Wind and rain be damned. Hannah tromped down the central stairway and whipped her lined cloak around her shoulders. Sip tea and discuss me marrying Slade Garrett. After fastening the cape’s frog closure, she pulled the hood up over her hair. Did no one think she had a mind of her own?
Because it sure seemed that everyone was trying to run roughshod over her. Why, just to get out of her own bedroom, she’d had to promise Olivia she’d be back in time to dress for supper. Servants and butlers and lady’s maids. Telling her when to dress—even what to wear. Telling her when to eat—even how to eat. And when to rest. Let’s not forget those enforced naps. These highfalutin Easterners would never make it out West where a body stayed up and busy all day and saw to her own needs—or they went untended.
Her thoughts having carried her down to the first-floor landing, she turned back sharply to her right and nearly collided with the fragile Pemberton. Stopping short, she met the butler’s equally startled gaze. “Why, good afternoon, Pemberton.”
“A subject worthy of debate, miss.” He began immediately to fall forward. She reached out to steady him, but then realized he was merely executing a respectful bow. She jerked her hands back before he straightened up.
Hannah then frowned at the ancient old gentleman as he oh-so-slowly looked her up and down with his faded-blue eyes. “What is it, Pemberton?”
“Why, I believe it’s a cloak, miss.”
Hannah swallowed the burst of laughter in her throat. “No, I meant, did you need me for something?”
“One would think so, wouldn’t one?” With no further ado, he stepped around her and continued on his way.
Hannah pivoted to look after him until he finally disappeared around the other side of the stairs. Shaking her head, she set off again on her quest for the outdoors. She stalked down the dim hall to the narrow door at its end. The final barrier to her freedom. And exactly where her calculations said it would be. Reduced now to muttering, she fumed about her need for fresh air. Preferably air unbreathed by any Garrett. Or their dog.
Hannah gripped and turned the polished knob. The door opened a fraction and then slammed shut in her face. Yelping out her surprise but refusing to be denied, she renewed her efforts. This time she shoved a shoulder against the door, forcing it open.
The blast of cold air which greeted her, wet with stinging, wind-whipped rain, snatched the door out of her hand and sent it slamming outward against the white stone of the mansion. Hannah gasped, clutching at her flaring cloak as it too took wing. Hastening outside, lest the door take a notion to swing back in her face, she stepped onto the tiny landing, grabbed the resisting door with both hands, pulled on it with all her might, and finally succeeded in flinging it closed behind her.
Triumphant, she turned and skipped down the three steps. The instant her feet touched grass, brown though it was, and not even caring that her hood now trailed down her back with her hair, Hannah flung her arms wide and pirouetted with Mother Nature. She stopped suddenly, sending her cloak swirling around her legs and her ribbon-tied hair over her shoulder to rest against her bosom. It seemed like years since her feet’d touched raw earth. Raw earth, blue sky, rolling hills, tall buffalo grass, wildflowers. A sudden stab of homesickness, so tangible she could almost taste it, assailed her.
In that moment, the rain fell against her face like needles. The cold wind took on a mocking quality. Hannah looked around her, seeing only bordered formal lawns, bare flower beds, precisely cut shrubs, and pruned trees. There was no room here for a spirit to be free. With her thoughts nipping at her heels, Hannah fled down the long gravel path to the far end of the manicured grounds. She didn’t slow her pace until she made a right turn past a copse of tall trees, which ran parallel to a vast gray-green and restless pond on her left.
Hannah slowed her steps. Here was what she sought—a bit of untamed nature to restore her soul. She looked up, up, trying to see to the treetops. Overcome, she closed her eyes, the better to listen to the wind whistling through the arching branches, the better to absorb the lapping sound of water against land. When she opened her eyes and looked down at herself, she saw wind-tossed leaves—wet and mottled but still red and gold—clinging to her cape and the path before her.
A smile carried Hannah’s skittering feet to her destination—a small cottage, the roof of which she’d spied earlier out her second-floor bedroom window. Her gaze went to the latch on the weathered old door. And her smile faded. What if it were locked? Why hadn’t she thought of that while still indoors?
