Megan Frampton (19 page)

“So why would she protect him like that?” Mary mused, rubbing her lip with her index finger. Alasdair’s mouth got dry as he watched her gentle rhythm.

“Why does anyone—even someone as unlikely as a member of the aristocracy—step in to rescue someone in obvious need of help?” he said, giving his voice a dryly ironic tone. He watched as she blushed.

“You have made your point, my lord.” She pushed her bowl away and planted her elbows on the table, supporting her chin in her hands. “Since you are not going to bestir yourself for your friend, I believe we were discussing a plan?”

“Right. Of course. A plan.”

She grinned as if she knew how very far he was from having a plan. “Pardon?” she called to the innkeeper, who was still behind the bar serving the three ruffians. He nodded toward her. “Do you have a paper and pen we might use?” He nodded again, and disappeared from behind the bar.

At least seven minutes had passed by the time she had the paper laid out just so, making sure that the pen was sharpened to her liking. And Alasdair still didn’t have a plan.

“You were in the army, correct?”

Alasdair’s lips set in a thin line. She wasn’t going to ask him more about that now, was she? Wasn’t it enough that he’d groveled for her forgiveness? “Yes,” he replied in a clipped voice.

“What position did you hold?”

“Lieutenant colonel.”

“And,” she said, holding the pen just above the paper, “you had to have a plan before you went into battle, did you not?”

“Yes, of course, otherwise it would be—”

“Chaos, precisely,” she interrupted. “So if we prepare ourselves for battle, we should be able to make a plan, should we not?”

He had always hated it when his tutors had gotten condescending in their lectures. “Yes, I suppose so,” he admitted. It rankled.

“Excellent!” She beamed at him like she would her prize pupil. “So the first thing we have to do is—”

“Get to London, announce our marriage, discover what Hugh intends to do.” He spoke rapid-fire, as he used to on the battlefield. It had been a long time since he’d spoken that way.

She blinked, and her mouth opened to an O. “Yes. Exactly.” She bent over the paper, making notes. “London. Hugh. Then what?”

“Once we’ve found out how my cousin plans to discredit me, we need to establish my sanity and introduce you properly as my wife.”

She grinned again. “Those two might be in opposition to each other.”

“Only if someone tries to argue poetry with you,” he said.

She leaned her head back and laughed. “So what is our campaign to establish your sanity? Besides having me keep quiet about John Donne.”

“I would say just appearing at all the usual functions and seeming to be a happily married man with no unusual habits should do it. And perhaps I will have a talk with Cousin Hugh.” He tried to keep his tone light.

She narrowed her eyes. “Having a talk means what?”

Alasdair spread his hands out in a disingenuous gesture. “Exactly what it sounds like. It’s not as if I am going to knock him down and tie him to a bed, am I? That was you, I believe.”

Her skin pinked up again, and she lowered her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

He reached forward and lifted her chin. “And why not? You saved me.”

She looked back at him with warmth and something else in her deep-blue eyes.
He wished he could just lean across the table and kiss her, yank her up onto the wooden table and love her until she screamed his name.

But that wouldn’t be a partnership. And although she’d said they could touch, he didn’t think she would appreciate his attentions, not now. Not after last night. Or this morning.

She leaned forward until she was only about six inches away from him. “You saved me, too. Thank you.”

He stared at her mouth, so close to his. And pulled away.

Welcome to hell, Alasdair
, he reminded himself.

Mary had to look away from his eyes, or she’d do something she knew she would regret. She dropped her gaze down to the paper and read the words she’d written:
London. Hugh. Sanity. Talk
.

She looked back up at him. “It’s not much of a plan, is it?” she said, pursing her lips.

His mouth widened into one of his lazy grins, and his less intimidating eyebrow arched up. “Are you denigrating my planning capabilities? And me a lieutenant colonel?”

“Former lieutenant colonel,” she replied. “And who knows what you’ve been do—” Her hand went to her mouth to stop her words as she realized what she’d been about to say.

His eyes hardened. “Who knows what I’ve been doing? You do.”
More than anybody in the world
.

Breaking trust. Breaking promises. She reached her hand out and touched his arm. “I am sorry. I didn’t think before I spoke.” She gripped his arm, feeling the muscles tense underneath her fingers.

