By Love Unveiled

by Deborah Martin

  Garett’s harsh laugh was like a knife twisting in Marianne’s heart, reminding her of her aunt’s words the night before. Aunt Tamara was right, she thought despairingly. Bitter water would always be bitter.

  “Listen to me and listen well,” Garett told his uncle in an ominous tone. “In London, when I appeared before the Parliament, I kept my anger in check because of His Majesty’s determination to keep peace in England. But in my own land, where none would fault me for having you drawn and quartered, I find it difficult to endure your presence. So I suggest you return to your powerful friends in London before I decide to test your fencing abilities.”

  Sir Pitney backed away from the malice on his nephew’s face, clearly convinced Garett would act as he said. Once Garett saw his uncle was truly cowed, he turned to leave the room.

  Sir Pitney’s voice stopped him. “You’re as arrogant as your damned father. Yet even he was brought low in the end. Remember this whenever you think you’re safe in your manor—men are easily bought in these times. Even women have their prices. Don’t be too sure you’ve rid yourself of all the enemies in your house.”

  Sir Pitney’s words pushed Garett beyond the limits even of rage. “I could rid myself now of all my enemies,” he ground out, reaching for the dagger he always kept at his side.

  Marianne’s heart stopped, but Garett’s gesture evidently alarmed Sir Pitney enough to convince him to flee, for he slipped out the front door, leaving Garett shaking with fury.

  “I’ll see you hanged yet, Uncle!” Garett cried into the empty room.

  And Marianne, at least, was convinced he really would.

  She released her pent-up breath in a long, audible sigh. Then she went still as the sound echoed in the stairwell and off the stone stairs.

  To her horror, Garett’s head snapped around, and he strode to where she stood in the shadows. “Why are you skulking about down here?” he snarled.

  His tone reminded her of what he planned for his prisoner. “ ’Twas you who brought me here to serve your despicable ends. And now I’m being shown what a beast you truly are!”

  His eyes bored into her. “How long have you been spying on me?”

  “You dare to accuse me, when you’ve been toying with my life and that of a poor wounded man? Spying! As if I’d deliberately seek to learn how thoroughly you’ve played me for a fool!”

  A shadow crossed his face. “Don’t speak of what you don’t understand, Mina,” he clipped out. “You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.”

  That really inflamed her temper. “I didn’t intend to, but I’m glad I did. Now that I know what you intend, I shall… shall put an end to your contemptible plans!”

  She didn’t know how, but somehow she’d move the soldier out of the earl’s clutches. Whirling around, she started up the stairs.

  He hurried up to clasp her arm. “Don’t behave foolishly. What do you think you could do now? Could you, one woman, move the man out of my house without my knowledge? None of my servants would help you. And your only other choice is to let him die to ‘save’ him from me. You would never do it. Whatever else you may be or might have been, you don’t have the heart to let any man perish if you can help him.”

  Marianne’s hand clenched the banister as she acknowledged the truth of his statements. Devil take him, but as usual, he held all the reins.

  Still, she refused to be part of his vengeance. Possibly he’d already made her father part of it. She’d have nothing further to do with his hatred for Sir Pitney and his obsession with Falkham House.

  That was the third choice, one he hadn’t mentioned.

  Silently she moved back down the two or three steps she’d climbed, refusing to look at him. He released her arm then, and she kept walking, her eyes fixed on the oak door of the manor house as if it were her only salvation.

  She would leave and not come back. Perhaps she’d even leave Lydgate. Somehow she’d find a way to determine if he’d played a part in her father’s arrest. And if he had, she’d find a way to make him pay for it.

  Later. But not now, not while the memory of his conversation with Pitney was fresh in her mind, mocking her for being a fool.

  She heard his heavy steps behind her, but she didn’t stop.

  “Mina, you can’t leave now. The man may die without you.”

  She paused, praying for the strength to ignore his words.

  “If he dies, his last hours will be painful,” Garett went on. “You could ease his pain.”

