CHAPTER FIVE
“Madness is a most unfortunate affliction.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon hearing a lengthy description of said lady’s new feline companion.
The woman was out of her bloody mind.
“You are out of your bloody mind,” he growled into her ear as they slogged and staggered together along the road to the vicarage. Three young girls led the way, occasionally skipping ahead, then turning back to glance at Colin and the utterly mad Miss Sarah Battersby.
The slender arm around his waist tightened. “That is a fine way to speak to your betrothed.”
“Then it is well we are not engaged. For the love of God, what would compel you to make such a claim? You do not even know who I am.”
The woman currently acting as his crutch slowed her pace, forcing him to slow as well. “True,” she conceded quietly. “Who are you, then?”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Do you not think you should have inquired before declaring that we are to be married?”
That pointed chin elevated. “For most of our acquaintance, you have been asleep. A ready opportunity for introductions did not present itself. Because you have been injured. And I have taken care of you.”
“I suppose you think that entitles you to payment—in the form of a ring and a new last name, no less. Bloody-minded females. Even when you pull a man half-dead from the roadside, you cannot resist laying a parson’s mousetrap for him.”
He felt her body stiffen along his side, her shoulders going rigid. “Don’t be daft. I neither expect nor desire your hand in marriage. Gracious me, even now, you could be wed to another.”
“Then what was that rubbish about—”
“I simply need them to believe we are engaged.”
“You want me to lie. To your entire village.”
“Do you object to lying?” She sniffed. “I had hoped you would prove a capable scoundrel.”
Jaw flexing, he glanced down at the delicate slope of her nose with its impudent tilt, then watched the waning sunlight glint off the honeyed, rebellious curls that refused to remain coiled at the back of her head. Neither pins nor her iron will could contain them. Try as she might to appear composed, Miss Sarah Battersby was in need of taming.
Deliberately, he kept his voice low and smooth. “These presumptions of yours are dangerous. If I am capable of such deception, as you apparently desire, surely you cannot trust me to behave honorably. And if that is true, every moment you spend in my presence puts you at risk.”
“A risk I must take.”
The woman was either blindingly stupid, entirely mad, or infernally stubborn. He would wager on the latter. “When, precisely, did you decide to implement your little deception?”
Her silence was punctuated only with the scrape and thud of their footsteps and the distant giggles of the three girls.
He halted as they reached the edge of the apple orchard, drawing her toward one of the trees. Removing his arm from across her shoulders, he winced at the pain in his ribs and muscles. Although it was dull in comparison with the throbbing inside his skull, it served as a sharp reminder of why he must persuade her to recant her claim, why she must help him leave with all due haste. Carefully fingering the small lump forming between his neck and skull, he leaned against the rough bark and attempted to catch his breath. “Answer me, Sarah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “When did you devise this plan? And why?”
She refused to look at him. A couple of yards away, she stood gazing down the length of the village road, her hands planted on her hips. The setting sun made her hair glow like a royal crown, lit her eyes a bright, uncanny gold. “I—I needed time. Only a month or two longer, and I shall be able to secure a position. I am certain of it.”
He frowned, his impatience growing. “Speak clearly, woman. My head hurts too damn badly for riddles.”
Startled honey eyes turned to him. “What is your name?”
“Now you want a proper introduction?”
“Yes.”
He lowered his chin and gave her an intimidating glare. At least, he hoped it was intimidating. Who the hell knew what he looked like with the way his face had been battered? “Answer my questions, and perhaps I will answer yours.”
She blinked, glanced toward the vicarage, then back to him. “Very well.” She waved to the grass beneath the tree. “Shall we sit? It appears you could use a rest before we resume our journey.”
He wanted to argue that he was fine—strong and robust and perfectly capable of navigating a bloody country lane without her assistance or a rest, thank you very much—but in truth, he could scarcely stand, even with the help of an old apple tree. So, instead of rebutting her assumption, he slid down onto his arse and nodded to the patch of ground beside him.
Most women of his acquaintance might grimace at such rustic seating arrangements and uncouth manners, but not Miss Battersby. She did not hesitate, instead neatly and gracefully sinking down beside him on her grass cushion, folding her arms atop her upraised knees, and releasing what sounded like a relieved sigh. “My father used to bring me here to pick apples.” She peered up into the branches, weighted here and there with green and red fruit. “Every year. Except this one.”
Hearing the strain in her voice, he let silence fall between them for a moment before prompting, “He has been ill, I gather.”
“Yes.” Her gaze dropped to meet his, then fell to a spot of ground between them, where two old apples lay, brown with rot, among a drift of yellowed leaves. “He is dying.”
