To Kiss a Thief (10 page)

“Mrs. Norris,” he cried, extending a hand to the vicar's wife. “On the mend, I hope?”

Abby positively simpered. “Why, yes, thank you, Lieutenant Fairfax.”

“Sorry I'm late, ma'am,” St. John said, turning his charm on her. “Beals asked for a hand.”

“Of course.” Sarah nodded, casting Mr. Beals what she hoped would pass for a smile. “Once you've unloaded the wood, you can help the Rostrum brothers and young Colin build the stalls. You do know how to hammer a nail, don't you?” she asked sweetly.

His smile shifted slightly, but it did not leave his face. “I think, Sarah,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear, “what I've learned in the last three years would amaze you.”

Thankfully, one of the little boys chose just that moment to tug at her skirts. “Coming,” she called, and within moments, she was surrounded by a flurry of activity, showing the children how to sweep the sand so that it didn't fly up in their faces and sending furtive glances toward the knot of men as they set about their task.

St. John did not wait for instruction but jumped into the fray and offered what the other men seemed to find valued suggestions; by the time the sun was high in the sky, the first stall was standing and St. John had emerged as the carpenters' leader.

At midday the crowd had almost doubled, as the women of the village finished their household chores and brought their children down to the quay to join in the work. Fanny Kittery stood off to one side under the meager shade of a dainty parasol, frowning down at a girl not much older than Clarissa who had just swept a pile of dried donkey dung past her feet.

Feeling her lips twitch in a smile, Sarah turned her head to avoid being seen, only to discover Emily Dawlish standing by her side, watching the men work.

“I just come down to say that your dress'll be done by Wednesday teatime,” Emily declared, her eyes never leaving the men.

“Why, Emily, you must be working your fingers to the bone! Really, it wasn't necessary.”

But Emily foreclosed her protest with a shake of her head. “'Tain't nothin', Mrs. F. And no charge, neither,” she added, giving Sarah a nudge with her elbow.

“How—?”

Emily fixed her glittering eyes on Sarah's face. “Your man come by, wantin' a couple o' things done up quick. Said he forgot to pack a change o' linen.”

Forgot?
More likely he had not planned to stay long enough to require such a thing.

“I told him I'd hafta get the cloth at Gaffard's,” Emily continued. “He didn't make no mind about that, so I just added the muslin for the dress onto his bill. I figure, what do men know about the cost o' such things?”

Heaven only knew Sarah didn't have a penny to spare for frivolities. She felt torn between an obligatory protest at such deceit and a peculiar gladness for the girl's cleverness. Before she could determine which to express first, Emily turned her gaze back to the working men and sighed.

“Lord, mum. Word's abroad you're givin' him the cold shoulder, but I don't rightly see how you can!”

There was no denying that St. John cut a fine figure. And Sarah could not suppress a little twinge of pride at the thought that it was highly unlikely any other lady of his acquaintance—Eliza Harrington included—had seen him looking so. Gone were the accoutrements of a gentleman, the lace-edged sleeves and tight-fitting coat. In their place was a sweat-dampened shirt of fine cambric that clung to the muscles of his back like a second skin. Sarah had never known physical labor to make a man so appealing. But then, Sarah knew of no laborers who had St. John's good looks to start.

Watching him work, she could almost forget that he intended to see her pay dearly for crimes she had not committed.

The arrival of Mrs. Potts bearing two large baskets of food rescued her thoughts from taking such a maudlin turn. Clarissa darted to and fro like a hummingbird. Workers young and old fell on the repast, and before long, Mr. Mackey showed up, rolling a small keg of ale before him.

“Thought ye might've worked up a thirst,” he said in his gruffest voice.

Sarah very nearly hugged him.

While the small crowd ate and drank and talked, Sarah looked at all they had accomplished in a few short hours. The stones of the quay and the landing had been swept clean, and what had this morning been a pile of discarded lumber was now a series of neat stalls. Mrs. Gaffard had brought a bolt of striped fabric and was draping it festively across first one and then another before stepping back to inspect the effect. Farther along the quay, the Mackey girl had gathered the youngest children, Clarissa included, and was amusing them with stories and games to keep them from getting underfoot.

Surrounded by her successes, Sarah did not realize she was no longer alone until a shadow fell across her shoulder.

“Admiring your empire?” St. John's voice came from behind her.

“I'm pleased, yes,” she acknowledged, moving slightly, but not enough to face him. “It's a good morning's work. Now, if the weather holds and people come, I will consider it a success.”

