And suddenly Connor was glad Joseph had chosen to sleep in the loft.
Connor drew in the string, barred the door, and propped a chair beneath its handle—an extra measure of protection he hoped they wouldn’t need. He laid his bearskin coat on the floor before the fire and set his weapons nearby. But rather than lying down, he walked to the bed and sat beside Sarah, drawn to her like a moth to the flame.
It would be so easy to forsake his pallet upon the floor, slide into bed beside her, and gather her into his arms. He knew she would come to him easily, nestling against him, for she had done it each night when he and Joseph had switched places. But she had no need of his body’s heat tonight, not with four strong walls around her and a warm fire. And Connor did not trust himself to be too near her.
He’d resisted temptation once today. He did not think he could do it again.
I want to pretend it is our wedding night again.
Och, he was daft not to have taken her in his arms that instant. If he had, he might now be lying between her creamy thighs, his cock buried deep inside her, the sound of her soft sighs filling the cabin as he brought her release. But, nay. Clearly, the lass had spent her strength and needed rest far more than she needed to be tupped by him.
He bent down, pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Sleep, Sarah.”
At last seeking his own bed, he stretched out before the fire.
Sarah heard the door open and looked up from her needlework to see Papa enter. Heels clicking against the polished wooden floor, he walked across the room in quick, agitated steps, his face red with anger, his mouth pinched, his gaze fixed on her. In his hand was the leather strap. “Mary, leave this room at once—and close the doors behind you.”
Fear twisted in Sarah’s stomach. He used the strap for one thing only—punishment. But she’d done nothing wrong.
Mary hurried from the room in a swirl of skirts, the doors closing with a quiet click.
Sarah stood, set her needlework aside, and curtsied. “Papa.”
The blow took her by surprise, pain exploding inside her skull as the back of his hand struck her cheek, knocking her to the floor.
He glared down at her. “You filthy sybarite! You will be the ruination of us all!”
She pressed her palm to her face, stunned. “Papa, what have I done?”
“You know very well what you’ve done, and so does all of London!” He glared at her, a look of utmost loathing on his face. “You’ve brought dishonor upon this family! Would that I could end your miserable life and purge this abomination from our midst! Do you know what you’ve done to us?”
End her life? An abomination?
Had her father gone mad?
He raised the strap.
Her heart thudded, fear rising in her throat. “No, Papa! Please tell me why—”
The first blow struck her arm and shoulder, the pain stealing her breath.
“We believed Lady Margaret had reformed you, but she has led you to the gates of hell!”
Another blow. And another. And another.
“Papa, please stop!”
She looked up to find that it was no longer her father beating her, but Katakwa and his men, cruel clubs striking hard upon her back.
She screamed.
“Sarah! Sarah, lass, wake!”
She awoke with a gasp—and discovered she was not in London or the Shawnee village. “C-Connor?”
“Easy, Princess. I’m right here.” He drew her against him, one hand stroking her hair, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill in her blood. “’Twas just a dream.”
Shaking, her cheeks wet with tears, she clung to him, still able to feel the bite of the leather strap, hear her father’s angry shouts, taste the horror of that terrible afternoon when her world had come crashing down.
Would that I could end your miserable life and purge this abomination from our midst!
Her father had called her an abomination.
Oh, Papa!
Slowly the nightmare faded, and she became aware of other things. The strength of Connor’s embrace. The steady beating of his heart. The scent of soap on his skin. And her trembling began to subside.
Connor spoke first. “Would it help you to talk about it?”
“N-no.” She could not tell him about the dream without exposing herself. If he knew the cause of her nightmare, the gentleness in his eyes would turn to disgust and loathing, and that she could not bear.
He brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “Do you trust me, Sarah?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then tell me what happened in London. Why did your father send you away?”
Sarah’s heart gave a hard thud, and she stared mutely up at him, his question catching her by surprise. “I…I cannot.”
