The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  She picked herself up, ignoring the pain as she threw the entry door open wide and raced down the steps.

  “Stop!” Sarah called, startling the big chestnut as she darted around him to catch the stirrup.

  Marcus looked down at her, his face grim.

  “Please, tell me,” she pleaded, searching his face for answers. “Why is my father sending Nigel away?”

  Marcus captured her hand with his and held tight. “Do you remember what I asked of you—that you would trust me, no matter what?”

  “I do.”

  “Remember your promise.” Marcus released her hand then took up the reins and urged the Thoroughbred into a gallop.

  And he was gone.

  It had gone well enough, considering all that could have transpired.

  Marcus’s conversation with Carmichael, precisely two hours past the most extraordinary sexual experience of his life, had not set well.

  Not at all.

  Carmichael had judiciously avoided any probing into the nature of Marcus’s time in the gazebo.

  Marcus slowed Pokey to a trot, hardly anxious to return to the castle. He wanted whatever happened between them to be about only the two of them. Not the Young Corinthians. Not the smugglers. Not his family nor Sarah’s. Whatever the outcome, Marcus needed to know that he’d been true to his heart and hers.

  He looked out over the cove, the throaty bark of a gray seal carrying on the wind.

  She’d made it so simple for him. There’d been no blame, no conditions—just one surprisingly powerful slap and all was forgiven.

  Marcus fingered his cheek where her hand had been, heat spreading as he thought about other parts of his body those hands had touched with sensual abandon.

  Sarah hid nothing—apologized for nothing—demanding that he match her willingness and give himself over completely. And for the first time in his life, Marcus felt he could do so. She gave him courage in a way he’d hardly known he was lacking.

  He’d executed his work with the Young Corinthians with ease and skill, never questioning his ability to face dangerous situations. But what Sarah offered required that he give of himself—not his skill nor his valor, but his heart and his soul.

  Nothing less.

  She made him believe he could do anything.

  Ahead of him, Lulworth Castle came into view. Pokey nickered and trotted a bit faster.

  Marcus hoped that he had inspired in Sarah the ability to do the same.

  She’d kept her composure earlier, though he’d given her very little opportunity to do otherwise, he reflected. He suspected that, at this very moment, she was none too happy with him. But he’d known that a quick retreat would be wise. Sir Arthur would explain the situation and, though fabricated, the story would hopefully satisfy Sarah—at least for the time being.

  Carmichael had insisted that the boy be brought to Lulworth Castle, as much for his own safety as for questioning. The constable would be blamed for requiring his confinement, thereby preserving the anonymity of the Corinthians and Marcus’s involvement with them, including Carmichael’s cover.

  They’d wasted enough time as it was, Carmichael had stated in his famously taciturn way. He hadn’t blamed Marcus directly for the investigation’s lack of progress, but he hadn’t needed to. Marcus knew the truth of it already. His feelings for Sarah were getting in the way. Which would only put Nigel in more danger. Marcus would sort out his involvement in the Corinthians once the boy was safe and the smugglers captured, but not before.

  Sarah would have to be patient, he realized. Hardly an easy task for the woman, but she’d promised. And Marcus felt sure—more sure than ever before in his life—that she’d not let him down.

  He pushed Pokey into a fast canter. It would hardly do to have Sully and the boy reach Lulworth before he did.

  “Outrageous!”

  Sarah very nearly rolled her eyes at Mr. Dixon’s outburst, but she discovered she had neither the interest nor the energy to do so.

  The man stood near the mantel, drinking her father’s brandy and acting as though he owned Tisdale Manor—and everyone within its walls.

  Sarah’s mother moaned with dramatic flair. “That is precisely what I said.” She fidgeted with a tassel on the needlepoint pillow in her lap. “My poor boy,” she wailed. “Taken from the bosom of his family—”

  “It is for his own safety,” Sarah’s father interrupted.

  Mr. Dixon set his glass on the stone mantel and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels with self-importance. “That may be, but has anything been proven?”

