SARAH HAD slept a sleep of exhaustion after the very busy day and a long talk with Lady Murdoch before going to bed. They had decided to keep to their plan to leave Montagu Hall the next morning. They would go to her Aunt Myrtle's, Sarah had decided, where she would break off her engagement to Win. She hoped that could be done without causing unnecessary unpleasantness. She and Lady Murdoch would then go home to Devonshire.
It was in many ways a welcome thought. There she would be able to relax and forget all the emotional upheaval of the last few weeks. It seemed like months since she had known any peace of mind. The years ahead were likely to be dull ones, but she blanked her mind to the prospect. She would think of something to make life meaningful. The years of her early adulthood had been largely wasted in heartache and self-recrimination. But she was young yet. It was far too soon to give up on life.
She had slept deeply. But she awoke very early and could not get back to sleep. It would be hours before she could hope to begin the journey into her unknown future, she thought. It was daylight outside, but she could hear no noises either outside or inside the house. Lady Murdoch was not an early riser, and neither was Win. Also she had promised to see George before she left, and sometimes he was from home until after breakfasttime.
She felt too restless to stay in bed. She pushed the bedclothes back impatiently and crossed to the window. It was a beautiful morning again with all the promise of a glowing early autumn day. The hills looked very inviting. She would get dressed and walk up into them once more. Perhaps she would find the spot where George had made love to her, though she must, of course, train herself soon to forget all such memories. They would do no good to her peace of mind in the life ahead.
Ten minutes later Sarah was walking briskly across the lawn to the bridge, a heavy gray cloak wrapping her warmly against the chill of the morning. It was not even seven o'clock, she had noticed in some surprise when she came downstairs. But she was not sorry she had come. The air was crisp, the grass wet with dew. And she needed this short time to herself, time in which to say her mental good-byes to Montagu Hall, to George, and to love.
It was a pity that she would also have to say a physical good-bye to George before leaving. It would be far easier not to have to face that ordeal, knowing as she looked at him, touched his hand maybe, that it would be the very last time. She felt panic quicken her breathing at the mere thought.
She stopped climbing when she reached the knoll from which there was such a picturesque view of the house. She stood there for many minutes looking down, committing the whole scene carefully to memory, while at the same time telling herself that tomorrow, later today even, she must begin to forget. George Montagu, she thought very deliberately, I love you, but tomorrow I shall start living without you again. She tried to will happiness into his home and his life as she stood there.
And then she saw him, and her heart turned over. He was walking south of the house in the direction of a large grain field and a small pasture. There was another man with him. Mr. Stonewall, Sarah guessed. They must be going to inspect the harvest, though it seemed strange that they were on foot. She had understood that the harvesters were working in a distant field.
It did not matter. She let her eyes rest on the unmistakable figure of George, slender and considerably smaller than his companion. There was an ache of pain in her throat. Under different circumstances she might have been watching him leave from their bedroom window, a familiar but beloved figure after four years of marriage. Instead she stood apart, drinking in this almost final view of the man from whom she had been estranged since their wedding day and who was no longer her husband or her companion and friend. She allowed herself the full luxury of self-pity.
Then her eye was caught by two other figures leaving the house and moving off in the same direction. One of them could be no other than Win. Even at this distance his very handsome physique set him apart from anyone else who was staying at the house. The upright bearing of the other man led her to believe that he was Captain Penny, though she could not be sure.
Sarah frowned. Win? Up at seven o'clock in the morning? And where was he going? Ile two men seemed to be heading in exactly the same direction as George and Mr. Stonewall.
As she stumbled and ran down the hill a minute later, Sarah did not know where the idea had come from. No, it was more than an idea. It was a conviction. "You must not count on Bowen's going with you tomorrow," George had said last night, or words to that effect. Win had run off with George's fianc6e the day before and had intended to trap her into marriage with himself. Of course George would not be able to overlook such an insult to his pride. They were going to duel!
She did not know quite what she was going to do. Stop the fight, of course. But how could she do that? If the challenge had been given and accepted, it would be impossible to persuade two gentlemen to back down. And George would never allow the insult to his honor to pass. There was nothing she could do to stop it. But she sped on,
He would be killed. Oh, dear God, he would be killed. She loved him dearly, and there was no doubt in her mind that George was one hundred times the man that Win was. But even an imbecile could see that George was no match for Win physically. He was at least four inches shorter and did not have nearly Win's breadth of chest and shoulder. He spent his life here at Montagu Hall. He surely would have had no practice at all with pistols or swords. Win traveled around. He was probably adept at manly sports.
