Malia Martin (25 page)

“It was a mistake because you did not love your husband.”

Sara laughed as she took the heavy saddle from the perch where the stablehand had stored it and went to Ophelia. “I adored my husband at first, Trevor.” She hefted the saddle, but Trevor hurried to her side and took it from her,
balancing it easily on Ophelia’s back.

“Thank you.” She began to buckle it around the mare’s belly.

“Sara . . .”

“No, Trevor.” She faced him. “It would be selfish of me to marry you and love you. It would be selfish for us both to do such a thing. You have been a duke for only a short time, but you must already realize that your life is not your own anymore. You know, Trevor, because you agreed to marry Helen when you did not want to. Your life is now filled with duties that you must live up to.

“I, as duchess, failed to live up to my duties. I failed the people of Rawlston as a result. I will not give into my wants so that I might fail them again.” Sara shoved her foot into the stirrup and swung herself into Opheila’s saddle. “I will never be duchess again, Trevor. That is a job that only a young woman should take on. A young woman of grace and breeding who can bring an heir to Rawlston Hall, who can keep the title in the same family for a few good centuries.”

Trevor had not done anything to stop her as she saddled and mounted Ophelia, so she knew that he understood. His heart would be tearing apart just as hers was. But he knew she spoke the truth.

He looked up at her, then took a step forward and put his large warm hand against her thigh. It made her shiver, and she closed her eyes for
a moment just to take it in and remember forever how it felt for Trevor to touch her.

“In my heart,” he said, “you shall be . . .”

“No!” Sara opened her eyes quickly. “No, Trevor, do not do this to Helen. I know how it is to live with a man who never loved me and never tried. Let me go. We should not have had even this night together, but I was weak. Take our love, wrap it up, and hide it away. Soon it shall grow old and small and inconsequential to the love you must show your wife. Don’t hurt her. Don’t make her life as terribly hollow as mine was.”

“But she does not love me either, Sara.”

“She is lovely and young and sweet. If you put effort into it, you can love each other.” Sara wanted to scream. She wanted to throw herself into Trevor’s arms and beg him never to love another. She turned her face away.

His hand dropped away from her thigh, and Sara swallowed hard against the tears that burned her throat. “You have not failed, Sara. You are a strong woman. I do not think it is in your nature to fail.”

Sara huffed out a small chuckle. “Ah, yes, you should have known me when I was young, Trevor.”

“I wish I could have.”

“I was quite perfect. My father saw to that. He was the vicar, you know, and had it in his head that I should be the shining example of purity and loveliness to the people of Rawlston.” Sara felt sick as she remembered. “And I did try. Oh, I tried. Not because I wanted the people to think me perfect, but so that my father would say, just once, that I did well. That hope died a rather permanent death when my father went to the grave after my one and only son died.”

“Sara.” Trevor took Ophelia’s reins gently. Sara glanced down at him, coming out of her short reverie.

“I know exactly what you are feeling, for I, too, tried desperately to please a father who could never be happy with who I was. But my mother gave me the best advice ever. She told me to leave him. She told me to strike his rantings from my heart and mind. I know it is hard. God, I have not been able to do it completely myself. But you cannot think to gain praise from a man like your father obviously was, especially now that he is dead!”

Sara curled her fingers around his.

“Oh no, do not worry of my sanity again, Trevor.” Sara laughed once more, and this time the sound was not completely unamused. “I no longer do anything for the sake of my father. My actions are much purer now. I have learned with age, you see.”

“Oh yes, you are quite the withered old hag, Sara,” Trevor said sarcastically.

“I will be soon.” Sara smiled. “Now, go to London. Take care of your business there and come back to Rawlston. The people need you,
Trevor. They need a wedding before the end of next month.”

“Let me escort you halfway, Sara. Until it becomes day, at least.”

Sara gestured toward the window. “The sun has come already, Trevor. I will be fine.”

They stared at each other for a moment. “I will do as you say,” he said quietly. “I will wrap up your love for me and put it away. But it shall never be inconsequential. Nothing from you could be, dearest Sara.”

She only nodded. “May God go with you,” she said. And dug her heels into Ophelia’s flanks. She did not look back, only forward as she left the small cobbled yard of the inn. He watched her, though, she could feel it. And so she did not allow the tears until she had turned a corner in the road.

