Clayton dismounted in front of the carriage house, opened one of the wide double doors and led Pacer inside, the argument he had been waging with himself on the long, miserable ride home still engaging his mind. It was the storm. The ceaseless tempest coupled with his inherent protective instinct toward women was what had brought the image of Sarah Randolph’s pale, frightened face returning to him throughout the day. It had nothing to do with the woman herself. It was only that he had never known anyone so terrified of a thunderstorm. He had been pondering the possible causes of that fear since last night. Most likely it was some long-remembered childhood fright.
A gust of wind drove the rain into his face, splattered the deluge against the building and tried to rip the door from his grasp. He battled the wind for possession, managed to pull the door closed and headed toward Pacer’s stall. Sassy nickered softly, welcoming her barn mate home. Pacer tossed his head and snorted, nudged his back.
“Easy, boy, you will have some oats soon enough. But first we have to get you dry.”
The door opened. The wind howled through the breach, lifted hay and dust from the plank floor, swirling it through the air to stick to his wet face and clothes. Clayton blinked, blew a bit of straw off his upper lip.
Alfred Quincy wrestled the door closed. “Saw you ride in.” He walked over and held out his hand for the reins. “There’s hot venison stew waiting for you.”
Clayton nodded. Droplets of water clinging to his hat brim broke free and slithered down his cheeks and neck. He swiped them away. “A plate of hot stew is exactly what I need after the cold soaking I have had today.” He gave his mount a solid pat on the shoulder. “And Pacer deserves a long rubdown and a double scoop of oats. He earned them today.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Clayton nodded, stepped outside, lowered his head against the wind and pelting rain and ran toward the house. That stew was going to taste good tonight. There had been no time to eat today and his stomach was growling so fiercely he could not tell its rumblings from the distant thunder.
The kitchen door opened. Cold, damp air gusted across the room. The lamps flickered. Sarah turned, saw the rain-soaked figure standing against the blackness of the stormy night and gasped. The cup she held slipped from her grasp and smashed against the slate floor. The sound of the breaking china brought her back to her senses. “Oh, I…I am sorry.” Her voice quavered. She clamped her teeth down on her lower lip and crouched to pick up the pieces of broken cup, grateful for the table that hid her as she struggled to compose herself.
The door closed. The light steadied. Boot heels clacked on the floor. A shadow fell across her. Sarah closed her eyes, wished she were up in her room. She did not want Clayton Bainbridge to see her like this again. She tried to will herself to stop trembling.
“You look…unwell…Miss Randolph. Leave the cup.”
Sarah shook her head, opened her eyes. “That would not be fair to Mrs. Quincy. I broke it and I shall clear it away.” She cleared the sound of tears from her voice. “And I am not ‘unwell.’ I am fine.” She reached for a jagged piece of cup and stabbed her finger. Blood welled up to form a bright droplet against her flesh. She gathered another piece, started to rise to throw them away, wobbled and resumed her crouch, reaching for another piece of the cup to disguise the unsuccessful effort. “It was only that you startled me.”
The shadow covered her. Clayton Bainbridge’s hands closed around her upper arms. He lifted her to her feet. She looked up and met his gaze. Her knees quivered. She dropped her gaze to the pieces of china in her hand.
“You have hurt yourself.”
His voice was as warm as his hands.
“A mere prick.” She firmed her knees, stepped back. He released his grip. She ignored the sudden cold where his hands had been and brushed with her fingertip at the tiny rivulet of blood before it dropped onto her gown. “I apologize for breaking the cup.” She glanced up. “I will replace it, of course.”
A frown drew his brows down to shadow his eyes. “That is not necessary. It was an accident. And as you pointed out, the fault was mine for startling you.” He swiped his hand across the nape of his neck and turned away.
“Nonetheless—”
“Miss Randolph—” he turned back, frustration glinting in his eyes “—must you be so fractious? My clothes and boots are sodden and mud-caked. I am weary, chilled to the bone and hungry as a bear emerging from hibernation. I have no desire to stand here arguing with you over a broken cup.”
The heat of embarrassment chased the chill from her body. Sarah straightened her shoulders. “I was not being fractious, Mr. Bainbridge, only…steadfast. However, you are right, it would be inconsiderate to continue this discussion while you are in discomfort. We can resolve the issue of my replacing the cup tomorrow.”
A scowl darkened his face. “No, Miss Randolph, we will not. This discussion is over.” He looked down the long table. “Eldora, I shall be down for my supper directly after a hot bath.” He crossed to the winder stairs and began to climb.
Sarah’s cheeks burned. How dare he speak to her in such a fashion! Let alone dismiss her as if she were a servant! Truth struck. Of course, she was a servant.
She fought down the desire to march to the stairs and demand an apology and watched until her employer disappeared from view. Even in his rain-soaked, muddy clothes Clayton Bainbridge had a presence, an air of authority about him. He was a strong, determined man and getting him to accept and love his daughter suddenly seemed a daunting task. But she had more than a little determination herself and a strong, worthwhile purpose. The little girl upstairs deserved her father’s love and attention.
“Are you still wanting tea, Miss Randolph?”
Sarah jerked out of her thoughts and glanced at the housekeeper. “I am indeed, Mrs. Quincy. And please, call me Sarah.” She threw the broken cup in a basket holding bits of trash, walked to the shelves and took down another. Tea with the housekeeper had taken on a new importance. It might help her bring father and daughter together if she knew why Clayton Bainbridge held himself indifferent toward Nora, and servants always knew every household secret.
The storm had finally ceased. Sarah opened the window sash and stood listening to the quiet sounds of the night. Moisture dripped from the leaves of the trees, the drops from the higher branches hitting the leaves on those below before sliding off in a sibilant whisper to fall to the ground. There were muted rustlings of grasses and flowers disturbed by the passage of small, nocturnal animals. Somewhere an owl hooted, another answered. But concentrate as she would on the sounds, she could not blot out her tumbling thoughts, could not stop the images that were flashing, one after the other, into her head.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, more for comfort than for warmth. The cold was inside. If only she had not gone downstairs for tea. The sight of Clayton Bainbridge’s rain-drenched figure against the darkness had whisked her back to the night Aaron had died.
Sarah gave a quick shake of her head to dislodge the memories—to no avail. She closed the shutters, adjusted the slats to let the cool night air flow into the bedroom and hurried to the nightstand. The gold embossed letters on the black leather cover of the book resting there glowed softly in the candlelight. Robert Burns. She slid into bed, took the poetry volume into her hands and let it fall open where it would. All she wanted was words to read to chase the pictures from her head. She pulled the lamp closer and looked down at the page.
“Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,
A burden more than I can bear,”
Sarah slapped the book shut, tossed it aside and slipped from bed. She didn’t need to read about grief, she was living grief! She rushed, barefoot, into the nursery, ran to the crib and scooped Nora into her arms. The toddler blinked her eyes and yawned. “Nanny?”