Through the Smoke (8 page)

The sight caused something to snap inside of Rachel. Dropping Geordie’s hand, she left him with Mrs. Tate and, lifting her skirts, ran back.

By the time she reached Lord Druridge, she was breathing hard beneath Mrs. Tate’s old cloak, but she scarcely noticed her exertion amid the flood of emotion swamping her head and her heart. Snatching the rose off her mother’s grave, she shoved it at him.

“I have fulfilled my end of the bargain with you, my lord, and you have fulfilled yours,” she said. “There is nothing more between your family and mine, no reason for you to be here.”

He ignored the flower in her outstretched hand. “You may not believe this, but I am sincerely sorry.” His eyes flicked Geordie’s way. “For you and the lad.”

The pain in Rachel’s chest intensified. This man had caused her to break her promise, and for what? For nothing! Because of him, she had left her mother, and her mother had died in her absence. The physician Lord Druridge had held out as a carrot in front of her nose hadn’t been worth her time in fetching him.

Her throat constricted, her eyes burned, and her hands began to shake with the effort of holding her emotions inside. “Go. The last thing I need from you is your pity.”

He acknowledged her words with a slight nod. Then he reached behind his saddle to retrieve the cloak she had left at Blackmoor Hall. “Later, if there is anything I can do—”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she broke in, grabbing it. “Our business is done. You see, I have nothing left to trade.”

He blanched but made no reply. Climbing back onto his horse, he dipped his head in farewell, wheeled around, and galloped toward the man who waited for him.

Rachel collapsed to her knees, at last letting the tears run, unheeded, down her cheeks.

“What is it, child? Was that Lord Druridge?” Mrs. Tate’s breathless voice rose behind her as she trudged back into the cemetery.

Turning, Rachel saw that Geordie accompanied her and had quit crying, his surprise and interest in what had just occurred momentarily supplanting his grief.

“Was that really the earl?” he asked, sounding more than a trifle awestruck.

Rachel nodded. Draping her old cloak over one arm, she stifled her sobs and gazed down at the flower Lord Druridge had brought to her mother’s grave. The bloom, a perfect yellow bud, was in its first blush of life. All thorns had been stripped from its stem.

“Where would ’e have gotten a fresh rose at this time of year?” Mrs. Tate asked.

“From his greenhouse,” Rachel answered absently. “He could have brought her an entire spring garden, but all she needed was a doctor.”

“’E brought the doctor, didn’t ’e? Which reminds me, lass. ’E left ye some money yesterday, just before ’e took that doctor fellow ’ome. ’E asked me to wait until after the funeral and then see that ye got what ye needed.” She reached inside her skirt and handed Rachel a ten-pound note.

Fresh anger made Rachel’s blood boil. Ten pounds was more than most miners made in two months. She could never accept such a sum, especially from him. She refused to owe him anything but her monthly rent, not even a kind thought or a thank-you. Neither would she let Lord Druridge make her feel as though she had sold her own mother out for money. She had traded information for a physician, nothing more, nothing less.

“—kind of’im, wouldn’t you agree?” Mrs. Tate was saying. “To be so generous? I think the villagers are wrong about ’im. ’E ’as a sober appearance perhaps, but there must be a soft ’eart beneath that ’ard shell. Only a good man would trouble ’imself to bring a doctor to the bed of a dyin’ stranger in the middle of—”

“That was no favor,” Rachel interrupted.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She handed the rose to her neighbor because she could no longer bear the sight of it. “Mrs. Tate?”

“Aye?”

“Can I borrow Gilly?”

Her neighbor’s face creased into a worried frown. “Aye. A man brought ’im ’ome from Blackmoor Hall just this mornin’ lookin’ fat as butter. But what’s the matter, lass? Don’t ye feel well? Of course ye don’t. Who would, at their dear mother’s funeral? Forgive me for prattlin’ on. We need to get ye ’ome, like ye said. Ye don’t need to go anywhere on old Gilly. I will take care of ye. Come on.”

