Chapter 3 #3
“Indeed.” A sickening coil of fear was unfurling in Genevieve’s stomach.
If the man lying in her chamber upstairs was as dangerous as these men suggested, then she must tell them immediately, so they could arrest him at once and take him back to the prison.
But if she confessed to helping him, they would have no choice but to arrest her too.
What would become of the children? she wondered desperately.
Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen would gladly stay to look after them, but her arrangement with Governor Thomson did not permit for anyone other than herself to have custody.
He certainly would fail to convince the court that their wardship should now be transferred to three elderly criminals.
“Since the boy is of no help to us and Miss MacPhail has not noticed anything amiss, we should be moving along,” suggested Governor Thomson, bobbing forward in his chair. He regarded Constable Drummond uncertainly. “Shouldn’t we?”
“Not just yet.” Constable Drummond’s gaze was riveted on Genevieve. “With your permission, Miss MacPhail, I would like to conduct a search of these premises.”
Terror streaked up Genevieve’s spine.
“More specifically, I wish to inspect your coach house,” he clarified, oblivious to her sudden alarm.
“Although it is unlikely we shall find our prisoner there, as I mentioned we are searching all such outer buildings, in the hopes of finding some indication as to where Lord Redmond may have spent the night.”
Genevieve exhaled the shallow breath trapped in her chest. “Of course. Oliver can escort you to it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Constable Drummond, rising. “I’m sure we can find it.”
“All the same, I’ll be showin’ ye round the back.” Oliver appeared suddenly in the doorway. “I’ll nae have ye trampin’ through my garden while ye wander about—the plants may be in their winter sleep, but they dinna like it. I’ll just go fetch my coat.” He disappeared.
“There’s another one you will never change,” commented Constable Drummond, stroking his forefinger along the dark strip of hair on his cheek.
“I do hope, Miss MacPhail, that you are prudent and take appropriate care of your valuables with all these criminals living under your roof. It would be a pity to see you robbed after you had extended such generosity to them—however misguided it may be.”
“The only true valuables I have, Constable Drummond, are my children,” Genevieve replied evenly. “Everything else is entirely replaceable. And no one in this household, including Oliver, would ever dream of taking anything from this house—or from any other house, for that matter.”
“Let us hope so.” He put on his hat. “For their sakes as well as yours. Good day to you.” He nodded curtly to Genevieve before striding from the room.
An icy wind surged into the vestibule as he opened the front door.
“Good day, Miss MacPhail,” added Governor Thomson, wrestling with his coat and hat as he hurried out behind him.
“Here now, ye’re not goin’ out there without me!” Oliver crammed a battered felt hat on his head and shuffled out as fast as his ancient legs would carry him.
Genevieve closed the front door and leaned heavily against it, trying to calm the anxious pounding of her heart.
And then she lifted her skirts and began to slowly make her way up the stairs.
LEMONY RIBBONS OF SUNLIGHT POURED OVER HIM, drenching him with soothing heat.
It permeated the clean blankets covering him, seeping through his skin and into his heavily bruised muscles and bones.
Gentle as a caress, the soft warmth seemed to liquefy the stiffness of body, penetrating every fiber and joint and rib, easing the terrible throbbing that had tormented him all night.
A veil of exhaustion cloaked his mind, making his wakefulness come in lethargic stages.
The clock was still tapping away at time in neat, precise intervals.
Somewhere in the distance people were talking, but their voices were too muffled for him to hear what they were saying.
It didn’t seem to matter. The sweet fragrance of baking bread drifted lazily around him, tangling with the spicy aroma of simmering meat and vegetables.
He was reluctant to open his eyes, for fear that with one reckless lifting of his lids he would find himself back in the fetid squalor of his cell, with nothing to look forward to except his execution.
The door opened and he heard the silky whisper of skirts crossing the room.
A citrus scent wafted upon the air, a tantalizing mixture of orange and soap and some wonderfully exotic blossoms he couldn’t begin to name.
He lay perfectly still, even though his mind had snapped to near crystalline clarity with the entrance of the lovely Miss MacPhail.
Despite his weakness and injuries, his body began to stir.
