By Love Unveiled (12 page)

Then Garett’s gaze roamed to the figure who sat curled up in a stiff-backed chair. In the end Mina had stayed. Not that he’d given her much choice. He’d known she could be convinced. But now he took no joy in the knowledge.

She’d seen to it he felt like a monster for what he was doing. Who was she—a gypsy wench without a penny to her name—to lecture him on honor and responsibility? God only knew what she’d done to survive in the last few years, she and her devious aunt.

Her head drooped forward so her tangle of curls fell in soft waves over her shoulders, past where her lace-edged chemise peeked above her boned bodice, then
cascaded down the front of her azure dress. What a pretty picture she made, her legs tucked up under her as if she were an innocent child.

But the delectable lips were not a child’s, nor the shapely calf exposed to his view where her plain muslin skirts had hiked up. It was enough to make a monk sit up and take notice. No wonder her accusations had driven him frenzied with anger. He couldn’t bear to have that delicious creature think him such a beast.

He jerked his gaze away. How had he come to this pass, to let a beautiful woman toy with his resolve? What she thought of him was of no consequence. No one else would fault him for imprisoning a man who’d tried to destroy his tenants’ livelihoods.

Nor would anyone else criticize him for wanting his revenge against Tearle. His frown deepened. If she only knew . . .

But how could she? He himself had only suspicions and no proof.

He thought back to those first painful days in France. Only after a long while had he adjusted himself to the thought that he’d never see his mother’s kindly face again or trade witticisms with his father. Most wrenching of all had been not knowing why they’d been killed. He’d almost welcomed the hardships of France, because they’d distracted him from his grief and confusion.

And there
had
been hardships. The king’s friendship had helped them little, since Charles, too, had been destitute and eventually forced to leave France. Without family or funds, Garett, a boy of fourteen, and his equally
bereft servant had done whatever backbreaking, dirty work the French had seen fit to give them.

That had given him plenty of time to think about his uncle. As Tearle had continued to ignore Garett’s letters, Garett’s suspicions had grown until he’d been certain that his uncle had been planning to steal his inheritance. That he might have done unspeakable things to manage it.

With that certainty had come caution, particularly when a man had arrived from England seeking to kill Garett. That’s when Garett, convinced his uncle had wanted him dead, had stopped using his title, even his given name. He and Will had faded into the group of exiles until such time as they’d been able to fight back. They’d just been two more nameless English fellows without a home.

In the meantime, he’d nursed within his breast a hatred for his uncle bordering on madness. And once he’d been old enough to convince the Duke of York to let him and Will serve in his mercenary army . . .

Those years he wanted to forget altogether. Only his raging hatred for Tearle had seen him through the wretched, bloody battles fought not for love or country but for money, always money. He’d thought of Tearle every time he’d watched a man flogged for disobedience or a soldier friend hacked to death. Then he’d forced himself to hone his skill with the sword to a fine art so that one day he could plunge it through his deceitful uncle’s chest.

And now? In Garett’s more bitter moments, he
wanted to forget all caution and murder his uncle. He could do it easily enough, without much risk.

But death was too good for the bastard. He wished to see Tearle’s treachery clearly revealed to the men Tearle considered his friends—the Roundheads who’d given him power and the merchants who’d given him money for his ventures. Garett wanted Tearle so discredited, so universally vilified that he’d be forced into exile as Garett had been. Exile would be a much more fitting punishment to a man who thrived on power.

Still, today it had taken all his self-control not to thrust his dagger through Tearle’s heart. Only Aunt Bess’s presence had given him the strength to resist that urge, though oddly it had also fired his desire for revenge.

Aunt Bess. He remembered her as a laughing young woman who’d teased him about his insolent tongue. He’d secretly worshipped her, never dreaming what her husband would later do to him. Now he felt certain she didn’t realize the full truth about Tearle. Garett couldn’t believe she’d have stayed with the man if she’d known.

Then again, perhaps she was happy to be carrying a child. The prospect of children seemed to make most women happy.

Yet she hadn’t seemed particularly happy.

Garett looked at Mina. Would she feel joy at the prospect of children?