George would be killed, and then she would kill Win, she swore she would. She would find a gun somewhere, and she would kill him without any warning at all. She would doubtless hang for the offense, but it would be worth hanging to know that Win was no longer on this earth. And there would be no point in living anyway if she knew that George was dead.
Sarah was panting and deliberately planning murder by the time she was on the house side of the bridge again and running in hot pursuit of the four men, who she now knew were headed in the direction of the pasture. It was out of sight of the house, but the sound of the shots would be heard there, she thought in panic. They would all come running when they heard the report of two pistols, but it would be too late by then. He would be dead.
The pasture was quite open. There was no shelter once one was beyond a thicket of trees that stood between it and the house. Mr. Stonewall and Captain Penny were standing together when Sarah emerged from the trees. Cranwell and Winston were standing apart from each other. Both had removed their coats. Cranwell was already in his shirt sleeves.
Winston spotted her first. "Go back, Sarah," he called. "I appreciate your concern, my love, but this is no place for a lady." His tone was quite cheerful, careless almost.
The other three men looked up sharply. Cranwell paused in his task of rolling back his sleeves and strode over to where she now stood at the open gate to the pasture.
"Sarah," he said, looking at her with frowning concern, "what are you doing here? Bowen is quite right, you know. This is no place for ladies. Go back to the house now."
"You are going to fight," she accused. Her voice was shaking.
"As you see," he said, his eyes looking directly into hers.
"Don't," she said. "Please don't. I know that you feel you must defend Hannah's honor. But I am sure that she would not wish you to fight for her. And I don't think her father would either. And no real harm was done, George. It is not worth dying for."
"No one is going to die here, Sarah," he said, coming closer to her and half-smiling down into her eyes.
"He will shoot you," she said, "and you will be dead before a surgeon can be summoned. I don't want you to die, George."
"Don't you?" he said gently. "But we will not be using weapons, Sarah. Only our fists."
Her eyes grew round with horror. "Fists?" she said. "George, he will kill you for sure. He is twice as strong as you."
He smiled outright. "You may be right," he said, "but I think not. I do a great deal of physical work, Sarah, and am perhaps stronger than I seem. A righteous cause gives one added strength too, I believe. I am eager to begin this fight. Go back to the house, love. And don't worry. No one is going to die."
"I don't want you to be hurt," she almost whispered.
"Perhaps you would like to come and mop my brow too, Sarah," Winston called with a gay laugh. "Or perhaps you are too busy telling your champion there that he does not need to fight for your honor."
Sarah turned her head to look at him and then jerked it back to face Cranwell. "You are not fighting over me?" she asked incredulously.
"Go back now, Sarah," he said. He reached out one hand to touch her arm and try to turn her in the direction of the house again.
"But you did not believe me," she said wildly, pulling her arm away. "Why would you fight over me?"
"I believed you, Sarah," Cranwell said quietly and gently. "Go now."
"I don't want you to fight," she said, close to panic.
"Allow me to escort you part of the way, ma'am." Joshua Stonewall had taken her elbow in a firm grip and was turning her away from the pasture. "Indeed, you must leave, Miss Fifield," he said as she walked with him in some bewilderment. "Cran won't want you here. Penny don't have any more eagerness for this type of thing than I do. We will stop it before any great harm is done. You have my word on it, ma'am. Now, do I have yours that you will go all the way back to the house without stopping?"
Sarah hesitated. "I will give you my word not to try to interrupt the fight anymore," she said dully.
"Not quite what I asked," he said. "But there really is not enough time to take you all the way back m'self. You really ought to go, though, ma'am. It won't be a pretty sight for a lady. You go back. I'll bring him back safely to you."
He left her when they reached the clump of trees and bushes. Sarah turned to watch him go back to the pasture. Both George and Win were now in their shirtsleeves. She felt a knot of panic clench her insides. Now, how had Mr. Stonewall known that it was George she wanted brought back safely? She was still officially betrothed to Win. Or had he meant Win?
