Strangers At Dawn Part 4

"Tenacious?"

She shook her head, and smiled. "I was going to say 'very kind.' "

Her smile dazzled him. It did more. He was struck by the uncanny feeling that he'd been waiting for that smile for a long, long time. But this was ludicrous. He'd never met Sara before. With her dramatic coloring, she wasn't the kind of woman a man would easily forget. Something hovered at the periphery of his mind, but he could not bring it into focus.

She said, "There's not much to tell. I thought I was in love with him once. I discovered that he was a brutal man." She paused, then answered the question in his eyes. "There was a local girl. She was with child, William's child. He deserted her. I found out about it, and that was that."

"And what happened to him?"

"He married someone else and met with a terrible accident."

He smiled. "And good riddance to the world."

"My feelings precisely." She looked pointedly at the clock. "I would offer you refreshments, but time is moving on."

"It's inclined to do that, isn't it? Did you say 'refreshments'? Thank you, I'll take you up on that offer."

Her lips tightened fractionally, but she rose without protest, went to a large battered trunk at the foot of the bed and after a moment or two, produced a silver flask and a small silver cup. She set them on the table in front of Max.

"Medicinal brandy," she said. "It's not the best quality, but it's all there is."

"This will do very nicely, thank you."

Since she didn't offer, he poured himself out a scant measure and cradled the cup in one hand. He wasn't interested in the brandy, but in prolonging the conversation that she so obviously wanted to terminate. He thought he understood her eagerness to be rid of him. She was reluctant to accept what had happened between them. Well, so was he. Maybe there was nothing to it. Maybe it was all in his mind, a trick of his imagination that had imbued this woman with vulnerabilities she seemed to take such pains to conceal. He hoped to G.o.d it was a trick of his imagination. Then he could return to his comfortable bachelor existence and forget all about her.

But he did not think so.

When he'd first caught sight of her, before he'd climbed over the windowsill, he'd been struck by the notion that maybe Deirdre cared for him after all. She'd been on tiptoe, about to blow out the candle, when she'd sunk back on her heels and rested her brow against the mantelpiece. She'd looked so helpless, so forlorn, and he'd been overcome with remorse for the callous way he'd rejected her to go off with his friends. He'd been so sure, until that moment, that Deirdre had never experienced a genuine emotion in her life, unless it was anger. Then she'd squared her shoulders, as though a.s.suming burdens she knew she couldn't throw off, and in the next moment they were plunged into darkness.

And Deirdre's appeal had never seemed more potent. He hadn't been thinking of taking her to bed when he reached for her. All he'd wanted was to take her in his arms and comfort her.

And after he'd discovered that the woman in his arms wasn't Deirdre, her appeal had staggered him, all the more so because his relations with women were always tempered by a healthy dose of cynicism.

In this encounter, however, it was the lady who was cynical. She had herself well in hand now and, he was sure, regretted that she'd allowed him to get too close to her. h.e.l.l, they'd almost become intimate. She couldn't brush that aside as though they'd just shaken hands.

He took a minuscule swallow from his cup, then said softly, "Tell me about yourself, Sara. Where do you live? Where are you going?"

"Max ... " She gave him a pleading look. "None of this matters. I should have told you at the outset. I'm going to be married. That's where I'm going right now, to meet my betrothed's family. It's all arranged." She touched his sleeve, then quickly withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea about me." She glanced at the bed and visibly trembled. "I can't explain what happened between us and I won't even try. But-"

"You're going to be married!" His voice registered his shock.

She bobbed her head. "That's where I'm going now."

The crack of the silver cup as Max set it down on the table made her jump. "You're not wearing a ring."

"It's in my trunk for safekeeping."

"You can't love this man!"

She glanced at the bed again, then looked down at her clasped hands. "Perhaps not, but I'm very fond of him."

"Put him off. Delay the wedding. At least give yourself a chance to know your own mind."

"I do know my own mind."

