The Sinner (24 page)

What?

Christ, he couldn't think. His head… And now his stomach, too. It felt like someone had tied his insides together and was pulling the knot tighter, tighter. He looked around for somewhere to sit. To gather his wits and shake off the pain.

Slade's face came into view. "You do look ill. How strange. A moment ago, you seemed perfectly well."

Pain tore through Hughe's insides. He doubled over and vomited in the corner of the stall.

Slade came up to him and held out the cup. "Drink this."

The wine. The wine from Cat. No.

No!

He fought down the next wave of nausea, but the effort nearly did him in. He dropped to one knee and placed a hand against the wall for balance. Standing was an impossibility. Thinking too, almost.

There was one thing he did know. The wine was poisoned.

"Cat," he said on a groan as his stomach tied itself into knots again. Christ, everything hurt. His gut, his head, his skin. But most of all, his heart.

Cat, why?

CHAPTER 13

"I've seen this before," Slade was saying. He was behind Hughe, or beside him. He couldn't be sure anymore. He didn't care. "A fast illness, aching head, vomiting, tiredness. You do feel tired, my lord?"

Hughe turned to him, but Slade was staring into the cup.

"Cat gave you this, didn't she?" Slade blinked at Hughe. Then he laughed, a low chuckle. "Well, well. It would seem I underestimated her. We both did. She's not the timid little creature she portrays. I suppose we should both have seen this coming."

Hughe wanted to tear Slade's tongue out, punch him in the face, stop him talking. Yet he was only confirming what Hughe already feared.

"All she wanted was a little freedom," Slade went on. "Did you know that? Freedom from husbands and marriage. The freedom to do as she pleased."

"Why?" Hughe could barely manage a whisper. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. His insides were on fire, burning a hole in his gut.

"I won't pretend that I've been the best brother-in-law to her. I know she wanted to be free of me too. That's why she married you. That and your money. Ah well, it would seem she's about to become a very rich widow."

The money. The will. How did Slade know he'd left everything to Cat? Why had she told
him
?

He didn't get a chance to think it through. His stomach clenched once more and he threw up again. He closed his eyes. They were too heavy to keep open.

He heard footsteps. Shouts. Hands grasping him, faces appearing. Worried eyes. "My lord!" More shouts with very real fear threaded through.

"Fetch help." That was Slade. He hadn't been so eager to assist a moment ago. The cur leaned closer to Hughe and whispered, "Don't worry. I won't let her hang for this. I'll protect her."

"Not…Cat." Yet even as Hughe said it, doubt washed over him, as debilitating as the nausea. She wouldn't poison him. Would she?

"She told me this morning how much she hates and fears you after learning that you killed Stephen. I had not expected her to go to such extremes to see you punished, but I suppose I should have. Poison is a woman's weapon, and she is a fierce woman when angered."

The footsteps seemed to get further away, not closer. It felt like dozens of hands touched him, cradled him, lifted him, but not the pair of hands he wanted to feel. Not Cat.

Cat who hated him now. Hated him enough to kill him.

***

Frantic maids woke Cat a little after dawn, their faces long. Hughe was gravely ill, they said. But that was absurd; he couldn't be. She'd only seen him the night before and he'd looked perfectly all right then. Indeed, he'd looked perfect. Her questions only led to shrugs and, in the case of the younger maid, tears.

Cat's heart dropped to her toes.

They tried to dress her, but she waved them off and ran out of the bedchamber, through the shared sitting room and into his adjoining chamber. Some servants surrounded the large bed, but she hardly saw their faces. She only had eyes for the person lying there.

Oh God, oh God.

Hughe lay on top of the covers, fully clothed in riding garb. The blue of his veins was stark against the marble white skin. Dark circles bruised his closed eyes. His breathing came in shallow, shuddering gasps. This could not be her strong, commanding, healthy husband. This man hovered on the edge of death, but her Hughe was a fighter. He would not be overcome so quickly by sickness.

She stared down at his prone form. Someone placed a housecoat around her shoulders and she folded the edges closed over her chest. Her aching, painful chest. Her throat constricted, and tears streamed down her face, dripping onto the bedcover.