“Gilly! You’re not going to leave me, are you, Rachel?” Geordie gaped at her. The donkey’s name had managed to draw his attention away from the departing earl. “I’m sorry I was bad,” he said, his hands clutching at her skirt. “I’ll be a good lad now, I promise. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave me, Rachel.”

“I won’t leave you, Geordie.” Rachel rubbed his back and allowed Mrs. Tate to cluck over them as they made their way to the cottage. But she knew, come Geordie’s bedtime, she had a delivery to make.

“You’re not much for conversation today.”

Truman looked up to see Wythe squinting at him, once again trying to break the silence that had engulfed them throughout the thirty-minute ride to Blackmoor Hall. “I’m a little preoccupied; that’s all.”

“You’ve been sullen as hell.”

Truman peered through the trees to view the southern wall of his home. He loved this part of the journey from the village. He could hear the surf crashing on the rocks below, smell the rich earth, despite its winter slumber. Today, with the sun glistening off the snow, he admired, for the millionth time, the beauty of the black, craggy rocks that broke up the wintry scene, and the tall, leafless trees that swayed with the salt-laden wind blowing in from the sea. Blackmoor Hall soothed him in so many ways. He’d grown up here, with good parents who had given him happiness and love.

But all the pleasant memories of his youth couldn’t erase the image of Rachel, pale and drawn, at her mother’s funeral. She looked so forlorn, so completely lost, as if the weight of the world now rested on her shoulders.

Would Mrs. McTavish have lived if he had brought the doctor sooner?

The thought Truman had been avoiding since leaving Rachel at her cottage yesterday crept in, demanding an audience. He’d been so determined to win his personal battle with the past that he’d taken the gamble, but it was Rachel who had lost.

Living with that knowledge would be difficult. Especially because he had gleaned so little information about Jack McTavish. Rachel had merely confirmed what Truman had already suspected, which left him with the same short list of possible murderers: a group of disgruntled miners, the father of Katherine’s unborn babe, or Wythe.

Truman watched as his cousin rode ahead, picking his way through the trees. Wythe stood to inherit Blackmoor Hall as long as Truman had no heir.

But if Wythe had set the fire, why did he pull Truman from the flames? And why would Wythe destroy so much of what he hoped to inherit?

With a grimace, Truman studied his scarred hand, currently gloved. After two years, he was no closer to solving the mystery of his wife’s death than he’d been when it happened. Yet the stakes in his fight with Katherine’s parents were growing higher by the day. The Abbotts insisted Truman confess and turn himself in, but he’d sooner die than blacken his family name and relinquish his lands and title without first having some kind of proof that he deserved such retribution.

He had made
some
progress, at least. Learning that Jack McTavish had been offered a significant amount of money about the time of the fire suggested the killer wasn’t one of Katherine’s lovers come from London, which made sense since the most likely culprits had solid alibis. That had narrowed his search the past six months to the area in which he lived—and it suggested that he was not to blame.

“What was all that about?” Wythe asked after halting his horse to wait for him.

“What was all
what
about?” Truman drew even with him but was still reluctant to allow the silence to be broken.

“That funeral business. Why did you want to go there?”

The indifferent tone of Wythe’s voice caused Truman’s hands to tighten on the reins. “I told you. The village bookseller died yesterday.”

“What was she to you? It isn’t as though you attend all the village funerals. You didn’t even make your presence known until the very end.”

“I wasn’t making a political statement.”

The stablemaster’s hounds came bounding from the manse to welcome him home.

“Did you even know the woman who died?” Wythe persisted.

Exasperated, Truman reined in and spoke over the yapping of the dogs. “Is it so unbelievable that I might have gained the acquaintance of a poor village bookseller?”

“I thought perhaps it was the bookseller’s daughter you were interested in.” Wythe once again slowed his horse to a stop, a knowing smile stretched across his face. “Rachel McTavish is one of the prettiest wenches I have ever seen.”

