Once a Rake

Book 5: Drake's Rakes

by Eileen Dreyer

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

All he wants is her help . . . Colonel Ian Ferguson may be a rake, but he's no traitor. Accused of trying to kill the Duke of Wellington, the disgraced Scotsman is now a fugitive-from the law, the army, and the cunning assassin who hunts him. Wounded and miles from his allies, Ian finds himself at the mercy of an impoverished country wife. The spirited woman is achingly beautiful . . . and hiding some dangerous secrets of her own. All she needs is his heart . . . She was a child nobody wanted. Now for Lady Sarah Clarke, holding on to her vanished husband's crumbling estate is her final chance to earn respectability. She knows that hiding the devastatingly handsome Ferguson will jeopardize her home. Common sense demands that she turn him in. But a single, delirious kiss shatters her resolve . . . and awakens a passion that neither of them can escape.

Release date: October 29, 2013

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 416

Sample

Prologue

October 1815


Later, no one would be able to agree as to exactly what happened on the HMS Reliance that night. The witnesses were too many and the action too sudden to gain a coherent story.


What everyone did agree on was that about two hours after dusk, the Duke of Wellington came up on the deck of the ship, a fast brig that was carrying him home from France. Surrounded by several of his staff, the very recent hero of Waterloo and military governor of France was in an excellent mood, the distinctive bray of his laugh carrying out over the choppy water as he cupped his hands to light a cigarillo. The waxing moon slung a thin necklace of diamonds across the water, and the wind was freshening. Off to port, the coast of Dorset appeared a black void against the diamond-rich sky, which put them two days out of the port of London.

The second fact no one could dispute was that when the group came up on deck, one man could easily be distinguished among them. Standing well over six feet, Colonel Ian Ferguson of the Black Watch towered over his commander. It wasn’t only his height that made him memorable. Even in the uncertain light of the night-running lanterns, his hair shone like fire, and his shoulders were as wide as a Yule log.

In the few days he’d been with the duke, Ferguson had proved himself to be loud, funny, fierce, and uncompromising. And even though he proclaimed himself a loyal Scot, he swore he was Wellington’s man. Which was why it was so puzzling that he would pull out a gun and point it right at the duke.

“A gun!” someone yelled. “To the duke!”

Chaos erupted on the deck. Men scattered, shouting warnings and commands. Others threw themselves in front of the great man. Swords were drawn. Several men must have had guns, because suddenly there was a staccato pop-pop-popping. Acrid puffs of smoke cut visibility, and the ship heeled a bit as the steersman ran to help. Some men prayed, one wept, and the Duke of Wellington, much as he had on innumerable battlefields, stood his ground, a cigarillo in hand and a bemused expression on his face.

“What the devil?” he demanded, looking down to where a man lay on the deck at his feet.

The deck stilled suddenly, the smoke writhing about the men and sharpening the air as the sails flapped uselessly above them. Bare feet thundered below as the crew roused to the alarm.

“He tried to shoot you!” one of his aides accused, already on the run to the railings.

“What?” Wellington barked, his focus still down. “Simmons here? Don’t be ridiculous. Get more lamps lit. Let’s see what’s going on here.”

There was no question that Simmons was dead. A sluggish pool of black blood spread out from behind his head, and his eyes stared open and fixed on the heavens. One of the crew retrieved the man’s pistol from his outstretched hand and stood.

“No, sir,” one of the officers said as he bent over Simmons. “Ferguson.”

“Who?” Wellington demanded, finally turning to look.

“That Scotsman. The one who tried to shoot you!”

“Ferguson?” Wellington stopped on the spot. “Bollocks.”

One of his newer aides, the Honorable Horace Stricker, stepped out of the shadows, holding on to a bleeding arm. “Saw him myself, your grace. Pointed that popper right at you.”

Wellington pointed at the body on the deck. “And Simmons here?”

Everyone looked around, as if seeking answers.

“He must have gotten in the way of Ferguson’s bullet,” Stricker said. “I shot the Scot. Where is he?”

Two people pointed over the side of the ship. One of Wellington’s staff pocketed Simmons’s pistol. The bo’sun ran up with several lighted lanterns, which cast an eerie, wavering light over the scene.

“Well, find him,” Wellington demanded. “I’ll be in my cabin.”

All came to attention as he passed, but Wellington didn’t seem to notice. He seemed preoccupied, shaking his head slightly, as if wiping something away. More than one sailor commented that he looked sadder at the news of who his attacker was than the fact that he’d been attacked at all.