He sat beside her, took her hands in his. “Am I not already the keeper of your deepest secrets? No man kens you as I do.”
And she knew he was speaking of their forced marriage and union.
She looked down at their joined hands. “Why must you know?”
His voice was soft, reassuring. “A burden is always greatest when carried by one alone. My shoulders are broad, lass, my back strong. Let me share the weight of this.”
Oh, how she wished it were so simple! But every person who knew the truth had turned away from her. “I cannot further dishonor my father by—”
“The father who hurt you? You cried out to him just now, beggin’ him to stop.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Sarah, look at me. Look at me.”
She did as he asked.
“I’ve bled for you. I’ve killed for you. I’ve held you in my arms and done my best to make love to you. I’d give my life to protect you. Now I sit beside you, askin’ you to trust me. What happened in London?”
Sarah felt trapped by his gaze. “Y-you will hate me.”
He shook his head, raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed them one by one. “I could ne’er hate you.”
“That is what you say now.”
He exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed in a pensive frown. “Did you kill somebody?”
“Kill?” Sarah’s mouth fell open. “No!”
“Did you drink too much and wander naked into some earl’s bedchamber?”
She shook her head, fighting an urge to laugh at the notion. “No. I never drink—”
“Then what did you steal?”
“Nothing! I would never—”
“Aye. You would never steal or kill or drink, and we both ken you were a virgin. So why were you sent away?” When she did not answer, he pressed on. “You’re a good and virtuous lass, Sarah. I dinnae believe you capable of great evil. Trust me. Let me help. I promise I willna forsake you.”
Sarah looked into Connor’s eyes, some part of her wanting to tell him, wanting to believe she could tell him and yet remain in his affections. And all at once it was too much—long months of loneliness, of bearing guilt she didn’t understand, of hiding her grief.
Trembling again, she drew a deep breath, willed her reluctant tongue to speak. “It began the night I met Lady Margaret.”
Chapter 17
Connor could feel Sarah’s fear. Whatever she was about to tell him, she truly believed he would despise her. He could not fathom how this could be true. What in God’s name could she have done to so anger society and her family? He linked his fingers through hers, held fast to her hand, waiting for her to continue.
Avoiding his gaze, she drew a breath as if steeling herself, and went on. “Two Octobers past, His Majesty commanded us to attend his birthday celebrations at court. Though Papa enjoys talking politics with the other members of Lords, my mother cannot abide court, likening it to Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Connor was not surprised by this. “And how do you feel about it?”
Her face lit up. “It was very exciting. Great-Grandfather’s halls are resplendent, and wherever one goes, one hears the most beautiful music—at church, during dinner, even strolling in the gardens. Mother tries t
o keep us behind the doors of her chambers whenever we stay at Kensington Palace, but my grandmother often commands us to attend her at meals, on walks through the gardens, or excursions into London.”
Connor found it strange and more than a little sobering to hear Sarah speak of the German heretic he’d spent his life loathing as “Great-Grandfather”—or to think that her grandmother was the woman whose womb had brought forth Wentworth, bastard that he was. How their blood could flow in Sarah’s veins escaped Connor.
Two different worlds, laddie, and dinnae you be forgettin’ that.
“One night, Grandmother bade us join her at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden to take in a performance of Master Handel’s sacred oratorio, Messiah. Have you heard of it?” Sarah looked expectantly at Connor.
“Nay, I cannae say that I have.” Nor had he heard of this Master Handel.
“Think of the most beautiful music you’ve heard, and this would be more beautiful still.”
That was not hard for Connor to believe, for, although Dougie could play a fair jig on his fiddle and McHugh could squeeze the old forbidden tunes out of his pipes, Connor would not call the music they played beautiful—at least not without a bellyful of rum.
