshly scrubbed skin and pale blue gown fading for a moment, replaced by a swift mental image of her kneeling on the beach. The sight was seared into his memory—her tangled auburn curls teased by the morning breeze, her breeches wet from the driving tide. The mixture of terror and disbelief on her face.

  “Lord Weston?”

  Marcus blinked and realized he was now staring at the glass of brandy. The hand holding the glass belonged to Sarah.

  He looked for a second time at her, relieved that it was not the Sarah from the beach who met his gaze. “Miss Tisdale,” he responded belatedly, taking the glass. “Thank you.”

  She nodded as though she understood. Marcus assumed she believed he was rattled by the boy’s death. And he was, to be sure. But even more, he was concerned for Sarah.

  Marcus had half expected her to have retreated within herself, her emotions tamped down and all vulnerability safely encased in her usual confidence and self-possession.

  But he was troubled to see the fragility still in her anxious gaze.

  He suspected their relationship would never be the same after today, but as he looked about at those gathered in the drawing room, he realized that such a line of thought would have to wait.

  He sipped the brandy slowly, savoring the liquor’s burn as it slid smoothly down his throat, thankful for the distraction. “Sir Arthur, this has been a most disturbing day for your family,” he began.

  As the highest-ranking man in the county, he had every right to involve himself in the necessary inquiry into the boy’s death, despite Lady Tisdale’s polite if frosty insistence that a man such as he surely had more important things to concern himself with. Even she could not deny the Errant Earl.

  Parish constable Thaddeus Pringle, a small, wiry man with graying sideburns, had been summoned and now sat next to Sir Arthur. He pushed absentmindedly at the thick spectacles propped precariously on the end of his narrow nose.

  The constable had proven himself useful on the beach, being the first to mention the bruising about the boy’s neck. He’d aided admirably in removing the boy from the rocks, his strength belying his small stature.

  “Mr. Pringle, has the boy’s family been made aware of the situation?” Marcus asked, grimacing as his leg began to throb.

  The question caught Pringle stifling a yawn with his closed fist. “They have, my lord. They’re anxious to have the boy’s body.” Pringle paused, looking apologetically at Lady Tisdale and Sarah for mentioning such a thing. “For burial purposes, you see.”

  Marcus stretched his leg out, the throbbing growing immediately worse before abating to a dull, insistent ache. “Yes, of course. I’ll see that my valet makes the arrangements.”

  Jasper’s body had been carried to Lulworth Castle for safekeeping. Sully was, at that very moment, performing a thorough examination of the boy’s corpse in the hopes that something might appear that would help with the case.

  And so it begins, Marcus thought, realizing it would be necessary to take control by any means necessary if he was to gain ground.

  Manipulation was not a game Marcus enjoyed, though the Corinthians were trained to be deadly precise. Judging from the day’s events, Nigel knew more about the smugglers than he’d revealed in the past.

  And while Marcus doubted that Sir Arthur had anything to do with the emeralds, he suspected the man would, if necessary, tell any falsehood to keep his son safe. As would, most assuredly, Sarah.

  His gaze skimmed lightly over the family, knowing that he would ultimately expose and potentially destroy them if Nigel was tied to the jewels. The dull throb in his leg suddenly traveled directly to his heart.

  Marcus took another sip of the brandy and closed his eyes, every emotion rebelling against this course of action.

  “Mr. Pringle,” Marcus began, “I believe you questioned the nature of Jasper’s death, did you not?”

  The constable hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with Marcus’s question. “Are you referring to the bruising, my lord?”

  “Yes, about the boy’s neck,” Marcus confirmed, watching Sarah from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “What do you make of it?”

  Sarah’s eyes widened and she turned in her seat to look directly at Pringle.

  The constable pushed his spectacles up his long nose and cleared his throat. “If I had to say …” He paused, pressing the wire nosepiece though there was nowhere farther for it to go. “Well, I suspect the boy was strangled.”

  Lady Tisdale let out a dramatic gasp and all the attention in the room suddenly concentrated on her—except for Marcus’s. He watched as Sarah remained silent, though her gaze next darted to her brother.

  “Indeed,” Marcus said in a low, shocked tone. “Nigel,” he said, setting his glass down with an audible thud. “Clearly the men you’ve been dealing with are far more dangerous than we were led to believe.”