Perhaps it was the way she whispered the words, so quiet he could scarcely discern them from the distant echo of the sea and the light rustle of leaves. Perhaps it was the way she held herself, still and mournful. But her words caused his heart to twist painfully. She might be a liar and a fortune huntress, but he did not wish such grief on anyone.
With a deep, sudden inhalation, she gathered herself and continued, “When he goes, his living will go with him. My mother and I will lose … everything. His income, the cottage. Even the school.”
A frown tugged at his brow. “You have no other family who will take you in?”
She shook her head. “My mother’s brother died three years ago, and his widow recently remarried. My father has two sisters, but neither of them is in a position to support us.”
“What about the villagers? They seem rather fond of you.”
Her eyes met his directly, firing a sharp gold. “We are not inclined to accept charity from those who can ill afford it. I will find another way. It is simply taking longer than I had supposed to secure a position.”
He looked the length of her, from her pixie face surrounded by a frizz of honeyed curls to her worn rag of a dress, down to the scuffed toes of her brown boots. “You are attractive enough,” he observed. “Not beautiful, perhaps, but—”
“I beg your pardon!”
“—put a proper gown on you, and you would be acceptable fare for most gents. Why do you not trap one of the locals in your leg shackles?”
Her eyes narrowed. “For all that your diction is perfection itself, your manners are dreadfully boorish.”
“Answer the question,” he said softly.
From her expression—mutinous and acidic—he would guess she strongly considered telling him to go to the devil. But she must be quite desperate to try trapping him—a virtual stranger encountered under dubious circumstances—into a false engagement.
After several minutes, she sighed and muttered, “I suppose you deserve to know.” Her chin came up and her eyes met his. “There is a man. He has offered for me … many times.”
His stomach gave a queer lurch. Perhaps he should not have eaten so much stew earlier. “Why have you not accepted?”
“He is not a good man. I do not wish to marry him.”
In that moment, with her eyes hooded and her voice flat, Colin saw everything Sarah would not—or could not—say aloud. This man, whoever he was, had tried to force her hand, and she would resist until her last breath. Sarah Battersby might be barking mad, but she was a fighter. He saw it in the set of her shoulders, straight and proud, the curl and clench of her fists.
“Who is he? What is his name?” The questions came from Colin’s mouth, but he could not recall deciding to ask them.
Her lashes rose to reveal those startling eyes, like falling into a honeypot lit from below. “Felix Foote. He was there when you”—she waved her hand around the top of her head—“succumbed to Robbie’s sixer.”
“Was he, now?”
“Mmm. He is always there, it seems. Every time I go into the village. Every time there is some opportunity to remind me that he is my only option. By his design, of course. Keddlescombe is home to few men of my age, and Mr. Foote has … encouraged them to look elsewhere for a wife.”
“Why would they heed his advice?”
“He owns several farms in this parish, none of which he works himself. Mr. Foote has become rather well set charging substantial rents to his tenants, rents which he can increase at any time. He fancies himself a proper gentleman.”
Colin shifted as cramping built along his spine and curled around his neck. With his injuries, sitting in one position for long was painful. Besides which, his limbs currently pulsed with the desire to rise and charge back to the village. He could not say why. The disgust in Sarah’s voice, perhaps. He did not like it.
“No one enjoys being cornered,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “But I suspect your resistance to his suit runs deeper than mere dislike.”
“My reasons are my own.”
“Do you desire my cooperation?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“What is it Mr. Foote has done to deserve your contempt?”
Her jaw clenched. Her bowed lips tightened. A tiny furrow appeared between her brows. “If I tell you, it must be in the strictest confidence. This is very important. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
She took a deep breath, released it slowly, plucked at the dusty fabric of her skirt where it puckered along her knee, laced her fingers together and squeezed. “Felix Foote is …” She cleared her throat delicately. “Mr. Foote has done things. Things no gentleman would do. Revolting things.”
As he watched the color rising into her cheeks, Colin began to wonder if the prim Miss Battersby had misconstrued a man’s clumsy advances. Perhaps Foote had attempted to kiss her and had bungled it badly. Innocents such as Sarah were prone to hysterics when they did not understand what a lusty man was about.
He felt his hands curl into fists. Why was his stomach turning with such vigor? Was it the stew after all? “What things? Describe them,” he barked.
Lashes lowering again, she turned her gaze away, toward the road. “Those who attend St. Catherine’s Academy for Girls of Impeccable Deportment are in my care. Their welfare has been entrusted to my mother and father and to me.”
“First, I am surprised you could not think of a longer name for the school. Second, you are avoiding answering by changing the subject—”
When her eyes returned to him, they cut through his pain and impatience. “I am giving you your answer.”
After a moment, he nodded for her to continue.
“Last year, I came upon Mr. Foote and one of my students in the wood behind the church. He was … forcing his attentions upon her.” Sarah’s voice cracked on the last word.