She turned around again and half-ran along the path through the trees. She dreaded to hear the sound of fighting behind her. She must get back to the house and up to her room, where she could wait without the distraction of other people around her. They would all still be in bed anyway. But she stopped as abruptly as she had started. How could she go back to the house? How could she wait there, not knowing the outcome, not knowing if George was hurt, perhaps bleeding and unconscious on the ground?
Almost against her will, dreading to look back and watch the violence, Sarah made her way off the path and into the densest of the bushes, pushing her way forward until she could again see the pasture without being seen.
It had already begun. They were circling each other, hands clenched into fists before them. It was such an unequal-looking contest that Sarah had to bite her top lip painfully in a determined effort not to go crashing through the undergrowth in another effort to stop them.
But soon she was clinging to a slim tree trunk, her fingernails digging into the bark, all thought of moving or making a sound or even keeping herself hidden forgotten. Win had thrown the first punch, and it had caught George squarely in the mouth, snapping his head back and making him stagger backward. But he did not fall and no longer circled cautiously. Both men were soon hitting, weaving, and dancing out of the other's range, fighting their way inside the other's guard, landing bruising blows.
To Sarah it seemed that it went on forever. George went down on one knee once, and she tasted blood from her upper lip. Captain Penny was forced to step in to prevent Win from pursuing him to the ground. She thought the fight was all over, but George picked himself up again and fought doggedly on.
Surely neither of them could stand the punishment for much longer, she thought finally. Why did Mr. Stonewall and Captain Penny not put an end to it? What was happening was cruelty. George surely must be half-dead already. He had been pummeled by Win's powerful fists for all of ten minutes, surely. He must go down soon. She prayed it would be very soon. She could not stand seeing him suffer any longer. Oh, dear God, she begged, let it just be over with. Let him go down and stay down before he is killed.
But it was Win who staggered a moment later, his head turning sharply as a blow from Cranwell's fist caught him on the jaw. He did not go down, but he shook his head and appeared not quite steady on his legs. Cranwell followed up his advantage. Winston's guard was no longer effective. His fists were held loosely in front of his body, but there was visibly no strength left in them. He took three more powerful punches to the head before his legs finally buckled under him and he went down.
Sarah held her breath. Splinters of wood lodged beneath her fingernails as she grasped the tree trunk even more tightly. Win did not get up. Soon he would. In a moment he would be up again, his strength renewed. But he did not get up. Captain Penny was bending over his inert form. Mr. Stonewall was shaking George's hand and throwing a loose cloak around his shoulders. They were walking away to the place where George's garments were lying on the grass. And Win did not get up.
Sarah realized suddenly that she was crying. She fumbled around in the pocket of her dress for a handkerchief but found none. She rubbed at her eyes with the backs of her hands and sniffed wetly. Then she laughed shakily. "Oh, George," she said aloud, "I never have a handkerchief when I need one."
She turned and pushed her way back through the bushes. She was feeling panic-stricken again. She had to get across the open land between the bushes and the house before the men came up from the pasture. They must not know that she had watched.
Flying feet were soon carrying her across the lawn to the main doors. The eyes of the wooden-faced footman who opened the door for her looked unusually startled for a moment when Sarah flashed him a radiant smile and whisked her considerably disheveled person up the staircase to her room. He won, her mind was singing over and over again. He won! And he fought for me!
Fanny found Sarah in her room a half-hour later. She knockcd at the door and opened it timidly when Sarah called her to come in.
"Oh," she said, looking around the room, "you are still planning to leave today? Your bags are all packed."
Sarah was sitting at the window. "Yes," she said. "Lady Murdoch is only now breakfasting. When she has finished, we will order the carriage and be on our way…
"Without even saying good-bye to anyone?" Fanny asked.
"I said good-bye to almost everyone last night," Sarah replied. "I was hoping to see you this morning. And, I have promised to see your brother before I leave."
Fanny's face brightened. "Mr. Stonewall sent me up to you," she said, "though I was already looking for an excuse to come. He said I was to tell you that George is all right and that he won the fight."
"I am very glad," Sarah said carefully.
"Did you know that he has been fighting Lord Laing?" Fanny asked, her eyes growing wide. "I was down early this morning or I might never have known. Though I suppose the news cannot be kept quiet. Mr. Stonewall and Captain Penny had only just finished carrying Lord Laing to his room when I ran into them. And I expect George has a black eye or some injury."