  “There’s speculation that the boys stole from the smugglers,” Sir Arthur answered, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Surely you’ve heard it. The entire village can speak of nothing else.”

  Lady Tisdale moaned again and covered her eyes with her lace handkerchief.

  “Mother, we’ve already discussed the likelihood of Nigel’s involvement in such a crime, whether knowingly or not.”

  “Yes, but is it really necessary for them to take him away?”

  Sarah had wondered the same thing, though she was hardly going to feed her mother’s melodramatic tendencies at this point by appearing to be in agreement. Marcus had asked her to keep her promise. And she would.

  “I will go to Lulworth Castle at once and confirm the boy’s comfort,” Mr. Dixon decreed, giving Lady Tisdale a reassuring look before he turned to Sarah and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  Sarah recoiled, covering her instinctive revulsion by turning to her father, the move allowing her to slip out from beneath the man’s touch. “Father, do you truly think this is wise?”

  “I have Lord Weston’s word that Nigel will be treated with the utmost kindness, which is enough for me,” Sir Arthur replied with a firm nod.

  Lady Tisdale burst into tears.

  “That being said,” Sir Arthur continued, “if you wish to call upon Lord Weston for your own assurance, Dixon, I can hardly stop you.”

  Mr. Dixon nodded condescendingly. “I would consider it an honor to look after the interests of your family.”

  He walked at once to the doorway, bowed low, and was off.

  “I must admit,” Lady Tisdale began, wiping delicately at her eyes, “Mr. Dixon’s eagerness to aid us at such a time is of great comfort.” She dropped the pillow on the settee and moved slowly toward the door, her body drooping disconsolately. “I believe I will lie down.”

  “Rest well, my dear,” her husband offered. When his wife disappeared through the doorway, he slumped back into his chair.

  “Father.” Sarah rose and crossed to Sir Arthur, kneeling on the floor next to his chair, her skirts a pool of sprigged yellow muslin against the blue wool carpet. “Mr. Dixon can hardly be trusted to look after anyone’s interests but his own. He’ll only get in the way.”

  Sir Arthur sighed, his gaze troubled as he laid a hand on Sarah’s cheek. “As I said before, I cannot control Dixon. But if I know Lord Weston, he won’t let the man interfere.”

  “But Father—”

  “Sarah,” he interrupted, his tone weary, “this is far more serious than any of us would like to admit. Please, do not question me further. When I have news of Nigel I will tell you. Until then, we wait.”

  Sarah nodded, covering his hand with hers.

  The last thing she was about to do was wait.

  Sarah watched Mr. Dixon’s carriage trundle down the drive of Lulworth Castle before leaving her hiding place to approach the portico.

  She rapped the carved knocker against the heavy oak panel and waited, Titus and Bones close behind.

  A liveried servant opened the door and peered out at Sarah. “Yes?” he asked impatiently.

  “Miss Sarah Tisdale to see Lord Weston,” Sarah said succinctly, moving to step inside.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said in a clipped tone, barring her way. “Lord Weston is not available at the moment.”

  Sarah stepped back. “I’m certain if you tel
l him my name, he will make himself available.”

  “I have been told that Lord Weston is not available to see anyone, which it seems to me would include you, Miss Tisdale.”

  Titus growled low in his throat.

  Sarah had half a mind to release the big dog on the obnoxious man.

  If he wasn’t lying, then Marcus meant to keep her from Nigel.

  None of this made sense. “I’m sure we could clear this up if you would only let me in—”

  “No,” the servant said with finality, and shut the door in Sarah’s face.

  Sarah turned on her heels.

  “Bugger!”

  Both Titus and Bones barked loudly at the vulgarity.

  “I promised to trust him.”

  Growling ensued.

  She felt just as the dogs sounded.

  If she could only speak with Marcus and make him understand. Sarah fully supported the constable’s need to not only question Nigel further, but protect him from the very real danger. If Marcus heard these words from her lips, Sarah felt sure he’d allow her entry.

