“This has nothing to do with you,” Lord Jack answered. “I met her long before you did, brother. More important, she’sminenow.”
Baynton reared back as if his twin had physically struck him.
Sarah, too, was stunned.
Mine now. She understood exactly what Lord Jack was saying. There would be no turning back for Charlene. She’d given him her virtue and Sarah could have wept. His claim echoed words Roland Pettijohn had said to Sarah the first time she’d tried to leave him—mine.Then again, Roland had been a liar and a fraud. If the duke had been confronting him, Roland would have pushed Sarah in front of him, expecting her to save him.
Lord Jack gave every sign that he would shield Char with his life.
However, what truly jarred Sarah was Baynton’s astounding response.
“Yours? Like chattel?”
When they had come within sight of Gretna, Sarah has promised herself she would keep calm. She could see the duke was growing more aggressive as he neared his quarry. They were both tired, exhausted, actually, and she knew one of them needed to be the cooler head. Her purpose was to be there for Charlene.
However, the duke taking her ideals, ideals that he had repudiated repeatedly on their journey, and twisting them to use to his own advantage destroyed all good intent. They also gave her a convenient target since contemplating the irrevocable choices Char had made with her life was far too distressing. “That was uncalled for,” she informed the duke.
Without bothering to look at her, since his glare was saved for his brother, Baynton said, “What was?” He spoke as an aside.
“Mocking my principles.”
“They are mockable,” he responded, annoyed enough at her interruption to give her a stern frown and an unvarnished opinion. “I did not appreciate them being foisted on me.”
“And yet you just used them on your brother.”
Now she received the duke’s full attention. “Are we here for the same purpose? Do we not want the same result?”
“Not at the cost of my principles.”
He looked at her as if she had stepped on his last ounce of patience. “I’m merely making use of all the nonsense you have been foisting upon me.”
“We have been together for days. We had to talk about something.”
Baynton lifted a brow. “Aye, we did. And may I remind you that you don’t like my politics, my views on religion or the role and place of women—”
“What intelligent woman would admire the opinions you hold, Your Grace?” Sarah answered with false sweetness.
“Many women do,” he answered. “Hosts of women.”
“So you keep telling me.” She looked to the minister. “This is Scotland. I could use of dram of whisky or maybe three after traveling with him for days on end.”
“Thank you, Mrs.Pettijohn,” the duke said, speaking to the room at large and making his exasperation clear. “Advocate of Mary Wollstonecraft and bluestockings everywhere.”
“You aresoannoying,” she replied. “However, I must credit you with knowing who Mary Wollstonecraft is. I am amazed. Simply amazed.”
Baynton growled his response. “Thank you again, Mrs.Pettijohn. May I say, I preferred you as a maid? You weren’t so opinionated.”
Char had come out from behind Lord Jack. She stood beside him, her gaze turning worried as she followed the argument from the duke to Sarah and back again. The expression on her face brought Sarah to her senses.
In truth, her niece did not look the worse for wear. Her hand had found Lord Jack’s and their fingers were laced together. Something about seeing them this way eased the knots of fear and doubt Sarah had been harboring.
“His Grace is being sarcastic,” Sarah assured Char.
“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Baynton shot back.
Sarah harrumphed her answer. After all, a good harrumph was unanswerable. It said so much without saying anything.
And gave her the last word, something she knew the duke would not appreciate.