The eyes that lifted to meet his betrayed no emotion, no regret. He'd seen eyes like hers in astute men of business as they haggled over the sum of money that would change hands. It made him want to reach out and shake her, if only to crack that emotionless mask she was hiding behind.

She went on quickly. "The marriage settlements have been signed. My betrothed has been very generous. When I marry, my brothers and sisters will be financially secure. I can't let them down."

He said through his teeth, "Not to mention your own financial security."

Her eyes clashed with his. "I'd rather be a wife than a mistress." She paused, and a fleeting smile came and went. "Or perhaps I've misjudged you? Perhaps you're a man of substance? Perhaps you're offering to marry me? Can you afford me, Max? Speak now, or forever hold your peace."

At these words, Max's cynicism rose in his throat like bile. He couldn't believe how completely she had taken him in. He'd thought she was different, and she was just like every woman he had ever known. They didn't see men as people, but as bank ledgers, and the larger the balance, the more a man rose in their esteem.

When her stare faltered and her eyes slid away from his, a niggling doubt began to demolish his anger. If she wanted to get rid of him, she was going the right way about it. Maybe he was being too hard on her. She was a female, and she had far more to lose than he did if she followed her heart.

"Sara," he chided, "forget these mercenary ambitions. Take a chance on me. Give us both time to get to know each other. That's all I ask."

She sighed. "It's just as I thought. You can't afford me, can you? And you're not offering marriage either, are you, Max?"

"No to both questions," he snapped. He got to his feet and stared down at her bent head with undisguised contempt. "Then all that remains to be said is to offer you my felicitations on your forthcoming marriage."

Her eyes did not meet his. "Thank you."

Max had hardly quit the room when that niggling doubt blossomed into a full-blown suspicion and finally a conviction. She'd deliberately picked a quarrel with him just to get rid of him. There was no betrothed. If there had been, she would have told him when he'd examined her left hand and found it ringless.

She was a coward, that's what she was, and that's all she was. Something extraordinary had happened between them in that room, but the lady was too craven to admit it.

He was tempted to return and have it out with her, but he heard the key turn in the lock and knew that no words of his could persuade her to open the door to him.

Coward, he said under his breath. Fortunately for the lady, he had enough courage for both of them. It wasn't over yet.

His next thought erased his smile. Deirdre. He had an unpleasant duty to perform, and the sooner it was over, the sooner he could direct all his energies to solving his problems with Sara.

Sara waited till she heard Max's steps receding along the corridor before she moved away from the door. The window was her next object. Only when it was closed and secured did her heart begin to slow. She retreated to her straight-backed chair and wrapped her arms around her s.h.i.+vering body. She felt weak and shaken. She couldn't believe how close she'd come to throwing everything away.

Sara, take a chance on me.

No! No! No! That could only lead to disaster.

When he'd lit the candle and she'd seen at once that he was a Corinthian, she'd thought she'd had a lucky escape. She despised fops, whatever they called themselves. But she'd had to admit that, fop or not, he was a princely creature, princely and gracious and kind. Her imagination hadn't done him justice, but she'd been right about the laughter lines around his eyes and the kind smile.

And she'd been right about the steel in him as well.

Tenacious, he'd called himself, and he hadn't exaggerated. He wouldn't have been satisfied until he had dragged all her secrets out of her. Max Worthe was a dangerous man, and she hoped to G.o.d she never saw him again.

Sara, take a chance on me.

She looked at the bed and a s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed over her. She couldn't begin to explain what had happened in that bed, but it clearly demonstrated a glaring lack in her character. It was demeaning; it was degrading; it was ... the most beautiful experience she'd ever had in her life.

That was one of her failings. She'd never been able to he to herself. And the truth was, she was in mortal danger of losing everything, everything she'd staked her life on.

She stared at that bed for a long, long time, then suddenly rising, she moved quickly around the room, collecting her belongings to pack in her trunk. She would not be easy until she'd put herself well beyond Max Worthe's reach.