“Hard aport!” the captain bellowed, and men scrambled into the rigging. The ship heeled again, more sharply. “Man the halyards! Prepare to shorten sail and come about!”

Beneath the quick little ship, the water of the channel passed in choppy, frothed waves. The wind was stiff this night, ten knots from the northeast. Any man out in that water would be sorry.

 

Ian Ferguson was damn sorry. Bobbing up like a punctured cork, he shook the water from his eyes and looked up at the slowing ship, a hand pressed to the sharp ache in his chest. He couldn’t figure out what had just happened. He’d come up on deck to share a cigar with Wellington. The next thing he knew, that little riataiche Stricker was pointing a gun at the general.


Ian had reacted instinctively, pulling his own gun and firing at Stricker. Immediately there were guns everywhere, a succession of shots, and suddenly he’d been knocked hard in the chest and catapulted right over the railings. He’d hit the cold channel water with barely a splash.

Did he save Wellington? Had he hit Stricker? God and the Bruce, he hoped so.

Come to think of it, what about that hit to his chest? Kicking hard to stay above the swells, he took a second to look down. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see in the dark water. Blood, maybe. There was a hole in his jacket; he put his finger through it. No injury, though, except for a tender spot over his ribs. He was breathing well and didn’t feel that awful disintegration that came with real injury.


“There he is!” somebody shouted above him.

Ian looked up to see the lighter being hoisted out. A bouquet of heads appeared at the rail, haloed by the thin light of the lanterns. Ian lifted a hand to wave. He heard a sharp snapping sound, and the water near him leapt. Ian froze. Hell and damnation, they were firing at him!

He opened his mouth to shout. Another gun fired.

“Shouldn’t we get him on board?” Ian heard from the first officer.

“And waste time with a court martial?” came the furious answer.

Ian cursed. He hadn’t killed Stricker after all. Now he had to find a way to prove that it was Stricker who had fired the first shot. That Stricker’s cabin was where he’d found the flask. The flask that should have been back at Horse Guards. The flask that he’d . . .

Ian laid his hand back against his chest. He smiled. No wonder he hadn’t been hurt. The silver flask wouldn’t hold a dram anymore, but sure, he bet it held a flattened bullet.

So, Stricker wanted him dead. He’d just see about that.

“Reloaded, sir,” came the faint call.

“Get him before the moon disappears.”

Ian saw the muzzle lowered over the side. A Brown Bess. He sucked in a lungful of air and dove. The pain and the crack came at the same moment. Blast. The bastard had hit him. The air whooshed out of his lung and Ian sank.

This time he didn’t come up.

Chapter 1


Ten days later


Sarah Clarke was not going to let a pig get the best of her. Especially not this pig.


“Willoughby!” she called as she scrambled over the broken fence.

Blast that pig. She had even tied him up this time. But the pen was empty, the wood on one side shattered, and precise little hoof prints marched away through the mud.

Sarah took a brief look at the stone outbuildings that clustered around the old stable. She could hear rustling and creaking, which meant the animals had heard Willoughby escape. But there were no telltale porcine snortings or squeals. If she knew her pig, he was headed due south, straight for disaster.

Sarah rubbed at her eyes. “The cliffs. It had to be the cliffs.”

She hated the cliffs. She hated the height and the uncertain edge and the long, sudden drop she had almost made on more than one occasion all the way to the shingle beach below. Just the thought of facing them made her nauseous.

“I have better things to do,” she protested to no one.

It was closing in on evening, and she should be feeding her animals. She needed to help Mr. Hicks rescue the sheep who had taken advantage of another fallen fence to wander in among Sir Magnus’s prized Devon Longwools. Then she needed to inspect the debris that seemed to be diverting the stream into her wheat field. Instead she would be dancing on the edge of death to collect her pig.

She sighed. She had no choice. Willoughby was Fairbourne’s best source of income. And he was in imminent danger of tumbling off the edge of Britain.

Ducking into the barn to retrieve her secret weapon, she picked up her skirts and ran for the path that snaked through the beech spinney. It was the same route Willoughby had taken the day before and the week before that.

Oh, why couldn’t he become enamored of an animal in his own farmyard?

“If it weren’t for the fact that you are such a good provider,” she muttered, pushing her hair out of her eyes with one hand as she ran, “I’d leave you to your fate. Stupid, blind, pig-headed…well, I guess you would be, wouldn’t you?”