"Yes," Sarah agreed, "I suppose the truth will be generally known soon."
"I have never known George to fight or do anything violent," Fanny said, "beyond spanking me a few times when I was still a child. He will not even hunt. But I suppose a man feels honorbound to challenge someone who runs off with his fiancee. Do you think?"
"It seems so," Sarah agreed.
Fanny was looking at her closely. "Or someone who engages himself to his former wife."
Sarah rose to her feet with a smile. "The word 'former' is an important one, Fanny," she said. "Your brother and I have been divorced for four years. It is a long time. And he is betrothed to someone else now."
"Did you not know?" Fanny asked. "The engagement no longer exists. Hannah's papa spoke to George last night."
Sarah looked quickly at the girl and blushed. "No, I had not heard," she said.
Fanny threw herself down in the chair that Sarah had just vacated. "I really have botched the whole matter rather badly," she said forlornly.
"What do you mean?" Sarah asked, frowning. She had picked up the pelisse that she was to wear for the journey and was smoothing out its folds.
"I have tried so hard to bring you and George back together again," Fanny said. "But I have failed. You are leaving after all. And I was so sure that you were meant for each other."
"Fanny, whatever are you talking about?" Sarah had dropped the pelisse into a heap on the bed.
"I thought perhaps if you were both free again, you would realize that you love each other," Fanny said. "I knew almost as soon as I met you, Miss Fifield, that George had chosen well all those years ago. You are right for him. I suspected that Hannah did not really love George, and it was not difficult to get her to confide some of her unhappiness. And then you became betrothed to Lord Laing, and the problem was complicated."
Sarah sat on the bed next to the forgotten pelisse and stared at the young girl.
"I liked him," Fanny said, "and thought him a very attractive man. I thought that perhaps I could lure him away from you even though you are so beautiful and all. I did not feel very guilty, for I did not believe you loved him. I did not love him myself; I have no wish to fix my choice yet. I am too young. But I thought that if it would bring you and George together, I would be willing to marry Lord Laing. I thought him amiable."
"Fanny!" Sarah said. She was feeling stunned. She had suspected none of this..
"Then he grew friendly with Hannah," Fanny said, "and wished to help her to win the man she loves. I did not like the scheme, but I must confess I encouraged it. It seemed the perfect opportunity to remove Hannah from George's life and make her happy at the same time. And I hoped that when Lord Laing came back, I could make him love me. I even thought I might have to persuade him to elope with me, for I did not think he would be willing to break his betrothal to you unless you asked for your freedom."
"Oh, my dear," Sarah said, "you have had a narrow and most fortunate escape."
"Yes," Fanny agreed, her voice expressionless. "If he was willing to trick Hannah into matrimony, he cannot be a very honorable man. And he must like money a great deal, for he does not love Hannah, I think. And he certainly knows that she does not love him. I do not believe I would have been happy with him. I am glad that George knocked him senseless this morning. Though I do not know how he did it. I would have thought Lord Laing to be much stronger than he."
"George is very strong," Sarah said proudly. "He fought magnificently. He did not give up even when Win knocked him down."
"You were there!" Fanny accused. Then she laughed with sudden merriment. "Oh, you do love him, Miss Fifield. I know you do. I shall go and tell George so, for I am quite sure he loves you. I know these things. George and I always understand-each other."
"No, you will not!" Sarah said in alarm, jumping to her feet again. "You will say nothing, Fanny. And I am reminded that I should go and find his grace to say my good-byes. Do you suppose he is downstairs? Or is he in his room?" She suddenly had distressing mental visions of George stretched out on his bed suffering some deadly reaction to the pummeling he had received earlier.
"I really do not know,7 Fanny said. She was looking forlorn again.
"I shall go down and see," Sarah said. She held out her hand to Fanny. "If I do not see you again, good-bye, Fanny. I have been very happy to make your acquaintance. And thank you for what you tried to do, though it was wrong of you, of course, to try." Impulsively she withdrew her hand and hugged the girl hard.
Fanny was still in her room when Sarah left. She was standing in the middle of the floor looking utterly dejected. There were tears trickling down her face.