“Lady Margaret, the widow of a baronet my mother knew from church services, joined us in our box.” Sarah smiled, the memory obviously amusing in some way. “She was dressed head to toe in black, so severe and stern and stiff-backed. I paid her little heed. But the music…”
Sarah’s eyes closed, a look of bliss on her face, and Connor knew she was hearing the music in her head. “Never had I heard its like. I felt as if I were flying…as if the sound itself had raised my soul to heaven. I could not help but weep, my heart so filled with joy I feared it would burst.”
Her eyes opened, bliss fading from her face. “My mother was disgraced by my behavior and complained to Lady Margaret that my love of music was immoderate and that I had resisted her instruction on this point, whereupon Lady Margaret suggested that perhaps additional instruction would help to reform me. At the look of horror upon my face, my mother agreed, and so it was arranged that I should visit Lady Margaret at her home the next afternoon.”
Why did some people seem to believe that one could not be virtuous unless one was also miserable? This Connor could not comprehend. “And did Lady Margaret reform you?”
“Oh, yes.” Sarah smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “But not in the way my mother had hoped. When I arrived at her home, I found not the stern widow I’d met at the theater, but a warm, smiling woman who welcomed me as a friend. She led me down a hallway to a salon filled with paintings and sculptures. And there sat the most beautiful harpsichord I’d ever seen.
“She asked me to play, and there were tears on her cheeks when I finished. She sat beside me and told me that my parents would never understand. ‘When you go home today, ask your mother’s forgiveness for being willful,’ she said. ‘Appear to be the daughter she wishes you to be. Never show your true self to those who do not truly love you.’
“And I understood that Lady Margaret had been doing that very thing for years—dressing in black, pretending to be the pious widow. For she was an artist, and although her skill with brush and oils was great, she could not sell or exhibit her work because she was a noblewoman.”
“Did you do as she’d suggested?” Connor was certain he already knew the answer.
“Yes. My mother found me so improved that she encouraged my visits.” Sarah gave a little laugh. “Lady Margaret bought me the latest published music from musicians across Europe. She brought in a tutor, who said he could teach me nothing on harpsichord, but instead taught me to play flute, violin, and cello. I would play, and Margaret would paint. Or else we would read novels and poetry and discuss the news of the day. When Master Handel died, she arranged with my mother that I should visit her so that she could secretly spirit me to his funeral in Westminster Abbey. She opened a door onto the world for me, taught me so much.”
Connor could not resist. “Aye, so she did, fillin’ your head wi’ stories about the horrors of the marriage bed. What were those Latin words? Och, I remember—membrum virile. Why did she teach you to say that rather than ‘cock’? ’Tis what everyone calls it.”
And Sarah’s cheeks flushed pink. “Cock?”
So far, Connor had heard nothing terrible enough to explain why she’d been sent away. “So you deceived your mother.”
“Yes, I did.” Sarah’s gaze dropped to the floor, the color draining from her face as quickly as it had appeared. “I do not regret that. Lady Margaret was my friend.”
Connor did not miss the grief in her voice, nor had he forgotten that Lady Margaret was dead. “What happened to Lady Margaret?”
Sarah stood and walked toward the fire, her back to him.
And Connor knew they’d come to the crux of it.
Sarah stared into the flames, suddenly shaking, eels writhing in her stomach. She had never spoken of this to anyone, certainly not the governor or Mrs. Price, not even dear Jane. Oh, why had Sarah begun this story? Now she would have to finish it, and Connor’s affection for her would turn to detestation, his concern to indifference.
In three days’ time, you’ll be at Fort Edward, and you’ll never see him again. What he thinks of you will no longer matter.
Somehow, the thought did not comfort her.
She clasped her hands together, unable to still her trembling. “One afternoon, I sat with my sister Mary, stitching flowers upon a square of silk I hoped to make into a pillow for Mother, when Papa strode angrily into the room carrying the leather strap he used to chastise us. He commanded Mary to leave and close the door behind her. Then he struck me across the face and called me a…a filthy sybarite, an abomination. He said he wished he could end my life.
