“But I didn’t—You knew I was married—Gavin’s your best friend!”
“A man has no best friend when it comes tae women.”
Sara gave herself a mental shake. “You’ve got to stop talking nonsense and let me finish the bandage.”
“I am no’ talking nonsense,” Ian assured her. “I was never more serious in my life. I love ye, Sara, and I want ye tae come away with me.”
Sara could only stare at him. She realized that he really was telling the truth, and he meant every preposterous word he uttered!
“We can leave now and be in France in two days.”
Sara’s hands stopped in midair. This couldn’t be happening to her. No one, especially Ian, could seriously ask her to leave Gavin. Surely Ian realized how completely she loved her husband and that she would never leave him. She was so bemused, she didn’t stop him when he pulled her face down to his and kissed her hard. She just stood here, too shocked to move. She thought she heard someone in the hall, and the fear that Colleen should catch Ian kissing her brought her out of her trance.
But she didn’t have to pull away. Ian already had. Sara’s failure to respond to his kiss, her wooden acceptance of his lips, told him more clearly than words that his efforts were unavailing.
“Ye do no’ love me.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No. I love my husband.”
“Did you ever?”
“I’ve always loved Gavin.”
Sara couldn’t read Ian’s expression. It seemed to be a mixture of a fatalistic smile and a grimace, but bis eyes were empty. “What has he ever done tae deserve tae have someone like ye tossed into his lap?”
“People aren’t loved according to whether they deserve it or not,” Sara said. “It just happens. It’s not something you can plan.”
“But marriages are.”
“I was more fortunate than most. I loved my husband.”
Ian looked angry, but he wasn’t one to waste time lamenting over a lost gamble, and it wasn’t long before a look of resignation settled over his face. He reached into his coat, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Sara. “Here. I’ll have no need o’ this. Perhaps ye can find some use for it.”
“What is it?”
“A letter signed by Gavin’s father. I took it from the Prince’s files, in case I might need it tae convince Gavin tae return the rifles, or tae let ye go.”
“The Earl wrote the Prince?”
“I imagine it was in the nature of a hedge, in case the Prince won. This is the only copy.”
“I don’t want it,” Sara protested.
“Keep it. You may find it useful some day. Having the Earl for a father-in-law is much worse than having Gavin for a husband.”
“I don’t think you’re much of a friend, Ian Fraser, if that’s the way you talk about Gavin.”
“Where ye be concerned, I’m not.”
Sara finished the bandage. “You’ve recovered most of your strength. I think you’d better go tomorrow.”
“Aye, I’d better.”
Gavin made himself slow his stallion. He had been riding at a breakneck pace for hours, and if he didn’t take it easy, he might ruin the best horse in Scotland, if he hadn’t already. He looked at the welts on the stallion’s flanks and the trickle of blood from his mouth, and he felt ashamed of himself. He had no reason to rush home, not if he had any faith in his wife. Sara had never done anything to betray his trust or cause him to doubt the love she professed to feel for him. He believed her. He trusted her.
Then why in hell are you trying to kill your horse to get home two days early, he asked himself furiously, but he knew the answer to that question. Everybody in Aberdeen knew the answer. He had met his father at Cumberland’s camp, and the Earl had wasted no time in telling him that Ian was at Estameer with Sara, in fact had been there for several days. He had taunted him with the rumor that she was going to run off to France with him.
Gavin had laughed at the accusation and steadfastly defended Sara’s innocence, but he had been hard-pressed to keep up his show of confidence when the Earl cruelly produced one of Gavin’s own men to bear witness to Ian’s arrival. He still held out against his doubts, but then his father had sprung his next surprise.
“Did she tell you about the contract she made with mer?”
“What trick are you trying to pull now?” Gavin asked, struggling hard to maintain his appearance of cold unconcern.
“The contract which will give her control of her fortune, if she can become pregnant with your child.” Gavin’s features were immobile, but he knew the shock must show plainly in his eyes. “She put her terms to me right after you left for Scotland, just before I left London.”