  She could be useful, after all. It was true that her attempts to ferret out Nigel’s involvement in the smuggling scheme up until this point had proven fruitless, but she’d hardly pressed the point, confident that in time her brother would reveal all. She’d made a mistake waiting, that was clear to her now.

  Her father’s words echoed in her ears: “This is far more serious than any of us would like to admit.”

  Sarah looked at the circular driveway, then down the long, straight, graveled path that would take her home. “Come along, boys,” she said to the dogs. She lifted her skirts and picked her way down the steps, then took a sharp turn toward the back of the castle.

  Marcus sat across from Nigel in the nearly bare room. All excess furnishings and adornments had been removed, leaving only two simple chairs and a small wooden table in the corner.

  “Thirsty?” Marcus asked the boy, who looked ready to cry.

  Nigel nodded, his eyes remaining fixed on the floor.

  Marcus stood up and crossed the room to a porcelain pitcher on the table. He poured a cup of watered wine and returned to where the boy sat, slumped in the straight-backed wooden chair.

  He handed the cup to Nigel and took his own seat once more.

  Marcus knew the boy was near collapse.

  The constable had gone after him like a dog with a bone. Tears had filled the boy’s eyes when he was told his family was in danger.

  Pringle had grimly related the grisly details of just how Jasper and Clive had left this cruel world, their necks wrenched until their heads nearly fell from their bodies.

  The constable had even threatened to give Nigel over to the smugglers and be done with him if he didn’t tell them all that he knew.

  Marcus would never have guessed that Pringle had it in him, his wiry frame humming with angry energy as he relentlessly questioned the boy.

  Just as surprising was Nigel’s response. Though visibly shaken, he had endured Pringle’s onslaught with a strength Marcus suspected few twelve-year-olds possessed.

  He was, after all, Sarah’s brother.

  Sarah, Marcus thought as he watched Nigel take a drink.

  He’d known she would come, though he hadn’t guessed she’d arrive right on the heels of Dixon.

  The man had protested loudly when he’d been refused entry to the castle. Everyone in the room had paused when the sound of Dixon’s outraged, angry bellowing reached the small room on the third floor.

  Pringle had even used Dixon’s outburst to his advantage, telling Nigel that the smugglers had come for him. The boy had begun to shake with terror, but still, he’d remained silent.

  Marcus glanced at Nigel, who’d drained his cup of weak wine and resumed staring at the floor.

  Marcus gritted his teeth until it felt as though his jaw would break. Interrogation was, in essence, upending the balance of power through physical and mental manipulation.

  Marcus had never thought twice about using such tactics on hardened criminals.

  But Nigel was not a hardened criminal. He was a child—and even more, the brother of the woman Marcus loved.

  The pain in his jaw spread to his temples, a gnawing headache threatening to take over.

  Marcus was glad that Sarah would be nowhere near Lulworth Castle when he finally broke Nigel.

  He wished to hell he was anywhere else but here himself, with anything else to do but this.

  Pringle had prepared Nigel, and now it was up to Marcus to finish the job.

  It could be done slowly—certainly easier on the suspect. Or quickly—which, depending on how one looked at it, could be considered a kindness in its own way.

  Marcus was out of time, which, in his experience, had a way of making things clear.

  He stood and stretched, preparing for what he must do.

  A swift and well-executed break was considered a badge of honor within the Corinthians.

  Marcus had to wonder whether any of his fellow agents had been asked to apply such skills to a twelve-year-old boy.

  He scrubbed a hand roughly down his face, took a deep breath, and savagely knocked the cup from the boy’s hands.

  Nigel’s head shot up, his eyes wild with fear.

  “I’m done indulging you, Nigel.” Marcus purposely injected a menacing note in his voice, raised his foot to the rung of Nigel’s chair, and shoved.

  Nigel gripped the sides of the chair as it skittered across the floor and crashed into the opposing wall.

  Marcus had calculated the move in order to ensure that he’d not do any real harm to the boy.

  But he’d clearly scared him; Nigel jumped up and raced to the table in the corner.

