The Prisoner (10 page)

The elfin lad sprang forward to retrieve her heavy cloak, which practically buried him within its voluminous folds. His thin little arms could carry no more, so she popped her bonnet on his head, much to all the children's delight.

“Look at me—I'm Genevieve!” he squealed, spinning around so they all could see.

“Mind that you don't crush the fabric,” Genevieve warned with mock severity. “All right, now, everybody ready? Let's go inside.” She pushed open the doors leading to the drawing room.

And gasped as a tall, elegantly attired man rose to greet her from the chair in which he had been comfortably ensconced.

“Good evening, Miss MacPhail,” Haydon said, tilting forward in a mannerly bow. “I trust you and the children have had a pleasant day?”

Gone was the savagely handsome warrior with the dark, tousled hair and the roughly bearded cheeks who had found it an effort just to remain upright. Haydon's jaw had been scraped clean, revealing a strong, chiseled line that might have been rendered by a Renaissance artist, and his thick, coal-black hair had been washed and trimmed, causing it to curl at the edge of his collar. His muscled body had been fitted into a charcoal frock coat, dove-gray waistcoat, white shirt and loosely cut trousers, with an expertly tied cravat arranged around his neck. They were her father's clothes, Genevieve realized as she studied them, but somehow they had been adjusted so that they clung to her patient's immense frame in long, fluid lines. His carriage was tall and sure, and his movements were no longer burdened by pain. Indeed, he looked every inch the fashionably refined gentleman, ready to host a dinner party for thirty, or perhaps simply depart for his favorite club.

Or for his home near Inverness.

A bewildering sense of loss swept through her, as if something she was beginning to treasure had suddenly been wrenched away.

“Genevieve took us to see some paintings of naked people,” reported Jamie, bounding past Genevieve and flopping into a chair beside the fireplace, where a cheerful fire was burning. Like all the children, Jamie had been in and out of Haydon's bedroom countless times while he convalesced over the last few days, and was not affected in the least by his transformation.

“Really?” Haydon raised an amused eyebrow at Genevieve. “And did you enjoy it?”

Jamie shrugged. “The pictures of the ships were better.”

“The best part was when we went for tea,” Simon decided. “I had two cups with milk and honey, and finished one of Charlotte's currant scones when she said she wasn't going to eat it.”

Charlotte cast Haydon a shy smile. “One is enough for me.”

“And I'm going to have two cups next time,” added Grace, “just so it's fair.”

“And I'm going to sit with Jack next time,” said Jamie, clearly excited by the prospect. “Isn't that right, Jack?”

Jack was slouched by the doorway, poised for escape the moment Genevieve would permit it. “I suppose.”

“The nudes were very beautiful,” Annabelle declared, affecting a worldly air as she carefully arranged the folds of her skirts upon the sofa.

“I don't know how those women lie about with no clothes on,” remarked Simon, frowning. “Don't they get cold?”

“They only pose like that in the summer,” Grace explained with great authority. “The hot air keeps them warm.”

“It's their love for the artist that keeps them warm,” rhapsodized Annabelle, clasping her hands to her heart. “That, and the knowledge that together they are making great art.”

Haydon felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fascinating point of view. What do you think on the matter, Miss MacPhail?”

Genevieve blinked, trying without success to tear her gaze away from the impossibly attractive form of Lord Redmond. “What?”

“In polite conversation we don't say ‘what,' we say ‘pardon,'” chirped Jamie.

The children giggled.

“Yes, of course, I meant pardon,” Genevieve said, feeling flustered. What on earth was the matter with her? She raised her hand to smooth down a stray hair, and felt that her cheeks had become flushed. “What was it you were saying, Lord Redmond?”

“Miss Annabelle suggests that a woman can be warmed by the euphoria of love,” Haydon elaborated, amused by the fact that Genevieve seemed to be so disconcerted by the change in his appearance. “Do you agree?” His gaze was dark and faintly teasing.

“I really don't know,” she managed with what she hoped was a modicum of levity. “I suppose so.”