A cold chill ran through Gavin’s spine. He remembered the warmth of Sara’s welcome every time he entered her bed, her inexhaustible ardor, the encouragement to sleep with her every night, and he doubted. He had often marveled that he should be fortunate enough to have a wife who enjoyed his embraces—he knew none of his friends were so fortunate—and it was impossible for doubt not to enter his mind. Was it reasonable for a woman who reacted as she had on their wedding night to be as different as she was in Edinburgh and all the nights since? Had she conquered her fear of the marriage bed because of her love for him, or because of the money?
Somehow he had managed to get out of his father’s presence without losing his appearance of confidence, but he felt like a volcano about to erupt. He spent the rest of the evening demolishing the better part of a bottle of brandy, but it wasn’t enough to make him drunk, and he couldn’t sleep when he went to bed. All he could think about was Sara and Ian, together. That he couldn’t doubt because his own man had seen them. There might be any number of explanations for such a thing, but neither his father nor the man had offered any; in fact, their reticence had pointed to the one explanation Gavin did not want to believe. Of all the women in the world, he could not believe that Sara could be guilty of such deception. She had spent months trying to convince him of the sincerity of her affection. But his father’s parting words were a canker that was steadily eating away at his as yet unseasoned faith in his wife.
“I signed her paper,” the Earl had admitted, “but I added the qualifier that she should be living with you in apparent harmony at the time.”
Gavin fought against his father’s interpretation—the Earl didn’t know Sara, didn’t know the openness of her gaze, the smoothness of her brow, the honesty that was a basic part of her. He was so corrupt and twisted, he couldn’t believe that others could want to live in total honesty … but that would explain everything, the party, the welcome to her bed, her unceasing efforts to convince him of her love.
Gavin spent nearly the entire night going over everything he could remember of what Sara had said and done, hoping each further bit of evidence of her sincerity would bolster his sagging confidence, but instead of making him feel better, he actually felt worse by morning. He told himself he had sufficient proof that Sara loved him and had been faithful. Sure, she had been scared that first night, but she had known what to expect after that.
She couldn’t have welcomed him to her bed because of the money. But no sooner had he said that, then he remembered that Sara herself had told him in Edinburgh that she wanted control of her fortune. True, she hadn’t mentioned it since, and he thought she had forgotten it, but couldn’t it be because she knew she was going to get control of her money another way? They had been sleeping together regularly for two months. She could be with child at this very moment.
He tried to tell himself that she wouldn’t have followed him to Scotland if she hadn’t loved him, but he realized immediately that she couldn’t bear his child unless she did follow him. Too, she had spent weeks with Ian and the army, she had made no effort to hide her pleasure in his company either then or later, and she had refused to do more than mildly condemn Ian after she had been kidnapped.
Gavin tried to make his mind go blank, to stop his reason from d
issecting Sara’s actions and motives, but he couldn’t. He felt in his heart that he was right, Sara was the best thing that had happened to him, she was honest and pure and meant every word she said, but the insidious skepticism which had plagued him most of his life would not leave him alone. He had always feared he would never find anyone to love, but even worse was the fear that the woman he loved would betray him, just as his father had betrayed his mother. He tried to tell himself Sara was different, that his father was only trying to make trouble, that the Earl’s interpretation of the facts was wrong, but he couldn’t make himself believe it. No, that wasn’t it. He could believe it, but he couldn’t make himself stop doubting, wondering if he might not be the one who was mistaken. After all the Earl wanted him to be married, wanted him to father an heir. What reason would he have for painting Sara’s character black?
He had left Aberdeen at dawn.
But no sooner did he reach Estameer, than he began to feel foolish. The afternoon sun had settled over the great house, lending it the quality of liquid amber, and giving the whole a feeling of quiet and easy security. No one stirred, even the livestock on the hills seemed to be suspended in time, and Gavin could have believed that Estameer was in a world completely separate from that occupied by the Earl and Cumberland. He met no one in the great hall—it was the quiet time before preparations were begun for dinner—and he found no one in the sitting room. Maybe Sara had gone out for a walk. Maybe she wasn’t even home.
