Chapter Three

CEASE YER POUNDIN’!” SHOUTED OLIVER IRRITABLY. “I canna move faster than this!”

That was, in fact, a matter of debate. Whoever was rapping heavily upon the front door appeared to take him at his word, however, and the insistent knocking stopped.

“Have ye nae learned the virtue of patience?” Oliver grumbled, grasping the latch with his gnarled hands. “Did yer ma nae teach ye ’tis no proper to be breakin’ down an old man’s door?” He swung the door open, finishing crossly, “Have ye no more manners than a stinkin’, hairy—oh, beggin’ yer pardon, Governor Thomson.”

“Kindly inform Miss MacPhail that Police Constable Drummond and I must speak with her at once on a most urgent matter,” said Governor Thomson impatiently.

Oliver leaned against the door and idly scratched his white head. “What’s amiss, then? Did someone finally take a torch to that nasty pile o’ rubble ye call a jail?”

Indignation nearly turned the roots of Governor Thomson’s wiry beard pink. “I’ll have you know I run a respectable prison, which meets with all the current recommendations of the Inspector of Prisons for Scotland. Second, what I choose to discuss with Miss MacPhail is none of your concern. And third, if you had learned anything whatsoever about being a butler since you left my prison, you would open this door this minute and escort the constable and myself into the drawing room to await Miss MacPhail’s company.”

Oliver snapped his brows together in a snowy scowl. “Is that so? Well, I’d wager yer precious inspector would make a far different list of recommendations if he’d been made to actually stay in that stinkin’ cesspool a week or so. Second, I’m nae in the habit of lettin’ anyone enter this house without havin’ them state their business first. And third, as Miss MacPhail is my mistress, I’ll be lettin’ her decide whether ye’ll be sittin’ in her house or standin’ out here biding yer time on the doorstep.” He slammed the door in their startled faces.

“Let them stew over that for a moment.” He chuckled. “Are ye ready, then, lassie?”

“Almost,” said Genevieve, lifting her skirts as she hurried down the staircase. She had been tending to her patient, who was still sleeping, and had needed a moment to straighten her appearance before facing the authorities. “You may show them into the drawing room, Oliver.” She rushed into the room and seated herself.

Oliver waited another moment, just to further annoy Governor Thomson before finally opening the door. “Miss MacPhail will see ye both in the drawing room.” He raised an arthritic arm and gestured grandly at the modestly appointed room.

Regarding him with irritation, Governor Thomson removed his coat and hat and held them out for Oliver to take.

“’Tis kind o’ ye to offer, but I canna say I’m particularly fond of black,” Oliver told him. “Makes ye look like a corpse, Guv’ner, if ye dinna mind my sayin’ so. Besides, ye’ll only be wantin’ them again when ye’re leaving.”

Governor Thomson huffed with exasperation and marched into the drawing room, carrying his rejected attire. Constable Drummond removed his own hat and followed behind him, his thin mouth pressed into a line of disgust, as if Oliver’s rudeness was no more than what he expected.

“Good morning, Governor Thomson,” said Genevieve pleasantly. “Constable Drummond. Please, sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Constable Drummond replied before Governor Thomson could accept.

“Forgive us for disturbing you this morning, Miss MacPhail,” Governor Thomson apologized, plopping his corpulent backside into a chair, “but I’m afraid something terrible has happened. Lord Redmond has escaped.”

Genevieve regarded him blankly. “Who?”

“The murderer who shared a cell with the boy you took home with you last night, Miss MacPhail,” Constable Drummond explained. “He was Lord Haydon Kent, Marquess of Redmond. I believe you exchanged some words with him before leaving the prison.”

Constable Drummond was a tall, dour man of some forty years, with unfashionably long hair that dripped in a scraggly fringe below his collar. More hair oozed in two dark stripes along the sides of his face, which only served to accentuate the thinness of his somber features. Genevieve had first met him when she had gone to rescue Charlotte a year earlier from prison, and she had taken an immediate dislike to him. It was he who had arrested the poor child, who was all of ten at the time, for the criminal offense of stealing a turnip and two apples from a garden. It was Constable Drummond’s impenetrable conviction that those individuals who did not uphold the law deserved to be dealt the harshest of consequences, be they adult or child, and he had not been supportive of Genevieve taking Charlotte into her tender custody.