He swallowed and looked away toward the corner of the room. “It’s just—it’s just such a relief to wash away the memories, even if it’s just for a few hours.”

He sounded as if he were speaking to himself. “And to be able to dream without nightmares. Nightmares of blood, and death, and people you love dying.”

He must be speaking about Judith. Had he been with her when she died? Had she suffered? What an idiotic question; of course she suffered. She squeezed his arm. “I am so sorry.”

He glanced at her, then away again. “No apologies.” His eyes glistened in the dark room. “My weakness is no longer a problem. I’ve promised.”

She wished she could believe him. Her future, her immediate future, at least, depended on his reliability. She had to keep him true to his word, at least until she was safe.

She looked back down at her list. “In addition to this carefully thought-out plan of attack,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately light so he could recover himself, “we should add making sure we reach my mother before Matthias does.” She rushed to finish speaking as his mouth opened to ask a question. “Matthias has letters he claims are from my mother. He wanted to take me to London as further leverage for his blackmail. That is why he is so determined to get a hold of me when he was just as eager to—to sell me off.”

Her stomach tightened at the thought of what could have happened if Alasdair hadn’t bought her.

“The bastard won’t get the chance.” His face was grim.

“Be careful, my lord,” she said, pointing her pen at him. “Some of your closest acquaintances are bastards.” His eyes lit in reluctant humor.

“Your half brother isn’t as charming a bastard as you are, love.” Now he was smirking in a totally devastating way.

“Autocratic oaf.” She tried not to laugh.

“Maniacally organized schoolteacher.”

The door scraped open, stopping their banter. “Help!” a voice roared. Mary turned to look; a man was propping the entryway open, his face contorted with extreme emotion. “Help here,” he roared again, the veins popping out on his neck. Mary heard a scuffle behind the first man, and two other men came in from behind him, holding something between them.

A body. They dragged it to the closest table and hauled it up onto the tabletop. It was obvious, from the rough way they were handling it and the laxness of the limbs, that whomever it was was already dead. Mary gagged, and covered her face with her hands. She heard Alasdair rise from his chair.

“What’s going—oh, my God,” the innkeeper said. A flurry of voices rose up in response, so loud Mary’s ears hurt.

“Quiet!” Alasdair thundered, and the voices stopped. “Has anyone called a doctor? And we will need the magistrate.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” the innkeeper replied in a quiet voice. He walked quickly and efficiently toward the door.

Alasdair spoke in an authoritative tone. “What happened here?”

The voices all started again. “One at a time, please,” Alasdair ordered. “You.” He pointed to one of the men. “Speak.”

Mary lowered her hands and braced herself to look. The body lay limply on the table, one hand dangling by its side. The wrist was bound in white cotton and was twisted at an odd angle. A sick feeling of recognition washed over her.

The man took his cap off and clutched it at his side. “We was coming back here, milord, wantin’ to grab a nip afore heading home. We found the man’s body at the bottom of the ravine. Looks like he took a bad tumble, and from the smell of alcohol on him, it’s no wonder. Pity that.”

Mary stood, clutching the back of the chair for support. She moved forward slowly, shuffling one foot after the other.

“You shouldn’t see this.” Alasdair came up beside her and took her arm, trying to lead her away. She stood still, resisting his movement.

“It’s—it’s him. It’s Matthias.”

“I know,” he said in a quiet voice. “Now come.”

Mary’s gaze traveled over Matthias’s body, from the worn shoes their father had passed on to him a year ago, to the stained trousers, on up to his face, which was bruised and bloody.

“Come,” Alasdair repeated, tugging on her arm.

This time she allowed him to pull her to the bar, where he pulled up a chair and placed her in it as delicately as if she were made of glass.

“Do you think it was an accident?” she asked.

“I do,” he said in an undertone. “Hugh is as devious as they come, but he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. And he would have had no real reason. If he was going to harm anyone, it would be me.” He squeezed her arm and turned away, back to the men who were clustered around the body. Around Matthias, her brother. Half brother, she corrected herself ruefully.

The men continued their story, but Mary wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying.