  “The table will afford you no protection from me.” Marcus stalked across the room to reach the boy cowering in the corner.

  He paused, the sight of Nigel shivering with alarm making his gut clench.

  Nigel needed for this to end.

  As did Marcus.

  In one swift move he grasped the table and threw it across the room, the wood fracturing into several pieces and sending the pitcher crashing to the floor.

  “I didn’t know what Jasper and Clive had stolen until it was too late—I swear. You have to believe me!” Nigel cried, sliding down the length of the wall and pulling his legs in to rest on his chest.

  Marcus let out a rough breath and turned, freezing as he caught sight of the open door.

  Sarah stood in the doorway, her face bone-white beneath the red of her hair.

  “How did you get in here?” Marcus demanded.

  “Sarah!” Nigel screamed, scrambling up from the floor and running to his sister.

  Sarah met him halfway. She wound her arms tightly around the boy and pinned Marcus with eyes bright with tears and betrayal. “You said I could trust you.”

  Two Corinthians burst through the door. “Lord Weston—”

  “Would someone please tell me how this woman gained entry to my home?”

  “She bribed the scullery maid,” one answered.

  “I did not bribe Emily,” Sarah ground out. “I simply asked after her sickly brother William and one thing led to another.”

  The two agents looked abashed.

  And Marcus was ready to knock their heads together.

  “Well, at least now I know why you refused me entry.” Sarah gripped Nigel tighter. “You didn’t want anyone to see you torture an innocent child.”

  “Now, wait just a bloody minute, woman,” Marcus began grimly.

  “Weston,” Carmichael called from the doorway, his tone as calm as ever despite the tense situation.

  “What?” Marcus snarled.

  Carmichael leaned against the doorjamb, surveying the room. “I believe you need to speak with Miss Tisdale—alone.”

  He pushed away from the door and walked to where Sarah and Nigel stood. “Come now,” he said gently to Nigel. “We’ll see if Cook has something for you.”

&nb
sp; “No,” Sarah protested, her arms tightening around Nigel.

  “Miss Tisdale, you have my word that your brother is safe,” Carmichael told her, his gaze meeting hers with direct honesty.

  She stared at him, her expression reflecting her indecision until Nigel straightened, glancing up at Carmichael. Something about the older man’s gaze must have reassured him, for Nigel released her, squaring his shoulders as he turned.

  “It’s all right, Sarah,” he said with barely a tremor in his voice. “I’m hungry.”

  Sarah hesitated, clearly torn, but Nigel eased out of her grip and moved to stand by Carmichael.

  “Pattinson, Stewart,” Carmichael said over his shoulder to the two agents. “I’ve need of you below-stairs.”

  The agents snapped to attention and followed Carmichael and Nigel out into the hallway, shutting the door behind them.

  “How could you?” Sarah’s hands were curled into fists at her side, her entire body stiff with anger. “If I had a gun, I’d shoot you.”

  “I’ve no doubt you would.”

  Her soft lips compressed into a thin line. “Explain this.” One arm lifted in a jerky motion, indicating the room about them.

  Marcus flexed his fingers. “Do we have to do this?”

  “You assaulted my brother.” Her voice rose, threaded with outrage. “So yes, I demand an explanation.”

  “God, woman,” Marcus snarled, gripping the smooth wood of the chair next to him. “Why will you Tisdales not do what is best for you? If you’d just do as you’re told—”

  “Do as I’m told?” she ground out in disbelief.

  “Yes, do as you’re told.” He shoved the chair, sending it skittering away across the floor, and thrust his fingers through his hair, raking the blond strands off his brow in frustration. “How am I to keep you safe otherwise?”

  The chair slammed into the wall and broke.

  Sarah stared at the splintered wood, and then at Marcus, who had moved to the window, his back to her. “What is going on?”

  “The men that Nigel and his friends worked for …” He yanked at his knotted cravat, loosening the linen around his neck. “They’re not your commonplace smugglers. They’ve direct ties to Napoleon. And the jewel those boys stole was meant for him.”