To Tame a Wild Heart Page 3

  Startled, she paused. She studied the carriage, wondering who had come to visit, and why. A curious gold emblem decorated the carriage’s door. It looked like a shield. Something about the shield seemed familiar. For some reason, it frightened her. The fact that her fear was utterly groundless frightened her even more.

  Self-consciously she glanced downward. Muck formed a dark brown stain around the hem of her dress. Fluid of an unknown variety decorated her bodice with splotches. Her hair lay matted against her head like an old hag’s and she hadn’t the slightest doubt that mud freckled her face.

  She wasn’t exactly in the best of condition.

  Her stomach tightening, she raced back to her own little croft. The kitchen was warm and inviting, and for a moment she was tempted to stay within the familiar, safe walls. But she knew she couldn’t. Mr. Murphy got a trifle mean when kept waiting too long, and she wouldn’t be the cause of Mrs. Murphy’s suffering.

  Sarah plunged a cloth into a bucket of water near the front door and scrubbed at her face and hands. That done, she dragged a comb through her hair and managed to twist it into a fairly circumspect bun. She slung a clean plaid shawl over her shoulders to hide the worst of the stains on the gown’s bodice. For the finishing touch, she yanked a clean plaid skirt off a shelf and drew it on over her gown, so that it might mask the mud stains at the hem. While she looked a bit bulky, at least she was presentable.

  Her courage bolstered, she hiked up her skirts and dashed out the door, across the farmyard, and to the Murphys’ front door. Before she could knock, however, a hushed yelp and a flash of red that looked almost gray in the darkness caught her attention. Sionnach.

  Comforted only slightly, she made a cradle of her arms and called to him. The fox’s hair bristled as he slunk into the open from beneath the steps, and then jumped into her arms. She ran a gentle hand across his head, and then withdrew her panflute from her pocket.

  Softly she trilled a few notes, asking him who had come to visit.

  Sionnach’s reply, delivered in a growl deep in his throat, coupled with a complex paw maneuver, left her far from satisfied. He didn’t know the identity of the visitor, and could only suggest she use diplomacy.

  Use diplomacy? Whatever did he mean by that?

  With a few more trilling notes, she pressed him for further details, but the fox growled no more. His dark eyes remained expressionless.

  Frowning now, Sarah returned the panflute to her lips, knowing Sionnach wouldn’t like her next question. Still, she had to know. A tiny bud of hope unfurling inside her, she asked him if he’d had any news of the white beast.

  This time, the melody she’d blown on the panflute had a poignant quality. The fox’s answer, however, had nothing emotional about it. He growled, clearly annoyed, and told her that he hadn’t heard of the white beast because there was no such thing, and that she should forget the creature and live in the present.

  Disappointment coursed through her. For years she’d been trying to find the white beast that haunted her dreams. And while she’d heard snippets of his existence from the birds who stopped to roost in the Highlands, and the mice and voles who built nests in the heather, she had never been able to find him.

  “The white beast does exist,” she told him softly, in human language, and the look in his dark eyes told her that while he might not comprehend her syllables, he knew exactly what she’d said. He let out a gravelly sigh that suggested his patience with her was thinning.

  Sparing Sionnach a frustrated glance, she turned the doorknob and stepped into the kitchen. Although the fox thought her obsessed with the white beast and lately had refused to cooperate with her, he still remained her dearest friend. Over the years, she’d grown to trust his counsel and admire his cunning ways. Some of his methods she’d even adopted as her own. And yet, at times she found him the most aggravating animal she’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. She told him so frequently, much to his obvious amusement.

  Sionnach wasn’t amused now, though. The two old men standing in the middle of the kitchen floor had thoroughly captured his attention. His small body tensed in her arms.

  Sarah froze, too, her eyes wide.

  As if one, the two men turned toward her.

  Silence filled the kitchen. It seemed to last an eternity.

  Bewildered, she stared at them. The older man had a wealth of gray hair that hung nearly to his shoulder. A plaid tam o’ shanter topped his head, much in the manner of days gone by. She estimated his age at well past fifty.