“The Fishermen's Relief seems a worthy cause, and I wish it well.” He paused. “I cannot help but wonder, though, how this burden came to rest on your shoulders.”

She raised one quizzical brow. “
Burden
, my lord? I would not describe it so.”

“But the family at Haverty Court—?”

“Landlords sometimes fail to do their duty by the villages in their trust,” she answered, cutting him a sideways glance. The marquess had spoken fondly of Lynscombe, the Sutliffe family seat, but Sarah had never seen it. St. John could not bear being immured in Hampshire, Lady Estley had confided to her.

“Sometimes landlords lack the means to make the necessary improvements.”

She knew quite well why St. John had married her, just as she knew she had not imagined the defensiveness in his voice. Chancing a look in his direction, she glimpsed the stubborn set of his jaw. He looked in that moment quite remarkably like his daughter, and she almost smiled at the resemblance.

But she caught herself.

“Spending money is not the only way to fulfill one's responsibilities, my lord. Sometimes a bit of genuine concern for the people involved will reveal other ways to help.” She cast her eyes over the little community gathered around her. “In any case, there is no family at Haverty Court now. I met the old earl once, but his health is poor. He spends all his time in London, where he can be near his physicians. I wrote to him last year with the idea for this festival. Six months later, his secretary sent word that I could proceed with his blessing.”

“He ought to be grateful,” St. John replied, his eyes still on the children at play along the quay. “And his son does not—?”

“One hears rumors of sons who spare little thought for the people and places that will make up their true inheritance, more's the pity.” How did the people of Lynscombe fare in comparison to those of Haverhythe? She doubted she would ever know.

She felt him shift his weight, as if her words had succeeded in making him uncomfortable. “One can hope such sons learn the error of their ways.”

“Indeed, one can,” she agreed. “But Lord Haverty has no son. No children at all, in fact. His nephew will inherit, when the time comes.”

“And what sort of man is he?”

“I could not say.”

They stood in silence for a long moment. The skin along her spine prickled, as the heat radiating from his body penetrated the fabric of her dress. But she would not step away and give him the satisfaction of knowing how his presence affected her.

“Beals tells me there's to be a dance Thursday evening,” he said at last.

Sarah nodded.

“A wonderful idea. And where will it be held?”

“Right here, where we're standing. The musicians will sit over there,” she added, indicating with a wave of her hand the broad steps that led up the quay. “I had thought of using the ballroom at Haverty Court, but alas, that was not to be.”

“Better this way, I think.” She could not keep from looking at him then, suspecting him of laughing at her idea. But his countenance was sincere. “The people of the village would not feel as comfortable there. You will want them to enjoy themselves after all their hard work.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

“I do believe, though, that it should be tried first.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She felt his fingers slide slowly down her arm and grasp her hand as he came around in front of her and made a bow. “Your dance floor. It ought to be tested.”

And before she could protest—before she could offer any reply at all—he had swept her into a rollicking country dance, whirling her across the cobblestones and in and out among her neighbors, who soon began clapping a fierce rhythm to accompany them.

Despite the rough surface and his heavy boots, St. John moved with confident grace and effortlessly drew her along with him. The ribbons of her bonnet streamed past her chin like dark, delirious butterflies, and her fingertips tingled where they rested in his strong, work-roughened hands—skin against skin, most unlike a proper ballroom. Every cliché she had ever heard about dancing seemed suddenly to have become a profound truth. She did feel lighter than air.

“I've just realized this site has another advantage.”

“What's that?” she asked, already slightly breathless.

“I heard you play so beautifully yesterday.” Sarah accepted the compliment with a slight nod, wondering where this was leading. “But this lovely spot requires more portable instruments, so you cannot be expected to provide the evening's accompaniment.” He stepped back with a smile and she mirrored his movement. “You will dance instead. With me,” he insisted, drawing her close once again.

Shaking her head, she ducked under his arm. “I cannot dance only with you.”

“You expect the rules of the ballroom to be observed under the open sky?”

They were back to back now, so she could not see his eyes. She felt safe in a teasing reply. “I intend to be properly sociable. If you look closely, you'll find that my dance card is already half-full.”

“We'll just see about that,” he said as he spun her around and went down the dance again.

In truth, she had expected not to dance at all. She had expected to haunt the fringes with the widows and matrons, watching others enjoy themselves.

In this one small way, perhaps, St. John's arrival was a reprieve.

