The Reluctant Heiress Page 13

  Alistair made his way back to the chair and poured himself another glass of brandy, swallowing a generous amount before he set the glass down. The immediate pain from the wound was beginning to recede, and he felt curiously comfortable and at home as he sat staring into the fire. He supposed it had to do with having risked trusting someone for the very first time in his life and having that trust fulfilled. Why, he could not have done better himself if a friend in trouble had suddenly shown up at his own doorstep.

  It was odd how proud and gratified he felt that Sarah had performed so beautifully. He shook his head. Sarah would call that a rather arrogant way of looking at it—that she had justified his good opinion of her—but he did not really mean it that way. It was just that Alistair had been drawn to her from the outset, had sensed something different about her—an integrity, a fineness of character—and, cynic that he was, he had not truly allowed himself to believe that it actually existed. Now she was proving it all to be just as he had hoped, and Alistair was oddly grateful to her for it.

  His reflections were interrupted by the lady herself as she came bustling back into the library, shaking out his jacket and shirt. “There. I have sponged them off, stitched them, and brushed the jacket. They should stand up to all but the most careful inspection; however, you may have to concoct a suitable story for your valet.”

  Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her. “And what story shall I concoct for you?”

  “Why, nothing. What you do is your business. I have no need to be privy to it,” she replied simply as she draped his garments in front of the fire to dry. In truth, she seemed far more interested in restoring them in some semblance of repair to their owner than in uncovering the reasons behind his unusual appearance at such an hour.

  Alistair shook his head, smiling. What a remarkable person. “But surely you must have some explanation of your own for my ... oh ... er, present unfortunate circumstances.”

  Sarah gave a last twitch to the jacket she was hanging.

  “Why I assumed you were smuggling.” Her tone was as calm as though she had suggested he were out for a morning ride.

  “Smuggling!” Alistair was nonplussed.

  Surprised at his vehement reaction, Sarah turned to look at him. “Well, many people do, you know, though most of the men from the village who are involved do it because they are in more desperate straits than you appear to be. However, appearances can be most deceiving.”

  “You thought I was a smuggler, and you took me in to your house?”

  “You were wounded,” she responded simply as she poured him another glass of brandy.

  Alistair remained silent for a moment, stunned, and just the tiniest bit hurt at her ready assumption that he was involved in some nefarious activity. Did she truly believe that he was that bad, that he was such a loose fish he was dead to all finer feelings? It was a measure of the respect he held for Sarah that he cared so much for her opinion. Normally, he did not give a fig for what anyone thought, most of those around him being so self-centered and so vain that their opinions mattered very little to him, if at all.

  But Sarah was different. She was someone who had thought about life and lived it purposefully. Unwilling as he was to admit it, Alistair very much wanted the approval of that sort of a person. A cynical smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. So many women had tried to cast him in the role of their preux chevalier, someone who would protect them and work miracles for their sake that he had obstinately resisted these efforts. Several times he had even behaved quite badly, simply to discourage such expectations, yet now he wished to be regarded in precisely that light by a mere country nobody who was not the slightest bit interested in him, and was less dazzling than even the dullest of his flirts. How ironic.

  “No, I was not smuggling,” he replied piously, “I was spying.”

  “Spying!”

  Ha, that had shaken her out of her serene self-possession. However, she was likely to have even more distaste for spies than she did for smugglers, and Alistair hastened to defend himself before Sarah could jump to any conclusions. “Yes, well someone must stop those blasted French. They keep coming over here, infiltrating our government at the highest circles, and gathering so much vital information that our poor lads in the field do not have a sporting chance.”

  “Oh,” Sarah responded blankly.

  “Napoleon possesses a highly organized network of spies that send word of our every plan back to him, and we do nothing. No right-thinking Englishman would dirty his hands in such a nefarious business, so the tactical advantage goes to those who are not hampered by such lofty principles,” the earl continued bitterly.