Matthias was dead. She glanced over at the body again, half-hoping he would sit
up and proclaim it all a big joke. Not that Matthias had been much for jokes, especially after their father died; her mind scurried away from the truth that she could breathe easier, now that he was gone.

No one deserved to die painfully, no matter how they had lived.

The men had finished telling their story, and Alasdair returned to her, a concerned look flickering in his green eyes. “Do you need water? Or would you like to lie down?” He frowned, and shook his head. “I should have thought to get you out of here. I’m sorry.”

It was the second time he’d apologized that day. She wondered if it was also the second time in his life.

“No, it’s fine. I should be here, he is—was—family. What happened?”

Alasdair didn’t reply right away, but glanced around the room, his lips tightened into a thin line. He threw an impatient look toward the door, then gripped her arm. “Let’s find you somewhere else to be.”

Mary put her hand on his. “Yes, I think perhaps I should go sit somewhere.” He helped her up and gestured toward the door. She shook her head. “I’d prefer to go by myself. You should wait here with … with him.”

She moved quickly past him, her heart pounding. Once she was outside in the yard, she leaned against the wall of the inn, her hand held up to her chest.
Breathe, Mary. Breathe
. She counted—one, two, three—breaths until she felt calmer.

Knowing that he was there to help her.

***

He hadn’t felt so in command of a situation since before Salamanca. He’d forgotten what it was like to ask questions, get answers, and be confident you were going to discover the truth.

All because of her.

He glanced at the door she’d disappeared through, wondering if she was all right, thinking he should go after her. But her half brother’s body was still lying on the table, and neither the doctor nor the magistrate had shown up yet. He’d told the barmaid to
fetch a sheet to cover the body, but that hadn’t arrived either.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. Hadn’t Mary just told him that Matthias had threatened her with letters he was going to bring to London?

Alasdair stuck his hand gingerly inside Matthias’s jacket pocket. Nothing. He reached across Matthias’s chest and tapped the other pocket. Just a single slip of paper. He drew it out and his chest tightened—it was a hefty banknote, signed by his cousin Hugh. It could be nothing else but that Matthias had sold him the letters. Matthias must have been celebrating his good fortune. Who knew why Matthias had stayed out here, hot on their tracks? Maybe he had suffered from last-minute guilt? Doubtful. Maybe he had hoped to get some more money off of Alasdair? Much more likely.

Either way, he was gone, and now they needed to save themselves.

Hugh was probably already rushing toward London, eager to let everyone know just how insane he thought Alasdair was for choosing Mary as his wife. Holding the letters was further leverage.

They had to get to London before Hugh, or at least not long after him.

He returned his gaze to the body. “My lord?” Mary’s tremulous voice was a soft distraction. He turned to the door and saw her, her body silhouetted by the light from outside. She looked like home.

“Yes?” He moved to stand in front of Matthias; she didn’t need to see the body anymore. Where was the girl with the covering, anyway?

“Tell me.” He saw her throat move. She clutched the fabric of her skirt. “Did you—could you?”

The door burst open and a swarm of men fell in, including one man who was clearly in charge.

The innkeeper’s wife rushed forward. “Thank goodness you’re here, my lord,” she said. “Somethin’ terrible’s happened. We dunno what happened, nobody saw anything.”

The magistrate—for that’s who it was—advanced into the room, his eyes glancing around the room until they landed on the only strangers: Alasdair and Mary.

He stepped toward them. “And who are you?”

Before Mary could answer, Alasdair spoke. “We are just passing through on our
way back to London.” No mention of Mary’s relationship to the lifeless body on the table.

“Strangers.” His gaze was as suspicious as befit a town where strangers were rare. “And he’s a stranger, too. Funny coincidence, that.” When Alasdair just stared back at him, he cleared his throat. “What is your name, sir?”

Alasdair glanced quickly at Mary. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

The man nodded, then strode to where Matthias’s body rested on the table. He winced as he gazed at Matthias’s bloody visage, then shook his head and poked a stubby finger into Matthias’s breast pocket. A few more pockets, then a dissatisfied grunt. He turned and surveyed the scene, his stare stopping at Alasdair. “Seems to me,” he said, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat, “that it’s no coincidence that three strangers are in our town, and one of them is de—”