He snorted. He was a fool even to be thinking such things. Only his gypsy princess tempted him to abandon his purpose. Well, he couldn’t allow her to do so. His
plans might very well rest upon the soldier’s confessing all about Tearle.

As if Mina sensed Garett’s dark thoughts, she stirred, her eyes slowly opening. She seemed disoriented as she looked about the room. Then her gaze rested on Garett, and she frowned, uncurling her legs and sitting up in the chair.

“Is he any better?” she asked as she rubbed her eyes.

“Not that I can tell, but he seems no worse, either.”

With a weary sigh, she rose and walked to the bed. She bent over to rest her hand on the soldier’s forehead, unknowingly presenting Garett with an enticing picture of her derriere. He couldn’t help smiling at the sight, and she turned just in time to catch him at it.

“What are you so pleased about?” she grumbled.

“Nothing you’d approve of.”

With a shrug, she checked the soldier’s bandages. She looked concerned as she glanced at Garett. “He may die despite my efforts. He hasn’t stirred since we brought him here.”

“I know. And then we can add another death to Tearle’s account. As you no doubt heard this morning, it was Tearle’s spy who gutted your patient. Tearle’s the villain in this, not I or my men.”

Looking troubled, she picked up her bag of medicines and went to sit by the fire. “Perhaps you weren’t at fault this time, but you’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

He stared at her. “Yes. That’s what soldiers do.”

She pondered that a moment. “So you killed men only while you were a soldier?”

Garett thought of the highwaymen and the men he’d killed defending himself during his short term as the king’s spy in Spain. “Mostly.”

She paled. Her eyes dropped to her hands, where she toyed with the pouch of herbs that never left her side. “Why haven’t you killed your uncle if you hate him so much?”

“I have my reasons,” Garett said stiffly, displeased with the direction the conversation was taking. “But rest assured his time will come.”

Her gaze darted to his face, and he suddenly hated that he couldn’t tell her more. He couldn’t bear how she looked at him, as if he were some beast. “Mina, I’m a law-abiding man. I wouldn’t kill in cold blood unless someone tried to kill me.”

Her expression shifted to one of confusion. “You wouldn’t kill for other reasons? To defend a cause, for example, or . . . or perhaps to ensure you could keep something you felt rightfully belonged to you?”

“By my troth, I don’t know,” he said irritably, wondering why she was delving into such deep subjects all of a sudden. “I suppose it would depend. Would I fight for my lands if some foreign army sought to take them? Of course.”

She leaned forward, her eyes burning into his. “What about if someone else sought to take them? Like . . . like Sir Pitney. Would you have killed Sir Pitney to get Falkham House back . . . if . . . if he’d owned it?”

“I didn’t need to kill anyone to get it, so why even ask the question? Why do you care what I did to get it back?”

“I’m just trying to understand you,” she said unconvincingly.

Garett would certainly have pursued that line of conversation further if the soldier hadn’t groaned and begun to toss about in bed, mumbling to himself.

Instantly, both Garett and Mina were at his side. “Easy, man,” Garett muttered as the soldier tore at the bedclothes. Mina pulled the counterpane back over his body. His eyes opened slowly, but they had a feverish cast.

At first he didn’t seem to notice either Garett or Mina. He struggled to leave the bed, but Mina forced him to lie back down. “Hush, now,” she said. “You’ll open up those wounds and make them worse.”

The man thrashed even harder. But as she continued speaking softly to him, pressing him back on the bed with gentle hands, he calmed down. When at last she’d settled him against the pillows, he fixed his gaze on her with a strange intentness. Then he began to shake his head and murmur, “No, no.”

“What is it?” Mina asked.

The soldier dropped his head back onto the pillow and covered his face. “It can’t be. You’re dead!”

Clearly the man was delirious. Garett shot Mina a questioning glance, but she shrugged as if she didn’t know quite what to make of it, either. She continued tucking the man’s sheets around him, ignoring his words.

“Don’t talk,” she soothed him. “ ’Tis not good for you to talk.”

The soldier dropped his hands from his face and stared at her, his eyes a bright, feverish blue. “I know you’re dead.”

“Nay.” She took his hand. “Can’t you feel my fingers? I’m quite alive.”

