To Kiss a Thief (27 page)

“Better than you can know,” she assured him, remembering the curious mix of emotions she had felt as she threw his picture across the room on the night of his arrival in Haverhythe.

“Speaking of your trunk, there is something I have been meaning to ask you for some time.” He paused as if awaiting permission for his question, so she tipped her head in the slightest of nods, granting it. “The miniature. It struck me as an object that had received a great deal of your attention. And I wondered, how did you come by it?”

Had he read the direction her thoughts had taken? She could almost feel the curve of the miniature case pressed into her palm, as it had been on that morning so long ago. “I stole it.”

His grip on her unbound hand tightened. “Good God, Sarah. Why would you do such a thing?”

“I wanted something to remember you by,” she whispered.

“Oh, Sarah . . .” Her words gave him hope. But as he watched her eyes filled with tears, the weight in his chest began to shift and sink like the contraband that had brought down John Potts's boat.

“When my father announced he had formed a match for me,” she said, speaking across him, pulling back from his touch, “like you, I dreaded what was to come. Your title—or rather, your father's—was of no interest to me. I had no desire to mingle in the first circles of the
ton
. I wanted a different sort of life. But then I saw you. So very like the man in that portrait. So handsome. So charming.”

“No,” he denied soberly. “I think we both know I never behaved with charm toward you in those days.”

“Perhaps not,” she acknowledged. “But I did not let reality interfere with the personal fairy tale I had concocted, the one in which you realized I was worth more than my dowry. In which I captured your heart,” she confessed in a whisper.

“You have,” he insisted. Was there still the possibility that he had captured hers, as well?

“I knew you were but the prize my father's wealth had bought,” she countered, shaking her head. “I knew I could never have won you on my own. I knew I was not really cut out to be the Viscountess Fairfax, despite my parents' dearest hopes and sincerest efforts to prepare me for the role.”

“A strict governess, drawing masters, lessons on the pianoforte? No, those things were poor preparation indeed,” he acknowledged as he watched her brows creep up her forehead. “The best thing you ever did to prove you were worthy to be Lady Fairfax was to run away.”

A skeptical noise burst from her lips, but he held up one finger to stop her from speaking. “Let me finish. Because if you had never gone to Haverhythe, I would never have had to find you. I might never have realized you are capable of working miracles.
You
might never have realized you are capable of working miracles.” Lifting his hand, he gently cupped her face. “You might have continued to believe yourself unworthy of dreaming your own dreams—and achieving them.”

She closed her eyes against his gaze. “For all these years, whatever my heart chose to believe, my head told me you were not that fairy-tale hero. But I could never quite bring myself to let you go . . .”

“Don't,” he breathed. “Surely you of all people would not deny me my happily-ever-after?”

“Life is not a fairy tale,” she said as she opened her eyes and shook her head against his palm. “I know that now. The ‘ever after' is not always happy. There will be times of sadness. And struggle.”

“Yes,” he agreed. Those were the very things he had feared most about opening his heart. Now, however, he understood they were not all. “But also, God willing, joy.”

In the stillness that followed, he could hear her breath leave her body. “Tell me, Sarah. What did you see when you looked at that old miniature?”

She glanced again to the darkening sea. “The face of the man with whom I fell quite foolishly, quite hopelessly in love—from the very first moment I met him.”

Somewhere behind his breastbone a spark of hope flickered to life.

“But, of course,” she continued, “you are no longer the young man you were in that picture.”

“No,” he conceded. “I am not.” He slipped his fingers into her damp hair, tilting her head toward him. “So tell me, what do you see when you look at me now?”

Warily, she met his gaze. Then she dashed at her eyes with the back of her clumsily bandaged hand, drew in a shuddering breath, and. . . smiled. Not one of those small, mysterious smiles that had begun to threaten his sanity. But a wobbly-lipped, genuine grin.

“I see the man I love,” she said. “The man I've always loved. Even when I shouldn't have.”