  Curse the man for playing on her soft heart. She whirled around to glare at him. “If he lives, you’ll torture him, and that pain would be greater than any pain he suffers in death. I can’t stand by and watch it!”

  He gaped at her. Then as comprehension dawned, his expression darkened. “What kind of heathen do you take me for? Am I to hang him by his thumbnails until he tells the truth? My God, I’ve seen enough hacked and bloody limbs in war without wishing to see a man tortured at my own command!”

  She watched him warily. His expression of horror made her want to believe him, but she knew better than to trust him. “You told Sir Pitney there were ways to persuade a man to reveal all. I’m not so naive I didn’t know what you meant!”

  “I didn’t mean I’d put him on the rack, for God’s sake. I am not the devil you would paint me!” His fierce glower belied him, making him appear the very monarch of hell.

  He advanced a few steps, and she backed away instinctively. “I don’t believe you. What else could you have meant?”

  “Merely that I intend to imprison him until he tells me what I wish to know. A man whose loyalties are bought will only endure a dungeon for so long before he decides betraying his employer is the most prudent course.”

  She surveyed him disbelievingly. “You would merely imprison him?”

  “If he lives, ’tis all I intend.”

  If he lives… “Even to put him in a dungeon is cruel when he’s newly recovered,” she pointed out lamely.

  “The man strove to burn my fields,” Garett growled. “Men could have been killed. Be careful, Mina, that your pity isn’t misplaced. The man’s a villain, after all.”

  He might have a point. But would he really only imprison the man? If so, she couldn’t leave yet, for the wounded man would certainly die if she abandoned him.

  As if the earl sensed her thoughts, he edged closer. “On my honor, I shall not perform any barbarous tortures on the man. If you wish, you can stay in the dungeon with him to make sure I don’t. I swear you can trust to my honor in this.”

  Her head shot around at his seemingly sincere words. “Honor is but a paper sword when a dishonorable man wields it.”

  His lips thinned. “If you were a man, we’d duel at dawn over those words.”

  She paled but didn’t take back the insult.

  At her silence, his eyes glittered. “I needn’t prove my trustworthiness to a gypsy. My past speaks for my honor. So does yours. You lied to me… you skulked about my gardens… you listened to my private conversations… Where is your honor?”

  “I only tried to protect myself—”

  “From what? I don’t even know that. I know nothing about your past, since both you and the townspeople avoid my questions.”

  She swallowed hard. So far he hadn’t pried too deeply into her past. If he ever did… if her refusal to accommodate him in this matter made him seek harder for answers about her, she could be in serious trouble. Still, it galled her to be a party to his plans, even if the wounded man deserved imprisonment.

  He stepped closer, sensing her hesitation. “Why is it so hard for you to accept what I wish to do to this man? As a gypsy, surely you’ve seen harsher punishments for criminals.”

  Weighing her words, she avoided his intense scrutiny. “Remember, my lord, I was raised a lady. I have a lady’s principles even though my blood isn’t pure.”

  “Then uphold those principles and do what you know is best for your patient. ’Tis only your pride that’s wounded
now. But that man will die without you. Believe me, pride is a paltry thing next to a man’s life.”

  She met his piercing gaze squarely. “If pride is so paltry, why won’t you abandon it and forget all your plans for vengeance? Only your pride suffered when your uncle took your lands and title. Didn’t you live well in France those years you were in exile? Why not forget the past? You have everything you want now. What purpose is to be served in tormenting more people?”

  When his eyes locked with hers, they were like two shards of ice. “You know nothing, nothing at all.” Stiffening his shoulders, he added through gritted teeth, “I want you to stay and tend the man. You know what I need of you, and you have the ability to give it. And I know your aunt at least won’t say no to the money I’ll offer for your skills. But be warned that no matter your choice, I won’t alter my plans for him a whit. So stay or go—’tis your decision.”

  With that flat statement, he turned on his heels and strode toward the stairs, leaving her to make an impossible choice.

  Chapter Eight

  There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

  Rough-hew them how we will.