He had made it. Trevor crept up the gangplank of
The Spanish Lady
, gaining the deck silently. It was three o’clock in the morning, and the ship was to sail with the dawn. He had made it . . . barely.

Stuart had been bold enough to go back to his townhouse and pack most of his things, but the man slept this night in his cabin aboard
The Spanish Lady
.

Unlike Stuart, Mr. Sam Tuttle had earned his money well. Trevor even knew which cabin Stuart occupied, where it was located aboard ship, and when the watch changed shifts.

Trevor took the stairs quickly, keeping to the wall as he hurried to Stuart’s room. All was quiet except for the creak of wood and the gentle lap of water. He found Stuart’s door in the gloom and inserted the key Sam had procured for him. It slid home and turned easily. Mr. Tuttle had just earned a bonus.

Trevor pushed the door open quietly and turned quickly into the pitch-black cabin. Shutting the door behind him, he stopped and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As they did, Trevor made out the shapes of a small desk, an armoire, and finally the bed. He could see the outline of a body tinder the covers and crept forward. He peered down at the sleeping form and made sure it was Stuart. The man’s thin white nose quivered even in sleep, and up close, Trevor could make out the man’s light, shallow breathing.

Trevor unsheathed the knife at his belt quietly, then, holding his breath, he pressed the fine honed edge against Stuart’s neck.

The man made a small sound, batted at the knife, and then yipped in pain. He blinked at Trevor with those beady eyes Trevor had never liked. He really must trust his gut feeling more often. Because truly, he had never liked Stuart, even in school, where the man had been lauded as a genius, and for a price, had helped Trevor by writing papers for him.

“Stu,” Trevor said now, pushing the knife against the man’s neck so that he would be sure
to know what it was. “Going somewhere?”

“Phillips.”

“You may call me Rawlston, man.” Trevor leaned forward, the knife digging deeper with the movement. “In fact, ‘your grace’ is preferable.”

Stuart coughed, his eyes white and bulging in the darkness.

“Now,” Trevor said quietly. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”

Stuart tried to shake his head, but Trevor turned the sharpened edge of the knife into his neck. Tiny dark spots sprouted, and Stuart made a choking sound.

“Shall we speak truthfully, Stuart? I know that isn’t something that comes easily, but I do prefer it over lies and treachery. Now,” he released a bit of the pressure against the man’s neck. “I am a very nice and likable guy, if I do so say myself. I am most willing to let you continue on your way to the West Indies. But I really must insist that you leave my money behind.”

“It’s gone,” Stuart croaked.

“No, it is not.” Trevor, shook his head as if he were exasperated with a child. “Come, come, Stu, I really must demand that you quit lying to me.” Trevor leaned forward quickly and shoved his hand beneath Stuart’s pillow. He felt only the smooth coolness of the bed clothes. Trevor pulled back, never releasing the pressure from the knife at Stuart’s neck. “I am
not quite as stupid as you would think, Stu. I know that for the last ten months your life has changed little. You are a very strong-willed and smart man. You have been saving the money I sent each month for Rawlston, and now you have quite a large stash, I must say. I was terribly generous.”

Stuart moved as if to sit up, but Trevor pushed him back down. “No, sir, I think you should stay right as you are. Now, where is my money?”

Stuart’s eyes darted toward a small chest that sat on the desk, but he returned his gaze to Trevor’s quickly. It was much too staged, and Trevor was rather sure the man would not leave money sitting about his cabin in a chest on the desk. No, Stuart was a greedy man, but smart. The money would be close by.

Trevor stood, turning the knife so the point shoved against Stuart’s Adam’s apple. Leaning forward, Trevor shoved his hand beneath the thin mattress and the wooden bedstead. His fingers closed around a bulky cloth bag.

Stuart rolled forward, but stopped quickly with a shriek when Trevor inflicted a small wound with the point of the knife. He yanked the bag from beneath the mattress and hefted it. “Now, this is more like it.”