Cranwell was standing at the library window looking out. He ached all over. He felt as if every rib in his body must be broken. Every breath was painful. His knuckles were stiff and sore. And his face stung worse than if he had been lying out in the summer sun for several hours. His jaw ached. His upper lip was cut and swollen. Every facial movement brought sharp pain. He was trying to hold his face immobile. He had given up trying to eat breakfast after a few mouthfuls. He had come to the library to avoid having to talk to anyone.
But he was feeling exultant. He had believed that he had a good chance of winning the fight. But he had had some doubts. Bowen's size and physique gave him an obvious advantage even if he had not had any vigorous exercise in the recent past. But Cranwell had wanted so badly to give the villain a thorough drubbing. He deserved worse. He deserved to die. But at least he must not escape without knowing that he had been severely punished.
And Cranwell had done his best. He had pounded his adversary with all the strength in his body until he had fallen and it was no longer the honorable thing to hit him. And he had the satisfaction of knowing that Bowen was unconscious for several minutes and indeed so groggy afterward that he had had to be half-carried back to the house by both Josh and Penny. He would know for a long time that he had been in a fight. He had a black eye and a split lip, to mention only his facial injuries. And if Cranwell was not mistaken, he believed that Bowen's nose was broken too.
Cranwell had allowed him into the house, but only until noon. By then he was to remove himself.
He thought of Sarah. She had been so alarmed when she came upon them earlier. And she had looked so lovely, her titian hair catching the light of the morning sun beneath the brim of her green bonnet, her eyebrows arched in that look of surprise that had always intrigued him. She had been anxious for his safety. Yes, for his safety. She had not seemed to think of Bowen. Well, he had tried to redeem her honor in some small way by punishing her seducer. It was not much, of course. What was a thorough beating in comparison to what Bowen had done to her?
Cranwell sighed and turned away from the window at the same moment as a gentle knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," he called, wincing at the pain the two words caused to his lip. He held his breath.
She came into the room and closed the door behind her. She stood against it and looked across at him.
"I have come because you made me promise to see you before I left," she said breathlessly. And then she came a few steps into the room. "Oh, George, your face!" she said.
"I am sorry," he said. "It is rather a mess, is it not? Will it help to say that Bowen's looks a good deal worse?"
"But I did not want you to get hurt," she said. "George, is it true that you fought because of me?"
He nodded. "Yes, Sarah," he said, "four years too late."
"But why?" she asked. "It was all a long time ago."
"And you have suffered the consequences ever since," he said. "I would have preferred to kill him, Sarah."
"I am glad you believed me," she said. "I am glad of that, at least."
"I deserve no less punishment than he," Cranwell said. "I escaped lightly with these cuts and bruises."
"No," she said in amazement, advancing a few steps farther into the room. "Why would you say that, George?"
"In some ways I am more to blame than Bowen," he said. "You must have needed so much at that time, Sarah, to be loved, to be made to feet good about yourself again. You were still so very young. And oh, my dear, how you must have suffered in the years previous to our marriage. And how lonely and bewildered you must have been to have no one in whom to confide. I do not wonder that you did not tell me the truth before our wedding day. You must have needed that marriage very badly."
"Don't blame yourself, George," she said. "Not telling you is one of the worst things I have ever done in my life. It was in remorse for that that I knew I must set you free again as soon as possible."
"That is why you behaved as you did, then, when I came to see you?" he asked.
She nodded. "And there was no one after you," she said. "I must tell you that now, George. There has not been anyone since. Only you."
"I should have dragged the truth from you," he said almost viciously. "I was older than you. I had seen more of life. I thought myself wise enough. I cannot forgive myself for having condemned you so hastily and for having humiliated you so publicly. I loved you but did not trust you. And I ended up destroying you far more effectively than Bowen ever did."
"Oh no, George," she said. "You do not know what you say. Do you think the scandal, the shame, was anything compared to… to…? Oh no, George. Nothing on this earth could ever be as ugly, as degrading, as utterly hellish as that."
"Oh, my dear," he said, frowning and wincing simultaneously.
"I am glad you gave Win a good beating," Sarah said. "I shall remember that for the rest of my life. Thank you, George. I must see him before I leave and tell him that our betrothal is at an end, though I believe I made myself clear on that point two evenings ago."