“Have you ever been in love, Genevieve?” asked Charlotte.

Genevieve regarded her helplessly, wholly unprepared for such a question.

“Of course she has,” Haydon replied, coming to her rescue. “After all, she loves all of you.”

“I don't think it's the same.” Jamie's little brow furrowed in thought. “I mean, it's not the kind of love that makes you lie about naked in front of a man, like those ladies in the paintings.”

“I really think we've discussed the naked ladies enough for one day,” said Genevieve, desperate to change the conversation.

“If ye hadn't shown them all that indecency, they wouldn't be blatherin' on about it at all,” admonished Eunice, waddling into the drawing room with a plate of shortbread. “Here, duckies, have a wee sweetie and try to forget about it.”

The children happily swarmed around her, their eager little arms outstretched as they grasped at the biscuits.

“Mind ye don't knock poor Eunice over,” Doreen chided, entering the room with Oliver.

“Sweet saints, ye act as if ye were starving,” said Oliver. “Did Miss Genevieve not take ye for tea?”

“That was hours ago,” countered Jamie.

“I only had one cup,” Grace explained.

“I let Simon have my second scone,” added Charlotte.

“The scones were very small,” Simon pointed out.

“And had hardly any currants in them at all,” finished Annabelle.

“Well, duckies, tonight we're havin' fried haddock and lovely haggis with tatties and peas, so that should fill yer wee bellies nicely,” said Eunice, keeping the plate low so the children could help themselves to another biscuit. “That is, of course, unless his lordship eats it all afore Doreen can get it to the table—his appetite is so big, I'm thinking we'll soon need to hide the furniture!”

“Actually, I was thinking that Simon's chair might be rather tasty,” Haydon reflected, looking longingly at it, “especially if it had a little of Eunice's fine gravy drizzled over it.”

The children burst into giggles.

“Your pardon, Miss MacPhail. We did not mean to interrupt.”

The merriment permeating the room instantly disintegrated. All eyes fell in horror upon the sight of Constable Drummond, Governor Thomson, and the Earl of Linton, Genevieve's former betrothed, who were standing at the drawing room entrance.

“The door was ajar and no one heard us knocking,” explained Governor Thomson, looking somewhat embarrassed by the liberty they had taken.

“And I assured the governor and the constable that you wouldn't mind if we let ourselves in,” Charles added smoothly.

The handsome, fair-haired earl regarded Genevieve with a superior, faintly pained look, as if he found the sight of her laughing with her servants and children objectionable. He was dressed in the very height of fashion, with an exquisitely tailored black coat over tightly fitted checked trousers and immaculately polished chestnut boots. Over this ensemble he sported a heavy charcoal overcoat of the finest Scottish lamb's wool, the lapels of which were trimmed in ebony velvet. At thirty-eight he was beginning to show the evidence of his affluent lifestyle, for his waist and thighs were sagging from a constant diet of overly rich food and minimal physical exertion, and his golden hair was sadly thinning across the top of his forehead. After critically studying Genevieve, he swept a cursory look over the children and elders.

Then his gaze joined that of Constable Drummond, who was staring at Haydon with predaceous fascination.

It was over, Haydon realized, his chest constricting. He could not run. Even if there had been some available path to the door, he would never risk anything that might endanger either Genevieve or the children. And so he simply stood there, despair crashing over him in a great, dark wave. Why had God granted him this short reprieve? he wondered bitterly. Why had He prolonged his torment by granting him this fleeting taste of freedom, only to rip it so cruelly from him?

Because his sins were great, he reminded himself with grim harshness. He might have killed his attacker in self-defense, but he had a long list of other transgressions that stained his soul and shattered any hope for forgiveness. The worst, of course, was his abandonment of his daughter, Emmaline. He had no right to the slightest shred of mercy after what he had done to her.

It was best to leave here quietly, without creating a scene.

