“It’s so complicated,” Sara whispered against his neck. “Why does it have to be so complicated?”
“It isn’t complicated. Either St. Michael ceases his nonsense, or I’ll see him behind bars or in the ground.”
Sara cuddled closer, which might have been a sign of progress except for the realization that if Allie were once again safe, then Beck’s greatest leverage for gaining Sara’s hand in marriage would be gone.
The haying was successfully completed, the barns and sheds and even the house sported repaired or replaced roofs, the walls and fences were again sturdy and straight, and the crops matured in the fields. Summer eased past the solstice and into July, hitting the lull between haying and harvest when life should have been sweet.
At Three Springs, since the evening Beck had explained his intent to invite Tremaine St. Michael for a visit, every adult on the property had lived with an underlying sense of tension. The lack of further destructive mischief only made the anxiety greater.
There was good news, at least for Beck, in that Nicholas had reconciled with his new countess.
“You are still determined to leave?” Beck asked as he and North rode in from the eastern barley fields.
North patted Soldier’s dusty neck. “I am. I thought you’d have matters wrapped up by now, and St. Michael has apparently gone to ground.”
“He’s on his way here.”
“He’s on his way…” North’s scowl was thunderous. “This man puts a little girl in harm’s way, he’s on his way here, and you didn’t think to mention this to me? The women will draw and quarter you, and I’ll sharpen their knives.”
“I got his letter in the village today. Seems he’s been walking the Lake District or some such, and he’s happy to grace us with his presence as of the first of next week. You are duly warned, so what will you do about it?”
“Fret prodigiously.”
“Just so, and I appreciate the warning. But you’ll still go.”
“Soon,” North said, his eyes straying to the back of the manor house. “When you’ve routed the enemy, I’ll move along, so you’d best be looking for a new steward.”
“You were going to stay through harvest,” Beck reminded him as they turned their horses into the stable yard.
“I was going to try, but it isn’t working out that way.”
Beck regarded him as closely as one could regard North, given his ability to mask his feelings.
“Is Polly angry with you?”
North swung off Soldier. “She is not, or not as angry as she should be. She’s… brokenhearted, and that I cannot abide. The sooner I’m gone, the sooner she’ll realize I was a complete waste of her sentiments.”
“Gabriel…” How did Beck, of all people, tell another man that leaving didn’t solve anything?
“There is no good outcome for us, Beckman,” North said as he ran up his stirrups. “The most honorable thing I can do is take myself off and let her get on with her life.”
“You aren’t even giving the woman a chance, North. At least tell her the truth of your situation—whatever that might be—before you go, so she has a reason for your departure other than her own failings.”
“God.” Clearly, this possibility had not occurred to North. He rested his arm over Soldier’s muscular neck and bowed his head as if exhausted. “She’ll blame herself, won’t she?”
“The good ones do. The worthy ones.” Just as Beck had blamed himself for his young wife’s decisions.
The realization went through him like a dose of strong medicine. He felt the relief of it, the absolution of it settle into his soul while North stood braced against his horse.
“I sometimes wish I’d gotten on that ship with the damned snake.”
“But you would have left my flank exposed,” Beck said. “So blame your situation on me, but please consider the terms of your parting. What affects Polly affects Sara and Allie, and me as well.”
“You should have been a vicar.” North loosened Soldier’s girth. “Inducing guilt is one of their most highly cultivated skills.”
“You should have been a marquess,” Beck said, letting instinct have free rein.
North shook his head as he took Ulysses’s reins from Beck. “If I’d been a marquess, I would never have met Polly Hunt, never have built my first snake palace, never have soaked away my aches and worries with you and your nancy damned soap. Being a steward has had rewards being the marquess would never have. I’ve brought in crops I saw planted and tended, cared personally for beasts and buildings, and developed an appreciation for the people closest to the land. It hasn’t been all bad, Beck. In fact, in some ways, I’ve been happier here at Three Springs than I ever would have been as Hesketh.”
Hesketh. Hesketh was indeed a venerable, much-respected marquessate. “And you’ll miss it,” Beck warned. “Worse than you miss Hesketh’s holdings.”
“That I will.” North’s eyes strayed to the house again before he led the horses into the barn. In that single glance, Beck had seen a peacefulness in North’s eyes, an acceptance that boded ill for the man’s future. North was going to leave, and there would be no talking him out of it.
Beck’s situation with Sara wasn’t leaving him peaceful in the least. When he kidnapped her to his bed, she was a sweet and passionate lover. She never sought him out at night on her own, though, and in her embrace, Beck felt an increasing desperation. He reminded her of his proposal regularly, and she renewed her promise to consider his offer if ever she believed Allie in danger.
But that was before Beck had an acceptance of his invitation from Tremaine St. Michael. He broached the topic as lunch was finishing up, when he had Sara and Polly to himself in the kitchen.
“Ladies, we’re to have a guest.”
Sara looked up sharply from where she was sorting the silver back into a drawer. “Your brother?”
“Tremaine St. Michael has accepted our invitation to visit, and he’ll be here on the first of the week.” He was looking right at Sara, so he saw her stiffen and close her eyes. Polly set down the plate she’d been scraping into the scrap bucket and muttered an “excuse me” before leaving the kitchen at a fast clip.
“Let her go,” Beck said softly. “She’ll find North, and I’ve already warned him.”
“I was hoping…” Sara bit her lip and took up the plate-scraping Polly had abandoned.
“You were hoping St. Michael had fallen from the face of the earth,” Beck finished for her. “Apparently, so was Polly.”
“Polly is in a difficult position,” Sara said, keeping her gaze on her task.
“Because North is leaving?”
Sara straightened and moved on to the next plate. “That, but also because Tremaine is coming. Polly cares about… all of us.”
“And we care about her, but what aren’t you telling me, Sara?” Because as sure as Gabriel North was a man with problems, Sara was still keeping secrets.
She finished with that plate and reached for the next, then stopped and turned her back to him. His arms were around her before she got her apron untied.
“Talk to me, Sara.” He drew her against him. “For the love of God, no more silences. Please talk to me.”
Sara felt Beckman behind her, solid, strong, and secure. Were the issue anything less than Allie’s safety, and were it anybody else demanding Sara’s confidences, she would have gone right on scraping Hildy’s supper into a bucket.
“Please talk to me.”
Sara nodded. He gave her a moment, probably knowing she needed to gather her courage, her wits, her breath.
“There are paintings,” she said, glad he couldn’t see her face. “Tremaine has them. Reynard gave them to him for safekeeping when he fell ill, or Tremaine stole them, I know not which.”
“What sort of paintings?” Beck said, misgiving in his tone beneath the calm.
