The Legendary Lord

by Valerie Bowman

  Sarah made her way across the room and curled up on the sofa, her feet under her, a quilt surrounding her. Soon, Fergus II was similarly curled up on the rug beneath her. Sarah reached for the knitting needles that sat on the side table next to the sofa and resumed knitting a second coat for the dog. If this snow didn’t let up, the pup would have a large wardrobe.

  She glanced over at Christian, wondering for the dozenth time what he looked like without his beard. She’d drifted off to sleep last night wondering about it, actually.

  “Did you bring those knitting needles with you from London?” he asked, jolting her from her thoughts.

  She dragged her eyes away from the stitch she was making. “No. I found them in a drawer in the bedroom. Don’t worry, I have no intention of stealing them. I’m merely borrowing them,” she teased.

  Christian frowned. “There were knitting needles in the drawer?”

  She paused in her stitch. “Yes. Didn’t you know it?”

  “No.” He smiled and her heart fluttered. “It might come as a surprise to you, my lady, but I don’t knit.”

  She smiled back at him, then returned her attention to the little coat. “Perhaps your cousin left them here. Or your mother?”

  The silence that followed was palpable. Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the awkwardness of the moment dragged on. She obviously shouldn’t have mentioned his mother. They’d been having a happy exchange until that point. She searched her brain for something to say, some other topic to switch to and make things right.

  Moments later, he stood, made his way over to the door, and retrieved his coat from the rack. “I must see to the horse.”

  Sarah nodded, but he didn’t see her. He was out the door in a flash, the cold wind whipping into the room as he opened and shut the door as quickly as possible. She bit her lip and continued her work on the coat, but her mind was racing. Why had Christian been so unwilling to say anything about his mother? And it had to be his mother that was the sore subject. He’d seemed happy enough to discuss his cousin with her before.

  Sarah sighed and glanced down at Fergus II. She’d left the rest of the wool she’d been using in the bedchamber. She stood to fetch it. Fergus II jumped up from his spot beneath the sofa and followed Sarah down the hall to the bedchamber. She entered the room slowly, pushing open the door. This was Christian’s room. She’d usurped it. He hadn’t said anything, but she’d figured it out the night before last when she’d opened the bedside drawer and noticed some of his personal effects. A copy of Two Treatises of Government by John Locke. A few coins. A small pocketknife. It was kind of him to allow her the use of his room. She hadn’t had the nerve to mention it. Now she sat on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer again. It was awful of her to snoop through his belongings, but she suddenly had the desire to know more about this man. To understand him.

  The book was still there, the coins, and the knife. This time she noticed a small envelope lying under the other items. She pulled it out and unfolded it. It contained a lock of dark blond hair. Next to it sat a small golden locket. She gingerly picked it up and popped it open. A tiny painting of a beautiful woman looked back at her. She squinted. The woman had blond hair and light blue eyes and was wearing a gown from the last century. Even in miniature, Sarah could see the resemblance. She was certain. It had to be Christian’s mother.

  “What happened to you?” she whispered to the locket.

  The front door banged open just then and, guilt-ridden, Sarah dropped the locket back into the envelope, put the envelope back into the drawer, and shut it. Then she grabbed up the wool and hurried to the great room.

  “So how do I become irresistible?” Christian asked, a smile on his face, as soon as he saw her.

  Sarah laughed. Apparently he was back in a good mood. She was relieved. “I said elusive, not irresistible,” she replied.

  “Aren’t they the same thing?” The teasing tone was back in his voice.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why is it important for a gentleman to be elusive, then?” he asked as he shucked his boots and made his way over to sit in one of the chairs next to the sofa.

  “It’s not so much that you must seem elusive, really, it’s more that you must not seem too available.” Her knitting needles clicked together.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “But if I’m not available, why would I be looking for a wife?”

  “No, eligible is quite different from available. All of the gentlemen the young ladies seem to swoon over act as if they can take or leave any ton party and may not even arrive at another one. That’s why Almack’s is the wrong place for you.”