  Sarah regarded Lord Farringdon curiously. For once the mask of cynicism and nonchalance had slipped to reveal a man who appeared to care deeply, not only about his country, but even about people’s opinions of him. Despite his customary air of ironic indifference and his mocking attitude toward the petty vanities of his peers, he had obviously suffered at their hands or he would not be so defensive now. Sarah quite understood. After all, when she had heard the word spy, a vague frisson of disgust had shaken her, and she was less likely to take society’s strictures at face value than most. But now, stopping to consider it, she realized that those involved in protecting the military and political secrets of their country and seeking out the enemy who was endeavoring to discover those secrets ran all the risks of injury or death without participating in the sense of camaraderie enjoyed by those in the military, and certainly without enjoying any of the glory or admiration accorded those who paraded around in splendid uniforms.

  In fact, Lord Farringdon’s seemed an extremely solitary and dangerous occupation with no hope of reward except his own private satisfaction in having done what he could to thwart the enemy. Glancing over at him now as he sat staring into the fire, with lines from pain and fatigue throwing the hawk-like nose and high cheekbones into fine relief, Sarah sensed the basic loneliness of the man—a loneliness that was usually well hidden under a devil-may-care exterior. Her eyes softened. Who could know better than she what it felt like to be looked at askance by one’s fellow creatures simply for establishing one’s own set of values and remaining true to them?

  Sarah longed to smooth back the lock of dark hair that had fallen over his high forehead. More than anything, she wished to bundle him off to bed and let him have the good night’s rest he so obviously needed, but that was out of the question, not so much for the sake of her reputation as for his. Anyone who was a spy needed to maintain a facade of utmost consistency so as not to arouse the least suspicion. But who was the earl tracking here in Kent, and what had gone wrong? Lord Farringdon did not look the sort to be foolish enough to get caught. Had he been betrayed? And what was she to do with him now?

  Chapter Sixteen

  As if reading her thoughts, Alistair smiled grimly. “Never fear, as soon as these are quite dry”—he nodded toward his jacket and shirt—”I shall be on my way. You need not trouble yourself that I shall continue to impose my disreputable presence on you any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  Sarah shook her head, but he had seen the conscious look on her face, even though it was quickly suppressed. “I do not worry for myself,” Sarah protested, “but how are you to ride after the shock, after losing all that blood and ...”

  “After drinking all that brandy,” he finished with a harsh laugh. “Do not fret yourself. I have found my way home in worse shape than this times out of mind. There is no need for concern.”

  The bleakness in his voice and the proud, remote look on his face cut Sarah to the quick. He was so ready to believe himself despised, so determined not to care, not to depend on anyone for anything. This air of desolation wrung her heart, and she could not help laying a gentle hand on his bare shoulder. “Indeed, you mistake me. I was but trying to think of some way to convey you to Cranleigh without arousing suspicion, for it would never do to have the chevalier get wind of even the slightest irregularity.”

 
It was the earl’s turn to look self-conscious. “The chevalier! How did you know it was he? I must be making a bad job of it indeed if you arrive so easily at such a conclusion.”

  The faintest hint of a smile played across Sarah’s mouth, and there was a mischievous twinkle in the green eyes. “Come now, my lord, I fancy I am more awake on all suits than most. I am not stupid, after all, and being less caught up in the flirtation and gossip than the rest of the world, I am more at liberty to look around me. I fancy that no one else noticed, but what I saw was that while you lavished a great deal of attention on the females present at Cranleigh, you also spent a fair amount of time observing the Chevalier d’Evron.”

  The earl was silent for a moment, struck by his companion’s perspicacity. Lady Sarah Melford might eschew the social milieu, but she was a fair observer and judge of humankind, it seemed. He could not help feeling chagrined. “Still and all, I ought to have been clever enough, or at least careful enough to disguise my interest in the gentleman.” But in a way Alistair was glad he had not deceived her, for two reasons. One, he liked it that she was perceptive enough to notice and deduce such things, and, two, the thought of deceiving someone whom he was coming to respect more and more was repugnant to him. “I have not been very intelligent on all counts.” He pointed to his bandages with a grimace. “I have become what you thought me all along—an arrogant coxcomb—and now I am paying the price of my overweening of confidence and pride.”