Both pig-headed and blind. One of her husband, Boswell’s, few good ideas, Willoughby was a new breed called the Large Black, which produced lovely gammon and even lovelier babies. He also had ears that were so large they flopped over his eyes, making it difficult for him to see. The problem was, Willoughby didn’t seem to notice until he was trapped in mire or running right over a crumbling escarpment.


Why couldn’t Fairbourne have been situated farther away from the sea? Sarah mourned as she wove her way through the wood. Somewhere like, oh, she didn’t know, Oxford. Quiet, dry, and relatively clean. Away from oceans or high cliffs, with libraries that held more than Debrett’s and gothic novels. Yes, especially libraries.

Not that she had ever actually seen Oxford. But she had always thought how wonderful it must be to stroll the stone walks and smooth greens that stretched beneath golden spires, soaking in the history, the culture, the learned discourse of men in flapping black robes. Books and lectures and good dinner conversation. No mud, no mucking out, no pigs of any stripe. But especially no Great Blacks with a predilection for falling in love with inappropriate species.

His latest amour resided in Squire Bovey’s pastures, which were reached by way of the coastline. The coastline, which at this point was a cliff several hundred feet above the Channel and apt to crumble for no reason.


Sarah was still running when she burst through the trees into a hard blast of cold Channel wind. She stumbled to a halt, her heart stuttering. Beyond her the land rolled away, barren of all but bracken as far as the jagged, uncertain cliffs. She could see the better part of a mile both ways. She did not see her pig.

Oh, lord, please don’t let him have gone over. He’s the difference between getting by and going hungry.


She was still standing fifty feet from the cliff working up the nerve to get close enough for a look down when she caught the sound of a plaintive squeal. Whipping around, she gaped. She couldn’t believe it. There, tucked into the spinney not ten feet away, stood Willoughby, securely tied to a tree. He didn’t look happy, but Willoughby never looked pleased when his plans were thwarted.

Sarah looked around, expecting to see the squire’s boys, or Tom Scar, who did odd jobs in the neighborhood and could always be seen walking this way at end of day.

But there was no one there. Just the grass and bracken and never-ending wind, which tugged impatiently at her skirts and tossed her hair back in her eyes.

Could it be her mysterious benefactor again? For the last few days she had suspected that she had a guest on the estate. She had been missing eggs and once found evidence of a rabbit dinner. Probably a soldier, discharged after ten bloody years of war and left with no job or home. He wasn’t the first. He certainly wouldn’t be the last.

At least he had attempted to repay the estate’s meager bounty. Sarah had come out each morning to find some small task done for her. The breach in a dry stone wall mended. Chicken feed spread, old tack repaired, a lost scythe not only found but sharpened. And now, Willoughby.

Another aggrieved snort recalled her attention. Willoughby was looking at her with mournful eyes. Well, Sarah thought he was. It was difficult to see past those ears. She walked over to let him loose and was butted for her troubles.

Whoever had tied him had known what they were about. It took ten minutes of being goosed by an anxious pig to get the knot loose. Wrapping the rope around one fist, Sarah reached into her apron pocket for the piece of coarse blanket she had plucked from the barn. Fluttering it in front of the pig’s nose, she tugged at the rope. Willoughby gave a happy little squeal and nudged her so hard she almost toppled over. She chuckled. It never failed. She pulled him into motion, and he followed, docile as a pet pug.

It had been Sarah’s greatest stroke of genius. Willoughby might not be able to see all that well, but a pig’s sense of smell was acute. So Sarah collected items belonging to Willoughby’s current amour to nudge him along. Her only objection was the fact that her pig couldn’t tell the difference between her and the squire’s mare.


“Come along, young man,” she coaxed, striding back through the spinney with him in tow. “You truly must cease this wandering. Your wife and babies are waiting for you. Besides, I have four very pretty sows coming next week to make your acquaintance, and you needs must be here. It is iniquitous, I know, but I need that money to tide us over the winter.”

If Willoughby finally did manage to tumble off that cliff, she would have no money at all to make it through. She would have no pig to sire new babies, and no stud fees. So the first thing she must do when she returned was fix the pen. Then she still had lost sheep and a diverted stream to attend to before finishing her evening chores.

As she did every autumn, when the farmyard was perennially muddy and her skin chapped, Sarah wished she were somewhere else. It wasn’t as bad in spring or summer, because then she had growing things, new babies to raise, the comfort of wildflowers and warm skies. Every spring she imagined things could be better. Every autumn she admitted the truth. She was caught here at Fairbourne, and here she would stay. She had nowhere else to go.