Truman stared past his cousin, seeing Miss McTavish’s face in his mind’s eye instead of the lacy branches and boughs of the trees surrounding them. She
was
a beauty, with her wide green eyes and thick blond hair. But she was no porcelain doll, like Katherine. Vibrant and full of life, Rachel’s face reflected emotion at all times, courage and determination chief among them.

“Well?”

Rousing himself, Truman focused on Wythe as Rachel’s image faded from his mind. “Well what?”

Wythe grinned. “Do you want me to send Anthony to fetch her and bring her to your bed?”

Irritation rose like bile in Truman’s throat. “She has just buried her mother,” he said. “Besides, I have never had anyone
bring
me a woman before. What makes you think I’ll start now?”

Wythe hardly looked penitent. “Don’t get self-righteous with me, cousin. Just because someone has never tasted a strawberry doesn’t mean they won’t enjoy that first sweet bite.” He arched his eyebrows in temptation. “A good lay is just what you need. You’ve been living like a shade, sullen and withdrawn, haunting the manse by night. If you’re afraid the McTavish wench will prove unwilling, don’t be. I have seen her a time or two at Elspeth’s.”

This statement bothered Truman, although he didn’t know why. Rachel was nothing to him. She hated him. He told himself not to dignify Wythe’s
words with a response but couldn’t help himself. “What are you saying? She’s not one of Elspeth’s girls.…”

“All women are of the same ilk, if the price is high enough. How else do you think Rachel has contributed to her family’s coffers? It’s not as if they could live on what they make from that bloody bookshop.”

Truman scowled. “Before the roads improved, that bookshop was an important outpost. I’m sure many from the surrounding counties remain good clients. Anyway, what Miss McTavish does is her own business. See that you leave her alone.” He started his horse walking toward the end of the thicket where soft, rolling hills marked the beginning of his gardens.

Wythe trotted up to him. “You would be doing her a favor, don’t you see? What’s a quick stint on her back to pay the rent compared to walking the floor of that musty bookshop for endless hours? I’d say she is ripe for the picking. Just picture her silky hair spilling over your pillow, her legs spread to welcome you as you plow into that supple body—”

Wheeling his horse around, Truman threw his fist into Wythe’s jaw before he even knew what he was going to do.

The blow knocked his cousin down. Wythe landed with a thud, sprawled in the crunchy snow like a discarded cloak. Truman had never struck him before. He didn’t know what had come over him now, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

“Have you no decency? Don’t ever speak of Miss McTavish in such a light again. And concerning the collection of my rents, see that Mr. Lewis manages to overlook stopping by her shop for the next few months.”

With a glower, Wythe rubbed his jaw, obviously as shocked as Truman was. “She’s no lady, my lord,” he said tightly. “Just a village wench.”

“I don’t care. Stay away from Miss McTavish, as well as the maids at Blackmoor Hall. Do I make myself clear?”

Wythe glared up at him without answering. It was only when Truman stepped his horse closer that he finally nodded.

“Good.” The earl watched his cousin stand on shaky legs before offering a hand to help him mount his horse.

Wythe muttered under his breath, but Truman couldn’t make out what he said and didn’t care to try. His poverty-stricken cousin had been raised in
London by a part of the family about whom Truman had only heard his parents whisper. He knew Wythe hadn’t been in a good situation, that his aunt and uncle had been different in many ways and that his own parents hadn’t approved of them. But his mother and father had taken Wythe in when Uncle John died a few years after Aunt Margaret. Problem was, by the time Wythe had come to live at Blackmoor Hall, he was already a youth of thirteen. Although that was two full years younger than Truman, who’d been fifteen at the time, Wythe hadn’t been taught to curb the wild, reckless blood that ran in his veins, and nothing they did seemed capable of overcoming those early years.

Covering the last quarter mile at a gallop, Truman left Wythe behind. As much as he wanted to believe his dead father’s prediction that his cousin would eventually govern himself as befit a Stanhope, Truman had always had his doubts. Except for that day…