“Of course. I was not aware of his name.” Somehow Genevieve managed to keep her expression neutral. The warder used to call him “his lordship.” Jack had said. Her own father had been a viscount, and her former betrothed was an earl, so she was not easily impressed with aristocratic titles and the preposterous implication of social, moral, and intellectual superiority that accompanied them.

Nevertheless, it was somehow disconcerting to think that the naked man whose battered, aching body she had swabbed throughout the night was a marquess.

“My maid told me when she returned from the prison last night that the prisoner from Jack’s cell was missing.” She drew her brow together in feigned worry. “I had hoped you would have found him by now.”

“Rest assured, he can’t have gone far,” said Governor Thomson, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His waistcoat was straining tautly against its buttons, which looked as if they might suddenly fly off at any moment. “Not in his condition.”

He appeared to be trying to convince himself as much as her. Clearly it did not reflect well upon his abilities to have a dangerous murderer escape from his prison the very night before the man was to be executed. It occurred to Genevieve that the governor might well be in danger of losing his position for such a grave blunder. The possibility was troubling. Whatever his faults, she had carefully cultivated a valuable partnership with him over the years. With Governor Thomson running the prison, she was always informed when there was a child sentenced to languish behind its foul walls. She could not be certain a new governor would be nearly so accommodating—or so open to bribery.

“I will find him.” Constable Drummond spoke with a harsh resolve that Genevieve found unsettling. “Have no fear of that. I expect he will be locked up again before nightfall, and hanged first thing tomorrow.”

She managed what she hoped was a sufficiently bright smile. “How very reassuring. Just hearing you say that makes me feel much better. As I’m certain you can appreciate, a woman with young children becomes most anxious when she hears that a dangerous killer is lurking on the streets. Until you have succeeded in your capture of him, I shall be sure to keep careful watch over all of my family. Thank you both for taking the time to come here to warn me. It was most kind of you.” She rose, as if presuming their discussion was finished.

“Actually, that isn’t the sole purpose for our visit.” Governor Thomson shifted awkwardly once again. Genevieve thought he looked like a giant egg wobbling back and forth. “We wanted to speak to the lad.”

She arched her brows in confusion. “You mean Jack? Why?”

“It is possible your new—” Constable Drummond’s mouth tightened as he searched for a palatable noun “—charge can provide us with some clue as to where Lord Redmond may have gone.” The word “charge” was laden with scorn.

“What makes you think he has any knowledge of such a thing?”

Constable Drummond leaned back and steepled his long fingers together, studying her. Genevieve regarded him with brittle calm.

“They must have talked about something, Miss MacPhail.” His manner was infuriatingly condescending, as if he were trying to explain the obvious to a dullard. “Lord Redmond is not from Inveraray, and was arrested for his brutal crime shortly after he arrived here. This leaves us with limited clues as to where he might be hiding. Given his severely weakened condition at the time of his escape, we do not believe he can have traveled very far. We know he did not return to the inn where he was staying prior to his arrest, or to the tavern at which he became intoxicated on the night of the murder. We need to find out from the lad if Lord Redmond made any mention of his acquaintances in Inveraray, or discussed some place where he might go were he to escape.”

“I have known Jack only a short while, but I can tell you he is not a boy who engages much in conversation.” Her tone was light as she finished obligingly, “However, if you believe he may be of some assistance, of course you must speak with him. Oliver, would you be kind enough to fetch Jack and ask him to join us?”

Oliver poked his scraggly white head around the door to the drawing room. “Aye.”

He disappeared and returned a moment later, with Jack reluctantly following.