All around them, others took up the unheard melody. Mr. Gaffard bowed to Mrs. Potts, while Mr. Beals took Emily Dawlish's hand and led her in a breathless romp across the landing. The older children joined in with untaught glee, inventing steps to suit themselves. Scandalized, Mrs. Kittery allowed her parasol to droop to one side, her lips creased with disapproval.

Sarah tipped back her head and laughed.

St. John's eyes seemed to glow with what she could only describe as approval. “Can it be that we've never danced before, Sarah?”

Instantly, she was taken back to the night of their nuptial ball. The musicians on the dais tuning their instruments, about to begin. Lady Estley in a flurry because St. John, who was to open the dance with his new bride, was nowhere to be seen. Her own eager—and, as it turned out, foolish—offer to look for him.

She had found him, of course. With Eliza.

Sarah stumbled, and although St. John could have carried her through the gaffe with ease, she could not seem to make herself move. Their abrupt stop brought the impromptu dance to a ragged close. Nervous barks of laughter came from the men, and the women lifted self-conscious hands to smooth their hair. It was as if a cloud had suddenly covered the sun.

“Sarah?” St. John coaxed, tucking a finger under her chin to raise it.

But she would not face him. How could she have let down her guard, even for a moment?

Then the screech of what sounded like seabirds filled the air, and Sarah chanced a peek at the head of the quay. All the little children were standing or kneeling at the edge facing the village. She had taken one step forward to admonish them when she saw Georgina Mackey pointing down and shrieking. And in that terrible moment, the earth simply stopped spinning and ground to a shuddering halt.

A child's form bobbed in the still water of the harbor. And the wind at last carried Georgina's cries to Sarah's ears.

“Clarissa!
Clarissa!
”

H
eedless of her inability to swim, Sarah charged into the water. St. John's strong hands pulled her back. He had paused only to tug off his boots and now raced past her into the shallows. She watched helplessly as he waded up to his waist and then dove forward, his powerful strokes gaining on Clarissa's distant form, now little more than a bundle of rags being swept out to sea with the retreating tide.

A cry went up from the crowd when he reached her, although Sarah could no longer see either man or child. Her mind had turned inward, fearing the worst. How much water had Clarissa taken in? Had she struck her head on one of the massive pilings that supported the quay deep beneath the water's surface? Could the fall itself have broken her neck? Sarah sank to her knees in the surf and began to pray.

Hampered by the weight of the child and her wet dress, and no doubt fatigued from his frantic race to reach her, St. John swam more slowly now. For long moments, it looked as if he would never be able to persuade the ocean to give up its prize. But after what seemed hours, and was probably only minutes, his body broke through the surface of the water like Poseidon stepping from the sea, and he began to walk toward them, carrying Clarissa facedown over one shoulder. The Rostrum brothers hustled to help him, and together, they laid their dripping burden on the sun-warmed sand of the shore. St. John raised her arms above her head, rolled her on her side and back again, pressed against her tiny chest a few times, and then laid his ear against her heart and listened.

Sarah somehow restrained herself through that long series of motions before shouldering him aside with strength that surprised even her and falling on her daughter. So pale and so cold. She pressed trembling fingers against Clarissa's blue lips. Anything to hear her plead for a story or a spoonful of jam again. How could she ever have denied such little requests? “Oh, 'Rissa, 'Rissa,” she murmured, whispering words in some long-forgotten language known only to mothers, covering her child's still form with her body, as if to shield her from the pitiless gaze of the world. Somewhere nearby stood Mrs. Kittery, no doubt muttering beneath her breath that this was a blessing in disguise.

Sarah again felt hands pulling at her, and she clawed the sand, scrabbling to maintain her hold on her child.

“Sarah.” St. John's voice. St. John's hands, drawing her relentlessly away. “Sarah!” Sharper, more demanding. A tooth-rattling shake of her shoulders. “Listen to me. She's breathing, Sarah. Give her room. Give her air.”

And suddenly, she could hear it: a bubbling, burbling sort of breath that in another moment gave way to a sputtering cough, and then the child vomited a prodigious quantity of salt water, twice, and sank back onto the sand with a moan.

“Mama?” Clarissa's lips moved to form the word, although Sarah heard no sound over the pounding of her own heart.

“Yes, dear one. Mama's here. Right here.”

Clarissa gave another horrible retch. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open.

“Better get Kittery,” someone called. “And Reverend Norris,” added another voice.

“No. Oh, please, no,” Sarah pleaded, although she was not sure with whom. “I want to take her home.”