He lowered his lips to hers, tasting the trembling softness of her mouth. Raising his other hand to frame her face, he drew her closer and she came willingly, slipping into his embrace as if it were a well-worn garment.

After a time, he could feel that the fire beside them was dying down and the chill of the night air was pressing closer. “We should go home, Lady Fairfax,” he said as he reluctantly shifted to rise and then helped her to her feet. “Everyone will wonder what has become of us—and I myself would rather avoid being discovered here by a search party, my little fugitive.”

Sarah glanced behind her, and her lips lifted in a mischievous smile. “No, no more search parties. I promise never to go missing again, my lord.”

“See that you don't,” he ordered, trying to mold his face into a frown. “But just to be clear, you
are
a thief, you know. You've stolen my heart.”

A delicate blush warmed her cheeks and far more than his heart. “That is only fair. You have had mine from the first.”

He leaned toward her, setting his lips to an indentation at the corner of her mouth that was almost, but not quite, a dimple. “I did not deserve it then,” he whispered against her cheek. “But I intend to spend a lifetime earning it.”

“See that you do.” She smiled, reluctantly drawing back from his lips to glance toward the house. “I suppose it can't have been much more than an hour, but it seems an eternity has passed since we left. Do you suppose the harvest ball has gone forward without us?”

“The ball?” He shook his head. “I think there never was a ball.” Sarah's brow wrinkled in confusion and disappointment. “But I suspect the stomping and reeling and carousing at the Red Lion will go on for some time yet,” he explained. “And that the people of Lynscombe are enjoying themselves all the more for the absence of ‘t'grand folks up t'house.' ”

She laughed, a wonderful, magical sound. St. John bowed and held out a hand for hers. “May I have this dance, ma'am?”

Sarah looked up at him, then down at her tattered dress.

“I regret to say that I am not suitably attired, my lord,” she declined with a shake of her head.

“A pity. It was a lovely dress. How could I ever have forgotten it?” he asked, his eyes roving over her. “You were wearing it the first time I saw you.”

He could picture her in it, standing in the morning room of her family's town house, accepting his grudging proposal of marriage with that small smile he would come to know so well, even as her fingers nervously worked the fringe of a heavy silk shawl drawn about her shoulders like a shield.

“And you kept it,” he marveled. “All these years.” She had held on to that piece of their past, and now he understood why. It made him eager to realize the future of which she had been dreaming on that day. “But I cannot help but wonder, what happened to the others?”

For a long moment, she did not answer.

“I had been in Haverhythe for a few weeks when I learned that ‘Mad Martha' Potts hadn't the means to pay her rent,” she said at last, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it over the moan of the outgoing tide. “Everyone in the village was certain she meant to throw herself off the quay one night. At first I did not see how I could help her—I had nothing of value. And then I realized . . .” She looked down at her dress and pleated the silk between two fingers of her injured hand. “Mrs. Dawlish bought them from me. She said she had a customer who would happily pay top price for the latest London fashions.”

“Oh? And who was that?”

“Fanny Kittery.”

“Ah, my Sarah,” he whispered into her hair as he clasped her to his chest. “My clever, creative, generous Sarah.”

When he released her, she frowned. “I suppose I'll have to go back to my black.”

“Must you? I rather like you wearing nothing at all,” he teased. She looked sidelong at him, half-scolding, half-intrigued. “What of the dress you wore to the festival in Haverhythe?”

“I left it behind, thinking perhaps that Mrs. Potts might need . . .” Her voice trailed away on a note of worry. “Besides, it was not a dress for travel, and my trunk was already packed, if you recall.”

How could he ever forget?

“I'll tolerate those widow's weeds only as long as it takes for you to have something else made. First thing, send for Emily Dawlish.” Sarah reached up to kiss him, pressing the length of her body against his. “Well, perhaps not
first
thing,” he murmured around her lips. He did not think he would ever tire of kissing her, for each touch of their lips was at once new and familiar, comfortable and exhilarating. “Have her buy whatever she needs,” he insisted when he at last lifted his head. “But be sure the shopkeeper knows—I always inspect my bill.”

