Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3) (41 page)

Suddenly he looked away and started scraping with a fingernail at one of the crusty scabs on his wrist.

Another queue of accused prisoners were brought clanking into the dock, and Trick's group started moving out. She watched in a haze of pain as he drew a red-tipped finger across the crumpled paper in his other hand.

"He's writing something," she whispered in horror to Ford. "He's trying to write something.
In blood.
"

His hand with the paper shaking, he reached it toward her as he was dragged by. She pressed against the rail, straining to get closer, their fingers almost touching. She moaned when he was jerked back, the look in his eyes anguished but unreadable.

Seconds later, he was tugged from the chamber and out of sight.

"He's ill," she sobbed, tears running freely down her face to mix with the miserable cold rain. "He was trying to tell me something, wasn't he?"

"He was too weak." Ford wiped her cheeks. "There's nothing you can do about it now."

"He tried to give me a message in
blood
." Her eyes burned and her heart was cracking. The man had only preyed on Puritans—the real criminals in her eyes—and for the good of orphan children. No matter that he was a liar and an adulterer, he didn't deserve to die.

She leaned far over the rail and shouted to the guard who was closing the gate. "Where are they being taken?"

"Newgate," the man said as the iron bars banged shut.

"Kendra, you cannot go to Newgate." At the Chase town house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Jason pushed her onto the drawing room's burgundy brocade couch and handed her a large goblet of Rhenish wine. "It's a hellhouse. And there's nothing you can do for him anyway."

"I must see him." Maybe she could sneak him out. At least she could say good-bye. "I'm going." She set down the wine and rose.

He took her by the shoulders, his bright green gaze determined. "You cannot go."

Equally determined, she wrenched from his grasp. "You cannot stop me."

"We'll go to King Charles," Ford said.

She whirled to him. "What?"

"We'll go to Charles and ask for a pardon."

Hope fluttered in her chest. "Could...could that work?"

He shrugged. "It's certainly within his power. I saw him pardon Swift Nicks."

"Who?" Her legs feeling weak, she dropped back onto the couch.

"The infamous highwayman, Jack Nevison." Ford began pacing. "Early one morn he robbed a fellow in Kent who recognized him and threatened to turn him in. To give himself an alibi, he rode for York, arriving the same evening—"

"Impossible," she burst out, never mind that she didn't care to hear this since it had nothing to do with Trick. The ride to York took at least four days, more likely a week.

"Apparently not impossible when his life was at risk. He had friends at the taverns all along the Great North Road who supplied him with a fresh horse every hour. When he arrived in the town that evening, he hurried to the bowling green, in time to play a game of bowls with the mayor and other city functionaries. When he was brought to trial later, no less than six dignitaries could honestly swear he'd been in York that day, not Kent."

"Then Charles had no need to pardon him."

"But he had past crimes. The tale made the London rounds, and when Charles heard it, he commanded Nevison to court to tell the story himself. The king laughed until tears came to his eyes and then dismissed him with a signed and sealed pardon for all his prior misdeeds. I'll never forget it. So you can see that Charles can be prevailed upon under the right circumstances."

"Regardless of whether our merry monarch might be swayed by a bit of humor," Kendra said, "you have no knee-slapping story to tell him. There's nothing funny about Trick's situation."

"True," Jason admitted. "But perhaps when he hears only Puritans were robbed, it will soften his heart."

"Possible," Ford said. "And let's not forget that he knows and likes Trick as the Duke of Amberley."

"And Trick just brought him all that treasure." Kendra grasped at a wisp of hope. "But are you really willing to bring all of this up? Admit that my husband and the Black Highwayman are one and the same?"

"We'll do whatever it takes," Jason said. "Considering the alternative, I hardly think Trick will care that the Caldwell name is tarnished."

"And
our
name?" Trick's life took precedence for her—but he was her husband, not theirs.

Yet their expressions told her, unquestionably, they felt the same. Which melted whatever resentment was left in her heart.

"Thank you," she said softly, knowing they were right. Not only about this, but about how she always jumped to conclusions without giving them the benefit of the doubt. "I know you married me to Trick with the best of intentions, and I shouldn't have blamed you for his lies." She drew a calming breath. "I'm sorry I got angry. It won't happen again, I promise."

Jason released a choked laugh. "Of course it will happen again. We're family."

Ford's blue eyes twinkled. "Besides, those times when you storm off not speaking to us are the only peace and quiet we get around here."

"We're your brothers," Jason said, "and we'll always be here for you to lean on."

"And abuse," Ford added with a smile. "That's part of our being family, too."

Once she'd told Trick something similar. Her eyes flooded at the memory. "But I'm going to try to do better anyway. I love you both."

"We never doubted it," Jason told her. "Shall we go ask for that pardon?"

"It cannot hurt to ask," she said with a sigh.

No matter that the Chases and Trick were all intimates of Charles, she had little confidence they'd get him to pardon another infamous highwayman. One prank on that order made for a rollicking good story—he might feel that twice would make him look like a man with no care for his subjects' welfare. Appearances counted in politics.

Besides, the king might not even be at Whitehall for all they knew.

But they had to try. She began to rise. "Let's go ask now. I have my doubts this will work, but the sooner we find out, the better. Trick is ill."

"You're staying here." The gentle, forgiving smile on Jason's face disappeared as he pushed her down to the couch and shoved the wine back into her hands. "Women are rarely granted audiences, as you're well aware, unless they take place in the Royal Bedchamber. Just sit tight, and we'll be back before you know it."