  His garb, she realized, was very rich, and much finer than his companion’s. An olive-colored coat of heavy wool cloth, with a deep collar and several shoulder capes, wreathed his thin form. His waistcoat was again of wool and his neck cloth was loosely tied. Highly polished, tasseled boots drew her eye away from his sticklike legs, encased in fawn-colored breeches.

  Still, his eyes bothered her the most. Although they were very kind, she thought she saw a strange sort of hunger hidden behind his gaze. He’d locked his attention on her as though watching her would offer him insight into the mysteries of life and death.

  That strange sense of familiarity washed over her again. She thought that she might have seen this man before. Inexplicably, she trembled.

  She turned to stare at the richly dressed man’s companion, who was studying her inch by inch just as she was examining him. His gray hair and wrinkled countenance marked him as well past fifty years of age, too. Though fine, his dress was much more severe, consisting of black coat and breeches, black shoes, and white stockings.

  Their gazes locked. He assessed her with cold indifference, like a farmer contemplating a cow for purchase. At length, he winced and refocused on his companion. “I see no obvious resemblance.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow. Uneasiness coiled in her stomach. Whatever did he mean?

  “Sarah Murphy, where have ye been?” a male voice bellowed. His ponderous belly preceding him into the kitchen, Mr. Murphy clasped a whiskey glass tightly in his hand. Square of forehead, with thick eyebrows and mouth pursed disagreeably, he was a flabby and sour-looking man who kept his cellar well stocked with ale, rather than fruits and vegetables. “Christ, lass, ye look a mess,” he declared.

  “I’ve been helping Mr. Porter with his Cheviot,” she replied calmly. “I only found out a half an hour ago that ye wanted tae see me.” Her gaze fell to his feet, clad only in wool socks that had, as usual, begun to stink quite badly. She couldn’t prevent a grimace of distaste.

  An abrupt movement in the corner caught her attention. Eyes imploring, Mrs. Murphy was making a bending motion with her hand. With a spurt of dismay at her own lack of manners, Sarah realized what the older woman wanted. Forgetting about Sionnach, she began to bend into a curtsy. The fox dropped awkwardly from her arms and, with an angry yelp, ran beneath the curtain to the sleeping quarters.

  Eyes narrowed, the richly dressed man grimaced and rubbed his chin with two fingers, as though he’d just witnessed something that had given him a turn.

  His partner shook his head sadly. “I tell you most respectfully, Your Grace, that while the fabric may be very fine, it has been fashioned into a peasant’s dress, cut and sewn in such a way that it can never be refashioned into a ball gown.”

  The sound of the man’s cultured accents, though no surprise given the fancy carriage, reminded Sarah that she stood before some very wealthy gentlemen indeed. She forced her lips upward into what was no doubt a sickly smile and finished the curtsy.

  The richly dressed man coughed. His companion frowned. Clearly she had disappointed them. Disgusted them, even. Why would they feel they needed to stand in judgment of her? Remembering the clearances that had plagued the Highlands for decades, she wondered if they’d come to turn them all out of their houses. She fought back an urge to sprint back to her croft, bar the door, and take up what puny arms she possessed.

  “Sarah,” Mrs. Murphy breathed, the pinched look on her face made more obvious by her widened eyes. �
�His Grace has been waiting for you.”

  “His . . . Grace?”

  “Aye, His Grace,” Mr. Murphy confirmed, a gleam entering his eyes, one that immediately put Sarah on alert. The old farmer’s gaze never sparkled like that unless he stood to gain something.

  The severely dressed man took a step forward. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Argyll.”

  Sarah stifled a gasp. Completely flustered, she curtsyed again. How could she have ever felt, even for a second, familiarity upon seeing him? “I’m very pleased tae meet ye,” she managed.

  At the sound of her voice, the duke’s eyebrows drew together. His companion shuddered. The pair exchanged concerned glances.

  “I am Phineas Graham, His Grace’s man of business,” the duke’s companion went on to say. “We are here to investigate certain claims.”

  “Claims?” Her gaze never leaving the visitors, Sarah moved to Mrs. Murphy’s side and took her hands. She wasn’t surprised to discover that the older woman’s hands trembled. Still, Sarah saw that her eyes were clear and alight with a serenity that came from facing years of marriage to a man like Mr. Murphy.