  “Why, I never ...” Sarah objected hastily, then catching his eye, she laughed. “Well, perhaps I did think that of you at first, but it was not that long before I began to revise my opinion of you.”

  “A thoroughly reformed character, in fact.” He chuckled.

  “Well, I would not go that far,” she teased. Then, seeing him shift uncomfortably in his chair, she at once became serious. “We must see about getting you back to Cranleigh. Perhaps I can ride behind you and support you and—”

  “What?” Alistair sat bolt upright in spite of the stab of pain in his side. “And have you make your way back here in the dead of night? You may think me a rogue, but I am not so un-gentlemanly as to allow you to do that.”

  “Nor am I such a weak creature as to need an escort,” Sarah retorted spiritedly. “Why, times out of mind I have explored the countryside at night. I am probably a great deal less likely to come to harm than you are. Besides, I assume that the people responsible for your visit here are still roaming about. What if they see you?”

  “They won’t catch me again.” The earl looked grim. “Anyway, what could you do?”

  “Run for help.” Sarah was exasperated now. He must think her a very poor-spirited creature indeed.

  “A fine fix I should be in then.” Alistair refused to listen to her logic. “We might as well take out an advertisement in The Times. “Alistair, Lord Farringdon, Sixth Earl of Burnleigh, wishes to announce that he is a spy for His Majesty’s government and ...”

  “Well, it would not do His Majesty’s government less harm to have you killed!” Sarah shot back, thoroughly irritated with his stubbornness.

  That won a reluctant grin. “Touché. You are in the right of it; however, I think that enough time has elapsed now for them to have given up any hope of catching me, and I am certain that they were unable to identify me. I thank you for your concern, but I feel quite equal to making it back to Cranleigh on my own.” Sarah still looked doubtful. “Believe me. I have gotten out of worse than this—the life of a spy, you know,” he added reassuringly.

  The earl could not help but be amused by the expression on Sarah’s face. She was so obviously torn by curiosity on the one hand and the wish to respect his privacy on the other that she looked for all the world like a little girl begging to be told a story.

  He rose carefully, testing to see if his head swam or the bandages pulled, but everything remained just as it had been. “Some other time I shall tell you of my exploits, but for now I must make it back as quickly as possible. I must not appear suspiciously fatigued in the morning. I do not believe that the chevalier has tumbled to me yet, but I must proceed under the assumption that he is watching me as carefully as I am watching him.”

  For some reason she could not quite fathom, Sarah was loath to see the earl depart. It was so cozy sitting there in the library, talking with him. There was no doubt he was an intriguing character. Every encounter with him was full of interest and never failed to reveal some heretofore unsuspected side to his character. Life had certainly become exciting since he had arrived at Cranleigh.

  Until now, she had never been alone with a grown man except for her brother, her father, Richard, who was like a brother, and the vicar, who did not really count. Yet now, here she was in the middle of the night with a half-dressed man standing in front of her fire, his broad chest wrapped in bandages while she sat there in her dressing gown. Sarah smiled to herself as she rose to retrieve his clothes. How people would talk if they knew. She gathered the earl’s shirt in her hands feeling to see if it was dry before handing it to him. “It is almost as good as new. Certainly no one except your valet will guess that anything untoward happened to it.’

  Alistair reached for it, wincing as he did so.