The lad who entered the room bore scant resemblance to the filthy urchin who had left the prison the previous night. His skin had been scrubbed clean with fragrant soap and a brush, and his greasy tangle of brown hair had been washed, trimmed, and neatly combed. He was dressed in a tailored jacket, white shirt and dark pair of trousers, and on his feet were a pair of worn but well-polished shoes. His jacket hung a little too loose on his thin frame, and his shorter hair was springing into curls that had completely resisted Doreen’s efforts to make them lie flat. At first glance he looked like a perfect, albeit somewhat uncomfortable, young gentleman.

Only the raw animosity burning in his gray eyes and the scar across his left cheek suggested otherwise.

“Jack, you remember Governor Thomson,” said Genevieve.

Jack glared at the governor.

“And this is Police Constable Drummond,” she continued, ignoring the hostility emanating from the boy. She would educate him on his manners later. At the moment, she was more concerned that he not lose his temper or say anything that might give their visitors reason to be suspicious.

“Actually, Jack and I are well acquainted.” Constable Drummond regarded the boy with obvious contempt. “Aren’t we, Jack?”

Jack gave the constable a single curt nod.

“These gentlemen would like to ask you a few questions about Lord Redmond,” Genevieve continued. “He’s the man with whom you shared your cell at the prison,” she explained, realizing that Jack would be unfamiliar with his title. “As Doreen mentioned on returning from the prison last night, he has escaped.”

Jack said nothing.

“Tell us, lad, did Lord Redmond ever mention anything to you about his plans for escape?” asked Governor Thomson hopefully.

“No.”

Constable Drummond regarded him with barely contained derision. It was his unflinching conviction that Jack was a liar and a thief, and therefore could not be trusted. “Ever talk about having acquaintances in Inveraray?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention any place in Inveraray at all—a tavern he was familiar with, or an inn where he might have taken a meal?” Governor Thomson prompted.

“No.”

Constable Drummond tapped his fingertips thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. “Did he talk at all about his family or friends?”

Jack shook his head.

“Well, then, just what did you talk about?” asked Governor Thomson, perplexed.

He shrugged.

“You must have talked about something.” Constable Drummond’s voice was vaguely menacing. “All those hours you spent together.”

Jack flashed him a look of undiluted loathing. “He was sick most of the time, and just lay on his bed. And I wasn’t there to make friends with a bloody murderer,” he finished bitterly.

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

“Yes, well, fine then,” said Governor Thomson, somewhat chagrined at having the fact that he had placed a mere boy in the same cell with a deadly killer pointed out. “I guess that’s that, then.” He regarded Constable Drummond hopefully. “Is it?”

“That’s all for the lad—for now.” Constable Drummond met Jack’s glare with cool disdain, neither convinced nor impressed by his protest of ignorance. “I should like to ask Miss MacPhail a few questions, however.”

“Thank you, Jack.” Genevieve gave the boy an encouraging smile. “You may go.”

He hesitated, as if he wanted to stay and hear what she was going to say. It was obvious he was not convinced that he could trust her. Genevieve suspected there had been far too many betrayals in his life for him to believe that she would keep her word and protect the man lying helpless in her room.

“Come on, then, laddie.” Oliver placed his hand upon the boy’s bony shoulder. “Let’s see if we canna convince Eunice to give us a chunk of that shortbread she just took from the oven.”

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.

 

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 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.

“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 bloody way from Inverness. Even he was starting to question what exactly had transpired that hellish 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 assailant was dead, I dropped the knife and got the hell 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 modicum 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 hell 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 hell 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 embarrassment. 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.”

She turned. His forehead was pressed into the bedpost as he struggled to stay on his feet, and his face was drawn with pain. Concern tore through her, instantly dousing both her ardor and her fear. All through the night she had tended this man, constantly worrying that he might suddenly succumb to his injuries. He was still extremely ill and weak. There might well have been blood leaking into the inner depths of his body as he stood there.

How could she even consider making him leave in such a state—especially when he seemed to be doing so out of concern for her?

“Please get back into bed, Lord Redmond.”

Haydon regarded her warily. “So you can call Constable Drummond back and have him drag me out of here?”

“Because you look as though you are about to faint and I don’t think I can lift you by myself.”

“I cannot stay here.”