No. No, no, no.
This couldn't be happening, she couldn't lose him. She had only known him a few months and yet she couldn't imagine a life without him in it. She should hate him. She should want him to rot for what he'd done. But she couldn't. He was a deeply flawed man, but she loved him anyway.

And he was going to die without knowing it. It didn't matter that he didn't love her back, she just wanted him to know she was wholly his. There would never be another love for her on this scale.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her lips to his cool forehead. "Hughe," she whispered. "My husband, my lover, my life."

A small furrow dented his brow and he turned his face toward her as if he were following the sound of her voice. His lips parted but no words came out.

She stroked his hair and pressed her cheek to his. Perhaps she could warm him a little, give him some of her life. Perhaps he wouldn't die if she could show him that she loved him.

"The wise woman?" she asked the maid.

"Widow Dawson has been fetched, m'lady. Shall I wake Mistress Monk?"

What could Elizabeth do? Cat shook her head and did not take her gaze from Hughe. What if she wasn't watching when he breathed his last? What if he tried to speak and she didn't hear it?

Her heart caved in. Her face crumpled as the tears streamed, unabated. "What happened to you?" she whispered.

She was dimly aware of her maids hovering at the doorway, too far away to hear. The grooms seemed to have disappeared altogether.

Hughe stirred and murmured something. She tilted her head to hear him better.

"Hughe?"

He opened his eyes. The pupils were huge, unseeing. "Cat." The word was a mere breath.

"Yes." She clasped his hand, but there was no reaction. "Hughe? Say something."

"Sorry."

"Don't," she murmured against his cheek. "Don't speak of it. It no longer matters. Just fight this. Get well. Come back to me."

The muscles in his face rippled with pain. He folded his hands over his stomach and curled into a ball. He rolled onto his side toward her. "Why?" he said on a groan.

She stroked his forehead as the spasm eased and he stretched his body out again. His hands remained on his stomach.

"Why, Cat?"

"Shhh." She kissed the frown between his brows. "Rest now, husband. The wise woman will be here soon."

"I have to…go." He tried to push himself up, but Cat circled her arms around him and gently laid him down again. He did not fight her and relaxed into her embrace.

"You can't go anywhere," she told him. "Whatever it is you need to do will have to wait."

He turned his head from side to side as if trying to dislodge a nightmare. "Sorry," he murmured. "So sorry, Mary. Forgive me."

Mary? Cat's heart stilled. Even now, her jealousy reared. "Who is Mary?"

"Mary…Renny."

He must mean Widow Renny from Larkham. He thought of her now, as he lay dying?

She swallowed, but the lump in her throat was too huge. It felt like something clawed at her heart, tearing it into shreds. 

But now was not the time for jealousy. She had to think of Hughe. Only Hughe, and somehow making him well again. She would do anything to return him to his old self. She would even settle for the fop and long absences, as long as he came to her bed whenever he wanted to make a child. She would take a few moments with him, if that was all she could have.

"Hughe, this is Cat." Her voice sounded full of tears. She fought through them and forged on. She had to know the answer. Had to know what to do next. She couldn't make him well, but she might be able to make him happier. Somehow that mattered very much. "Can you hear me?"

"Cat?" His eyes opened a little wider and focused on her. But just for a moment and then he closed them again, as if it hurt too much to do otherwise. He lifted a hand and let it fall on top of hers. She stroked her thumb along his knuckles and once more felt her tears falling.

"Hughe, tell me. Do you love her?"

His face softened. The corners of his mouth lifted. "Aye."

Cat lowered her head and silently sobbed. At least she knew for certain now. He'd been such a good liar, so very good, that she'd believed him when he'd told her he'd given up his mistresses. But now that she knew, she could grieve for him even if he lived. And then she could move forward with her own life, separate from him yet still married. Or so she told herself.

But first, she had to help him live. Even now, knowing that he loved another, she would do anything to bring him back to health. Even if it meant surrounding him with his loved ones.

She swiped at her tears and drew in a deep breath. "Do you…do you want me to fetch her?"

"Cat?"

"I'm here. Shall I fetch Widow Renny?"