"There will be no need," Cranwell said. "I went to his room before coming down here and told him myself."
Sarah's eyebrows shot upward. "You told him that I was not going to marry him?" she said.
He smiled and immediately fingered his swollen lip. "I am afraid I took a great liberty, Sarah," he said apologetically. "I told him that I could not permit him to marry my former and future duchess."
Sarah went very still.
"I am sure you will not have me," he said. "Why should you? I let you down badly at the time when you most needed someone to stand by you. But I can think of no other way to try to atone for what I have done. I cannot amend the past, Sarah, but I can offer you my protection for the rest of your life. The scandal will not end, of course. In fact, it will be renewed and redoubled for a time, I am sure. But I will be at your side to help you face it down. If you will let me, Sarah, I shall see that you never have to face an unpleasantness alone for as long as I live."
Sarah was shaking her head, her face ashen. "No, George," she said, "no. You must not do this. You do not have to atone for the past. There is nothing to atone for. Oh, thank you for being so kind. But no, there is no need. Really there is not."
"My God," he said, striding across the room to her and catching her by the arms. "Have I explained myself so poorly? Have I given the impression that I am offering only out of a sense of obligation? Sarah, do you not know that you are my life? I want you as my wife again because I love you. I always have, though I have spent four years ruthlessly denying the fact to myself."
"No," she said. "You cannot do this, George. Perhaps now you feel that you want me. You have just found out the truth and feel sympathy for me. But I am still a fallen woman. I have been possessed by another man and can never be only yours. You would not be able to forget that."
He gripped her arms more tightly. His face was only inches from hers. "Sarah," he said, "tell me the truth. Regardless of what the outcome of this meeting will be, do you love me?"
"I have always loved you," she said. "I have never even pretended to myself that I did not."
"I had possessed other women before you," he said deliberately, looking directly into her eyes. "Three, to be exact. One for six months. I slept with them voluntarily. There was no force involved. I enjoyed the experiences. I even fancied myself in love with the one, though there was never any question of marriage. Do you find it impossible to love me, or do you find your love diminished, knowing this?"
"No, of course not," she said.
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because I love you for yourself," she said. "The past is of no concern to me. What you have done makes no difference to the way I feet."
"And why should our attitudes be different just because we are of different gender?" he asked. "I love you, Sarah. It does not matter who possessed you before me. I do not need the assurance that my bride is an untouched vessel."
Sarah swallowed painfully. "I did not fight as much as I might have," she said.
He pulled her roughly against him, gritting his teeth only briefly against the pain. "Oh, my love," he said, "you must leave this. You have tortured your mind with guilt for far too long. Perhaps you need to talk to someone about it all. At some other time, if you wish, you must tell me all about it, put into words all the dark memories that have haunted you for years. But not now, Sarah. I want to hear you tell me again that you love me. I want to hear you say you forgive me enough to marry me. Will you marry me, love?"
She pulled her head away from his shoulder and looked up into his eyes. "Are you very sure, George?" she asked wistfully.
He sighed audibly. "I am not at all sure that I have finished doing violence for this morning," he said. "I have a strong urge to put my hands around your throat, my love, and squeeze very slightly." He looked deeply into her eyes and smiled. He seemed not even to notice the effect on his swollen lip. "Yes, Sarah," he said, "I am very sure. We have lost four years. Let us start to make up for them today. Shall we?"
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. She responded instantly, putting her arms up around his neck and pressing closer to him. Heat flared instantly. He wrapped his arms around her and opened his mouth over hers. He did not need to coax her lips apart. Her tongue came to meet his and to entice it into the warm softness of her own mouth.
But she pulled away from him before the embrace could advance to any more interesting phase. "Oh, your poor mouth, George," she said. "It must be hurting so. It is all cut inside."
"It hurts to have it away from yours," he, said, risking excruciating agony by grinning at her. "I think there must be remarkable healing powers in your lips, love, and even more in your tongue." He moved toward her again.
"Damnation!" he said as someone knocked on the door.
It opened at his bidding and Fanny and Lady Murdoch stood in the doorway.