She was not in her bedroom, and it was clear no one had been in there for some time. At almost the same moment that Gavin unconsciously heaved a sigh of relief, he heard voices coming from down the corridor, and stiffened when he realized one of them was masculine and it was now being answered by a feminine voice he knew equally well. Sara and Ian were in that room.
He moved as a sleepwalker in the direction of the sound. He didn’t want to; he wanted to run from the castle and into eternal oblivion, but he couldn’t stop himself. Every nerve was on end, and he knew he should turn around before everything inside him’ exploded. He could hear the words now. “Catholic church doesn’t recognize Protestant marriages.” “I love you, Sara.” “… be in France in two days.” Each word cut into his soul like a sharp knife. Why didn’t Sara answer? Why didn’t she tell Ian she loved Gavin?
Then Gavin was standing in the doorway, and he knew why. He didn’t understand why Ian was so heavily bandaged, but he could understand that Sara was kissing him. Quickly he moved away from the door. He knew if he remained there a single instant longer, he would kill both of them.
Gavin wasn’t sure how he found his way back to his own room. Even more, he didn’t understand why he could not feel the pain that made his heart feel like a cold stone in his chest. Common sense told him he should feel something. Every hope that had taken root these past months had been wrenched up by the roots, roots that reached to the very core of his being. Why didn’t he feel anything? Why did he feel like a disembodied spirit?
Then the pain struck, and Gavin wished he could have remained disembodied. He didn’t know how it was possible for a soul, a spirit, something you couldn’t see or touch, to hurt more than any physical part of him. He remembered that as a boy, he had suffered a long, deep gash in his leg, and it had to be sewn up. He had thought that nothing else in life could cause such pain, but now he would have willingly endured that pain twice over. The hurt he felt now could not be reached, could not be stitched up, would never heal. This wound would bleed for the rest of his life.
Gavin stumbled over to the table and poured out a glass of brandy. He swallowed three more before he sank into the chair. He didn’t know how long he sat there, or when he knew he had to face them, to get them out of his house and his life, but he suddenly heaved himself out of the chair and lurched through the door and down the hall. Someone once said Physician, heal thyself. Well, he couldn’t heal himself, but he could and would cut out the canker that festered in his soul. It might kill him, but he would be rid of it.
Everything seemed unreal when he entered the room. It was as though he were watching actors on a stage, but from so faraway, he could barely hear their words. Sara jumped up from where she sat next to Ian and hurried towards him. Her lips curved into a smile and moved with honied words of welcome. She was deceiving him again, the lying bitch; he would not listen. He refused her embrace and smiled at her confusion when he held her away from him. He saw Ian, too, lounging on the bed, only half-dressed, and rage flowed through him like molten iron.
He heard himself tell Sara to get out, take anything she wanted, but to go with Ian at once. He saw the look of stunned disbelief and heard her exclamations, but his heart was hardened against her pleas. He was not such a fool as to think she needed to be told why he wanted her to leave, but he told her anyway, told her that he knew she loved Ian, that she didn’t have to pretend anymore. She could have her money, he would see that she got every cent of it, she could have all the freedom she wanted, she could belong to Ian and the Frasers if she wanted, but he never wanted to see her again.
It felt good to see her eyes fill with tears, to hear her cries of protest, to sense the pain in her heart, to see her face crumple with grief when she knew her game was over. He was glad she hurt. He wanted her to suffer. If she endured just a tithe of the agony he would suffer for the rest of his life, then he would be happy. She had made a fool of him. She had caused him to open his heart and to believe in love once again. She deserved the pain.
He called her a name, he didn’t remember what, and saw Ian start up from the bed and demand an apology. He knew he laughed, because he heard the sound. He certainly didn’t feel like laughing. Ian was furious at his slight to Sara’s reputation. Now that was funny! He said so, and Ian responded oddly. He snatched up a sword and prepared to attack Gavin.