  He laughed. “That’s not difficult to pretend. I can take or leave any of the ton parties. Almack’s included.”

  “Why is it that you can take or leave any of the ton parties?” she asked, truly interested.

  “I’ve never enjoyed parties, really. Or going about in Society. I’d much rather be home, carving or reading or—”

  She gave a mock gasp. “Mr. Forester. How can you say such blasphemous things? Why, in London, Society is everything.”

  He laughed at her obvious jest. “Which is why I’ve never been particularly popular in London. It’s a pity I cannot marry a milkmaid in Scotland.”

  “You’d never find one in all this snow.”

  He grinned at that. “I’m willing to go back to London next Season. One last time. I’m committed to finally finding a willing wife.”

  “I think you’re overcomplicating it. To be seen as elusive, you merely need to act as if you’re uninterested in any particular female. It’s quite simple, really.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that females want to feel singled out, special?”

  “Of course. But that’s only after they’ve captured your attention. They want to feel as if it was a bit of a challenge at first. As if you might not ask them to dance.”

  He rubbed a hand over one eye. “That makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. That which is easily gained is often neglected.”

  “Very well. So I should strut around these ton events acting as if I don’t fancy anyone in particular. Then what?”

  “Ask a few ladies to dance. Talk to them. See who garners your attention.”

  “And once I’m properly attentive?”

  “Ask her to dance again the next time you see her.” Sarah put the kettle on to make tea. It had already become their nightly ritual.

  “That seems to be a roundabout way of going about it,” he said.

  She pulled the canister that held the leaves from the cabinet. “It’s courtship.”

  “It’s inefficient.”

  “I know of no other way. You cannot ask a lady you admire to dance more than once or twice at any given ball. It would be unseemly.”

  Joining her, Christian pulled the teacups from the cupboard. She momentarily marveled at how he seemed to feel as comfortable around her as she did around him. She’d never felt this way with another person. Had he? Not even Cook allowed her this level of freedom at home. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be with someone who didn’t constantly remind her of appearances and propriety?

  “Unseemly?” he said. “I suppose the good news is that I haven’t done so before, and any lady I have asked to dance more than once invariably turns me down.”

  Sarah put a hand on her hip and eyed him over the canister. “Why?”

  “As I said before, it seems to me that most of the young ladies I’ve taken an interest in have already set their sights on another man.”

  Sarah pulled the kettle off the hearth with a towel wrapped around the handle and set it on the counter. “You must take her attention away from the other man.”

  “That’s easier said than done.” Christian picked up the kettle and poured the water over the leaves.

  “Of course it is. But I’d say a lady who isn’t interested enough in you to be distracted by you when another man is around, probably isn’t your best mat
ch.”

  He contemplated that for a moment. “Hmm. You may be right, Lady Sarah.”

  “Of course I’m right. I’ve been taught about all of these details since I was a child.” She sighed. “I wish I hadn’t been, but it’s mostly all I know.”

  He pushed her teacup toward her. “So only two dances, eh?”

  She picked it up. “If you do ask her three times, expect her to say no.”

  “If I asked you to dance three times, would you say no?”

  “Of course.” She winked at him over the rim of her cup.

  “My dancing is adequate?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My repartee witty?”

  “Absolutely.” She took a sip of tea.

  “My clothing will be up to snuff once I make a visit to the shops you’ve kindly pointed out to me.”

  “You cannot go wrong with them.”

  “And my beard, sadly, will be gone by the time I return to London.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sad about it,” Sarah mumbled, taking another sip.

  “Should I mention I live with a well-dressed dog?”

  She nearly spit out her tea. Her lips curled into a catlike smile. “It cannot hurt. Though please don’t tell anyone who made Fergus his wardrobe.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  She set down her teacup and made her way to the sofa, where she picked up the little coat she’d been knitting earlier. “By the by, will you come hold him while I fit him?”

  “A fitting for a dog?” Christian sounded skeptical at best.