  It was the constable’s turn to be shocked, his small body nearly vibrating at Marcus’s words. “What’s this?” he asked gruffly, discernibly upset over the revelation.

  “I don’t know,” Nigel began, his tone anxious as he stood up from his chair, his movements jerky. “It was all in good fun—”

  “Jasper Wilmington is dead, boy!” Pringle interrupted, raising his voice.

  “This wasn’t the plan. We were—”

  “Plan?” Pringle sputtered, his anger growing. “What plan?”

  Nigel began to shift back and forth from one foot to the other, his face anguished. “That’s not what I meant,” he pleaded, cringing when Pringle rose as well.

  Marcus waited as the frenzy grew. Lady Tisdale shrieked as Pringle advanced on Nigel, which sent her husband flying from his seat.

  Marcus knew timing was everything in such a situation. He watched as Sarah maintained her composure though the whole of her family looked to be tottering on the edge of hysteria.

  Now, he thought, as Sarah rose from her chair, a desperate look in her eyes.

  “If everyone would please sit down,” he said in a commanding tone, rising to his feet.

  All obeyed, save for Sarah, who crossed the room and joined her brother.

  Marcus eyed her with compassion, making his concern for her—and, more important, Nigel—apparent.

  Her tense posture eased ever so slightly at his silent support.

  Then Marcus turned to the constable, adopting a stern bearing. “Pringle, the boy can hardly be expected to endure questioning at this time. Please go to Lulworth Castle and offer your help to my valet.”

  It was as if Marcus was a puppetmaster. All four of the Tisdales turned in unison to angrily stare at the man.

  Pringle repositioned his spectacles once more before clearing his throat. “Yes, my lord,” he replied in a thin voice, rising from his chair. “But the boy will have to be—”

  “Of course,” Marcus interrupted, gesturing toward the door. “We will speak this afternoon.”

  Pringle nodded quickly and left.

  Nigel slumped into his chair, the lack of sleep and the weight of his friend’s death clearly catching up with him.

  Marcus eyed the boy with concern. “I suggest that Nigel retire to bed. I’ll return to question him further this afternoon, and in the meantime I’ll join Mr. Pringle to ensure Jasper is taken care of properly.”

  Tisdale nodded
somberly while his wife stifled a cry. Sarah stood next to Nigel, her hand on his bowed shoulder.

  As Marcus made his way toward the door she reached out and gently grasped his arm.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  The sincerity in her eyes made Marcus want to hit something. Anything. As long as it was hard enough to break bone.

  Better that than his heart.

  A funeral for an aged fisherman or kindly grandmother was not an unusual occurrence in Lulworth. But Jasper’s was far from usual, the faces of those surrounding Sarah in the Church of the Holy Trinity filled with shock and sorrow as they stared at the boy’s casket near the front of the sanctuary.

  She inched along the hard pew until she was securely pressed against Nigel, but her brother hardly seemed to notice. His somber gaze was fastened on the vicar behind the pulpit.

  He won’t find what he needs there, Sarah thought to herself regretfully.

  No one would.

  All of the reassurance in the world would not bring back Jasper.

  Nor would it provide any insight into why such a heartbreaking death happened at all.

  Sarah’s gaze skimmed the gathering until she found Lord Weston, his blond hair capturing a single shaft of sunlight as it slanted through the simple stained-glass window.

  He’d insisted upon being present during Nigel’s interview with the constable. Her brother had been terrified. But Lord Weston’s calm demeanor had set Nigel more at ease. It was clear that Nigel had been much more forthcoming than he would have been if Mr. Pringle had been allowed to pursue the interrogation on his own. The constable meant well, but he lacked Lord Weston’s natural compassion, and it was only when the earl had quietly assured Nigel that he believed him innocent of all wrongdoing that the boy finally began to speak, spilling forth a surprising amount of information.

  First there had been a list of names. A lengthy list. Lord Weston did not move a muscle as Nigel rattled them off, but Mr. Pringle had literally jumped from his seat and begun to pace, his wiry frame quivering with excitement. His questions had grown more pointed, and his tone harder. Nigel’s eyes had widened with fear, but then Lord Weston interceded again, this time with a reassuring hand on Nigel’s arm. Sarah, watching from the corner with her parents, had seen her brother visibly relax.