He shook his head violently, then began to cough. “No, you’re not. But ’tis all right.”

“Shh, shh,” she murmured.

“Mayhap you’re an angel now.” He pinned her with his fever-ridden gaze, then nodded painfully. “ ’Twould be good for me. Good to have an angel nearby if I die.”

Mina did resemble an angel, with her soft hair glowing in the lamplight. No wonder the soldier thought he was already halfway into heaven.

“You’re not dying,” she assured the soldier.

The soldier’s face softened, and his voice grew wistful. “You’re an angel. ’Tis fitting. Always knew you were a good girl.”

It was odd how the soldier seemed so certain he knew Mina. Just who did he think she was?

The soldier struggled to rise. “Never believed the wicked things Tearle said of you. All lies, it was. Nasty lies about your mother, too . . . old lecher.” He groaned, then shifted in the bed. “Always wanting her body though she was a gypsy.”

Suddenly Garett wasn’t so certain the man was delirious. When Mina blanched, Garett’s blood ran cold. She regarded him hastily, fear in her eyes, then dropped her gaze.

“You were sent as a vision to me. Your father—” The solder paused to cough again.

Mina’s hands shook. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she countered. “Now, hush, before you hurt yourself!”

Her tone didn’t intimidate the soldier, for he fixed pain-filled eyes on her. “Can see why Tearle wanted you and your mother . . . even if you are dead.”

“I’m not dead at all.” Her lips thinned as she caught sight of the blood seeping through the bandages. “Now see what your foolishness has done? You’ve hurt yourself. Lie still, and let me give you something to help you sleep.”

Wanting to hear what else the soldier had to say, Garett darted forward to stop her, but the sight of the man’s wounds made him hesitate. She was right—the man had to be kept still. So Garett watched grimly as Mina forced her special opium-laced cinnamon tea between the soldier’s lips.

As she continued her ministrations, he couldn’t ignore the cold suspicion gripping his heart. What had Tearle said?
Even women have their prices.

Then there had been all her questions about whom he would or wouldn’t kill. Why did that interest her? Clearly, the soldier had known her. And Tearle had known Mina’s mother, the gypsy, but how? He hadn’t lived in Falkham House since long before Mina had claimed to have come to Lydgate. The soldier had even hinted that Tearle and Mina—

No, he couldn’t believe it.

He watched Mina remove the soldier’s bindings with shaky fingers. The soldier had mentioned things she’d done. Had she done them with Tearle or against Tearle? Garett wished to God he’d questioned the man before Mina had hurried to sedate him. Why was it that the one thing the soldier had revealed was something he didn’t want to hear?

But he couldn’t just dismiss it as delirious ravings. Too many bits of truth were mingled with the madness, and she’d clearly wanted them squelched. He had to find out more. If she was somehow connected to Tearle, she could be more dangerous than he’d realized. If Garett was to force a confession from his uncle, he couldn’t have Mina telling the man about Garett’s every move.

He clenched his fist so tightly that his nails bit into his palm. She wouldn’t look at him. Clearly she hid something. What was it? He had to know! Whatever it cost him, he’d find out what she was . . .
who
she was. Somehow he’d get it out of her.

For once, he’d make the duplicitous Mina tell him the truth.

On a huge hill,

Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will

Reach her, about must, and about must go.

—John Donne, “Satire 3”

A
s Marianne washed the blood from the soldier’s reopened wounds under Garett’s watchful eye, she cursed herself for a fool. She should have been prepared for the possibility that Sir Pitney’s spy might recognize her.

When Sir Pitney had been trying to force her father into selling Falkham House, his men had been everywhere, spreading their lies that her mother was a witch. Any man who’d worked for Pitney in the last few years was certain to have known about that ridiculous maneuver of his.

Pitney had underestimated the townspeople’s loyalty to her parents. And their intense dislike for him. During his short tenure as owner of Falkham House he’d been hard and cruel, unconcerned about his tenants or their needs. So of course his accusations of witchcraft had fallen on deaf ears.

Yet now, two years after he’d spread his lies, he was finally going to succeed in ruining her life. The soldier’s words had to have raised questions in Garett’s mind about her identity.