  “How else will I be able to tell if I’ve allowed for enough room in the chest?”

  Christian shook his head but stood from his seat, moved over to the sofa, sat next to Sarah, and scooped up the dog from the rug.

  Fergus II seemed nothing but pleased to be receiving such attention. He turned his head and licked Christian’s nose. Sarah smiled. She slipped the opening over the dog’s head and arranged the bit of wool she’d already knitted over the dog’s shoulders, or whatever the doggy equivalent of shoulders was. Her hand brushed against Christian’s, and a jolt went through her body.

  She glanced up into his eyes. He was looking at her.

  She dropped her ball of yarn and the dog jumped off the sofa.

  Christian leaned closer, his mesmerizing eyes never leaving hers. His lips hovered over hers.

  He was going to kiss her. And she wanted him to. Oh, how she wanted him. She leaned forward. Waiting. Waiting.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she murmured against his cheek.

  “Anything.” His breath was a hot brand against her lips.

  “Did you really have a pistol that first night?”

  “Yes.”

  Just before his lips touched hers, the front door burst open and Mr. Fergus came barreling through it in a snowy heap of plaid.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sarah leaped up from the sofa and ran to the man whose overcoat was completely white with snow. Fergus II ran toward his master, too, barking. Mr. Fergus was nearly frozen. Bundled up in a huge coat with mittens and a scarf, his face bright red, lips pale blue, he was shuddering uncontrollably.

  “How in the world did you make it?” Sarah asked, horrified, shutting the front door against the high wind and swirling snow.

  “Bring him over to the fire,” Christian called to Sarah.

  Sarah ushered the shivering man over. Mr. Fergus was obviously alone. “Where’s Mrs. Goatsocks?” Sarah asked in a shaking voice, fearing the worst.

  “She had to stay behind at the doctor’s house,” Mr. Fergus managed through chattering teeth.

  Breathing a sigh of relief that the news was not worse, Sarah sat the man down in front of the fire. Then she ran to the bedchamber to pull the extra quilts off the bed. She came back quickly, dragging them behind her, and bundled him up even more. Meanwhile, Christian pulled bricks out of the fire and placed them near Mr. Fergus’s feet. Sarah concentrated on making the old man comfortable. There would be plenty of time to ask him about Mrs. Goatsocks later.

  Once Mr. Fergus was adequately bundled up, Sarah set the kettle on again to make him tea while Christian continued to place bricks in the fire, pulling them out with tongs to set them by the older man’s feet as soon as they were heated. Twenty minutes later, a normal color was slowly returning to Mr. Fergus’s face and his lips were no longer blue. Fergus II was snuggled on his lap, obviously pleased to have his owner back.

  “Thank ye kindly,” Mr. Fergus said to Sarah as he sipped the tea she’d made him. “And thank ye, Master Christian.”

  Christian nodded. “I’m glad to see you in one piece, Fergus.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Mr. Fergus,” Sarah said. “Please, can you tell me what happened to Mrs. Goatsocks?”

  “That woman is a handful,” Mr. Fergus said, shaking his head and settling back against the sofa. He resettled the dog in his lap, too. “But I don’t wish bad luck on anyone, especially not this time of year. Turns out her ankle was more than twisted. She broke the thing.”

  Sarah gasped. “No!” She put a hand to her throat.

  Christian winced.

  “Yes,” Mr. Fergus continued. “The doctor wrapped it up tight and told her she had ta keep ta bed and not move it so much as a pace until it’s good and healed. A month or more.”

  Sarah sat back on her heels, stunned. The wind had seemingly been knocked from her chest. “She’s not coming back?”

  “She carried on something fierce, I must tell ye, after the good doctor broke the news ta her. Said she planned to crawl back here ta ye on her hands and knees if she had ta.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Sarah put her hand to her mouth. “That sounds like something Mrs. Goatsocks would say.”

