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.

Yet, for the first time in her life, after her experiences of the evening, Sarah had a glimmer of understanding for all those women who did crave pretty speeches and flirtatious glances. There had been something about the square shoulders and broad chest that had made her heart beat just a little faster, had made her wish that somehow, incredible though it might be, she could work the same effect on him that he had worked on her. Sarah shook her head firmly, dismissing such absurd thoughts. Far better to be appreciated for one’s character than one’s beauty. After all, one’s physical attractions soon faded, but one’s character could only grow stronger with the passing years. Still, it would be wonderful, just for once, to be as beautiful as Rosalind was, and, even more important, to be so certain of that beauty.

Sarah would have been astounded to know that, in fact, the earl was thinking of her in much the manner that she wished he was as he made his way slowly and carefully back to Cranleigh, his mind a jumble of images: Sarah at the door, pale but composed with a letter opener clutched in her hand; Sarah bending over him, bathing his wound with the firelight catching the golden highlights in her hair; Sarah listening to him round-eyed, her eyes dark with sympathy and understanding. He could not remember a time in his life when he had asked anyone for help, had ever really needed anyone, man or woman. Now, when he had, she had been there, calm and reassuring with her gentle comforting touch. Undoubtedly, he could have managed on his own if he had had to, but knowing she was nearby, he had been drawn to her in a way he could not quite explain. His instincts had been right, however, and here he was safely on the road to Cranleigh with no one the wiser and hardly the worse for his wound. At the thought of Sarah, Alistair felt a surge of warmth flow through him. Was it happiness? Gratitude? He did not have the least notion, but he savored it as he slid off Brutus and led his mount carefully back to his stall.

Making his way stealthily back to his bedchamber, the earl wished Sarah could know he had made it back safely. She had not spoken, but her face had been so full of worry and concern when she bid him good-bye that he had longed to sweep her into his arms and reassure her that he would be all right.

Now, secure back in his quarters, Lord Farringdon, too exhausted to undress, flung himself fully clothed on the bed. If Rogers was surprised at his appearance in the morning, he would just allow his valet to think that he had had an assignation with some female. Alistair grinned to himself in the darkness. In fact, that was not far from the truth, except that the female had been more in the way of a nurse than a lover, not that she had not looked damned attractive in that dressing gown.

And recalling the way the flimsy material had revealed the supple figure underneath it, the gentle swell of a perfectly formed bosom, the long slim line of her leg and the delicate ankle that occasionally peeped through the froth of lace at the hem. Lord Farringdon fell asleep with a smile on his face.