  “Aye, claims,” Mr. Murphy echoed. He tipped the glass of whiskey to his lips, took a long pull, and then set it on the kitchen table, empty. “This is the lass we found on the moors, just like we told the baron in town.”

  The duke glanced around their small stone kitchen, his attention sweeping past the butter churn and stoneware to settle upon a few chairs gathered around the open-hearth fireplace. “Why don’t we all sit down, Mr. Murphy?”

  “Of course, Yer Grace. Forgive me for not suggesting it sooner,” Mrs. Murphy replied for her husband, and set herself to the unfamiliar task of serving a duke.

  Sarah ushered their visitors toward the old rocking chair and straight-backed chairs that formed a half circle around the fireplace. Embers glowed within the grate, remnants of an earlier fire used to make green dye. They gave the room a cozy feeling without overheating the air. But Sarah felt cold. She tried to understand the secret she saw hidden in the depths of Mr. Murphy’s eyes.

  Claims?

  The duke watched her closely as he moved to a straight-backed chair. She selected a seat as far away from him as possible. Phineas Graham sat nearest the fire and, after serving them all cups of tea, her mother perched on the rocking chair.

  “Show her the ring,” the duke commanded.

  Graham fished in his pocket and brought out a heart-shaped emerald ring. He held it up for all to see. Although only a single lantern lit the kitchen, the ring sparkled with green fire.

  Recognition made Sarah stiffen. “My ring.”

  “It’s my ring,” Mr. Murphy corrected her. “I sold it tae the baron tae pay for my new longhorn cattle.”

  Sarah bristled. “But that ring was my only link tae my true past —”

  “It was mine, lassie, payment for taking ye in and feeding ye all those years.”

  Mr. Graham cleared his throat. “The Baron of Beannach brought your ring to Edinburgh. He sold it to a fine jewelry collector, whom the Earl of Cawdor routinely patronizes. The earl, who is distantly related to His Grace, recognized the ring while selecting a few pieces from the jeweler. He bought the ring and returned it to His Grace.”

  Sarah’s throat had gone almost entirely dry. She felt a strange tension in the room, the same kind that directly preceded a birth . . . or death. “Why does my ring interest ye, Yer Grace?”

  “First tell me where you found it,” the duke commanded.

  “’Tis just as I told the baron,” Mrs. Murphy answered for Sarah, a trifle frostily. “Sarah was wearing it on her thumb when we found her wandering the moors, all of those years ago. An orphan, she was, thin tae the point of starvation and dressed in rags. My husband and I took her in.”

  “When was that?”

  Mrs. Murphy paused, her forehead wrinkling. “It was a long time ago. I recall the weather being very hot. June, perhaps. Mr. Murphy was herding our sheep through grazing lands when he came across Sarah. A little bundle of rags, he called her, and brought her home in his arms. She almost died. I had tae nurse her night and day for nearly a month.”

  “How old was she when you found her?”

  “Three, maybe four years old.”

  The duke sat forward in his seat, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you call her Sarah?”

  “When we were nursing her back tae health, she said ‘Sarah’ over and over again. We figured Sarah was her name.”

  “And you say you found her with this ring.”

  “Aye, we did,” Mr. Murphy chimed in, his eyes growing more bloodshot with each passing minute.

  The duke looked at his man of business. “This young lady was found dressed in rags. My little Sarah wore only the finest of gowns.”

  Sarah stifled a gasp. His little Sarah?

  “After a week or so of wandering the moors,” Graham replied, “the finest gown might well be nothing but rags.”

  The duke nodded. “It could be her, Phineas. It damned well could be.”

  Her hand at her throat, Sarah stared at them. “It could be who?”

  Ignoring her question, Graham focused on Mrs. Murphy. “Do you still have the clothes you found your daughter in?”

  “They weren’t even fit for dusting the tabletops. I burned them long ago.”

  Graham frowned. “Did you find any bumps or bruises on her?”

  “She had a large goose egg on her head,” Sarah’s mother offered. “Her hair was bloodied.”

