by Madelyn Hill
A shiver ran up her spine at the cold gruffness of his voice. He clucked his horse forward, a magnificent animal, well-muscled with a gleaming coat of black.
Martine was so aware of the lord’s presence, her skin tingled. And she knew without looking up that trouble was about to ensue. He stopped the horse before her and just sat. When her gaze met his, the lord nodded his head and gave a mocking salute.
She sighed, not knowing why she was reacting so unlike herself, why she was enthralled with the stranger.
With a nudge to his horse’s side, he was off without a backward glance at her or her brother.
One look at Rafe and she knew he’d witnessed what had transpired. Rage boiled in his dark eyes and tension pulsed his jaw. He tapped a pointy leather boot against the packed earth. The women of the clan weren’t to be appraised by Gajos. Especially a Gajo who’d ordered the Kapo to leave.
No matter, she thought with a smile of satisfaction. Lord Forrester had acknowledged her, and the realization swept through her with unparalleled warmth.
He shook his head as he left the encampment. His words and actions of his men all reeked of Ettenborough and his lordly ways. Yet he had an obligation to keep the villagers and tenants safe. Keep his estate safe.
And the woman—he shouldn’t have acknowledged her. But he couldn’t help himself. Her leader had mocked them. Declan was privy to some of the ways of the Gypsies. They didn’t take kindly to non-Gypsies—Gajos looking at their woman. And she had bravely stood by her brother with a shy and curious gaze. No matter, his actions might spur them to leave quicker. He bet they’d be gone before midnight.
Kindred sensed his uncertainty and slowed from a canter to a trot. Declan urged him with a slight squeeze of his legs. The dark-haired woman plagued him much more so than the Gypsies plagued his land. Tinkers, he corrected, as if there were a difference. And as if the leader had spoken the truth. Their dark skin evidenced their lie and all he knew of them.
“We’ll form a plan this evening if they do not leave,” he said to his men. Then he sent them to the estate as he slowed his horse, trying to delay the return to Riverton so he could contemplate the clan’s presence further.
They were industrious, if the camp was any indication. Children had peeked out from wagon windows and their mothers’ skirts. Shy, yet daring. He grinned despite the situation.
How he longed for a child, and he knew his wife suffered because she had yet to provide him an heir. No matter how he much he reassured her, she’d often cried herself to sleep. And her father didn’t help matters—the bastard insinuated his wife’s youthful transgression had cursed her—that God was punishing her, punishing them, for the sins of their past.
‘Twas why they remained in Ireland and hadn’t returned to England. Yet Ettenborough had feigned he missed his only child and was now visiting them.
Declan knew better. Ettenborough’s visit was to remind him of who controlled his life.
‘Twas what drove Declan—the constant threats, innuendos. Drove him to find out more about his past and why he’d been sent to prison without committing a crime. He was determined to discover why he’d rotted away for years. He had to ensure his future was safe—for the sake of his wife and any child with which they were blessed.
Ah, a child. Declan looked forward to the day when he could hold his child in his arms and forge a relationship that had been missing from his life.
A babe would nearly wipe out the harsh realities of his past, his time in Newgate.
Newgate haunted him night and day. The darkness surrounded him, pricking like the stab of a knife pierced his flesh. Haunting cries for freedom echoed off the stone walls and iron bars of the cell. Declan had shifted to ease his weight off his freshly-whipped back. The wounds festered, healed into raised scars crisscrossing the breadth of his shoulders. A man, face hidden in the shadows, his putrid scent giving him away, had reached his filthy hand between the bars that separated them. With obvious intent, he grasped at the bowl of gruel. Crazed with pain, Declan gripped the scrawny arm and jerked the man forward. The prisoner crashed into the iron bars, and the ominous sound of a skull cracking mixed with the howls of other unfortunate imprisoned men.
Unflinchingly, he’d grabbed the bowl and lapped up the meager serving. The poor soul beside him lay, slack-bodied, open-eyed, hopefully in a better place.
He gulped as his heart beat a staccato against his chest. The horrid memories had never abated.
The murder of the prisoner soiled his hands with blood, and he wasn’t able to remove it regardless of numerous washings. After he caught his breath, he urged his steed into a gallop, eager to be home, to see Abigail. Hopefully she’d share one of the stories she was forever spinning with him.
As he made his way home, the sun dipped into the horizon, a fiery ball attempting to cling to the day and thwart night’s arrival. From his position, he spied villagers finishing their daily routines. Thank God they remained ignorant of his past, despite Ettenborough’s threat to tell one and all.
Nay, they saw him as a fair lord. He aided with farming, and when crops had suffered for some reason or another, he’d allowed the tenants leeway with the rents.
No matter. He’d remain at Riverton with his wife.
With that he found solace, a type of peace that would sustain him.
Chapter 4
As Declan neared the manor house, he noticed a flurry of activity near the main entrance. He furrowed his brow as he took long strides to the house.
“There ’e is,” screamed Maude.
Declan’s gaze snapped to his wife’s maid. She’d been crying and her finger pointed to him like a beacon. Dread gripped his stomach as his honed instincts began to hum.