He glanced at Genevieve, who stood frozen, her luminous brown eyes large and filled with anxiety. Suddenly there was much he wanted to say to her, and now he never would. He wanted to thank her, not just for her tender care and shelter, but for something far more. For showing him that there were people in the world who were genuinely good. That had been an extraordinary revelation for him, and he was glad that he had learned it before his impending death. He also wanted to thank her for rescuing Jack from that cesspool of a prison and offering him a chance to make a new life. And for believing, however briefly, that there actually might have been something worth redeeming within Haydon's own battered soul.

He stared at her, shrouding his emotions with cold indifference, not wanting the others to have any inkling of his feelings toward her. He would not implicate Miss MacPhail in this matter any more than was absolutely necessary. He would tell Constable Drummond that he had forced his way into this home. He would say that he had threatened to kill all of them in the most hideous manner if they didn't do his bidding. He regarded her intently as he swiftly formulated this plan, his expression hard, hoping that she would somehow sense what he could neither show nor speak.

Then he pulled his gaze away and calmly regarded his captors, his relaxed stance betraying no hint of the agonizing regret coursing through his veins.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Charles with forced civility as he stared up at Haydon, “have we been introduced?”

“No,” interjected Genevieve firmly before Haydon could respond. “You have not.”

Her heart pounded wildly against the wall of her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Until that moment she had been too overwhelmed with shock and fear to have any clear thought on how to handle the situation. But the fact that Charles honestly did not know who Haydon was shook her from her numbness. Charles had never met Lord Redmond, she realized. A quick look at both Governor Thomson and Constable Drummond revealed that they, too, were not entirely sure that the elegantly attired man standing with such assured composure before them was the dangerous murderer they sought. It was this slight uncertainty, this faint possibility that there was a sufficient difference in Haydon's appearance and manner and dress, that spurred her to action. When she had first seen Lord Redmond rising from the chair in her drawing room, she had found the changes in his manner and appearance dramatic, and she had had the opportunity to study him at length as he lay upstairs in her relatively well-lit chamber. She could only hope that for Governor Thomson and Constable Drummond, who had viewed the man before them only as a filthy, feverish drunk with scraggly hair and many days' growth of rough beard lying in a ragged uniform inside a miserably lit cell, the difference was even more compelling.

Everyone was staring at her expectantly, including Haydon, who could not imagine what tale she was about to weave. Her mind swiftly considered and rejected a list of possibilities of who Haydon might be. Cousin. Uncle. Friend. Acquaintance.

Ultimately there was only one role that she believed would offer him the requisite protection he so desperately needed.

“Gentlemen, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Maxwell Blake—my husband.”

She did not know who within the crowded drawing room looked more shocked—her children, her uninvited guests or Eunice, Doreen and Oliver, who were blinking in astonishment.

“Married?” sputtered Charles, his watery, gray eyes nearly popping from his head. “You got married?”

“Yes.” She moved to Haydon's side and looked up at him, smiling brightly, surreptitiously pleading with him to play along with her ruse. Haydon stared back at her, careful to keep his expression composed as he considered this inconceivable turn of events.

And then, realizing he had no choice, he placed his hand at her back in a gesture that clearly intimated the proprietary rights of a husband. She trembled beneath his touch, and it pained him deeply to think of how great her fear was at that moment.

“Yes,” he said, firmly drawing her against the solid wall of his body. “I'm afraid we did.”

His powerful arm wrapped about her like a heavy shield, and the heat of his flesh penetrated the thin fabric of her dress, helping to ease her shivering. Genevieve knew she had set them upon a treacherous path, but at that moment she could think of no other way to save him. Drawing strength from the hardness of him pressing against her, she inhaled a steadying breath and forged ahead.

“Maxwell,” she continued pleasantly, “this is Lord Linton, an old friend who I'm certain will want you to call him Charles, and Governor Thomson, the esteemed governor of our jail, who in the past has been so supportive of my efforts to help the children. And this is Police Constable Drummond, who works hard to keep the streets of Inveraray safe for all of us.”

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, gentlemen.” Haydon extended his hand to each of them. “Especially you, Charlie.” Haydon enjoyed the flash of irritation that tightened Charles's mouth. “My wife has spoken to me about each of you at length.”