She tried the latch handle. Yes! Luck was with her. She quickly entered, whipping around to close the door behind her. She then turned to face the one silent, staring room of the wood-slatted retreat. Only pieces of sheet-covered furniture, a small stone fireplace, a kerosene lamp, and her. Truly alone. A delicious shiver, perhaps fueled somewhat by the frigid, stale air, wiggled her around in her cloak. Crossing her arms, she rubbed at them and looked around her. A one-room cottage with windows on three sides.
Having now thoroughly taken in her surroundings, Hannah laughed out loud at herself. Now what? She sighted on a rick of stacked firewood. And there, on the mantel—a tinderbox and sulphur matches. No, she didn’t intend to be out here that long. Nor did she want the smoke to be seen from the mansion, for surely curiosity would bring her a visitor.
A sudden vision of rippling muscles under a white shirt, sculpted thighs encased in close-fitting breeches, and snapping black eyes fringed by dark lashes assailed her. As if retreating from his physical presence, Hannah stepped over to a large window which looked out on the pond. Woodbridge Pond? Fascinated, she watched as the wind whipped the water up into lunging, foamy waves that attacked the rocky shore. Lost in the sights before her, Hannah’s unguarded mind again conjured up images of Slade.
So tall and handsome. It seemed the man was always in her thoughts—even when he wasn’t bedeviling her with his presence. She saw him laughing at her. She saw him angered and bellowing. She saw him leaning over her on the bed, threatening her. She saw him protecting her, his hand at her elbow. She saw his gentleness with Pemberton, his kindnesses to Olivia. Then, Hannah saw him kissing her neck, and felt again his arms around her—
The metallic sound of the latch opening, coupled with a blast of cold air as the door flew open, whipped Hannah around. Slade. Hannah stilled, barely breathing, her heart pounding. Coatless, rain-dampened from head to toe, his hair wind-tousled, he filled the doorway, quietly holding her gaze. A blowing leaf flew crazily around between them on a puff of wind. The white sheets covering the furniture billowed out, as did her cape.
The moment lingered. Her awareness of him, like an arcing bolt of lightning, dried her mouth, made her womb feel heavy and soft. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. All without speaking or breaking the spell. He then just stood there, staring at her. His expression, so open, so naked, struck a responsive chord in Hannah. A frown claimed her features. She had the oddest feeling that she should reach her hand out to him. No. With every ounce of her strength, she resisted the impulse.
Shifting his weight, Slade ran a hand through his black hair and then swiped his sleeve over his rain-soaked face. Hannah drank in his every movement. And realized his presence warmed her like no fire could. Then, he made an abrupt movement, reaching a hand out to her. As if he … knew. But knew what? Hannah could do nothing more than stare at his hand. Slowly, he lowered it. “What are you doing out here, Hannah? You’ll catch your death.”
The spell burst, popping into thin air.
“Me? What about you? At least I have on my cloak.” Hannah turned her back to him. She stared out at the wheeling gulls above the churning water. Slanting a look back at him, she said, “I came out here for the fresh air. And for the time alone.”
“I see. Before I interfere any further, are you armed?”
Hannah turned back to the window. “No. I left my pistol in the house.”
“Good.” His footsteps sounded on the bare floor. He came into her view on her left and then promptly performed an about-face. Bracing his hands on a waist-high table, he effortlessly pulled himself up to sit on it. With his legs spread, his booted feet dangling above the ground, he rested his hands on his thighs. Only mere inches from Hannah now, he faced her as she stared out the window. “You want me to leave?”
Hannah took a deep breath, preparatory to telling him that yes, obviously she wanted him to leave. But instead, his damp, warm, and musky smell assaulted her senses, tightening her stomach muscles. “It’s your property. Suit yourself.”
“Well then, it suits me to stay—until I’m sure you’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Hannah darted him the barest of glimpses before she resumed her quiet staring out the window. But her gaze was the only thing about her that wasn’t focused on him. An invisible thread, stronger than any spider’s silken web, seemed to be tugging her toward him. She gritted her teeth, resisting his pull.
“Why wouldn’t you be? Well, that was quite an interesting tea we just had, for one thing. And interesting doesn’t begin to cover Isabel and her ancient servants. But perhaps you should know I was sent to check on you.”
Hannah frowned at him. “Who sent you?”
