The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 61
“You’re certain Fellows has nothing new?” Hart’s voice rolled out of the folly, and Beth froze.
“I’ve said,” Ian answered him.
“You haven’t said anything at all. We have to talk about this. Why didn’t you tell me about Lily Martin?” “I wanted to keep her safe.” There was a silence. “I didn’t help her at all.”
Lily Martin was the name of the woman killed in Coven Garden, Beth remembered, the night Ian had left for Paris. Fellows was convinced Ian killed her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hart repeated.
“To keep her safe,” Ian answered with emphasis.
“From Fellows?”
“Partly.”
“From whoever killed Sally Tate?” Hart asked sharply. There was another silence, while the creek chuckled merrily away below.
“Ian, do you know?” Hart’s voice went quieter, flatter.
“I know what I saw.”
“Which was?” Hart asked impatiently.
“Blood. She was covered in blood; it was all over my hands. I tried to wipe it off on the walls, on the bedding. It was like paint... .”
“Ian. Focus on me.”
Ian trailed off, the words dying away. “I know what I saw,” he said quietly.
“But does Fellows know?”
Ian paused again, and when he spoke, his voice was steadier. “No.”
“Then why does he want Beth?”
“I don’t know. But he does, and I won’t let him have her.”
“Very noble of you.” Hart’s voice was dry.
“If she’s married to me, your name protects her, too. The family of the Duke of Kilmorgan is not to be bothered by Lloyd Fellows.”
“I remember.”
“He tried to get her to spy against me,” Ian continued.
Hart’s voice turned sharp. “Did he?”
“Beth refused.” Ian sounded pleased. “She saw him off. My Beth’s not afraid of him.”
“Are you certain she refused him?”
“I was there. But just in case . . .” Another pause, and Beth held her breath.
“Just in case?” Hart prompted.
“A wife can’t go into the witness box against her husband, can she?”
Hart was silent a moment. “I apologize, Ian. Sometimes I forget how intelligent you are.”
Ian didn’t respond.
Hart continued. “You’re right, Ian. It’s best that she’s on our side. But the moment she makes you unhappy, the marriage is annulled. She can be made to keep quiet for a large enough sum of money. Everyone has their price.”
Beth’s breath hurt, and the world seemed to ripple around her. She turned and blindly nudged Emmie forward, thankful the mare’s hooves made little sound on the damp leaves. Nausea bit her stomach. She clung to Emmie’s red-brown mane, letting the mare find her way back home. Beth barely remembered the ride to Kilmorgan. She knew only that suddenly it was before her, the long mansion crouching in the valley, its windows glittering like watchful eyes. Cameron was nowhere in sight, likely engrossed with his stallion’s lost shoe, which was fine with Beth. A tall, redhaired groom appeared and took Emmie’s reins, and Beth heard herself thanking him politely. The dogs ran up for her attention, but she couldn’t see to pet them, and they turned and trotted back to the stables.
Somehow Beth made it into the house and up to the chamber she shared with Ian. She closed the door on the maid who’d hurried to assist her, and then she numbly undressed to her chemise and lay down on the bed.
It was late afternoon, and the sun shone through the windows with all its strength. Beth lay still, her arm across her abdomen, the absence of the corset at last allowing her to breathe. A few tears trickled down her face, then dried, leaving her eyes burning. She thought she could hear the echo of Mrs. Barrington’s derisive cackle. Beth lay still until she heard Ian coming. Then she closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him.
Chapter Sixteen
Beth lay in the shadow of the canopy, her dark hair tangled across the pillow. Ian’s gaze traced the snakes of her hair, lines of brown silk across the linen. Six strands lay straight, seven intersecting them at odd angles, and three more lay across her pale chemise. He liked the pattern and studied it for a time. The skirt of Beth’s chemise had twisted to bare her calves, muscular now from her riding lessons. He reached down and touched her skin, then started when he found it clammy and cold.
“Beth, are you ill?”
Beth’s eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t look at him. “No.”
Ian stopped, a tiny headache threading through his brain. He always had difficulty deciphering what another person was feeling, but Beth’s distress penetrated even the fog in his brain.
“Did you fall?” He sat down on the bed next to her.
“Were you frightened? Tell me.”
Beth sat up, her beautiful hair tumbling across her full br**sts. “Ian, please explain to me what happened that night in High Holborn.”
He started shaking his head before she finished. So many people wanted to discuss it—Fellows, Hart, Beth. Hart had asked again today what Ian had done, had pried open a box in Ian’s memory that he wanted to keep locked forever.
Don’t make me see. . . .