The following morning, Max awoke with the birds. It was ever thus when he stayed in the country. Most people thought the country was idyllically peaceful compared to town, but he'd never found it so. The racket of crows and pigeons, not to mention pesky songbirds, never failed to awaken him, though he could sleep through a military parade that pa.s.sed right under his bedroom window in Whitehall.

Town life was much more to his taste.

But this was one morning when he didn't mind getting up with the birds. Dawn was no more than a pale glow on the horizon. Inside the inn, nothing was stirring. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sara, but he wasn't taking any chances. She might be embarra.s.sed to face him after what had happened last night. She might decide to make a bolt for it, and he had other ideas. Until he had met her betrothed in person, he was going to keep Sara Childe in his sights.

The thought that Deirdre was no longer a problem had him humming tunelessly. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror above the washstand as he lathered his face. When he'd entered his room last night, he'd found it empty, but Deirdre had left him an eloquent message, far more eloquent than anything that could be written on paper. She'd unpacked his clothes and cut off the arms of all his coats at the elbow and done much the same thing with his trousers. Only his s.h.i.+rts and underclothes had been spared. So he was reduced to wearing the same coat and trousers he'd worn yesterday.

He didn't know why he was laughing. He couldn't have slept for much more than a couple of hours; his expensive Weston garments were strewn around the floor like a pile of old rags; he was aching all over; and last, but not least, the Exeter Chronicle might well go to someone else because he didn't have the time to pursue it right now.

Peter Fallon was waiting for him in Exeter. Peter would be the one to face the wrath of the irate proprietors when he, Max, didn't turn up to sign the doc.u.ments. It couldn't be helped. Something that he didn't want to put a name to had touched him on the shoulder, and if he turned away now, he would always wonder ...

Sara.

What was it about her that made her so different? He dwelt on that thought as he began to shave. He'd known more beautiful women, but none that fascinated him half as much. The only other woman who had come close to obsessing him was Sara Carstairs, but that was only because she'd got away with murder.

He was sitting on the bed, pulling on his boots, when thoughts of Sara Carstairs intruded again. He was remembering the trial and how nothing seemed to affect her. He remembered how he'd wanted to shake her, if only to put a crack in the mask she hid behind.

Just as he'd wanted to shake Sara last night.

He shook his head. Sara Carstairs was a typical English rose. She had fair hair and blue eyes. Her resemblance to Sara Childe was ...

He sat there, staring blindly at his boots as impressions flashed like lightning inside his head. He'd been waiting for her to smile at him for a long, long time. She seemed familiar to him. He wanted to shake her, if only to put a crack in the mask she hid behind. William had married someone else and met with a terrible accident.

William Neville had married her sister and then she'd murdered him.

William. William Neville.

It couldn't be true. Sara Carstairs had fair hair and blue eyes. It was true that at the trial, her hair had been concealed by her bonnet and she'd never looked out at the spectators, but her complexion was so fair that he'd simply a.s.sumed she was a typical English rose.

And that's how he always remembered her.

He remembered something else about Sara Carstairs. She was a woman to attract men, not by beauty alone, but by an appealing blend of innocence and worldliness. And isn't that what had bewitched him last night? He hadn't known whether to ask Sara to become his mistress or whether she was the kind of woman who would settle for nothing less than marriage.

Sara Childe and Sara Carstairs were one and the same person. He tested his theory gingerly, then, after a long period of reflection, uttered an obscene profanity and flung one boot against the wall. Sara Childe and Sara Carstairs were one and the same person! He didn't know why he hadn't seen it before. Three years had pa.s.sed since he'd seen her, but her impression had been branded on his mind. He thought he would recognize her again, the moment he set eyes on her, but he'd been fooled by that dark, exotic coloring.

