“He left for Northumbria. This morning.” Sarah slowly dragged the note from her pocket and handed it to Lucy. “Here. This explains it all.”
Lucy read the note aloud so the others could hear, and when she finished she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “That coward. How could he run from you?”
“I’ve run from him often enough. Besides, he’s not a coward,” Sarah admitted miserably. “He was just doing as I asked.”
Cass’s head snapped up. “You asked him to leave?”
“I didn’t know he’d go toScotland,but I told him on our wedding night that I…” Sarah made a small moaning noise in the back of her throat. “I told him I never wanted to see him again. Oh, I’ve ruined everything.”
“There, there,” Cass repeated. “You haven’t ruined everything.”
“Not at all,” Meg stated loyally.
“Yes, I have. He’s left me and he loves the north. He may never return,” Sarah said.
Lucy, who had been busily tapping a finger against her cheek, obviously plotting, pointed a finger in the air. “It’s true, he may never come back,unlesshe has a reason.”
“What reason?” Sarah asked, brightening a bit.
“I can’t think of a good reason,” Lucy replied.
Sarah’s shoulders slumped again.
“But I can think of an alternate plan,” Lucy said, a smile slowly spreading across her face.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Scotland, June 1817
After Christian finished rubbing down Oberon in the barn, he hiked up to the front door of the lodge. Scotland was lovely and green this time of year. It was so different from the last time he’d been here. Snow knee-deep and… Sarah.
Damn it. He’d promised himself he’d stop thinking of her. A promise he was slowly coming to realize was going to be impossible to keep. The entire journey to Northumbria had been torturous. The four days he’d spent at the estate seeing to his business affairs had also been unpleasant. The servants, including Mrs. Hamilton, had obviously heard the news about his abrupt wedding, and they were baffled by the fact that he’d come home without his new wife. Mrs. Hamilton alone had peppered him with so many questions he didn’t want to answer that he found himself hiding from the woman in his own damn home. It was ridiculous. He’d planned to stay at Berkeley Hall for a sennight. He’d left after only four days. And ridden hell for leather to Scotland. The place where he always felt safe, at home, happy. But looking at the front door of the lodge now and remembering the last time he’d been here was making him feel anything but happy. Memories of Sarah flooded his mind. Surrounded him. Haunted him.
He’d spent the entire journey here trying to think of some way he could make it right for her. The obvious answer was a quiet annulment. He’d be willing to give it to her, but he suspected she’d refuse it. An annulment would drag her family into even greater scandal, which was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. Not to mention her father would no doubt call him out immediately if an annulment was offered, let alone took place. No. The only thing to do was write Sarah and ask her what she wanted of him. If she wanted him to stay in Scotland and Northumbria, he would. He would not make her life more difficult. If she needed him back in London to mitigate the scandal or face it with her, he’d return. He’d left merely to give her time and space. He’d do whatever it took to make it right. But his greatest fear was that she’d write back and tell him to stay here indefinitely. Funny. Something he’d always wished for was no longer what he wanted. He wanted Sarah. Wherever she was.
When he opened the front door, he didn’t hear the familiar bark of Fergus II. Instead, the scent of stew cooking reached his nostrils. He glanced around. The rug was near the hearth where Sarah had left it. And sure enough, a pot of stew was bubbling on the stove top. The chessboard was sitting on the table. Biscuit dough sat rising on the countertop.
And then he heard… singing. Coming from one of the bedchambers. A woman, singing. He immediately headed toward the sound of it.
He pushed open the bedroom door and blinked. Was he seeing an illusion conjured by his imagination? Sarah was there, sitting in a chair next to the bed, knitting. Fergus II, wearing a new blue sweater, was sound asleep on the rug next to her feet.
The knitting needles dropped to her lap and Sarah looked up into Christian’s eyes. It wasn’t a figment of his imagination. She was here. She’d come to him.
“You’re early.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
“You’re here.” So was his.
She stood up, set her knitting in the chair, and smoothed her skirts.
“You’re here, aren’t you? This isn’t my imagination?” he asked.
“No, it’s not your imagination. Of course I’m here. It’s my duty as a wife.”
“Your duty as a—”
She stood and turned down the bed. Then she motioned for him to sit on it. He did so, still watching her carefully.
She knelt and motioned for him to pick up his foot so she could assist him in removing his boot. He complied. She pulled off first one, then the other.