Beth’s fingers bit down on his. “Please. I need to know.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. I need to understand.”
“I’ve said,” Ian answered him.
“You haven’t said anything at all. We have to talk about this. Why didn’t you tell me about Lily Martin?” “I wanted to keep her safe.” There was a silence. “I didn’t help her at all.”
Lily Martin was the name of the woman killed in Coven Garden, Beth remembered, the night Ian had left for Paris. Fellows was convinced Ian killed her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hart repeated.
“To keep her safe,” Ian answered with emphasis.
“From Fellows?”
“Partly.”
“From whoever killed Sally Tate?” Hart asked sharply. There was another silence, while the creek chuckled merrily away below.
“Ian, do you know?” Hart’s voice went quieter, flatter.
“I know what I saw.”
“Which was?” Hart asked impatiently.
“Blood. She was covered in blood; it was all over my hands. I tried to wipe it off on the walls, on the bedding. It was like paint... .”
“Ian. Focus on me.”
Ian trailed off, the words dying away. “I know what I saw,” he said quietly.
“But does Fellows know?”
Ian paused again, and when he spoke, his voice was steadier. “No.”
“Then why does he want Beth?”
“I don’t know. But he does, and I won’t let him have her.”
“Very noble of you.” Hart’s voice was dry.
“If she’s married to me, your name protects her, too. The family of the Duke of Kilmorgan is not to be bothered by Lloyd Fellows.”
“I remember.”
“He tried to get her to spy against me,” Ian continued.
Hart’s voice turned sharp. “Did he?”
“Beth refused.” Ian sounded pleased. “She saw him off. My Beth’s not afraid of him.”
“Are you certain she refused him?”
“I was there. But just in case . . .” Another pause, and Beth held her breath.
“Just in case?” Hart prompted.
“A wife can’t go into the witness box against her husband, can she?”
Hart was silent a moment. “I apologize, Ian. Sometimes I forget how intelligent you are.”
Ian didn’t respond.
Hart continued. “You’re right, Ian. It’s best that she’s on our side. But the moment she makes you unhappy, the marriage is annulled. She can be made to keep quiet for a large enough sum of money. Everyone has their price.”
Beth’s breath hurt, and the world seemed to ripple around her. She turned and blindly nudged Emmie forward, thankful the mare’s hooves made little sound on the damp leaves. Nausea bit her stomach. She clung to Emmie’s red-brown mane, letting the mare find her way back home. Beth barely remembered the ride to Kilmorgan. She knew only that suddenly it was before her, the long mansion crouching in the valley, its windows glittering like watchful eyes. Cameron was nowhere in sight, likely engrossed with his stallion’s lost shoe, which was fine with Beth. A tall, redhaired groom appeared and took Emmie’s reins, and Beth heard herself thanking him politely. The dogs ran up for her attention, but she couldn’t see to pet them, and they turned and trotted back to the stables.
Somehow Beth made it into the house and up to the chamber she shared with Ian. She closed the door on the maid who’d hurried to assist her, and then she numbly undressed to her chemise and lay down on the bed.
It was late afternoon, and the sun shone through the windows with all its strength. Beth lay still, her arm across her abdomen, the absence of the corset at last allowing her to breathe. A few tears trickled down her face, then dried, leaving her eyes burning. She thought she could hear the echo of Mrs. Barrington’s derisive cackle. Beth lay still until she heard Ian coming. Then she closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him.
Chapter Sixteen
Beth lay in the shadow of the canopy, her dark hair tangled across the pillow. Ian’s gaze traced the snakes of her hair, lines of brown silk across the linen. Six strands lay straight, seven intersecting them at odd angles, and three more lay across her pale chemise. He liked the pattern and studied it for a time. The skirt of Beth’s chemise had twisted to bare her calves, muscular now from her riding lessons. He reached down and touched her skin, then started when he found it clammy and cold.
“Beth, are you ill?”
Beth’s eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t look at him. “No.”
Ian stopped, a tiny headache threading through his brain. He always had difficulty deciphering what another person was feeling, but Beth’s distress penetrated even the fog in his brain.
“Did you fall?” He sat down on the bed next to her.
“Were you frightened? Tell me.”
Beth sat up, her beautiful hair tumbling across her full br**sts. “Ian, please explain to me what happened that night in High Holborn.”
He started shaking his head before she finished. So many people wanted to discuss it—Fellows, Hart, Beth. Hart had asked again today what Ian had done, had pried open a box in Ian’s memory that he wanted to keep locked forever.
Don’t make me see. . . .
Beth’s fingers bit down on his. “Please. I need to know.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. I need to understand.”