He didn't know why he was so angry. He'd hoped for a miraculous escape, and the G.o.ds had just handed it to him. There could never be anything between him and Sara Carstairs. She'd had more lovers than he'd had dinners. He knew this for a fact because he'd ama.s.sed a file on the Carstairs woman with enough information to make a book. She wasn't fussy about who she took to her bed, as last night clearly demonstrated. He could have had her if only he'd persevered.

The very things that had enchanted him last night now tilled him with disgust. He'd thought there was something special between them, but all that Sara Carstairs had wanted was a man, not him in particular. Any man would have done. And he had held off because he'd been taken in by her air of innocence.

He would never make that mistake again.

She'd lied between her teeth. There was no betrothed. She was an heiress in her own right. There was no necessity for Sara Carstairs to marry for financial security. She'd wanted to get rid of him and had hit on that story to throw him off the scent.

She would have flown the coop by now. Last night, he'd been tenacious in his curiosity, and that's what had frightened her. Well, it would be no great labor to follow her trail. There wouldn't be too many carriages on the road at this unG.o.dly hour. He'd pursue her all right, but now his object was anything but lover-like. He wanted a story for his newspaper, and one way or another, he would get it.

Never in his life had he experienced such an icy rage. He waited until he had himself under control before he quit the room.

*Chapter Five*

Miss Beattie opened the newspaper at the personal columns and began to search for Sara's advertis.e.m.e.nt. It was hard to believe that so many gentlemen and ladies could not find a mate in the ordinary way. But Sara was right. There were more entries in the personal columns than there were houses for sale.

She found Sara's advertis.e.m.e.nt and read: Lady of substance, personable, reserved, wishes to meet gentleman of good character (age and fortune immaterial) with the object of contracting a Marriage of Convenience. Apply to Box 41, The Chronicle.

"You'll never guess," said Sara, "how many replies I received."

"How many?"

"Twenty-five."

Miss Beattie's jaw sagged. "How many?"

"Twenty-five." Sara laughed. "I can hardly believe it either. I thought I'd be lucky if I got one or two." She held up a brown paper package. "But here they are. Maggie brought them while you were dressing."

Maggie was the serving girl who came with the suite of furnished rooms Sara had rented for her stay in Bath, the ground floor of a solid, though modest house in Queen's Square. Their landlady, Mrs. Hastings, a widow who had fallen on hard times, lived in the floor above.

Sara had rented the rooms and placed the advertis.e.m.e.nt before she left London. She and Miss Beattie had arrived in Bath the night before, and the first thing Sara did on waking that morning was send the maid to the offices of the Bath Chronicle to collect her replies. She and Miss Beattie were now in the small morning room at the back of the house, enjoying a late breakfast of tea and toast.

Miss Beattie read the advertis.e.m.e.nt again. "I must be stupid, but what is there in this advertis.e.m.e.nt to attract such interest? It says very little."

Sara picked up the silver teapot and refilled Miss Beattie's cup, then her own. A small, cynical smile touched her lips. "That's where you're wrong, Bea. It says plenty if you read between the lines. Shall I translate for you?"

Miss Beattie nodded. "Please do."

"A young woman with a fat bank balance, who doesn't want anyone asking awkward questions about her past, is willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of marrying some impoverished, trustworthy gentleman who will have the grace to make himself scarce as soon as the marriage certificate is signed."

"What!" Miss Beattie choked on a mouthful of tea. She cleared her throat. "You're making that up."

"Oh, no, I'm not. Read it again, Bea. It's all there, though, of course, I've used pretty words to dress it up. We mustn't shock the finer feelings of the gentlemen, must we?"

Miss Beattie read the advertis.e.m.e.nt again and groaned. "You see what this means? You'll have an army of fortune-hunters and ... and shady, disreputable characters beating a path to your door."

"A shady lady cannot be too fussy," declared Sara.

"Sara! Don't talk like that. This is serious."

The smile in Sara's eyes faded a little. "I was only joking, Bea." She didn't add what she was thinking, that many a jest was spoken in earnest. Bea was prejudiced in her favor and wouldn't hear a word against her, not even when it came from her own mouth.