“Isabel. Pemberton. Rowena and Serafina. Mrs. Edgars—she’s our cook. Even Olivia interrupted my reading to let me know—”
“Good Lord, the entire household? Why?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, rippling his damp and clinging shirt over the hard muscles underneath. “Because Isabel’s told them all you’re to be the next Mrs. Garrett. So they’ve taken you to heart. Then, when they saw you come outside, they informed me I was to come see about you.”
“And here you are. Do you always do everything they tell you?”
Grinning, he raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t you?”
She thought about it and laughed with him. “I guess I do.”
This was amazing. She was actually having a friendly conversation with him. Even though her mutinous eyes insisted on lowering to stare at his crisp and curling black chest hair, just visible through his damp shirt. And darned if she didn’t have her mental hands full trying to keep her eyes from roaming lower. When she realized she was staring … lower, she snapped her head up.
And met the sensuous light in his black eyes. Near to a panic now, she stumbled on. “I don’t know what to make of your grandmother. I would think she’d toss me out the door. After all, I’m … well, if not an enemy, at the least I’m a relative of very bad neighbors.”
“At the very least.” He crossed his arms, giving her a considering stare.
Hannah felt he looked at her as if he were wondering how best to dispose of her body. In the ensuing quiet, sharp needles of rain pelted at the windows. Determined gusts of wind rattled the panes, as if some spirit desperately tried to gain her attention. To warn her? And if so—warn her of what? She blurted out the first distracting thing that came to her mind. “At least you didn’t bring Esmerelda.”
Slade relaxed into a slouching position. “She has more sense than to come outside on a day like this.”
Hannah crossed her arms over her cloak-covered bosom. “Aren’t you the one out here without a coat? At least I had sense enough to protect myself against the weather.”
Amusement softened the lines and angles of his face. He touched two fingers to his temple in a mocking salute to her. “Point taken. Let’s just say my concern for your well-being made me forget my own.”
Hannah chuckled at his outrageousness. “I hardly think so. We both know better than that, Mr. Garrett.”
“Do we?” His smile faltered at the edges, and a look she couldn’t interpret flashed over his face. But then just as suddenly it was gone. “Call me Slade. I’ve asked you to twice already.”
Overcome with a sudden shyness, Hannah looked down at her shoes. When she next lifted her head, she stared not at him, but straight ahead at the grayness outside. “I can’t. Because it would mean we—I don’t—” Frustrated with her own babbling, she took a deep breath and started over. “You’ve been calling me Hannah since the moment we…” Again her voice trailed off.
“Ye-es-s?” Drawing the word out, he leaned over until he’d poked his face into her line of vision.
Fighting a sudden giggle, Hannah stepped back, swatting at him. “Stop that. I don’t like it.”
He sat up obediently enough, but arched his eyebrows at her. “I think you do, Hannah.”
A rising heat in her veins dried her humor. She raised her head a regal notch. “I’ll thank you not to tell me what I like and don’t like.”
Slade laughed out loud, startling her into dropping her pose. “Stubborn spitfire to the end, aren’t you?”
Heat suffused over her cheeks before she could think up some tart comeback. But instinct warned her not to spar with this man. So Hannah simply changed the subject. Maybe she could distract him from his continued staring at her. Pointing to the window off to her left, she asked, “What are those trees out there? We don’t have any like them at home.”
It didn’t work. He never looked away from her face. “You mean ‘What are those trees out there, Slade?,’ don’t you?”
Peevishness quirked her mouth up. The man worried a subject like a bobcat with a field mouse. “All right, then. What are those trees over there … Slade?”
He grinned hugely, still not looking away from her. “Elms.”
Hannah cried foul, poking her finger at him and raising her voice. “You didn’t even look.”
“I don’t have to. They’re the only trees out there. And they have been since before I was born.”
Bested, Hannah gave up her pique, sobering as she entertained another thought. “Were you born here? Is this where you lived as a boy?”
His expression changed, too, mingling wariness with a subtle withdrawal. “Yes. To both. Why?”
The flatness of his voice told Hannah she’d made a mistake. “No reason. I was just thinking about how beautiful it is around the pond. And the house. Well, all of the estate. It must have been wonderful growing up here.”