She wouldn’t think of that, though. It served no purpose, except to eat away at her heart. Tucking the bit of blanket on the fence where Willoughby could smell it, she tied him up with a scratch of the ears and an admonition to behave. Then, rewrapping her muffler against the chill, she went about her work, ending with a visit to the henhouse.

It was when she slipped her hand beneath Edna the hen that she knew for certain who had tied up Willoughby. Edna was her best layer, and yet the box was nearly empty. Sarah checked Martha and Mary and came up with similar results. Someone had taken their eggs. And it hadn’t been a fox, or at least one of her birds would have been a pile of bloody feathers.

Well, Sarah thought, collecting what was left. Her visitor had earned his meal. She wished she had seen him, though. She could have at least rewarded him with a few scones for rescuing Willoughby from sure disaster.

On second thought, she considered with her first real smile of the day, maybe not scones. They would be Peg’s scones, and Peg’s scones could be used for artillery practice. No one should be rewarded that way.

Sarah might have thought no more of the matter if the men hadn’t ridden up. She was just shoving the chicken coop door closed when she heard horses approaching over the rise from the Pinhay Road. She sighed. Now what?

Giving up the idea that she would eat anytime soon, she gave the coop a final kick and strode off toward the approaching riders. She was just passing the old dairy when she caught movement out the corner of her eye. A shadow, nothing more, by the back wall. But a big shadow. One that seemed to be sitting on the ground, with long legs and shoulders the size of a Yule log.

It didn’t even occur to her that it could be anyone but her benefactor. She was about to call to him when the riders crested the hill and she recognized their leader.

“Oh, no,” she muttered, her heart sinking straight to her half-boots. This was not the time to betray the existence of the man who had saved her pig. She closed her mouth and walked straight past.

There were six riders in all, four of them dressed in the motley remnants of their old regiments. Foot soldiers, by the way they rode. Not very good ones, if the company they kept was any indication. Ragged, scruffy, and slouching, they rode with rifles slung over their shoulders and knives in their boots.

Sarah might have dismissed them as unimportant if they had been led by anyone but her husband’s cousin, Martin Clarke. She knew better than to think Martin wished her well. Martin wished her to the devil, just as she wished him.

A thin, middling man with sparse sandy hair and bulging eyes, Martin had the harried, petulant air of an ineffectual law clerk. Sarah knew better. Martin was as ineffectual as the tides.

Just as Sarah knew he would, he trotted past the great front door and toward the outbuildings where he knew he could find her at this time of day. She stood where she was, egg pail in hand, striving for calm. Martin was appearing far too frequently lately.

Damn you, Boswell, she thought, long since worn past propriety. How could you have left me to face this alone?


“Martin,” she greeted Boswell’s cousin as he pulled his horse to a skidding halt within feet of her. She felt sorry for the horse, a short-boned bay that bore the scars of Martin’s spurs.

“Sarah,” Martin snapped in a curiously deep voice.

He did not bow or tip his hat. Martin knew exactly what she was due and wasn’t about to let her forget it. Sarah wished she had at least had the chance to tidy her hair before facing off with him. She hated feeling at a disadvantage.

“Lady Clarke,” the sixth man said in his booming, jovial voice.

Sarah’s smile was genuine for the squire, who sat at Martin’s left on an ungainly-looking sorrel mare. “Squire,” she greeted him, walking up to rub the horse’s nose. “You’ve brought our Maizie to call, have you? How are you, my pretty?”

Pretty was not really a word one should use for Maizie. As sturdy as a stone house, she was all of seventeen hands, with a Roman head and a shambling gait. She was also the best hunter in the district, and of a size to carry Squire’s massive girth.

Maizie’s arrival was met by a thud and a long, mournful squeal from the pigpen.

The squire laughed with his whole body. “Still in love, is he?”

Sarah grinned back. “Caught him not an hour ago trying to sneak over for a tryst.”

The squire chuckled. “It’s good someone loves my girl,” he said with an affectionate smack to the horse’s neck. Maizie nuzzled Sarah’s apron and was rewarded with an old fall apple. Willoughby sounded as if he were dying from anguish.

“Thank you for the ale you sent over, Squire,” Sarah said. “It was much enjoyed. Even the dowager had a small tot after coming in from one of her painting afternoons.”

“Excellent,” he said with a big smile. “Excellent. Everyone is well here, I hope? Saw Lady Clarke and Mizz Fitchwater out along the Undercliff with their paints and hammers. They looked to be in rude health.”