Trevor moved away, sheathing his knife and pulling his pistol from his coat pocket. He pointed the thing at Stuart while he opened the bag. “It looks like it’s all here. What a frugal
man you are, Stuart, saving it all like this/
⁷

Trevor slung the bag over his shoulder, keeping the gun pointed at his solicitor as he backed out the door. “Perhaps that means you have other sources of funds stored about? Even if you do not, I am rather sure you will do well in the West Indies. You are a very enterprising and intelligent young man.” Trevor smiled. “Have a good journey.” He slammed the door and turned on his heel, then sprinted down the hallway.

“Stop, thief!” he heard from behind him.

Trevor broke into a full run. The man had balls, Trevor had to give him that. To accuse him of stealing. Trevor vaulted over a railing, landing on the deck below and staggering forward as pain lanced through his knee and down his leg.

“Stop right there, man.” A large, cold object shoved against Trevor’s back. Trevor stopped abruptly, his hands automatically going out away from his body and toward the sky.

Men came running, headed by Stuart in a long white nightshirt. “He stole my money,” the man shouted.

The long barrel of the gun prodded Trevor’s back as a large hand took the bag from where he had tucked it under his belt. “The constable will be interested in this.”

Stuart panted as he reached them, taking the bag from the watchman. “Shoot the bastard and shove him overboard,” Stuart commanded.

“We sail within hours, we have no time for a constable.”

Trevor stiffened, the situation going from faintly comical to deadly serious in one beat of his heart. “I am the Duke of Rawlston,” he said in his most haughty tone. “This man stole from me.”

“Ha!” Stuart took Trevor’s knife from his belt, then grabbed the pistol from his coat pocket. “You are a duke now? Running about in the dead of night, stealing money from this ship’s passengers?” Stuart spat on the deck. “Duke, indeed. Shoot him.”

The man behind him shoved Trevor forward toward the rail of the ship. “Don’t!” Trevor dug in his heels. “I speak the truth. I am the Duke of Rawlston, and this man was my solicitor. He stole from me. I am just retrieving what is mine.”

“Right, guv,” the rough voice said from behind him. “I’s never seen a duke afore, but I’m mighty sure you’re not one. No gentry I’ve ever known did his own dirty work.”

Trevor rolled his eyes and turned to try and explain again. But the loud blast of the gun cut him short. Trevor staggered, blind from the bright explosion so near his face. It took a moment to feel the pain. By the time he realized truly that he had been shot, Trevor was splashing into the icy water of the Thames. The dark, murky water closed in over his head, his body shocked into spasms as he sank.

S
ara clipped a lush pink bloom from one of her rosebushes and placed it carefully in the basket over her arm. Her garden was thriving very nicely, and she was pleased. She loved to see a new bud that promised yet another beautiful flower. She enjoyed watching them unfurl slowly, bursting forth with deep yellows and pinks, reds and whites. It was a feeling of accomplishment to see them so lovely in a garden, that had long been forgotten.

It was a bright point in a world that had become terribly dark. Sara sighed, dropping her shears in the basket and picking up her skirts. It had been a month, and Trevor had not come back. There had been no word from him at all. The people had grown melancholy, and Sara was anxious. Helen had retreated into her own world, and Rachel had turned into a shrewish tyrant. The mood about Rawlston was most definitely black.

Sara sighed as she entered the house through the kitchen. They had only three weeks until the end of Trevor’s first year as duke. She would give him another two days. And then she was going after him, again.

“Your grace.”

Sara looked up as she laid her basket of blooms on the large wooden table in front of the hearth.

“Yes, Lily?” Sara said to the girl in the doorway.

“Rachel Biddle is here.” Distress made Lily’s smooth complexion wrinkle about her eyes and forehead. “I . . . shall I tell her that you are unavailable?”

Sara shook her head. “No, no, I shall see her.” She grimaced. “Although the very thought turns my stomach.” Sara pushed her hand against her middle.

“I will bring up tea,” Lily offered with a smile of encouragement.

“Hmm, I’d rather it be something much stronger, but tea will have to do.” Sara straightened her bodice and pushed her shoulders back. The anxiety of the last month had taken her appetite, and her gown hung on her shoulders. Sara started up the stairs, her stomach rolling with each step.

Rachel stood in the small parlor, her hands on her hips. The woman was ready to fight, Sara could see.