The Prisoner (6 page)

Jack shot Genevieve a final hard look before permitting himself to be led from the room.

Constable Drummond's thin mouth curled in disgust. “He's a liar and a thief, and he always will be—no matter how hard you try to clean him up. You would be best to return him to the prison, Miss MacPhail, and let the iron fist of the law deal with him.”

“Jack has been under my roof for only a few hours, and already he is being questioned by the police, even though he hasn't done anything,” Genevieve replied evenly. “One could hardly expect him not to be angry and defensive.”

“Even so, I'd wager the lad knows more than he's letting on.” Governor Thomson stroked his gray beard, trying to appear astute. “You must watch him at all times, and let us know if anything seems amiss. Anything at all.”

“I can assure you, I have every intent of keeping a very careful watch over Jack. And I have no intention of returning him to the prison system, or letting him come to any further harm. What will you do now about finding Lord Redmond?” she asked, changing the subject.

“At this moment we have men visiting every tavern, inn, store or other place of business in Inveraray, asking if anyone has seen him,” replied Constable Drummond. “We're searching the coach houses and sheds of each home in the surrounding area, and are questioning people to see if they have noticed anything strange—particularly if any food or clothing has gone missing. We are also keeping careful watch over the coaches leaving Inveraray, in particular those that are traveling to Edinburgh and Glasgow. Dangerous criminals often flee to the cities to find work and disappear amidst the thousands of people there. Of course, we are sending word to the authorities in Inverness to arrest him immediately should he turn up there. The marquess has an estate just north of there.”

“Nasty piece of business, the murder he committed,” commented Governor Thomson. Finally surrendering to his girth, he released one of the straining buttons of his waistcoat. “Truly horrid.”

Constable Drummond regarded Genevieve intently. “As brutal a slaying as I've ever seen in over twenty years.”

She didn't want to hear this. She was certain of it. After all, she couldn't believe that the man lying so helplessly upstairs in her bed could be capable of such a thing.

Even so, she could not help but ask, “What happened?”

“Bashed some poor fellow's head in with a rock.” Governor Thomson shook his head in disbelief. “But that was a mercy, because Lord Redmond had already beaten him half to death.”

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 assault. 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 assailants, 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 title 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.

 

L
EMONY 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 muffled 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 breasts 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 hoarsely.

“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 assailants.”

“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.