  “Here, let me help.” Sarah hurried to take the shirt and hold it so he could slip in with a minimal amount of effort. Her breath caught in her throat as the muscles rippled in his arms and shoulders. She had never been so close to a man before, and the warmth, the scent of sweat and the outdoors, was disconcerting in the extreme. She had the strangest urge to wrap her arms around him to revel in the heat and strength of him. How strange. She had never truly thought about such things before, but somehow the warmth and smoothness of the earl’s skin under her hands as she had cleaned and bandaged him had made her experience sensations she had never even known existed. It was with a shock that she realized she was not so immune to the feelings that existed between men and women as she had previously thought.

  Until this moment Sarah had observed maids gazing longingly at footmen, or villagers walking out together, and had never fully understood what drew them together. Only the brief interlude she had witnessed between Rosalind and the earl had given her the slightest inkling of what it was all about. To be sure, it was love, or passion, she knew that, but she had never been able to picture herself in such a situation. Now she could, and for a brief wistful moment she almost wished for something she had hitherto scorned as a weakness. It was a most humbling experience. Forcing her breathing under control, Sarah reached for the jacket and held it out with hands that only betrayed by the slightest tremor her inner turmoil.

  If was fortunate for Sarah that Alistair was too occupied with the awkwardness of the bandage and trying not to aggravate the stabbing pain in his side to notice his companion’s discomposure; fortunate because women so often suffered palpitations when they found themselves in close proximity to one of the ton’s most eligible and attractive males that Alistair would instantly have recognized the signs for what they were. But as it was, he accepted Sarah’s assistance ruefully but gratefully, hoping all the while that he would be able to carry off his return to Cranleigh as nonchalantly as he had led her to believe he could. It was a novel position for the earl, wanting to live up to a woman’s expectations. Heretofore he had always done his best to fall short of them in order to depress female pretensions and discourage the constant pursuit he found himself subject to.

  Was he becoming such a coxcomb that he could not bear it if a woman did not fall at his feet? Alistair considered this for a moment. Surely he was not. Surely it was Sarah’s quick intelligence, her resourcefulness, and her coolness that attracted him to her rather than the fact that she was one of the few, perhaps the only female he had come across who had not pursued him.

  The earl turned and headed toward the French doors through which he had come. Outside, he could see Brutus waiting patiently, tethered to an apple tree. Alistair paused, his hand on the door, and looked down at his hostess. “I
cannot thank you enough. Lady Sarah, for taking me in, for seeing to all my needs so efficiently and, and ...” He hesitated, searching for just the right words to convey to her exactly how much her being there had meant to him.

  Alistair could not believe himself. Was the glib flatterer of the fashionable world’s most beautiful women at a loss for words? He was stammering like a bashful schoolboy. “... and thank you for being ...” For being what, you nodcock, he muttered fiercely to himself. Out with it, man, or she will think your wits are addled. “For being, for being who you are,” he finished lamely. Then taking her hand in his, he bowed low, kissed it gratefully, and was gone, leaving Sarah to stare after him in astonishment, greater astonishment than that with which she had greeted him in the first place that evening.

  As the sound of hooves receded into the darkness, Sarah made her way back to the dying fire and sank into a chair, what an extraordinary evening it had been! And how many unexpected things she had discovered, not only about Lord Farringdon, but about herself. She was flattered that he had trusted her enough to come to her for help, though, being realistic, Sarah conceded that she had been his only choice. And though he did express some surprise and admiration at her calmness in handling the situation, at the same time he rather seemed to have expected her to comport herself precisely as she had. Sarah found that expectation more rewarding than all the compliments he could possibly have showered on her.

  Oh, she knew that any other woman would have preferred to have him call her beautiful or breathe words of longing and admiration in her ears, but Sarah never had wished to have the butter boat dumped over her. Far more meaningful was his sharing with her, his confiding in her as though she was an equal rather than a flirt. Respect was far more important to Sarah than all the admiring speeches other women craved. To be relied upon by someone whom she suspected rarely, if ever, allowed himself to depend on others was high praise indeed, and Sarah took it as the greatest compliment the Earl of Burnleigh could have paid her.