Men from the village gathered closer. Trenmore Grey nudged through the group, rifle in hand. Declan guessed it was primed and ready to shoot if he moved a muscle.
“’E killed me lady.”
“Arrest him. He killed my daughter,” Ettenborough yelled.
Momentarily perplexed as to why his wife’s English maid was speaking with the lilt of an aged Irishwoman, Declan allowed her words to sink into his conscience. Killed Abigail? What the devil was the daft woman speaking of?
He held up his hands, his gaze searching each of the angry faces before him for answers. “Abigail is well.” Last he knew she was enjoying the afternoon with her dear friend Sadie.
“Nay, m’lord,” Grey countered. Declan wanted to punch the smug look from his face. With a sneer, the man continued. “Your dear wife was found dead less than ten minutes ago.”
Shock, anguish, and grief buckled his knees. The moment he went down, the villagers tightened their circle. He couldn’t breathe.
His wife was dead.
How the devil did this happen?
He gripped someone’s shirt and dragged himself up. Blindly, he shoved through the crowd and raced into his home. Pounding up the stairs, he entered Abigail’s chamber.
’Twas true.
Declan stood at the threshold, frozen in place by the grim scene before him as he gasped for breath. Doctor Ramsey sat by Abigail’s bedside, shaking his head with a frown tugging his mouth.
“Nothing to be done,” he said after he noticed Declan. “The cut across her throat caused her to drown in her own blood.”
Declan clutched the door jamb so hard his fingers dug into the wood.
Gone.
She was gone.
Gathering strength, he walked toward the bed as if being dredged through the thickest of moors. His heart broke as he looked over the body of his dead wife and the blood pooled around her neck. Even with its newness, the scent of death permeated the chamber with its acridness and foulness.
How could life prove so cruel?
Doctor Ramsey grabbed his arm. “’Twas qu
ick, lad. Won’t you be thankful in that?”
He didn’t remember nodding, but the doctor took leave as the crowd of villagers appeared in the hall.
Ettenborough came forward. “We’ll put ye in the gaol until the magistrate returns.”
Declan swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Prison. The thought was so incredibly horrid he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. His chest heaved and his throat tightened close to strangling him.
Never again would he see the inside of a prison.
Never again.
“I didn’t kill my wife,” he said, his voice raw with grief and burgeoning madness. How could they think he could?
A smirk creased Ettenborough’s ugly face. “Ah, well, her maid and Lady Bannon say differently.”
Declan raked his fingers through his hair, desperate, perplexed, and furious. The faces in the crowd sneered at him. People he’d helped, given aid, were now turning on him like a pack of wolves. “Let me see to my wife.”
Maude pushed through as Sadie attempted to pull her back. “Don’t let the man touch me lady.”
Grey moved to grab him. “’Tis no secret, m’lord, that yer wife had failed you.”
Declan twisted away. “Nay. Never,” he growled.
Little shoved through the crowd and attempted to hold them back. “Let Lord Forrester tend to his wife,” the old man yelled as others grabbed him and tossed him aside.
Declan was torn between helping Little to his feet and securing his freedom. The doctor knelt by his valet and helped him stand. Satisfied the old man wasn’t injured, Declan had no choice.
“No!” he heard Sadie yell. Desperation ruled his actions. The haunting cries of prisoners, starving and beaten, sounded as though they were in the same room. The scent of rotting flesh rose in the air, voiding the roses on the table before the window. He gagged at the odor of men incarcerated until their death.
Never again would he see the inside of a prison.
Never again.
He shoved Grey aside as he ignored Sadie’s plea. Making toward the windows, he reached for the chair by the writing desk. He launched through the window holding the chair before him. Glass shattered everywhere, but he disregarded the shards piercing his flesh as his body ripped through the gaping hole. Declan landed on the balcony and climbed over the railing.
Before making the final plunge, he surveyed the horizon. Villagers peppered the landscape as they made their way to Riverton. His men sat astride their mounts, with his saddled horse by their side. Even at this distance, he could judge their uncertainty.
Jumping to the ground, he ran to them. Nate looked to him with such confusion and speculation, he stepped back.
“I didn’t kill Abigail,” he shouted as his breath heaved from his lungs. “She was my wife.”
His comrade nodded. “We’ll head to London. Randolph sent a missive. He’ll arrive soon. He can help you . . . sort out this mess.” With a curt nod, he urged his horse forward.
The rest of the men followed suit, each raking Declan with an uncertain glance. Even Pierce, his cowardly butler, was atop a horse. Did he too wish to help Declan, even now? Declan almost went to him to beg him to listen, beg him to believe.
“There ‘e is,” shouted a villager.
Declan looked toward the manor house. The mob of bystanders had grown two fold. Little led the crowd, confusion in his old eyes and a few ounces of pity as well.
Declan knew he must stay out of prison and its life-choking bars. He had only one option.
Flee.
Wiping blood from his line of vision, Declan grabbed onto Kindred’s reins and leapt onto his back. Instinct took over and he urged his horse toward the forest. Declan needed to hide deep within the woods until he could prove his innocence. If he headed to London now, they’d find him. He trusted his men to follow the plan and head to London without him.