He longed to feel the softness of her cool palm pressing against his skin, the aching awareness of her lush breasts as she leaned over him to adjust his blankets, or perhaps even the agonizing swirl of her wet cloth as she drew slow circles across his hungry, burning flesh.
She did not touch him. Instead she remained at a distance, silent and still. Sensing that something was amiss, he opened his eyes.
And saw that everything between them had changed.
“Good morning, Lord Redmond.”
Her voice was cool. It was her expression, however, that disturbed him most. Gone was the sweet distress that had filled her eyes the first time he had gazed into them as he lay upon the prison floor.
He could not accurately remember how she had looked upon him last night, but he felt reasonably certain it had not been with this tense animosity.
How could she have tended to him with such quiet devotion all those long hours, and now be looking upon him with such inimical contempt and wariness?
“What has happened?” he demanded hoarsely.
“I am going to ask you a question, Lord Redmond,” she began, ignoring his query.
“And I will have your word that you will answer me honestly, regardless of what the consequences may be. That is, I feel, the very least you can do for me, given the extreme risks I have taken to help you. Do I have your word?”
Cold despair leaked over him. For a moment, somewhere within the hazy, treacherous veil of slumber, he had been lulled into thinking that he was almost safe.
But he wasn’t. He was too weak to move, and if this lovely, agitated woman chose, he could be handed over to the authorities and executed before sundown.
He was not a man accustomed to weakness or vulnerability, and the fact that his life now hung so precariously before him filled him with helpless rage.
“You have my word.” There was no point in lying to her, Haydon decided. It was clear that she already knew about his crime anyway.
She hesitated. She seemed to be struggling with her question, as if she was afraid to ask it.
“Did you kill that man?” she blurted out suddenly.
“Yes.”
To her credit, she did not run screaming from the room, but remained rooted where she was. Even so, he could see by the wavering of her stance that he had affected her deeply, and he was profoundly sorry for that.
“Why?” Her voice betrayed her distress.
“Because he was trying to bury a knife in my chest and I didn’t much care for the idea.”
She regarded him with skepticism. “Why did he want to kill you?”
“If I knew that, or who he and his three friends were, I might have had a more agreeable verdict at my trial. Unfortunately, the men who attacked me did not bother with the niceties of a formal introduction.” He winced as he shifted his position, trying to sit up.
She made no move to help him. “Constable Drummond said there was no evidence that there were any other assailants.”
“Constable Drummond is a malicious, loathsome, frustrated man whose personal lack of pleasure and comfort in his life causes him to heap undue infamy upon nearly every individual who crosses his path,” Haydon retaliated darkly.
“It is immensely fortunate that he is not a judge, or the entire town of Inveraray would be locked up.”
Genevieve regarded him in surprise. It was not often that she heard someone beyond the members of her own household articulate similar thoughts on the constable.
The fact that Constable Drummond was a malevolent brute did not make the man lying before her innocent.
It did, however, remind her that she had not yet heard Lord Redmond’s side of this sordid tale.
“Perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened that night, Lord Redmond,” she suggested, clasping her hands expectantly before her.
Haydon sighed. He had been through this countless times, and without exception, no one had believed him—not even the expensive lawyer he had sent for all the bloody way from Inverness. Even he was starting to question what exactly had transpired that hellish night.
Miss MacPhail was watching him from across the room, her back rigid, her expression guarded.
It was obvious she didn’t trust him enough to get too close.
After caring for him all through the night, after bathing and caressing nearly every inch of him with her gloriously soothing strokes, after filling his senses with singing and soft words and the tangy scent of soap and blossoms, it was somehow unbearable that now she was afraid to even be near him.
He scarcely knew her, Haydon reminded himself impatiently.
Even so, the loss of her gentle trust cut him deeply.
He closed his eyes, fighting the terrible pounding invading his skull.
Was this how his miserable life was to end?
he wondered bleakly. As an infamous convicted murderer whose very presence struck fear into the hearts of women and children?
Just when he had thought he couldn’t possibly be any more loathsome, he had gone and sunk a knife into someone, adding murder to his litany of sins.