  “Was she carrying anything other than the ring?”

  “She had a panflute made of reeds.”

  Sarah clasped the panflute in her pocket protectively.

  The duke’s eyes narrowed. “A panflute?”

  “Aye.”

  He turned to Sarah. “Do you remember where you found the panflute?”

  “Nay, I don’t,” Sarah lied. In fact, she had a hazy memory of the white beast giving her the panflute — as a gift. Still, she wasn’t about to discuss the white beast now. People invariably thought her daft when she did.

  Ignoring everyone but his man of business, the duke murmured, “The panflute was probably a toy she played with. It is she.”

  “The ring proves little.” Graham’s voice had a warning tone to it. “She could have come by it in many ways.”

  “Don’t forget,” the duke insisted, “this young lady calls herself Sarah.”

  Graham frowned. “Perhaps she was having nightmares and calling out to her good friend Sarah.”

  He and the duke exchanged a long glance.

  At length, the duke’s lips tightened. “It is she. I know it. I feel it in my gut.”

  Another long moment passed, and when the duke finally spoke again, he sounded choked with emotion. “God has been merciful to me.”

  Sarah pressed a hand against her heart. Panic was mounting in her, along with a strange sort of wonder.

  After a moment, Graham turned to Mr. Murphy. “Why didn’t you report this child you found to someone?”

  “We did.” The old farmer lifted his feet closer to the fire crackling away in the hearth, renewing the stink of rotten wool in the room. “We told a few people in town. No one cared much.”

  “But the girl had an obviously expensive ring,” the duke pointed out. “Didn’t you wonder where she had come from?”

  “Aye, I thought hard about it. I decided she must have been the child of some whore,” Mr. Murphy stated baldly, “who’d birthed Sarah, then abandoned her on the moors when she started getting in the way of business. She probably gave Sarah the ring tae ease her conscience.”

  “An eminently reasonable explanation,” the duke agreed, his face tight. “But I’m afraid it’s completely wrong.”

  Utter quiet descended upon the Murphy farm kitchen. Her gaze flitting between her mother and the duke, Sarah’s stomach churned into a tight coil. “I know ye, don’t I?” she whispered.

  The duke looked at her for one long momen
t that, for Sarah, seemed to last hours. Then, suddenly, he smiled. “You are my daughter.”

  Sarah felt her face drain of all warmth.

  A long pause ensued. She tried to understand what he’d said, but his words had jumbled together in her mind. Cold rivulets of shock seeped through her, making her shiver. Her mouth dry, she stared with haunted eyes at this man, with his fancy clothes and smooth, cultured attitude, and eyes that wanted to own her. “It canna be true.”

  “My dear, I’ve been searching for you. You are my daughter.”

  “Ye’re his daughter,” Mr. Murphy added truculently from his corner of the room. “Don’t ye deny it, lass.”

  Sarah forced herself to look at the duke again. Her throat growing tight, she marked the raw hunger in his gaze. She saw a different sort of hunger in Mr. Murphy’s eyes and understood in that moment that the old farmer wanted to sell her to the duke. He thought she owed him and only needed her cooperation to close the deal.

  “Sarah,” the duke continued tentatively, “I want to bring you home with me. To Inveraray, where you belong.”

  Sarah jumped up from her chair and faced the duke. Did he really think that she would willingly trade the moonlight and the warm sheep smell of the stable for his gold? “How can ye be sae sure I’m yer daughter?”

  Mr. Murphy moved close to Sarah and raised his hand in a threatening gesture. “Don’t ye question it a second longer,” he hissed close to her ear. “I’ll see ye turned out of that old croft, and I’ll make sure no one brings ye their animals. Ye’re his daughter and tae his home ye’re going. If ye stay here, ye’ll starve.”

  Her voice equally low, she spat, “How much whiskey did the duke’s money buy ye?”

  “A damned good amount. Now pack yer things, and go.”

  Tears brimming in her eyes, Sarah looked at Mrs. Murphy. The older woman had to help her. If she lost her croft, her animals, and the friendship of a few farmers, she’d lose everything of value in her life.