"Oh, George," Fanny said, her eyes wide with anxiety, "the most provoking thing. When Lady Murdoch sent for her carriage, it was discovered that the axle is completely broken. It will take all day to mend. And we cannot lend our traveling carriage because I promised it yesterday while you were away to Lady Cavendish to go visiting this afternoon. And when we sent into the village to hire the carriage there, we were told that the coachman is dreadfully ill and there is no other. It looks very much as if Lady Murdoch and Miss Fifield will have to stay until tomorrow."
"And if the carriage being broken were not enough, Sarah, my love," Lady Murdoch added, "the groom swears that one of the horses is looking rather lame. Will you mind very much staying another day, dear? I know you have your heart set on leaving this morning, but really one more day will be neither here nor there. And indeed, my digestion is not all that it should be again. I must need more of those Bath waters. I shall not be sorry for an extra day of rest."
Sarah repressed a smile. They looked an unlikely pair of conspirators.
"I could not agree with you more, ma'am," Cranwell said, moving one step back from Sarah. "One day is really of little importance when I have got Sarah almost to agree to delay here for the rest of her life."
"Almost?" Fanny squealed. "What do you mean by 'almost,' George?"
"I talk too much," Lady Murdoch said. "It is an old woman's infirmity. Not but what I could always talk twice as much as almost anyone else I have ever known. My dear late husband once said that he should have a trumpet to blow when he wished to add a word to the conversation. I perceive, my dear Lady Fanny, that we have interrupted a marriage proposal and that dear Sarah has not yet had a chance to say yes. I think we should run to the stables-that is, that you should run to the stables, for I am just a slow old woman, though the time was when I could have given you or any young lady you could name a good run for your money. What I am trying to say, dear, is that we should notify the groom that perhaps he does not have to do anything drastic to the coach after all. If we are not too late, that is."
"Oh, Miss Fifield… Sarah," Fanny said in an agony, "you are going to say yes, are you not? Please, please. I want you so much as a sister."
"You can go and get better acquainted with Lady Murdoch, my girl," Cranwell said, "without further delay. If I have my way, we shall be seeing a great deal of her in the future."
He pointed firmly to the door when Fanny opened her mouth again, and the two ladies left the room in a state of suppressed excitement.
Cranwell reached out for Sarah and pulled her against him again. He rested his forehead against hers. "Perhaps you would be wise to say no," he said. "I have the feeling that those two will be trying their best to rule our lives in the future."
"I have grown to love them both very dearly," Sarah said.
"Heaven help us if they ever find out," Cranwell said fervently. "They are probably out there now with their heads together planning our first child."
"Oh, George," Sarah whispered.
He pulled her closer to him, his cheek against hers. "I want to give you children, Sarah," he said. "I want to fill your life with love. I want to make the past like only a bad dream. Let me love you. Marry me."
"Oh, I do love you, George," she said.
He lifted his head and smiled down at her. "I have never met anyone more reluctant to say yes," he said. "Do you need more persuasion, love? I have a whole arsenal of arguments if I need to use them."
He moved his hands around to cover her breasts and touched his lips lightly to hers again.
"Oh, my answer is yes," she said, pulling back from him a mere two inches. "Of course it is, George. Yes, yes, yes."
He tried to close the gap between their mouths again.
"Of course," she added, putting up a hand and touching his lips lightly with her fingertips, "I would still love to know what all those arguments are."
"Would you, love?" he said tenderly, his mouth smiling, his eyes on her lips. "Would you really? It might take some time. We had better lock the door."
"And throw away the key?" she asked hopefully.
"What a very tempting idea!" he said. "I can tell you of one key you may certainly throw away, Sarah. You already have the key to my heart and have had it for a long time. You may do what you will with it. I shall not want it ever again."
His mouth covered hers in a kiss that contained all the affection and tenderness and love that had been missing from their lives for four years. The loneliness, the pain, the bitterness were forgotten for the moment. The heating had begun.
They both drew back to smile into each other's eyes.
"Sarah," Cranwell said, "I am the most fortunate man in the world. When I think of the odds against this happening!"
"I know," she said. "I still cannot believe it. George, I do love you so."
They continued to smile for a moment longer before he caught her to him again in a bruising hug. His injuries were forgotten. He sought her mouth once more, and soon everything outside the circle of their arms receded.
It was fortunate that Fanny and Lady Murdoch had put the library strictly out of bounds to all guests and servants for the rest of the morning, for its two occupants completely forgot to lock the door.