Sarah's pewter eyes flared at the reference to Emily's underhanded purchases at Gaffard's. “You knew?”

“I knew.”

Fighting the temptation to sink down beside the glowing embers with her, he instead began to move, leading her in a dance at once unknown and yet so much a part of them that the steps seemed second nature—the bridal dance he should have claimed three years before.

Together they glided across the rough ground, moving to the elemental music of the waves.

 

S
arah watched as delicate flakes drifted down from the sky, twinkling merrily in the moonlight, coating the ground in a blanket of white, cheerfully indifferent to the Marquess of Estley's stern proclamation that it
never
snowed before Christmas.

He had retired an hour or more ago, and she had intended to follow his example. But still she sat, gazing out the window of the sitting room, drowsing beneath Clarissa's warm weight.

She thought of Mama and Papa in Bristol, bidding good night and happy Christmas to their friends and neighbors and Papa's clerks, Papa's eyes shining with satisfaction and Mama humming some dancing tune in spite of herself.

She thought of Lady Estley in London, where she had been since the autumn. Lord Estley had said little of her return to town, and St. John had said even less. She did not know whether it had been Lady Estley's choice to go or not. Presumably the marchioness had found some entertainment to while away the days—other than the amusement to be found in the card rooms, for her husband had put her on a strict allowance, locked away the valuables, and severed every line of cash or credit to which his wife had had access. Sarah could not claim to miss her.

But she thought most of St. John, who had promised to be home for Christmas Day. As she watched the snow fall, she could not help but wonder about the mysterious business that had taken him away. She worried, too, although she knew she shouldn't. Surely he had sense enough to stop for the night and was tucked away in some posting inn, safe and sound. He could not travel tomorrow, it was true, but they would be together again soon. One day, more or less, did not matter.

Christmas would be a quiet affair, however—just Lord Estley, Clarissa, and herself.

Not that any day with Clarissa in it was truly quiet. But in this moment of peace, as her daughter lay sleeping on her breast, breathing softly against her neck, it was easy to forgive her rambunctiousness, to hold her close and dream . . .

Sarah did not realize she had fallen asleep, but she awoke to the sound of a gentle voice in her ear.

“Happy Christmas, my love.”

She opened her eyes, blinked twice, and smiled. St. John leaned over her, brushing his lips against Clarissa's curls.

“Jarrell told me where I'd find you,” he whispered. He had obviously come straight to their apartments, for she could still see the snowflakes melting on his greatcoat. He held a small wrapped parcel under one arm, and his other hand was thrust deep in his pocket.

“I'm so glad you're home,” Sarah said.

“You weren't worried?” he asked with a teasing tilt of his head.

“Perhaps a bit,” she confessed.

Clarissa stirred but did not open her eyes. “Papa?”

“That's right, dear one.”

She murmured some incoherent reply that sounded suspiciously like “Present?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have gifts for my darling girls,” he said. Clarissa roused herself with a stretch. “But Mama shall have hers first.” Reluctantly, Clarissa nodded her acquiescence and slid off Sarah's lap. St. John laid the parcel in her place. With deft fingers, Sarah untied the string, and the paper fell open to reveal a pretty wooden box.

“Why, it's soap,” Sarah exclaimed when she lifted the lid. “Bluebell soap.”

Clarissa leaned over the box and inhaled enthusiastically. “Mmmmm.”

Sarah felt her eyes widen and, fighting a smile, glanced up at St. John. He gave a chagrinned sort of shrug, but the roguish twinkle in his eye could not be mistaken.

“My goodness, this will be enough to last a lifetime,” Sarah insisted, taking refuge in the contents of the box as her face heated.

“I hope so, for it's likely to be the last of it. It seems that our dear Mrs. Kittery has, er, mislaid the recipe.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Kittery? You saw her in town?”

“No,” he answered slowly. “I was not in town. I went to Haverhythe.”

“Oh!” What on earth had called him there? And why hadn't he told her he was going? “How is . . . everyone?” she asked instead.