  —Shakespeare, Hamlet

  Garett frowned into the fire, then glanced at the soldier. The man had lain quiet for several hours in the incongruously lacy bedroom that had once clearly belonged to a lady of the house. Garett doubted the man would live much longer.

  Then Garett’s gaze roamed to the figure who sat curled up in a stiff-backed chair. In the end Mina had stayed. Not that he’d given her much choice. He’d known she could be convinced. But now he took no joy in the knowledge.

  She’d seen to it he felt like a monster for what he was doing. Who was she—a gypsy wench without a penny to her name—to lecture him on honor and responsibility? God only knew what she’d done to survive in the last few years, she and her devious aunt.

  Her head drooped forward so her tangle of curls fell in soft waves over her shoulders, past where her lace-edged chemise peeked above her boned bodice, then cascaded down the front of her azure dress. What a pretty picture she made, her legs tucked up under her as if she were an innocent child.

  But the delectable lips were not a child’s, nor the shapely calf exposed to his view where her plain muslin skirts had hiked up. It was enough to make a monk sit up and take notice. No wonder her accusations had driven him frenzied with anger. He couldn’t bear to have that delicious creature think him such a beast.

  He jerked his gaze away. How had he come to this pass, to let a beautiful woman toy with his resolve? What she thought of him was of no consequence. No one else would fault him for imprisoning a man who’d tried to destroy his tenants’ livelihoods.

  Nor would anyone else criticize him for wanting his revenge against Tearle. His frown deepened. If she only knew…

  But how could she? He himself had only suspicions and no proof.

  He thought back to those first painful days in France. Only after a long while had he adjusted himself to the thought that he’d never see his mother’s kindly face again or trade witticisms with his father. Most wrenching of all had been not knowing why they’d been killed. He’d almost welcomed the hardships of France, because they’d distracted him from his grief and confusion.

  And there had been hardships. The king’s friendship had helped them little, since Charles, too, had been destitute and eventually forced to leave France. Without family or funds, Garett, a boy of fourteen, and his equally bereft servant had done whatever backbreaking, dirty work the French had seen fit to give them.

  That had given him plenty of time to think about his uncle. As Tearle had continued to ignore Garett’s letters, Garett’s suspicions had grown until he’d been certain that his uncle had been planning to steal his inheritance. That he might have done unspeakable things to manage it.

  With that certainty had come caution, particularly when a man had arrived from England seeking to kill Garett. That’s when Garett, convinced his uncle had wanted him dead, had stopped using his title, even his given name. He and Will had faded into the group of exiles until such time as they’d been able to fight back. They’d just been two more nameless English fellows without a home.

  In the meantime, he’d nursed within his breast a hatred for his uncle bordering on madness. And once he’d been old enough to convince the Duke of York to let him and Will serve in his mercenary army…

  Those years he wanted to forget altogether. Only his raging hatred for Tearle had seen him through the wretched, bloody battles fought not for love or country but for money, always money. He’d thought of Tearle every time he’d watched a man flogged for disobedience or a soldier friend hacked to death. Then he’d forced himself to hone his skill with the sword to a fine art so that one day he could plunge it through his deceitful uncle’s chest.

  And now? In Garett’s more bitter moments, he wanted to forget all caution and murder his uncle. He could do it easily enough, without much risk.

  But death was too good for the bastard. He wished to see Tearle’s treachery clearly revealed to the men Tearle considered his friends—the Roundheads who’d given him power and the merchants who’d given him money for his ventures. Garett wanted Tearle so discredited, so universally vilified that he’d be forced into exile as Garett had been. Exile would be a much more fitting punishment to a man who thrived on power.

  Still, today it had taken all his self-control not to thrust his dagger through Tearle’s heart. Only Aunt Bess’s presence had given him the strength to resist that urge, though oddly it had also fired his desire for revenge.

  Aunt Bess. He remembered her as a laughing young woman who’d teased him about his insolent tongue. He’d secretly worshipped her, never dreaming what her husband would later do to him. Now he felt certain she didn’t realize the full truth about Tearle. Garett couldn’t believe she’d have stayed with the man if she’d known.