The churning in his stomach grew worse. But she was not yet finished.
“At first, I did not realize what I was seeing,” she continued, her voice now ragged. “She stood very still. He knelt in front of her, his h-hand beneath her skirts. I thought perhaps she had been injured and he was helping her …” She chuckled darkly then swallowed hard, like someone who was trying not to retch. “As I drew closer, I saw that she was weeping. She did not make a sound. Just stood there. Letting him touch her. As though it had happened a dozen times, and she must simply wait for it to be over.”
Colin wanted to ask questions. Who was the girl? What did Sarah do after she discovered them? He wanted to know what Foote looked like so he could return to the village and pummel the rotting slime. He remained silent.
“She—she was a precious thing. Intelligent beyond her years.” Sarah laughed softly as a tear tracked down her face. The drop made it two inches before she swiped it away. “She’d only just turned twelve, and yet already she had learned how vile men can be.”
Twelve. The girl was twelve. Colin closed his eyes, unable to watch Sarah’s face any longer. Twelve. He remembered his sister, Victoria, at that age, seated on a bench outside Blackmore Hall, sketching away in her little book, gazing out at the fish pond with a quiet smile and a wistful sigh.
“I stopped him. A stone to the head. He may suspect it was me who struck him, but he never said a word about it, even after we transferred her to another school in Exeter. Took away his plaything. Perhaps that is why he is so determined to …”
Colin blinked and refocused on Sarah. “You believe he is pressuring you to marry him as a replacement?”
“Perhaps. I have not bothered to ask him. I cannot bear to be in his presence.”
“Why do you not simply tell everyone what you witnessed? Surely, that would blacken his name sufficiently—”
She shook her head. “Although my father wished it otherwise, the girls who attend St. Catherine’s Academy are here for one reason, and it is not to learn mathematics or study poetry. They are to be prepared for the marriage mart.”
He sighed as understanding dawned. “She would be ruined.”
Sarah’s mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile. “Yes. Impure, they would say. Some might have sympathy for her, if they knew, but her chances of making a good marriage would be scant.”
Sick to his stomach, Colin felt his veins pulse beneath his skin. It was not his fight, to be sure. He did not know the girl, had never been introduced to the vile Mr. Foote. Still, he longed to deliver an excruciating death. When had these violent impulses begun? Perhaps he should begin drinking again. He’d been quite an agreeable fellow when he’d been sotted most of the time.
“Colin,” he said softly.
She blinked. “Beg pardon?”
“My name is Colin.”
Her mouth formed a little O. “And your last name?”
He paused before answering. “Clyde.” It was not a complete lie. Clyde was one of his names.
Nodding, she sniffed, propped her arms on her knees, and gave him a wry grin. “How lovely to meet you, Mr. Clyde. Would you consider becoming my intended husband? Temporarily, of course.”
He stared at her, unable to return her smile. “I cannot stay, Sarah. What I told you in the wagon is true. I am a danger to you. The longer I remain, the greater the risk to your safety.”
“If you were truly dangerous, the last thing you would do is warn me away—”
“The man who did this”—he placed a hand over his ribs—“will stop at nothing to find me, including harming those who may harbor me. You. Your mother.”
She looked bewildered, her eyebrows drawing together, her lips pursing. “What does he want with you?”
Sighing, Colin braced one hand on the ground and one on the trunk behind him. Pressing his palm into the rough bark, he heaved himself up onto his feet.
Sarah scrambled to help him, tucking her shoulder beneath his arm and wrapping herself along his side. She was warm and soft, for all her slender strength. A small, honeyed woman constructed of pure determination. As weak as he was, his body reacted with startling appreciation.
Bloody hell. He must leave as soon as possible.
“I took something from him,” he answered, panting the words as a wave of dizziness nearly sent him back to the ground. He leaned on her, closed his eyes, and waited for it to pass.
“What was it?”
When he opened his eyes, she was gazing up at him, her face upturned and close. So very close. Slowly, he grinned. “Peace of mind.”
“I don’t understand.”
Chuckling, he slid his arm from her shoulders down to her waist and gave her a pat. A trim waist it was, thin even. She needed to eat more. “I know. But he does. And that is what matters.”
With that, he withdrew from her and walked slowly, gingerly toward the road. She should not be touching him. She should be outraged by his familiar manner and order him to leave her sight.
“Mr. Clyde!” She trotted to his side. Determined little woman.
“Colin will do. We are engaged, after all.”
Her footsteps halted then resumed. “We—we are?”
“For the moment.”
Silence fell between them as their plodding shadows grew longer on the hard-packed dirt. The sounds of distant, girlish chatter carried across the valley on a crisp breeze.