"Get her…her boys…"

She breathed. Breathed again. "If they're what you need, then I will."

He reached for her and she caught his clammy hand in her own. She bent and kissed his forehead. His skin was a little warmer now, thank God. Hopefully the wise woman could do something, but Cat wouldn't be at Sutton Hall to greet her.

She stood just as Lynden burst in. He wore an open jerkin over his shirt and no breeches, revealing lumpy knees. "Why wasn't I told immediately?" He stopped short of the bed and stared at Hughe. "God's blood. What happened?"

"He's taken ill," Cat said. "The wise woman is on her way."

Lynden nodded numbly, and lowered himself into a nearby chair.

"Watch over him until he wakes."

He didn't ask her why she didn't do it herself. He seemed not to see or hear her at all. His stricken gaze remained on Hughe.

Cat left the bedchamber, her maids in tow. "I'm going for a long ride," she told them. "Inform the grooms to prepare a horse. One of them is to come with me."

The younger girl rushed off. The older one hesitated. "But your hand, m'lady. You cannot ride."

Cat stared down at her bandaged hand. She'd forgotten about it. It throbbed a little, but the pain was insignificant compared to the ache in her heart. "I have to," she said.

"Where are you going?"

"Larkham."

The girl wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

"To bring someone here. Someone his lordship wishes to see before…" Cat shook off the thought. He was strong. He would fight this illness, especially once he had his loved one by his side.

"Can anyone else go in your stead? Mistress Monk?"

Cat shook her head. "I can't sit here and be idle while he… I have to do this. There's no need to wake Mistress Monk or her husband yet." It was still very early. The sun was a faint golden ball hanging low in the sky behind a bank of clouds.

She had no idea how long it took to ride to Larkham, but the sooner she left the better. She only hoped she could bring back Widow Renny before it was too late. She hoped too that she possessed enough strength of character to keep her jealousy suppressed.

***

Elizabeth awoke in an empty bed. That wasn't any cause for alarm. Edward often rose early of late and rode out with Hughe to set the wheels in motion for the rescue. But this time, she had a feeling something was wrong. For one thing, he was supposed to remain at Sutton Hall for most of the day and ride out tonight. For another, the hastily scrawled note on the table by the window simply said he'd gone out. Why so little information? Didn't he know that would only make her worry?

She threw open the shutters and spotted a cart driving toward the house at a fast clip. The occupants held onto the sides, but that didn't stop them being thrown from side to side in the back as the driver pulled up to the front door. Servants shouted and rushed to help the woman down. She ran into the house, a basket clasped to her chest, a girl at her heels. It was Widow Dawson and Bel.

Elizabeth dressed quickly, her heart in her throat. Who was ill? It had to be someone important or the wise woman wouldn't be in such a hurry and would not have entered through the front. Cat? Surely her hand couldn't be the cause of such commotion.

She stopped the first maid she came to, a young girl with tears in her eyes. "What's happened?"

"Lord Oxley." The girl's face crumpled. "He's dying."

Elizabeth covered her cry with her hand. It shook. "How? Why?"

The girl merely shrugged.

"Is Mr. Monk with him?"

"No, mistress. He's gone out riding. Left very early before all this."

Elizabeth rushed on to the Oxley apartments, but was stopped by Jeffrey at the closed door. He stood like a sentinel, his arms crossed over his sky blue jerkin.

"Widow Dawson wants no visitors," he said in that self-important, pompous prig of a way he had.

"But I must go in!" How to tell him Hughe was her husband's closest friend? That she needed to assess the situation for herself and decide what to do next? If Hughe couldn't make it to Larkham, she had to find Edward and have him head to the village instead. Ill or not, Hughe would want the rescue to continue. At least they had time on their side, as long as Edward returned in the next few hours.

Behind Jeffrey stood two of his servants, blocking the entrance. Did he think she was going to break the door down?

"How bad is he?" she asked.

Jeffrey rubbed his forehead and looked rather pale and sweaty himself. If it were the plague, they were all in grave danger.

"The maid said he's dying," Elizabeth went on. "Jeffrey." She grabbed his arms and shook him. "How bad is he?"