  Then again, perhaps she was happy to be carrying a child. The prospect of children seemed to make most women happy.

  Yet she hadn’t seemed particularly happy.

  Garett looked at Mina. Would she feel joy at the prospect of children?

  He snorted. He was a fool even to be thinking such things. Only his gypsy princess tempted him to abandon his purpose. Well, he couldn’t allow her to do so. His plans might very well rest upon the soldier’s confessing all about Tearle.

  As if Mina sensed Garett’s dark thoughts, she stirred, her eyes slowly opening. She seemed disoriented as she looked about the room. Then her gaze rested on Garett, and she frowned, uncurling her legs and sitting up in the chair.

  “Is he any better?” she asked as she rubbed her eyes.

  “Not that I can tell, but he seems no worse, either.”

  With a weary sigh, she rose and walked to the bed. She bent over to rest her hand on the soldier’s forehead, unknowingly presenting Garett with an enticing picture of her derriere. He couldn’t help smiling at the sight, and she turned just in time to catch him at it.

  “What are you so pleased about?” she grumbled.

  “Nothing you’d approve of.”

  With a shrug, she checked the soldier’s bandages. She looked concerned as she glanced at Garett. “He may die despite my efforts. He hasn’t stirred since we brought him here.”

  “I know. And then we can add another death to Tearle’s account. As you no doubt heard this morning, it was Tearle’s spy who gutted your patient. Tearle’s the villain in this, not I or my men.”

  Looking troubled, she picked up her bag of medicines and went to sit by the fire. “Perhaps you weren’t at fault this time, but you’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

  He stared at her. “Yes. That’s what soldiers do.”

  She pondered that a moment. “So you killed men only while you were a soldier?”

  Garett thought of the highwaymen and the men he’d killed defending himself during his short term as the king’s spy in Spain. “Mostly.”

  She paled. Her eyes droppe
d to her hands, where she toyed with the pouch of herbs that never left her side. “Why haven’t you killed your uncle if you hate him so much?”

  “I have my reasons,” Garett said stiffly, displeased with the direction the conversation was taking. “But rest assured his time will come.”

  Her gaze darted to his face, and he suddenly hated that he couldn’t tell her more. He couldn’t bear how she looked at him, as if he were some beast. “Mina, I’m a law-abiding man. I wouldn’t kill in cold blood unless someone tried to kill me.”

  Her expression shifted to one of confusion. “You wouldn’t kill for other reasons? To defend a cause, for example, or… or perhaps to ensure you could keep something you felt rightfully belonged to you?”

  “By my troth, I don’t know,” he said irritably, wondering why she was delving into such deep subjects all of a sudden. “I suppose it would depend. Would I fight for my lands if some foreign army sought to take them? Of course.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes burning into his. “What about if someone else sought to take them? Like… like Sir Pitney. Would you have killed Sir Pitney to get Falkham House back… if… if he’d owned it?”

  “I didn’t need to kill anyone to get it, so why even ask the question? Why do you care what I did to get it back?”

  “I’m just trying to understand you,” she said unconvincingly.

  Garett would certainly have pursued that line of conversation further if the soldier hadn’t groaned and begun to toss about in bed, mumbling to himself.

  Instantly, both Garett and Mina were at his side. “Easy, man,” Garett muttered as the soldier tore at the bedclothes. Mina pulled the counterpane back over his body. His eyes opened slowly, but they had a feverish cast.

  At first he didn’t seem to notice either Garett or Mina. He struggled to leave the bed, but Mina forced him to lie back down. “Hush, now,” she said. “You’ll open up those wounds and make them worse.”

  The man thrashed even harder. But as she continued speaking softly to him, pressing him back on the bed with gentle hands, he calmed down. When at last she’d settled him against the pillows, he fixed his gaze on her with a strange intentness. Then he began to shake his head and murmur, “No, no.”