“I pleaded with him to tell me what I had done to offend him. He shouted that Lady Margaret had led me to the gates of hell. Then he beat me.”
Sarah drew a steadying breath, finding it even more difficult to speak of this than she’d imagined. “When he was finished, I could scarce stand. Servants helped me to my chamber, where I remained alone without food or water, believing my parents had learned the truth of my visits with Lady Margaret. My mother came to me later that evening. I could see she’d been weeping. I begged her forgiveness. She made me lie upon my bed with my skirts and petticoats raised. Then she cursed me and beat me with the leather strap across my bare bottom until my skin blistered.
“For many days, I could neither sit nor walk easily. I lay upon my belly, rising only when servants brought my meals. The servants treated me with scorn, ignoring my entreaties to bring salve for my skin and hot tea rather than water.
“I remained alone in my room for more than a month, eating mostly bread and water. I wrote letters to my parents, begging them to forgive me and asking how long they meant to lock me away like this, but the servants refused to deliver them.”
Sarah had raged at them, isolation and uncertainty driving her to darkest despair. “Then one evening, Papa came. He told me I was being sent away to New York to live with Governor DeLancey until such time as he could secure a husband for me or find a respectable spinster or dowager willing to take me into her household. In either case, he expected it to cost a great deal of coin, for my transgressions were the talk of London and all of the respectable suitors who’d sought to court me had since renounced me.
“I asked him how this could be. How could my visits with Lady Margaret or my music lessons drive suitors to set me aside? How could such small matters be worthy of London gossips? Then he tossed something onto my bed—a journal. He said it had circulated all over London and that he’d spent a small fortune securing it.”
Sarah feared she might become ill, her stomach churning. She wrapped her arms around her middle, tried to quell her nausea.
Behind her, the bed’s ropes squeaked as Connor stood and walked toward her. “What was in the journal, Sarah?”
She shook her he
ad, unable to speak of it.
Big hands slid up her arms, caressed her shoulders. “I said I wouldna forsake you. Tell me, and be done with this.”
“The journal…It was Lady Margaret’s. Someone had stolen it. Inside, Margaret had written of my visits, my tutor, my talent for music. But there were drawings—drawings of me…unclothed.” Sarah whispered the last word, barely able to speak it.
“You posed naked for Lady Margaret, and the drawings were shown about London.” It was a statement not a question, Connor’s tone of voice guarded.
Was he coming to hate her now?
“No! I did not! She had sketched and painted me, but I was always clothed. I tried to tell Papa that the face in the drawings was mine but the body was not. He refused to listen.” Sarah remembered the cold look on his face as he called her a liar. “There were also poems she’d written about me—love poetry, lustful poetry. I was horrified to think that London society had seen the drawings and read her private musings, but I was also confused. It was a side of Lady Margaret I had not seen, a side she’d kept hidden even from me, and I couldn’t understand…”
She still didn’t understand, not entirely. “My father grabbed the journal from my hands, threw it into the fire. He told me the established matrons in London had pronounced me unmarriageable and that one of the papers had suggested he place me in a brothel where constant use by men might reform me. Then Papa said he could not bear the sight of me, and he…he called me…a whore and a tribade. I don’t even know that means.”
Connor cleared his throat. “A tribade is a woman who lies with women as most women lie with men.”
“What?” Sarah gaped at him, unable to believe or even understand what he’d just revealed to her. “They believe that Margaret and I…? But how can two women—”
But Connor cut across her. “What became of Lady Margaret?”
Tears spilled down Sarah’s cheeks now, her throat tight, grief she had tried so hard not to feel for nine long months welling up, dark and painful inside her.
“My mother came to me the morning b-before I was to leave for port. She told me that Margaret had taken her own life. I was heartbroken to hear this, but I dared not show it. I…I could not help but think my mother and father wished me to do as Margaret had done—to end my own life and spare them further trouble.”