The brawny forearms of Mr. Beals came into view as he bent to lift her, but then another shadow fell across the sand. “I'll do it,” St. John pronounced. “Give her to me.”

Primrose Cottage was just a stone's throw away, but from this end of the beach it meant climbing a steep set of rickety stairs. Sarah followed St. John as he hurried up them, apparently without effort—and without his boots, she realized, as his wet, stocking-clad legs rose above her. Half of Haverhythe was on their heels, but she was aware of only what lay ahead.

Although she had come the long way around, Mrs. Potts had the start of them and was there first, standing in the open doorway like some wrathful guardian angel, allowing only St. John, Sarah, and Clarissa to pass. “Make yourselves useful,” she charged, waving off everyone who had followed. Dimly, Sarah remembered that Mrs. Potts knew well what it felt like to be under the watchful eye of the village when a loved one had been drawn into the arms of the sea.

Once inside the house, Sarah snatched at her daughter. “Is she—is she—?”

Clarissa gave another listless, waterlogged cough, and Sarah felt tears of relief spring to her eyes.

“She's fighting, Sarah,” St. John said, impatience edging his voice. “But she's not out of the woods. Mrs. Potts, fetch some towels. Get her out of this dress, now,” he ordered as he carried Clarissa into the sitting room and knelt to lay her on the floor by the hearth. Sarah sank beside her daughter and began fumbling with the buttons of Clarissa's dress, her fingers numb with shock.

As soon as the fireplace had flickered to life, St. John turned back to Sarah. “Have you any smelling salts?”

She raised bewildered eyes. “Any—? No, I don't think so,” she said, shaking her head before suddenly remembering something from the life she had shut up and put away so long ago. “Wait!” She scrambled to her feet and raced up the stairs to her room, her wet hems slapping against the treads. Fishing the chain and key from her bodice, she opened her trunk, rummaged through its contents, and unearthed a long-forgotten reticule, and inside it, a small vial of hartshorn.

She hurried back to the sitting room and found St. John running practiced fingers down Clarissa's limbs. “I don't think any bones are broken, and I don't feel any lumps on her head. But she's bound to have some bruises after a fall like that. Now, let's see if we can't wake her up a bit more.”

As soon as Sarah waved the smelling salts beneath her nose, Clarissa began to cough and sputter with renewed vigor. Her eyelids fluttered again, but this time they forced their way open a bit and her bloodshot eyes latched first onto St. John.

“'Rissa splash,” she managed to croak before her eyes drooped closed again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Mrs. Potts sink into the rocking chair, heedless of the pile of linen that fell from her arms to the floor. “Thank the Lord,” the woman breathed.

“Dry her off, gently,” St. John instructed, standing. “Then wrap her up well and I'll carry her to bed. Kittery should be on his way.”

Sarah looked up at him. Had it really been just three days since she had first seen him standing there, dripping onto her hearth, and wished him at the devil?

“Thank you,” she whispered. But the words were not enough. They never could be. “Thank you.”

* * *

When the apothecary arrived, St. John stepped from Clarissa's cramped room under the eaves and onto the narrow landing, thankful once again to be standing upright. He had wanted to hear the other man's verdict, for he knew that despite the child's improving appearance, she might still have sustained significant and as yet unseen injuries from such a fall. But he also knew that compared to the comfort supplied by Sarah and Mrs. Potts, his own presence was quite inconsequential.

After a moment, the door opened again and Mrs. Potts joined him, relief easing the creases of her face. “He says she's not bad hurt. It's a miracle.”

He expelled the breath he had not known he was holding. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

The words seemed to draw her full attention to him for the first time. “Mercy, Lieutenant Fairfax,” she gasped, using the rank he seemed recently to have acquired, a detail no doubt added to his tale by some well-meaning member of the village who had once heard Mrs. Fairfax's dead husband described as an officer. “You'll catch your death.”

He doubted that. With the addition of a roaring fire to the warm autumn day, the small house was almost stifling. But he was beginning to be cognizant of certain discomforts.

“I'll fetch the towels,” she insisted and shuffled down the steps.

In a moment she was back and thrust into his arms the pile of linen that had lain discarded in a heap by the hearth, still damp from Clarissa's hair and skin. “Here,” she said, opening the other door on the landing and gesturing him inside. “You take off them wet things, and I'll see if there ain't somethin' o' my man's left that'll serve while yours dry.”

He found himself in another slant-ceilinged room, not much larger than the other and even more crowded by the presence of a bed, a washstand, a small table, and a trunk, the contents of which were spilling onto the floor. Everything else was neat as a pin.