That was hard to believe, too, because even as boys, Ian had never been a match for Gavin in any physical contest. Gavin told him so, and Ian called him a name. Before he could tell Ian his language wasn’t suitable even for such ears as Sara’s, he discovered he had his sword out and was attacking Ian. Odd that Ian didn’t take the bandages off. He must have known they would hinder him. But then he didn’t need to remove them. Sara threw herself between them, defying Gavin to touch Ian, calling him a base coward to attack a man in Ian’s condition.
He would laugh if it weren’t so absurd. Didn’t she see she had just proved herself a liar, by protecting Ian instead of the husband she swore she loved? Did she think he was a fool to believe anything she said to him now? He would never believe anything she said again. He would never believe any woman.
Suddenly he was tired. He didn’t want to hurt her anymore. He didn’t want to hurt anybody anymore. He just wanted her to go away, to leave him in peace. He would do anything if he could just be left in peace, to never feel any emotion ever again. He told them he was going out—he didn’t know where, nor did he care—but if they were not gone when he returned … well, he hoped they would be.
Suddenly a kind of madness seized him, and he rushed to Sara’s room and began emptying every drawer he could find and throwing its contents into the corridor. He didn’t know how long he rushed about like a lunatic, or how many times he thrust someone out of his way. He only knew he could not rest until he had emptied that room of everything she owned.
He thought he would feel purged, somehow relieved of the pain that continued to pierce his soul like an arrow, but he felt only a great emptiness, a loneliness more profound than anything he had ever experienced. With a moan of unutterable anguish, he rushed from the castle.
Chapter 24
“So ye have come back.” Donald Fraser’s angry voice cut through the quiet of the early evening.
“Aye,” his son answered unhappily.
“Ye have disgraced us. I told ye that ye couldna return.”
“I am no’ asking for myself but for Lady Carlisle.”
“Lady Carlisle!” Fraser repeated, sufficiently startled to forget
his anger at his son and notice the figure of dejection standing in his wake. “What is she doing here? Has something happened at Estameer?”
“Gavin has thrown her out, and she needs somewhere to stay.”
Donald Fraser’s florid countenance flamed dangerously. “Tell me true, Ian Fraser, for I’ll have no lie from ye. Are ye the cause o’ this fresh calamity?”
Ian was too weak from the long ride to argue for his innocence. “Aye. If I had stayed at Blair Castle, this wouldna have happened.”
“Then Lady Carlisle can stay, but ye shall no’ darken this door until ye have repaired the damage ye have done with yer selfishness. Ye have brought shame on all the Frasers, that ye have, Ian. Tis a judgement on me for the way I brought ye up, aye, and my brother, too, for Colleen. I do no’ seek to avoid my share of the blame, but I willna shelter ye until ye dispel this cloud o’ yer making.”
Sara was aware that her horse had stopped, and she made a halfhearted attempt to gather her senses. She knew they had come to the Fraser home—she could hear Ian and his father arguing, and something told her she should pay attention to what was happening—but she didn’t care about that, or much of anything else. In fact, she didn’t much care about anything at all.
Gavin’s attack had been such a complete shock, it had taken her several hours to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it. At first she thought he must have gone completely mad; now she was certain she had. She didn’t understand it, and she had no idea why he had told her to leave, but when he threw virtually everything she owned into the corridor, she knew she had to get away, to go somewhere until she could figure out what had gone wrong.
And something was definitely wrong. Gavin loved her, of that she was certain. They had behind them two months of almost perfect harmony, when he left for Aberdeen. Something had happened during that trip, something much more terrible than finding Ian at Estameer. She knew now that the noise she heard must have been his footsteps, that he must have seen Ian kiss her, must have seen that she didn’t push him away. She would have expected him to fall into a furious rage, to strike her, threaten to kill Ian—well, he almost had done that—anything except stand there like a tailor’s dummy telling her to leave.
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