“You intend to leave,” Sarah said softly. It was not a question.
Keeping his eyes forward, he nodded. “Tomorrow. I will need your help to retrieve my horse. What you tell the villagers afterward is entirely at your discretion. I shan’t contradict you.”
For long minutes, Colin focused on simply placing one foot in front of the other. His stitches pulled, his ribs burned, his head throbbed like a thumb stomped by a boot. Or struck with a cricket ball. Bloody hell, he longed for her bed, her hands stroking his forehead and playing with his hair, her quiet, reassuring voice telling him to rest. Apart from his sister, no woman had ever offered him such care.
“Why did you do it?” he asked quietly.
“Do what?”
“Rescue me. Was it this ruse of yours?”
When he squinted at her, she shrugged, the sunlight streaming through her frizz of hair, surrounding her face in amber. “We took you with us because … well, because you needed us. You would have died there. I could not let that happen.” Her chin tilted up a fraction. “It was only later that I wondered if you were the answer.”
“To your problem.”
“To my prayers.”
Even to his own ears, his laugh was cynical. “Believe me, sweet, I am the last thing God would deliver to anyone worthy of His benevolence.”
“Still, I needed someone to stand between me and Mr. Foote for a time, and you appeared,” she replied. “Absent evidence to the contrary, I am choosing to see you as a blessing.”
Again, he laughed. “First time I have been referred to in such a way, I assure you.”
They reached the valley floor before she spoke again. “Must you leave tomorrow, truly?”
He sighed, his resilience sapped by his wounds and the endless, mud-plagued ride from London. Oh, and months of being hunted by a soulless butcher. That one did take the vigor out of a man. “I have told you I cannot stay.”
“No, I … I am not asking you to stay forever. The day after tomorrow is Sunday. The curate, Mr. Dunhill, has organized a gathering in the churchyard. A picnic. Would you consider … that is, could you possibly …?”
Squinting at her, he shook his head. “Apologies, sweet. You may tell your fellow parishioners whatever you like, but come morning, I shall be gone.”
Her throat worked on a hard swallow, and she nodded.
The eastern sky turned a pale violet as the sun dipped below the hill behind them. Soon, darkness would come. Then morning, and with it, his departure. What made it such a hollow thought, he did not know.
Halfway up the slope toward her cottage, Colin’s lungs and legs were burning. He paused, bending forward with his palms braced on his thighs. Bloody hell, he was weak.
A warm, gentle hand settled between his shoulder blades just as a frayed skirt swayed into his view near his newly purchased boots. “Easy now, Mr. Clyde,” she said quietly. “You are still healing.” Fingers threaded through his hair, there and gone so quickly, they felt like a fairy’s touch. “The wayward cricket ball did not help matters.”
“Colin,” he panted, his heart thudding with a bit more enthusiasm than his climb demanded. He turned his head toward her. She was close, her tidy bosom inches from his face. “At least, when we are alone together.”
“Very well. Colin.”
He liked the way she said his name. He liked the feel of her hands. He liked her nicely proportioned bosom and pixie face. He liked … her. This could easily turn disastrous. Thank heaven he was leaving.
“… well enough to reach the cottage?”
Dragging his gaze away from her bodice, he shook his head to clear his thoughts and straightened upright. His answer to her query was to resume his slow pace, ignoring the way the road blurred and tilted before him.
“Colin?” she said, easily keeping pace by his side. Why did she have to say it like that, the two syllables like drops of honey on her tongue?
He grunted.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Earlier, in the village. You could have exposed the truth. Things would have gone quite abominably if you had. For me, that is.” As they neared the cottage, which gleamed white in the disappearing light, she trotted ahead to open the gate.
He replied, “If you knew me better, you would not have doubted for a moment.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “The soul of discretion, are you?”
“More like the soul of deception.”
The grin she gave him—slow and wise and a bit mischievous—stole what little breath he had. Good God, when had she become such a temptation?
“Oh, I had my suspicions about you,” she said.
As he walked through the open gate, she spun around to face him, close now. Close enough that he felt the differences in their height, the strange pulse of their proximity. He frowned. “Did you?”
“Mmm.” She nodded, still grinning, her hands on her hips. “I knew that a man who could escape what you obviously endured must have some cleverness in him. And who could be so clever and still land himself in such a spot?”
“Not the kind of man you should bring into your home, that much is certain.”
She stepped closer, her head craned back on her dainty neck. “Now, that is where you are mistaken. You were precisely the man I needed, at precisely the moment I needed you.” With that, she turned on her heel and headed for the cottage’s front door. “As I said before,” she threw over her shoulder as she twisted the knob. “When you pray for a solution, and God sends you a scoundrel, it is best to say thank you.”
*~*~*