Glancing back, he felt panic rise as villagers chased after him. Some were on horseback, others on foot like a pack of hounds trained on a hare.
Declan kicked Kindred’s flanks relentlessly, yelling for speed. His hands held fast to the reins as his mount hurdled a creek and raced through the glen.
As he crossed the glen, rain began to fall. Bollocks. Now he had the elements to deal with as the terrain turned muddy. One quick look over his shoulder revealed the villagers had not kept up with his neck-breaking speed.
Declan reined in Kindred and sat up. His own heaving breaths matched that of his winded mount. Absently, he patted the horse’s neck while he pondered his next course of action.
He must prove his innocence. But how? Who would want his wife dead? And in such a gruesome manner?
They’d planned to grow old together and God willing, raise their children. And now all of those hopes and dreams were futile.
He rubbed his weary eyes and stopped his horse. Blood had dried on his face, yet still oozed from the numerous cuts in his upper and lower body. He regretted running like a guilty man. But survival was his first priority and Abigail didn’t need him any longer.
A shout in the distance caught his attention. He tightened his grip on the reins and urged Kindred into a gallop. Once again he ducked branches and kept a tight hold as he guided his horse through the tangled maze of trees. His heart pounded in his chest like an explosive bullet launching from a pistol. Declan shoved his concerns aside as he pushed forward and deeper into the woods.
Kindred jumped over a fallen log, unsettling Declan. The animal skittered to a stop, tossing him onto the wood-strewn ground.
The light of the day faded as darkness enveloped him. His last conscious thought was of his wife, now gone forever.
Lady Sadie Bannon tucked her purchase under her arm and left the millinery. The hat she’d chosen would look fetching with her new gown. ’Twas a gift she had, marrying well, but not for long. She chuckled. Her quick unions had allowed her free reign within the village and its quaint shops. Milliners, the dress makers, bakery, and, ah, the sweet shop, were her favorite haunts. Sure, she spoiled herself rotten, but ’twas no one else at the moment ready and willing to do so.
She strolled down the narrow street, looking forward to tea, offering a genial nod toward the priest and a smile toward Blackstone, the owner of the bank. Why she was so pleased, she didn’t know. Abigail was gone. Not a dear friend, but women like herself rarely had women friends. And that tasty morsel Declan Forrester, gone and not a sign in what direction. Nearly five days had passed and the blasted magistrate had no answers.
There were few things in life Sadie was certain of; she loved the power of money and Declan Forrester was a fine example of manhood. How wasted he was with Abigail. The last time she’d seen him, daylight had streamed through the large windows in the main hall, caressing Declan as she herself wished to do. He looked like the statue of a Greek god she’d seen in her husband’s books. Except with clothes on, more’s the pity. Clothed or no, she wanted to lap him up like a kitten does milk, and she’d not cared a whit about Abigail.
Besides, a lass has to take care of herself, she thought as she brushed her hand over her lovely gown. And being a widow suited her only for the pounds in the bank and the lovely silk that covered her back. She could never go back to living as she did when she married her first husband. He’d plucked her from the serving staff to be his mistress, then she’d moved up the ranks when his wife unfortunately died. Or fortunately, in Sadie’s case.
Truthfully, her healthy appetites had been neglected for far too long. And she knew just the man to feed them.
Now that did pose a problem, she thought with a frown. She’d plans for that man and now they were on hold because of one mistake.
“Lady Bannon, ’tis delightful to see ye this fine, fine afternoon.”
Sadie stifled a cringe, then thought better of sending
the man on his way. “Thank ye, Mister Grey.”
He waved his hand at her as one would a persistent fly. “Must we be so formal? ’Twas not too long ago we shared the same school room.”
She nodded and grabbed his offered elbow. He was freshly shaven, in a worsted wool suit, and looking quite the man. Hmmm, not a bad picture at all, at all. At least she’d be walking through the village with a handsome gentleman. A gentleman who may have current information on one Lord Declan Forrester.
Sadie smiled and tipped her chin toward her escort. “Tell me, Trenmore, what news can ye be sharing with me?”
He gave a brisk nod of his head. “Lord Ettenborough is not happy with the magistrate.”
Nodding her head, she listened as Trenmore relayed the sorrow of Abigail’s father and how the estate was now in a precarious position. Lord Ettenborough had no desire to stay in Ireland since the death of his daughter, but he wanted Declan to pay. Aye, he loathed the country and longed for the refinement of his comfortable town home in London.
“M’lady, ’twould be me pleasure if ye had tea with me.”
Anticipation of further conversation elated her. “Aye, Trenmore,” she replied with a purr. “I’d love to share your tea.”
He patted her hand and gave a winning smile. Why, she’d never noticed those golden flecks in his green eyes before. ’Twas a lovely surprise.
They entered the small teahouse and sat before a large bank of windows. Pleased with the advantageous seating, Sadie plumped up her skirts and adjusted the lace fichu around her neck. Now those old birds who gossiped incessantly about her would see she was a force to be reckoned with. She’d been Abigail’s friend and confidante and now, aye, now she was having tea with one of the finest catches in the village.