“Wonderful?” He stared at her for the longest moment. Then he abruptly pushed himself off the table, landing lightly on his feet. His black eyes glinted down at her with a little boy’s pain. But his mouth twisted with a man’s hated remembrances. “It wasn’t wonderful at all. In fact, it was pure hell.”
* * *
“Damn all the Garretts to hell, I say!” Hands clasped behind him, Cyrus Wilton-Humes stood peering out the closed French doors which overlooked the sun-swept lawn of Cloister Point. “I only hope no one of consequence sees that … that tradesman leaving our property, Patience.”
Outside, a cabriolet pulled away from the front door. Just the sight of it soured Cyrus’s mood further. “Why am I betrayed by my family at every turn? Is it not enough that Hannah’s public accusations sent us to Nahant for a full week? And now, on our first day home, we’re forced to sell more of my inheritance to pay off creditors. What pitiful circumstances Ardis foisted on us.”
“As it turns out, she was hardly worth the effort of her accident, was she?”
“Not so.” He kept his gaze trained on the departing coach. “I could have cheerfully seen to her demise all over again after the reading of her will. Only a pittance of a trust left to me. And after all our caring for her. What did Catherine ever do for her? Nothing. Or Slade Garrett? And yet she leaves everything to them—ahead of me. I, her own grandson—a distant third to inherit.”
He turned to Patience. Seated on the medallion-backed sofa, she was counting the stack of greenbacks spread before her. Only when she finished did she look up and raise a pale eyebrow at her husband. “There’s nothing we can do about the will. But there is something we can do about Slade Garrett. He’s all that stands between us and Ardis’s fortune.”
“And that’s what worries me. He won’t be as easy to dispose of as Catherine. Or even Hamilton and Evelyn.”
Patience shook her head. “Poor Hamilton and Evelyn. I do miss them. But your father should’ve never left Cloister Point to both of you. It proved to be the death of the man. And his wife.” Then, with subtle malevolence reflected in her blue eyes, she smiled at Cyrus. “You’re such a wonderful husband. I don’t know of another man who’d rid himself of his own brother to provide such a lovely home for his wife.”
Cyrus glanced at the room’s closed doors. Shaking his head, he approached the sofa. “Don’t speak so plainly, my dear. Someone could hear you. And then what would happen?”
Patience put a beringed hand to the fine lace covering her emaciated bosom and adopted an innocent expression. “Why, I suppose the law would come for you, and then they’d hang you for murder. And leave me all alone. With the money.”
A cold fist clutched at Cyrus’s stomach. So that was her game. “I won’t go alone, my dear. You’re in this as deeply as I am.”
Patience pursed her thin lips and looked down, puffing her gray-blue satin skirt out around her before responding. “This is getting us nowhere, Cyrus. The fact remains that unless we take further steps—and soon—we’ll be forced into poverty. As it is, we have few servants left and only the barest of furnishings remain. Why, we’re even down to one ancient carriage and team. Where will this end? All these … tragic deaths, and we’re still not any better off.”
Cyrus went to the sofa and sat down, turning to face her. “There, there,” he consoled, patting her shoulder but barely taking his eyes off the money that lay innocently between them. When he could no longer resist, he clutched up the thick wad of United States notes. Holding the dirty stack in one hand, he fanned the paper money with his other thumb. A bubble of greedy glee spread his lips back over his teeth. “Is it all here?”
“Of course. Do you think I’d let that … that man leave with my jewelry, if it weren’t?”
Detecting the catch in her voice, Cyrus tore his gaze from the money to look at his wife. He reached over to squeeze Patience’s clawlike hand. “Now, don’t fret, Patience. I know what a sacrifice you just made, parting with those pieces of Evelyn’s jewelry. Just be patient. We’ll soon have all the money we want, I promise you—once Slade Garrett is no longer an obstacle.”
“I certainly hope so.” Withdrawing her hand from his, she pulled herself up from the sofa and paced the room as she spoke. “If word gets out of our reduced circumstances, we’ll be ruined. And I simply won’t stand for that, Cyrus. What’s worse, our dinner for Hannah—that ungrateful little wretch—drained our resources. And what did we get for our efforts? The damaging gossip among our friends. And, worst of all, not one social invitation awaiting us today upon our return. And here it is November—the very height of the season.”