“You’re right, you cannot. But neither can you leave here in your current state. At this point you can barely stand, so I hardly think you’re well enough to manage on your own. Which leaves us with the only logical choice, getting you back into bed.”

He shook his head. “If the police come here—”

“There is no reason to think that the police will return,” Genevieve pointed out. “Constable Drummond wanted to speak with Jack, and he learned nothing from that conversation except that Jack despises everyone and has no desire to help the authorities. Since there was nothing to be found in the coach house, and there are many other places that need to be searched, I suspect the police will be too busy to come back here.”

Haydon leaned heavily against the bedpost, forcing his breath to come in small, measured gulps. His skull felt as if it were about to split open with pain, nausea was churning his stomach into a vortex, and every breath put almost excruciating pressure on his bruised and broken ribs. If he somehow managed to hobble out the door of this house, he had no idea how he would even make it down the street, much less where he would go with the entire town now looking for him.

The idea of simply sinking into a soft mattress and closing his eyes was extremely appealing.

“Please, Lord Redmond.” Genevieve stepped forward, peeled back the rumpled blankets of the bed, then smoothed down the sheets with quick, expert strokes. When the linens were arranged to her satisfaction, she regarded him solemnly. “You will be safe here. I promise.”

“How do I know you’re not just going to bring Constable Drummond back here to arrest me as I sleep?”

“I give you my word that I will not.”

He made no move to lie down. “Why should you want to help me?”

She could not blame him for not trusting her. None of her children had trusted her when they first came into her care, except for Jamie, of course, who had been a mere infant. Trust, Genevieve had learned, was a delicate, elusive thing that could neither be summoned nor given simply because someone demanded it.

“You helped Jack, and Jack is now a part of my family,” she explained. “Consider it a debt of gratitude.”

He shook his head, unconvinced. “Anyone would have done what I did.”

“You’re wrong.” Her voice was taut. “To most people around here, Jack is nothing more than a common thief and a bastard, who deserves every agonizing stroke of his thirty-six lashes, and all the hunger and misery he can endure in prison. Many even wish that he would just disappear altogether. There isn’t another man in all of Inveraray who would dream of fighting on his behalf—especially a titled gentleman like yourself.” She stared at him a long moment, studying the rugged beauty of his battered body, and the lines of exhaustion etched into his face. “But you chose to risk yourself to help him,” she continued quietly. “And because of that, Lord Redmond, I am choosing to help you.”

“You are placing yourself in danger by doing so,” he reminded her.

“I know.”

Her eyes were wide and velvety, and her pale cheeks were charmingly flushed. The mouth that a few moments earlier had been set in a flat, disapproving line was now imploringly curved. Her loveliness reached out to him like a gentle caress, drawing him nearer to her.

“I will only stay long enough to regain my strength,” he finally relented.

“Of course.”

He moved slowly toward her, awkwardly holding the swath of plaid around his hips. Genevieve reached out and placed her hand upon his arm, thinking only to steady him as he lowered himself onto the bed. The heat of his flesh seeped into her palm, making her feel flushed once more. The moment he was lying down she relinquished her hold.

“You must rest a while,” she instructed, careful not to so much as graze his skin as she briskly arranged the blankets over him. “I will have Eunice prepare a tray for you.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Even so, you must eat.”

Haydon closed his eyes. “Perhaps later.”

His brow was lined with weariness and pain and his jaw was clenched. Genevieve turned away and drew the curtains. It would be easier for him to rest if the room was darkened. After she left him she would go downstairs and have Eunice prepare some broth and toasted bread for him, she decided. He might not want to eat, but the lack of nourishment would only make him weaker than—

“I would never hurt you.”

She turned and stared at him in surprise.

“Not you, nor any of your children,” he continued, regarding her seriously. “I give you my word, Miss MacPhail.” Without waiting for her response, he closed his eyes once more.

Genevieve remained where she was, watching as he drifted into a deep, uneasy sleep.

And then she hurried from the room, knowing well that despite Lord Redmond’s feverish assurances, his very presence had already placed her and the children in grave danger.