St. John smiled. “
Everyone
is well, I believe. Mrs. Potts condescended to shake my hand but could not be persuaded to stop calling me Lieutenant Fairfax. Mrs. Norris is—wait, I have a letter here somewhere.” He finally pulled his other hand from his pocket and patted about the breast of his greatcoat.

“Mama?” Clarissa tugged impatiently at Sarah's sleeve.

Sarah's eyes followed her daughter's gaze to the coat pocket her father's hand had so recently vacated.

Something still moved within it.

“What dat is, Papa?” Clarissa asked hesitantly, pointing one dimpled finger at his coat.

“Hmm?” St. John replied absently, still making a great show of looking for the letter. “Oh, this?” He reached back into the pocket, pulled out a mewling ball of gray-striped fluff, and handed it to Clarissa.

“Thomas!”

After a few moments of stroking and admiring the kitten, Clarissa put it on the floor—much to Sarah's astonishment—and ran to hug St. John's knee. “Thank you, Papa,” she cried, unprompted.

Sarah watched as St. John ran a hand over his daughter's head and smiled down at her, his own eyes curiously bright. “You're welcome, my pet.”

Clarissa turned back to the kitten, which had discovered the string from the box of soap, and in another moment it was difficult to say who was enjoying their game more, as she raced squealing around the room, dragging the bit of twine behind her, and he scampered after, pausing to stalk and fluff and pounce whenever Clarissa hesitated.

“And here, my dear, is your letter,” St. John said, suddenly able to locate the wayward missive with ease and offering it to Sarah with a flourish. “I'm sure it will tell you much more about the goings-on in Haverhythe than I ever could.”

She very much doubted it. For one, Abigail Norris was no gossip. And even if she were, the thing Sarah most wanted to know was the one thing Abby was least likely to reveal, the thing she had not mentioned in any previous letter that had come.

“How is she?” Sarah asked, running her finger over the impressions left by Abby's pen.

“Perfectly well, I believe,” was St. John's calm reply.

“Truly?”

“Why, Lady Fairfax, surely you do not suggest that I would have been so ill-mannered as to have observed Mrs. Norris's delicate condition?” He shook his head in a mock scold, shrugged out of his greatcoat, and came to sit in the chair beside her. “Apart from a certain rosy glow in her complexion, and the fact that the vicar looks fit to burst—whether with pride or anxiety, I could not hazard a guess—it's all quite cleverly disguised by one of those fashionable new high-waisted gowns, or so Mrs. Dawlish assured me. You know I can hardly tell one dress from another, my dear,” he added with a grin. “I heard almost no gossip at all about it—except for what I was told, confidentially you understand, by Mr. Gaffard, who got it from Mackey, who heard that Mr. Kittery suspects there might be twins on the way.”

Sarah followed the long train of informants to the end and then gulped.
Twins?

On the one hand, it seemed like a fitting blessing for a couple who had thought for so long that they would never have a child. “But is there not some risk?” she asked.

“Some,” St. John acknowledged more soberly. “But you can be sure that Mr. Norris does not allow her to exert herself unduly, and she seems in the very bloom of health.”

Did she imagine the wistful expression in his eyes?

“It's far too quiet in here,” Sarah said, rising to her feet to cover her sudden nervousness. “Clarissa,” she called, “you aren't hurting Thomas, are you?”

She found the two curled up in sleepy contentment on one of the chairs nearer the hearth. “No, Mama,” Clarissa insisted. The kitten purred.

She felt St. John's eyes on her as she came back to her seat and arranged her skirts around her.

“What of Mr. Beals?” she asked after a moment's silence.

“Ah, poor Beals,” St. John sighed with a shake of his head. “He's in sorry shape. Veritably struggling to get by, the sales of his currant cakes dropped off so precipitously after you left.” Sarah pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “Although—it seems you were not his only customer,” he added with a meaningful look. “He happened to ask, quite out of the way, if Miss Dawlish ever spoke of returning home.”

