Kent's Orphans: The Prisoner Part 5

Bile began to seep up the back of Genevieve's throat. Was it possible that the man she had permitted into her home and was trying to protect was actually a vicious murderer? I would like you to believe that I am innocent. She wanted to believe him. But a man was dead, and a jury had decided that he was responsible.

"Who did he kill?"

"The authorities were unable to identify him." Constable Drummond's dark eyes seemed to be boring into her as he finished, "His face was all but gone."

Hands filled her mind. Large, powerful, elegantly formed. With long fingers that she could imagine stroking the keys of a piano, or perhaps caressing the softness of an adoring woman's cheek. She had carefully bathed and dried those hands, had washed them clean of all trace of the prison's filth, and placed them gently upon the cool linen that covered him. At the time she had thought of them as the caring hands that had come to Jack's rescue.

Were they also the savage hands that had beaten a man to death?

"Did anyone see him do this?" Her mouth was suddenly dry, making it difficult to force the words out.

"There were no witnesses to the actual murder," Constable Drummond allowed. "But several people saw Lord Redmond running from the docks where the body was found. It was amply clear from his bloodied hands and clothes that he had been involved in a brutal a.s.sault. They served as witnesses at his trial."

She pretended to be distracted by an imaginary speck of lint upon her gown, trying to appear no more than mildly curious. "And what was Lord Redmond's explanation?"

"Just exactly what you would expect him to say. That he had been set upon by several men, and had, unfortunately, killed one of them. He claimed to have no knowledge of who they were or what their motive might have been for attempting to kill him, other than simple robbery. The jury did not accept his explanation."

She looked up. "Why not?"

"There was no one who could substantiate his claim that he was attacked by four men instead of just one. If there were four a.s.sailants, how could he possibly have emerged the victor? Nothing was taken from him during the course of this alleged robbery. And if he was rightfully defending himself, then why didn't he contact the authorities afterward, as any innocent person would do, instead of running away? Finally, he was unable to secure anyone to come and testify on behalf of his good character."

"Surely he had some family to speak for him-or perhaps a close friend?"

"No one, except for his lawyer, who traveled from Inverness for the trial. For their part, the prosecution was able to secure statements from numerous acquaintances establishing that Lord Redmond is well known to have a dangerously volatile temper that is frequently roused by his inordinate fondness for drink. There were witnesses who testified that he had been drinking heavily in a tavern on the evening of the murder, and had nearly engaged in a fight with the owner before he was thrown out."

"A shame," said Governor Thomson, who had rolled back in his chair and laced his pudgy fingers over the bloat of his belly. "To be blessed with a t.i.tle and fortune, and have so little self-control." He sounded as if he thought that he should have been so blessed instead.

"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 m.u.f.fled 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 hoa.r.s.ely.

"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 a.s.sailants."

"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 b.l.o.o.d.y way from Inverness. Even he was starting to question what exactly had transpired that h.e.l.lish 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.

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 a.s.sailant was dead, I dropped the knife and got the h.e.l.l 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 modic.u.m 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 embarra.s.sment. 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."