Sarah smiled. “They are. I will tell them you asked after them.”

“This isn’t a social call,” Martin interrupted, shifting in his saddle.

Sarah kept her smile, even though just the sight of Martin sent her heart skidding around in dread. “To what do I owe the honor then, gentlemen?”

“Have you seen any strangers around?” the squire asked, leaning forward. “There’s been some theft and vandalism in the area. Stolen chickens and the like.”

“Oh, that,” Sarah said with a wave of her hand. “Of course. He’s taken my eggs.”

Martin almost came off his horse. “Who?”

Shading her eyes with her hand, Sarah smiled up at him. “Who? Don’t you mean what? Unless you name your foxes.”

That obviously wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for. “Fox? Bah! I’m talking about a man. Probably one of those damned thievin’ soldiers wandering the roads preying on good people.”

Did he truly not notice how his own men scowled at him? Men who undoubtedly had wandered the roads themselves? Well, Sarah thought, if she had had any intention of acknowledging her surprise visitor, Martin’s words disabused her of the notion. She wouldn’t trust Napoleon himself to her cousin’s care.

“Not unless your soldier has four feet and had a long bushy tail,” she said, genially. “But I doubt he would fit the uniform.”

The squire, still patting his Maizie, let out a great guffaw. “We’ll get your fox for you, Lady Clarke,” he promised. “Not great hunt country here. But we do. We do.”

“Kind of you, Squire. I am certain the girls will be grateful. You know how fatched Mary and Martha can get when their routine is disturbed.”

“Martha . . .” Martin was getting redder by the minute. “Why haven’t I heard about this? You boarding people here? What would Boswell say?”

Sarah tilted her head. “I imagine he’d say that he was glad for the eggs every morning for breakfast, Martin.”

For a second she thought Martin might have a seizure, right there on his gelding. “You’re not going to get away with abusing your privilege much longer, missy,” he snapped. “This land is . . .”

“Boswell’s,” she said flatly. “Not yours until we know he won’t come back.”

“Bah!” Martin huffed. “It’s been almost four months, girl. If he was coming back, he’d be here.”

Sarah stood very still, grief and guilt swamping even the fear. Instinctively her gaze wandered over to what she called Boswell’s arbor, a little sitting area by the cliff with a lovely view of the ocean. Boswell had loved sitting there, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He had planted all the roses and fitted the latticework overhead.

His roses, though, were dying. His entire estate was dying, and Sarah was no longer certain she could save it.

“He will be back, Martin,” she said, throwing as much conviction as she could into her voice. “You’ll see. Men are returning from Belgium all the time. The battle was so terrible it will be months yet before we learn the final toll from Waterloo.”

It was the squire who brought their attention back with a sharp harrumph.


Sarah blushed. “My apologies, Squire,” she said. “You did not come here to be annoyed by our petty grievances. As for your question, I have seen no one here.”

“We’ve also been told to keep an eye out for a big man,” the squire said. “Red hair. Scottish. Don’t know that it’s the same man that’s raiding the henhouses, but you should keep an eye out anyway.”

Sarah was already shaking her head. After all, she hadn’t seen anything but a shadow. “Wasn’t it a Scot who tried to shoot Wellington? I saw the posters in Lyme Regis. I thought he was dead.”

The squire shrugged. “We’ve been asked to make sure.”

“I’m sure you won’t mind if we search the property,” Martin challenged.

He was already dismounting. Sarah’s heart skidded, and her palms went damp. “Of course not,” she said with a faint wave. “Start with the house. I believe the dowager will be just as delighted to see you as the last time you surprised her.”

Martin was already on the ground and heading toward the house. With Sarah’s words, he stopped cold. Sarah refused to smile, even though the memory of Lady Clarke’s last harangue still amused her.

“Just the outbuildings,” he amended, motioning to the men to follow him.

Sarah was a heartbeat shy of protesting when she heard it. Willoughby. The thudding turned into a great crash and the heartfelt squeals turned into a near-scream of triumph. She turned just in time to jump free as the pig came galloping across the yard, six hundred pounds of unrestrained passion headed straight for Squire’s horse.

Unfortunately, Martin was standing between Willoughby and his true love. And Sarah sincerely doubted that the pig could see the man in his headlong dash to bliss. Sarah called out a warning. Martin stood frozen on the spot, as if staring down the specter of death. Howling with laughter, the squire swung Maizie about.