It could only be Sarah's room.

Stripping gratefully out of his sodden clothes, he hesitated for a moment over his drawers before adding them to the pile. He rubbed himself briskly head to toe with the rough towels before choosing the largest of them to wrap around his waist and looking about the room for a comb. Seeing nothing on the washstand, he turned to the table beside the bed, whose square top held just a lamp and two small volumes: a
Book of Common Prayer
and another, thinner book with tooled green leather bindings.

He picked up the latter and thumbed through it absently. It was a miscellany, not old but obviously well-loved, and since he had seen no other book in the house, he could imagine it received more than its share of attention. A handful of extracts, some poems, an engraving or two—nothing especially fine, but an expensive book, nonetheless. On the flyleaf someone had written “
For my dearest love
” and signed the inscription with the initials
E.N.

E.N.?
An unwelcome prickle of jealousy traveled along his spine before he realized that the book likely belonged to Sarah's friend, Mrs. Norris.

Sarah had been forced to borrow even the most innocent of pleasures, it seemed.

“Oh!”

He let the cover of the book fall back into its place and turned to see Sarah standing in the doorway. Her eyes darted about the room as if looking for a safe place to rest, and the rosiness that stained her cheeks was creeping toward her hairline.

“My apologies,” he said. “I was—”

“I do beg your pardon, my lord,” she spoke over him, ducking her head.

“What did Mr. Kittery say?” he asked, trying—as much as was possible for an almost-naked man standing in the bedchamber of his estranged wife—to restore some semblance of normalcy to the situation.

“He believes she will make a full recovery. Her breathing is much stronger, and she's resting comfortably now. But,” she said, busying herself with straightening a towel on the washstand, “he said she'll be sore all over, so he gave me some liniment to apply night and morning.”

He might have guessed as much. Even now, its sharp scent on her hands overpowered the soft floral fragrance he had come over the last few days to associate with Sarah.

“She's likely to have some bruising, too. But even if she's uncomfortable, do not give her laudanum. It slows the breathing, and her lungs need to work, to expel the water they took in.”

“All right,” Sarah agreed in a small voice. “Let me thank you again for saving her,” she said after another awkward moment had passed, chancing a glance in his direction before dropping her eyes to the floor at her feet.

“I believe I did what any man—any human being—would have done, who was able.”

“But how many would be able? Where did you learn to swim like that?”

“Lynscombe is surrounded by water. It backs up to the Channel, and in the park, there is a wonderful lake, deep and still.” St. John smiled at the memory. “You shall—” Abruptly, he stopped himself. Had he just been about to speak as if she would see his childhood home someday?

It did not seem to matter if he had been so rash, for Sarah still looked as if she were not really listening. Her eyes had fallen on the trunk and its disheveled contents. Abruptly, she dropped to her knees, tucked the scattered items back inside it, and closed the lid, twisting the small key in its lock. Then she stood again, rubbing the key between her fingers like a sort of talisman.

Almost as if she had something to hide.

It was beyond churlish to press her now. But he knew he would regret it if he hesitated. She might remove whatever it was the trunk held that she so obviously did not want him to see, and he would always wonder whether he had missed the chance to recover some piece of the evidence he had come all this way to find, the evidence that would set him free from his father's mistakes at last.

What could he possibly have to lose?

Taking a step closer to her, St. John reached out and covered her hands with his own. The fragile gold chain on which she wore the key dangled between their clasped hands. “Tell me, Sarah—what secrets are you guarding with that little key?”

At last, she looked up and met his eyes. “No secrets. Just—”

The door swung inward, admitting Mrs. Potts, who carried an armful of well-worn clothes. “Best I could find,” she announced, moving to deposit them on the bed. “Young Colin brought your boots up from the quay. They're standin' inside the front door.”

St. John and Sarah sprang apart, and Mrs. Potts started, as if she had not realized Sarah was in the room. “Ooh, beggin' your pardon, mum. I'll just check on the wee one, shall I?” she asked even as she was backing out the door.

Sarah whirled, about to follow hard on her heels, then hesitated. “Here,” she said to him, stretching out the hand that held the key. “I have nothing to hide.”

He raised a hand to take it from her, and key and chain spilled from her fingers onto his open palm. After a searching look, Sarah turned and walked out the door, closing it behind her without saying a word.

Reluctantly, he closed his fingers around the key, feeling the metal warmed by her hand.