Chapter 3 #4
At that moment he was nearly glad that Emmaline was dead. He did not think his beautiful, troubled daughter would have been able to bear this additional anguish in her already wretched life.
“Lord Redmond?”
There was no way out of it, he realized wearily. He would have to tell Miss MacPhail his rendition of the events that had landed him in prison awaiting his execution.
And she would either believe him, or have him hauled out of here and sent back to prison.
“I had only just arrived in Inveraray that afternoon,” he began in a flat, resigned voice.
“I had come to investigate the possibility of investing in a new whiskey distillery to be built just north of here. Being somewhat tired after my long journey, I decided to take refreshment at one of your local taverns. After I left, I suddenly found myself attacked by four men who knew me by name, although I did not recognize any of them. They seemed to have no interest in robbing me, but merely wanted to cut my heart out. In the course of defending myself, one of them was killed and the others ran off. I was subsequently arrested, charged with murder and convicted, despite the fact that there was no apparent motive for me to walk out and kill a perfect stranger.”
“Were you drunk?” Her mouth was taut with disapproval.
He found her smug self-righteousness extremely irritating.
What right had she to judge him? The prim-faced, gray-gowned spinster before him had no doubt led a placid, sheltered life of chaste, dull comfort.
What could she possibly know of the challenges and agonies of life, of the cruelties that could gnaw away at a man’s soul until he felt he couldn’t bear to face another moment without the fortification of drink?
“Very,” he snapped. “But I have been drunk numerous times before, Miss MacPhail, and to my knowledge I have still refrained from murdering anyone.”
“Constable Drummond said you got into an altercation with the owner of the tavern and had to be thrown out.”
“That is true.”
“He also said that—” She stopped suddenly, uncertain whether it was wise to continue.
Haydon raised an inquiring brow. “Yes?”
“He said that the man you killed was beaten beyond recognition.” Genevieve’s stomach twisted as she finished in a halting voice, “They said that you smashed his skull in.”
Pure, cold rage hardened his features, making him look truly fearsome. In that moment Genevieve could absolutely believe that he was capable of murder.
“That,” he managed with barely leashed fury, “is a filthy lie.”
She stared at him, clasping her hands together so tightly they began to ache.
She desperately wanted to believe him. After all, he had saved Jack from a horrible lashing, only to be beaten himself.
And her new ward, who regarded everyone with suspicion and contempt, apparently liked and trusted this man—to the point that he was even willing to risk his own chance at freedom in order to help Lord Redmond secure his.
But at that moment, Lord Redmond’s fury was surging through the room in a terrible dark wave, and she could not help but be frightened.
Her instincts warned her that if he was provoked, this man could be extremely dangerous—regardless of his illness and injuries.
“I stabbed the man, Miss MacPhail,” Haydon said brusquely.
“With his own blade. The blade he was trying to sink into me. And in the course of our struggle, I managed to land a blow or two to his face. I also did some damage to the other three. And after I killed their friend, I withdrew the knife and charged at them. They ran off, but I suspect it was more because they heard voices approaching and did not wish to be caught, rather than out of any fear of me. When I looked down and realized that my assailant was dead, I dropped the knife and got the hell out of there as fast as I could.”
“If you were merely defending yourself, then why did you run away? Why didn’t you alert the police?”
“Because in my experience, Miss MacPhail, the authorities always look for the easiest answers,” he replied tersely.
“I was a stranger to Inveraray. I was drunk. I had just killed a man. My attackers were nowhere to be found, and between the darkness and my guttered state, I would not have been able to provide any useful description of them. And there were no witnesses. I’m sure you will agree it was not the most auspicious position to be in.
At that moment I wanted nothing more than to find a room, fall into bed, and sleep off my stupor.
I suppose in my inebriated condition I imagined that there would be time enough to go to the authorities in the morning, at which point I could explain the situation with some modicum of sober credibility.
Given the way things have turned out for me, you can hardly argue that my concerns were not well-founded. ” His tone was cynical.
Silence stretched between them for a long, frozen moment.
“You have no reason to believe me,” he finally acknowledged.
“I don’t know you—”
“It wouldn’t matter if you did,” he interrupted harshly. “You would no doubt only think worse of me.”
She turned her gaze toward the window, unable to bear the wounded fury burning in his gaze.
Haydon closed his eyes, wishing to hell that everything was different.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I never intended for you to put yourself at risk. I thought I would spend a night or two in your coach house and then be gone. You were never to know I had even been there.”
“Then Constable Drummond would have found you and arrested you early this morning,” Genevieve told him. “The police are presently performing a search of all the coach houses and sheds in Inveraray, looking for you.”
“Jesus Christ.” He gripped his throbbing ribs with one hand and awkwardly threw off his blankets with the other.
“If they decide to start searching the houses and find me here, you will be charged. I suspect you will have a hard time explaining how I came to be lying naked in your bed if it was supposedly your intent to deliver me to the police.” Clenching his jaw against his nausea and pain, he stood, stark naked.
Genevieve’s eyes widened.
She had considered herself to be reasonably well acquainted with the male anatomy, having nurtured a love of painting and sculpture from the time she was a little girl.
But other than the frozen subjects of painting and sculpture, her experience with the male body was strictly limited to the cherublike appearance of little boys.
Although there had been ample opportunity to study every marble-hard plane and chiseled curve of Lord Redmond’s physique last night, she had quite properly refrained from glimpsing at him there.
Now that she was suddenly presented with this startling exhibition of his masculinity, there seemed to be no other place she could look.
Haydon was too absorbed with the extraordinary effort it was taking him to stand to notice her sudden fascination with him. “Do you know where my clothes are?”
Propriety returned to her in an icy rush. She gasped and whirled around, vainly trying to obliterate the memory of what she had just seen.
Haydon stared at her in confusion, wondering what the hell was the matter with her.
And then it suddenly penetrated his fever-soaked brain that he was standing stark naked in front of a virgin.
“Forgive me.” He jerked a plaid blanket off the bed and clumsily wrapped it around his waist. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
His voice was gruff, but his remorse seemed genuine.
It struck Genevieve as paradoxical that he was more concerned about his nudity frightening her than the fact that he had stabbed a man to death.
There was an earnestness to his apology that touched her, somehow.
It was clear that Lord Redmond was a man of at least some sensitivity.
“I’m decent now. You may turn around if you wish.”
In truth, she would have liked another moment to compose herself, for she was certain that her cheeks were blazing with embarrassment.
But she could scarcely stand there staring at the wall after he had invited her to turn, or else she would seem like a ridiculous prig, which she most certainly was not.
Fixing her face with what she hoped was an expression of relative serenity, she slowly turned.
He was leaning heavily against the bedpost, using it for support as he clutched a rumpled swath of plaid around his waist. Sunlight blazed upon his magnificent body, highlighting every niche and curve of his powerfully carved chest and thickly muscled arms and legs.
There was a raw, savage beauty to him as he stood before her, all sinewy ripples and hard planes, his body battered and bruised, but still exuding strength and determination.
In that moment he reminded her of a medieval warrior—fierce, uncultivated, dangerous.
She felt the urge to reach up and place her hands upon the powerful breadth of his shoulders, to splay her fingers wide over the solid flat of his belly, to feel his warrior blood pulsing hot beneath her palms as she pressed herself against him.
Appalled by the direction of her thoughts, she looked away.
“My clothes,” repeated Haydon, who was sapping every ounce of his strength just to remain upright, and had no inclination of the effect he was having upon her. “I need them.”
“Oliver burned them,” she managed in a small voice. “We could not risk having someone find a prison uniform.”
“Then I will need something else to wear.”