  “Took both the doctor and his wife ta convince her ta stay. In the end, I think she only agreed because she tried ta walk on that blasted ankle of hers and she couldn’t. Only succeeded in making it worse.”

  Sarah shook her head sadly. “Poor Mrs. Goatsocks.”

  “She tried ta bribe me, she did. Asked me if I might procure a sled and pull her up here.” Mr. Fergus chuckled. “Never heard such an outlandish request.”

  “Oh, dear,” Sarah said. “What did you say?”

  “I told her there weren’t enough coin in the kingdom and she’d be frozen ta death afore we made it halfway. Finally, I convinced her that I would come back and see ta ye. Bring ye to her if ye wished.”

  “Oh, that is kind of you, Mr. Fergus.” Sarah swallowed and calmly folded her hands. This was a pickle, no question about it. She supposed she’d wait until the weather didn’t pose a threat to Mr. Fergus’s health and then take him up on his offer to accompany him to the doctor’s house. She would just have to stay with Mrs. Goatsocks until her ankle healed. It would be the death of her reputation, no doubt, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave her trusted friend and servant to fend for herself.

  At the moment, however, she simply didn’t want Mr. Fergus to worry about her. The poor man had been through enough on her account. “We’ll figure out something,” she said, patting his hand through the mass of blankets.

  They sat around talking for another half hour or so. Christian had a score of questions about Mr. Fergus’s journey. Sarah tried valiantly to keep the panic from rising in her chest while the caretaker told them the story of how he’d made it back to them through the tremendous amount of snow. Truly a marvelous feat. Sarah gave him another cup of tea, this time laced liberally with whiskey. She splashed a bit in her own cup as well. The old man smiled at her when she returned to the sofa and handed him his drink.

  “Thank you for braving the snow to come to my rescue, Mr. Fergus. I greatly appreciate it.”

  Christian glanced up at her, an inscrutable look on his face. Was she surprising him again with her warm thanks for a servant? She tried not to think about how close she’d come to allowing him to kiss her. To kissing him back!

 
; “I knew ye would be worried sick, me lady,” Mr. Fergus said, closing his eyes for a moment. “I couldn’t leave ye alone up here no longer. I didna know if Master Christian had made it before the storm. Besides, Mrs. Goatsocks was near beside herself thinking of ye alone up here. She insisted I leave her and come back for ye immediately.”

  “That was kind of you, but you needn’t have risked your life for my sake. Besides, I had Fergus Two here, didn’t I?”

  Mr. Fergus sighed and pulled his hand from the mass of blankets. He set his empty cup on the table next to the sofa. “Aye, that ye did. Thank ye for taking such good care of the pup. I see he’s got a new coat. Can’t say as how I ever figured he needed one before now, but I suppose he’s happy enough ta have it.”

  Sarah smiled sheepishly. “I was a bit bored while I was alone.”

  Mr. Fergus’s wrinkled face broke into a smile. “I was worried about ye, truly I was. But if I’d known Master Christian had made it here ta be with ye, I might not have been so troubled. He is a kind master and a most respected gentleman.”

  Sarah and Christian glanced at each other over Mr. Fergus’s head. Neither of them shared the story of how she’d pulled a broadsword on him when they’d met. They tacitly agreed. That was a story for another time.

  Soon Fergus was snoring and Christian pulled the old man’s legs onto the sofa and placed a pillow gently under his head. Sarah moved away to make room. It was kind of Christian to treat his servant so well. She’d never seen Lord Branford so much as acknowledge his own.

  Christian put his fingers to his lips to indicate to Sarah to be quiet, then he nodded in the direction of the bedchambers. She followed him down the corridor. Fergus II, clearly playing favorites, remained curled up on the sofa with his master, his snores interspersed with the man’s.

  Sarah and Christian stopped in between the doors to their respective bedchambers. They spoke in whispers.

  “I’m such a bother to have brought poor Mrs. Goatsocks this far, up into the snow where she fell and broke her ankle. Poor woman. All because of me and my idiotic decisions. I feel absolutely terrible.”