In spite of herself, Sarah gasped and looked up. “Emily?”

He nodded. “Who may or may not at this moment be poring over a letter that Gerald Beals may or may not have tucked into my hand when I left, while muttering the closest thing to a prayer that I suspect has ever passed that crusty baker's lips.”

And sure enough, when a few more minutes had passed, Emily came in, dark eyes shining, a certain bounce in her step, and one hand pressed to her breast as if clutching some bit of clandestine correspondence secreted there—or guarding the heart beneath it.

“Bed this instant, little miss. I won't hear another excuse,” she proclaimed in a rare display of firmness when Clarissa began to protest. But when Clarissa held up the kitten, she softened visibly. “Oh, gracious me, what a precious little thing. And hasn't it the look of Bright Meg about it, milady?” she asked, looking to Sarah for confirmation.

Sarah nodded, not certain she could trust herself to speak.

“I had a bit of news from home, mum,” Emily continued. “Someone paid up the rent on Primrose Cottage for the rest o' Mrs. P.'s life! Lord Haverty's agent let it slip one night in Mackey's. Why, just think! Who coulda done such a thing?”

Sarah twisted to look at her husband, who refused to meet her eye. “It's a mystery,” she acknowledged, fighting a smile.

“Now, Clarissa,” St. John admonished, scooping up the kitten and handing it to Emily. “If you do not want Thomas to spend his first night here in the kitchens with Mrs. Hayes, you must do as Miss Dawlish says.”

Clarissa's lower lip trembled. “Yes, Papa.”

At Emily's urging, Clarissa kissed her parents good night and then, with an enthusiasm that caused the kitten to squirm, took Thomas in her hands and led the way to the nursery.

“Emily Dawlish and Gerald Beals,” Sarah murmured incredulously when the door had closed. “How could I have failed to see—?” “I suspect either that they did not want anyone to see, or more likely, that there was nothing to see. Perhaps they realized the depth of their feelings only after they were apart.”

Sarah could not disagree with him. After all, love sometimes blossomed under the unlikeliest of circumstances.

“Well, whatever the case, by the look on her face,” he continued, “I fear we'll soon be in need of a new nursery maid.”

Fighting a smile, Sarah nodded.

In the peaceful silence that followed, St. John slouched comfortably in the chair and closed his eyes. She could see the exhaustion etched on his face, and she knew that at least the last miles of his journey could not have been easy ones.

“Whatever made you go to Haverhythe?” she asked quietly, thinking he might have fallen asleep. “Rather a long trip for a kitten, some soap, and a letter, don't you think?”

His eyes opened and leveled their steady gaze on her. “I'd travel to the ends of the earth to make you happy, Sarah—and our daughter, too. Besides,” he added, with a wry glance toward the soap, “I've always favored homemade gifts at Christmas.”

“Oh,” she breathed as her lips curved upward. “I'm glad to hear it, for I have—” She pressed her fingers to her lips and then let her hand drop back into her lap.

She had thought the gesture had gone unnoticed, but she saw then that St. John's eyes had followed the fall of her hand and watched it settle, quite without meaning to, on the curve of her belly.

“Sarah?” His pale eyes darted back to her face.

She gave a quick nod. “You must understand, I don't
know
,” she cautioned. “It's too soon to be certain. But there are signs. I have hopes.”

He was on his feet in an instant, sweeping her into his arms. “Oh, my love.”

Tears started into Sarah's eyes. “You are pleased?” she found the courage to ask.

“More than pleased. Elated,” he insisted. “I will confess that seeing Mrs. Norris made me cognizant of all I'd missed. And when I saw Norris, I was quite jealous of any man who was lucky enough to share in such joy.”

She thought of the sickness and fatigue and pain and considered for a moment whether she ought to correct him, or at least warn him. But then he was setting her on her feet again and cupping her face in his hands and kissing her, and the thought danced away like the snowflakes swirling outside the window. His lips skated across hers with heart-stopping tenderness.

And in that moment, all she knew was joy.