When her brothers left, Kendra was still wearing her disguise, and she was still determined to see Trick. Having heard that gaolers were fond of bribes, she pocketed some coins and slipped out into Lincoln's Inn Fields to hail a hackney cab.

On the bumpy ride to Newgate, she wondered what she could say to him. Though she was still furious at his lies and infidelity, a man at death's door deserved some peace of mind.

Then the cab jolted and she heard his voice.

I'm sorry, leannan, but there are things I cannot tell you. You'll have to trust me. Once you promised you'd trust me...

A surge of panic overwhelmed her.

Could it be she'd misjudged her husband as badly as she had her brothers? Had she jumped to conclusions there, too?

Her heart raced as all the memories rushed back. The way he'd been slowly revealing himself; the hushed, earnest words; her conviction that he always wanted to do right.

Do you know how much I care for you, lass? Enough to make me question my loyalties.

What had he meant by those words? What if he really did have a explanation for all that had gone on? He'd been trying to tell her something at the trial and been cheated of his chance.

My love, T.

Dear God, she loved him, too.

She could have been wrong. As she'd been many times before, she could have been so, so wrong.

And now it might be too late.

Her brothers had to get that pardon. They just had to. And if they failed...

She would go to the king herself. The hanging wasn't scheduled until noon tomorrow, so she had all night. She didn't care if she had to go into the Royal Bedchamber. Hell, she'd even sleep with Charles if it meant he'd pardon Trick. She was willing to do whatever it took to save her husband from the noose.

But that was for later, after she heard back from Jason and Ford. For now, she just wanted to get into that gaol. She just wanted to see Trick and wrap him in her arms and tell him she was sorry, so sorry...

When the cab rattled to a halt, she unclenched her fists and hurried to get out.

Newgate Prison had burned in the Great Fire two years earlier and was only partially rebuilt. The new entrance was magnificently decorated. Four figures represented Liberty, Peace, Security, and Plenty, but behind the impressive facade, the gaol itself remained as miserable as Kendra had always heard.

After she paid a man at the gate, it creaked open to admit her to what seemed a dark pit of squalor. Her footsteps echoed in a stone corridor still blackened from the fire. Noxious odors of slops, rotten food, and unwashed bodies made her gag before she stepped into the relatively luxurious keeper's house.

"Walter Cowday," a hard, graying man introduced himself. "Who you here to see?"

"The Black Highwayman."

He raised a grizzled brow and held out a hand. Her heart pounding, she put a silver coin in it, and then another and another. When he remained silent, she added the one she had of gold. She clenched her hand around her few remaining coins; she'd never imagined it would cost this much.

"He went straight to the condemned hold. Lucky bastard don't have to wait. Tyburn Fair day tomorrow."

When she failed to show the proper excitement for the public holiday that a execution meant, he pocketed the money and motioned for her to follow him back to the corridor.

He lifted a hatch door and pointed down. "There you go. If you've more silver, a guard will point the way."

Holding her cumbersome skirts in one hand, she descended a ladder and dropped to a damp stone floor.

Bleak gray cells lined both sides of another corridor, moisture trickling down their walls. Each looked about eight feet by six, furnished with a wooden bench and a Bible. The iron candlesticks, one per hold bolted to the stone, apparently were saved for night. The only light came filtered though a tiny window high in each cell, covered by heavy iron bars.

She swallowed hard and started searching down the corridor. It was cold and dark, and she stumbled more than once. Men hooted at her, and chains clanked as they stuck their arms through the bars and grabbed at her in the blackness. Tears pricked her eyelids.

Trick was nowhere to be found.

"Who goes there?"

She couldn't remember ever being as relieved when a uniformed guard appeared in the corridor holding a burning torch. Blessed light.

"I'm looking for the Black Highwayman."

Wordlessly, he held out a hand, and she gladly filled it with the last of her silver. Yet he made no move to show her the way.

Through heartache and fear, indignation rose. "Well, where is he?" she demanded.

"Doctor took him."

Once again, hope fluttered in her breast. Maybe they'd noticed he was ill and brought him to an infirmary. Perhaps they'd let him recover and retry his case. It was possible the pardon would be unnecessary, after all.

"He's not here?" she asked.

The man shook his head.

It was like pulling teeth to get answers from the cur, and this after she'd paid. Impatience and worry combined to make her jaw tighten and her words sound shrewish. "Where did the doctor take him to, then?"

"The graveyard, mistress."

"The graveyard?" A wave of apprehension swamped her. Her chest felt as though it might burst, and her breath came in short, shallow pants. She couldn't have heard the guard right. "The graveyard? Are you sure? What happened?"

The uniformed man shrugged.

"Tell me what happened! I paid you, damn it!"

She rarely used such language, but it could be effective. He blinked and took a small step back. "He was ill when he came in, you see. A doctor went in to examine him, came out and said he was dead. Of the plague."

"The plague?" She knew it could kill swiftly, but she'd seen Trick only hours ago. Ill, but very much alive.

And he'd wanted to tell her something.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I will own up I didn't go in there. One don't mess with the plague, mistress."

"Did you see him at all?"

"Aye, through the bars from a safe distance. He was dead, all right. Blue spots all over him, and he was stiff as a long-trapped rat. Within the hour he was put in a coffin and carried out. I imagine he was buried just as quick."

She sank to the sticky stones, not caring that she sat in filth shared with bugs and rats. Her lids slid closed against the tears that welled, poised to fall.

Trick was dead. Dead and buried. Along with his lies and his deceptions, his soft words and cherishing kisses.

And she was dead inside.

It was over, and she had no emotion left in her.