It was all over in a moment. Squire leapt from Maizie and gave her a good crack on the rump. With a flirtatious toss of the head and a whinny, the mare took off down the lane, Willoughby in hot pursuit. But not before the boar had run right over Martin, leaving him flat in the mud with hoofprints marching straight up his best robin’s egg superfine and white linen. Sarah tried so hard to keep a straight face. The other men weren’t so restrained, slapping legs and laughing at the man who’d brought them as they swung their horses around and charged down the lane after the pig.

Sarah knew that she was a Christian, because she bent to help Boswell’s unpleasant relation off the ground. “Are you all right, cousin?”

Bent over and clutching his ribs, Martin yanked his arm out of her grasp. “You did that on purpose, you bitch.”

The squire frowned. “Language, sir. Ladies.”

Martin waved him off as well. “This is no lady, and you know it, Bovey. Why my cousin demeaned himself enough to marry a by-blow . . .”

Sarah laughed. “Why, for her dowry, Martin. You know that. Heavens, all of Dorset knows that.”

The only thing people didn’t know was the identity of her real father, who’d set up the trust for her. But then, knowing had been no benefit to her.

“What Dorset knows,” Squire said, his face red, “is that you’ve done Boswell proud. Even kind to his mother, and I have to tell you, ma’am, that be no easy feat.”

Sarah spared him another smile. “Why, thank you, Squire. That is kind of you.”

The squire grew redder. Martin harrumphed.

“Climb on your horse, Clarke,” Squire said. “It’s time we left Lady Clarke to her work. We certainly haven’t made her day any easier.”

Martin huffed, but he took up his horse’s reins. He was still brushing off his once-pristine attire when the soldiers, bantering like children on a picnic, returned brandishing Willoughby’s lead, the pig following disconsolately behind.

With a smile for the ragged soldier who’d caught him, Sarah held her hand out for the rope. “Thank you, Mr. . . .”

The man, lean and lined from sun and hardship, ducked his head. “Greggins, ma’am. Pleasure. Put up a good fight, ’e did.”

She chuckled. “I know all too well, Mr. Greggins.” Turning, she smiled up at her neighbor. “Thank you, Squire. I am so sorry you had to send Maizie off.”

The squire grinned at her, showing his gap teeth and twinkling blue eyes. “Aw, she’ll be at the bottom of the lane, right enough. She knows to get out of yon pig’s way.”

Tipping his low-crowned hat to Sarah, he turned to help Martin onto his horse. Sarah waved farewell and tugged a despondent Willoughby back to his pen. She was just pulling the knot tight when she caught sight of that shadow again, this time on her side of the coop. Casting a quick glance to where the squire had just mounted behind the pig-catching soldier Greggins, she bent over Willoughby.

“I wouldn’t show myself yet if I were you,” she murmured, hoping the shadow heard her. “And if it was you who let Willoughby go a moment ago, I thank you.”

“A search would have been…problematic,” she heard, and a fresh chill chased down her spine. There was a burr to his voice. A Scot, here on the South Dorset coast. Now, how frequently could she say she’d seen that?

“You didn’t by any chance recently shoot at someone, did you?” she asked.

As if he would tell the truth, if he were indeed the assassin.

“No’ who you think.”

She should turn around this minute and call for help. Every instinct of decency said so. But Martin was the local magistrate, and Sarah knew how he treated prisoners. Even innocent ones. Squeezing her eyes shut, Sarah listened to the jangle of the troop turning to leave.

“Give you good day, Lady Clarke,” the squire said, and waved the parade off down the drive.

Martin didn’t follow right away. “This isn’t over, missy,” he warned. “No thieving by-blow is going to keep me from what is mine. This land belongs to me now, and you know it. By the time you let go, it will be useless.”

Not unless the shingle strand sinks into the ocean, she thought dourly. The only thing Martin wanted from Fairbourne was a hidden cove where boats could land brandy.


Sarah sighed, her mind made up. She simply could not accommodate Martin in this or anything. Straightening, she squarely faced the dyspeptic man where he stiffly sat his horse. “Fairbourne is Boswell’s,” she said baldly. “Until he returns, I am here to make sure it is handed back into his hands in good heart. Good day, Martin.”

Martin opened his mouth to argue, and then saw the squire and other men waiting for him. He settled for a final “Bah!” and dug his heels into his horse. They were off in a splatter of mud.

Sarah stood where she was until she could no longer hear them. Then, with a growing feeling of inevitabilit