Desperate to avoid her anger, knowing what she was capable of, Cyrus said what he knew would cheer her immensely. “Well, then, my girl, since Hannah involved herself, we’ll just take care of her when we solve our problem with Garrett.”
Patience stopped and put a hand to her bosom. A feral gleam lit her face. “Oh, do you mean it, Cyrus?”
As always, her innate ruthlessness brought unease to Cyrus’s heart. He alone knew how deadly she was. She was like a badger that killed for the pleasure. Whereas he killed only for personal gain. “Why, of course, my pet. We’ll have to be careful, though.” He put a bony finger to his lips, tapping thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can do something like we did for Catherine. Yes, that might be the way to go. But then again … Well, there’s no way around it. They’ll be more difficult than the others and will take more time.”
“But you will come up with a plan, won’t you, Cyrus?”
“Of course, my pet.” Cyrus smiled, but his mind was racing. That tone was back in her voice, the one of subtle threat. The one that said if he didn’t get her what she wanted, she’d get him … any way she could. Cyrus’s guts churned with his fear of her. “It will be brilliant. And should give you a wonderful entry for your journal of our … family deaths. Why don’t you tell me where it is, and I’ll get it for you, dear?”
Patience’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My journal is fine where it is.”
Damn her. She made sure he knew of the journal’s existence, but not its location. He knew in his heart she’d use it against him one day, if he failed her in any way. Cyrus decided to remind her of her own guilt. “As you wish. But you will help me—as always?”
Patience looked him up and down. But then she smiled. “Of course. You’re my husband, aren’t you? I wouldn’t want anything to … happen to you.”
Patience is quite mad. Why don’t you rid yourself of her, too? Shocked, Cyrus sat upright, just barely stopping himself from turning to see who’d said that. But he knew his own mind had formed the question. Just as he knew his heart was considering it. Cyrus looked down at his lap, making a show of laying the money down. In that moment’s space, he searched the darker regions of his soul. Could he actually do it? Could he kill Patience? Slowly, inexorably, the answer made itself known to him.
He raised his head, a changed man. Smiling at his wife, he patted the sofa’s cushion, indicating for her to rejoin him. Poor dear. Forty years of marriage, and it came to this. Well, he’d be merciful and allow her to die quickly. Then, he’d search her bedroom, where she never allowed him, until he found that damning record. And then he’d destroy it. “Come sit here, and we’ll discuss what to do.”
Patience obediently sat down, even taking his hands in hers. She was most pliant, most cheerful when plotting murder. “Good. Because I’ve thought of someone else we need to rid ourselves of. Olivia—that little turncoat of a maid Hannah took with her. Damned girl knows too much about our … special problems here. And now, surely she has everyone’s ear at Woodbridge Pond. She could be quite damaging to us.”
Cyrus pulled back, eyeing his wife. How many deaths would be enough for her? But still, the longer he thought about it, the more he realized she may have a valid point. Her mind was, after all, diabolical. He was going to miss her when she was dead. “Brilliant, Patience. I’d quite forgotten about dear little Olivia. And, as you say, by now she’s earned everyone’s trust at Woodbridge Pond. No one would question her or suspect her for a moment.”
Patience affected a pout. “Suspect her? I thought we were going to—”
Cyrus withdrew a hand from hers to put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. We are. But only after we use her for our purposes.”
“Our purposes? How do you mean?” But before Cyrus could enlighten her, her beakish features lit up and she raised her hands to stop him from answering. “How stupid of me. I see now. Very good, Cyrus. She’ll be our spy. I like it.” But then a frown of doubt turned her mouth down. “How are you going to ensure the girl doesn’t betray us?”
Cyrus laughed. “That’s the easiest part. Surely you remember her condition a year ago when she came to our door seeking employment? And we hired her on when no one else would?”
Patience frowned until it came to her. “I’d completely forgotten.”
“Ahh, but I didn’t. Because I thought then her plight may prove useful to us one day. And now it has. We know her secret little shame, one that I’d wager she’s not divulged to Hannah or to Slade Garrett—who’d show her the door if he knew the sort she was.”
Cyrus quickly outlined his scheme. “She’s got to leave Woodbridge Pond alone at some point. And when she does, I’ll be ready. A few well-chosen words with her and she’ll cooperate—gladly.”