Table of Contents
No Hiding for the Guilty
Dedication
Books by Vanessa Riley
Chapter One: July 1813 Devonshire, England
Chapter Two: Windows or Closets of the Soul
Chapter Three: No Good, Dirty Kitchen
Chapter Four: Blessings from the Abbey
Chapter Five: Sleeping Suspicions
Chapter Six: Restless Delights
Chapter Seven: Raising of Sandon Manor
Chapter Eight: Truth Dare and Explosives
Chapter Nine: Mistress of Punishment
Chapter Ten: Stepmother Cometh
Chapter Eleven: A Visit With Friends And Enemies
Chapter Twelve: Dinner and A Song
Chapter Thirteen: Truth and Consequence
Chapter Fourteen: Who Do You Love
Epilogue
Author's Note
The Heart of A Hero Series
Book 6: The Marquis of Thunder
About Vanessa Riley
Contents
No Hiding for the Guilty
Dedication
Books by Vanessa Riley
Chapter One: July 1813 Devonshire, England
Chapter Two: Windows or Closets of the Soul
Chapter Three: No Good, Dirty Kitchen
Chapter Four: Blessings from the Abbey
Chapter Five: Sleeping Suspicions
Chapter Six: Restless Delights
Chapter Seven: Raising of Sandon Manor
Chapter Eight: Truth Dare and Explosives
Chapter Nine: Mistress of Punishment
Chapter Ten: Stepmother Cometh
Chapter Eleven: A Visit With Friends And Enemies
Chapter Twelve: Dinner and A Song
Chapter Thirteen: Truth and Consequence
Chapter Fourteen: Who Do You Love
Epilogue
Author's Note
The Heart of A Hero Series
Book 6: The Marquis of Thunder
About Vanessa Riley
No Hiding for the Guilty
by
Vanessa Riley
What if super heroes were mortals who lived and loved during the Regency? The Heart of a Hero Series tells all...
The military leaders of the fraught Almeida Siege are dying, but not fast enough for a chef with a grudge to bear and axes to sharpen. Using her position as cook to the famed inventor, Lord Hartland, Isadel Armijo learns that one of the butchers responsible for slaughtering her family will sup at Hartland Abbey at month's end. The chef is determined to serve the guilty man his last meal, one with a cake possessing a controlled detonation so she can watch him die. Only one person can teach her how to whip eggs with black powder, Wellington's hulking explosives expert, Hugh Bannerman. Can she convince the recluse to return to society to help avenge her family with a dessert to-die-for?
With his soul in torture for the lives his actions have decimated, the hulking Hugh Bannerman is convinced his sins have manifested into leprosy. As the surviving member of his family, how can he take his place in society knowing his uncontrollable anger increases the spots discoloring his skin and puts others at risk? No, he'll remain in hiding until the Almeida Killer finds him or the incorrigible chef Isadel causes too much trouble, concocting a deadlier course, one part hope, a sprinkle of crazy, and a maddening sauce of desire.
Can two very different people find the recipe to right the wrongs of the past or forever remain prisoners to guilt?
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my copy editor supreme, my mother, Louise, my loving hubby, Frank, and my daughter, Ellen. Their patience and support have meant the world to me.
I also dedicate this labor of love to my support team: Rhonda, Felicia, Erica and Amy.
Love to my mentor, Laurie Alice, for answering all my endless questions.
And I am grateful for my team of encouragers: Sandra, Michela, Felicia, Seressia, Piper, and Ms. Bev.
Books by Vanessa Riley
Madeline's Protector
Swept Away, A Regency Fairy Tale
The Bargain, A Port Elizabeth Tale, Episodes I-IV
Unveiling Love, A London Suspense Tale
Unmasked Heart, A Regency Challenge of the Soul Series
No Hiding for the Guilty, Book 5, The Heart of a Hero Series
Sign up at VanessaRiley.com for contests, early releases, and more.
Cover art designed by The Midnight Muse and formatted by For The Muse Designs
Copyright © 2017 Vanessa Riley
Published by Gallium Books
Suite 236B, Atlanta, GA 30308
All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-943885-17-6
Chapter One: July 1813 Devonshire, England
The velvet fog engulfed Isadel Armijo, swallowing her whole like a lump of brown bread drowning in white soup. She flinched at a noise from behind. She pulled on the reins of her stolen horse and swiveled in the saddle to see if she was followed.
Nothing.
Nothing but night was behind her. And nothing would be for her if she didn't keep moving. Bundled up in Papa's old coat and breeches, she was still just a female alone, but one on the greatest adventure. One of honor. Well, that's what she told herself when she snuck away from Hartland Abbey.
She kicked her mount forward. The thick fog closed in. Isadel couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything but heaviness as if she'd be dragged down at any moment. She swatted the air with her straw hat as she had from the boat deck the eve she emigrated from Spain. The half-done thing had been scooped up from a blocking tool of a neighbor's burnt out workshop. The lady spy had slapped it upon Isadel's head as they fled Badajoz.
If Isadel closed her eyes and thought hard of that night, she'd smell the soot that consumed her city. If there was a God, then he should let black powder smell the same. Then, this hat would be a crown ordaining her destiny.
A branch slapped her cheek. The horse must've veered left and into the woods. Fear swept through her. What if this wasn't the way to Bannerman, but to another of Lord Wellington's spies? None of them had the skills she needed. Bannerman was the one, the only one up to the task and the only one who hated her enemy as much as Isadel.
Clinging closer to the horse's neck, she had to trust the beast knew the way. Trust—the word made her raw nerves snap like uncooked fidelli noodles, but this past year, she learned that her employer, Lord Hartland, was friended by men of precision, those set to provide justice. Who else needed justice more than Isadel? Who else had lost as much?
Her mottled colored mount whinnied but kept moving forward into the thickets. The night had grown dark again. She could barely see and hoped this gelding could navigate its way like the boat captain that spy woman, Joanna Pearson, had bribed. The captain slipped through the low salty clouds of the Bay of Biscay as if he possessed an inner compass guiding him toward the North Star. Isadel understood, for her inner compass aimed solely at vengeance.
The animal lurched then started to the right again. She stilled her fingers on the smooth leather strap of its rein. Humming her mother's tune, the one that timed her whisking strokes to perfection, didn't distract the horse. It began moving faster down a steep incline. When they reached the bottom, the clouds parted. She could see again and witnessed moonlight kissing the white stones lining the trail. It
was the first light she'd seen since leaving Lord Hartland's Abbey at sundown.
When the housekeeper discovered her missing, the old battle-ax would screech that "the half-breed" done run off. This time the old woman's fear of Isadel's kind being evil or a thief would be true.
Stomach souring, she slapped the reins between her palms. These hands were meant for making pastries, forming biscuits, for stirring delicate sauces, not unlocking doors and unfurling the stocks keeping a horse stabled. Yet, her fingertips had grown tired of wiping midnight tears. If she did nothing, her gift of pastries and breads would feed her enemy, the man who had destroyed her world. Moldona would come to the Abbey at month's end.
Deflating in her saddle like a cake that fell from too much checking, she threw her arms tighter around her mount's neck and clung to it as if it were her father. With a breath, gulping in the strong sweaty horse's lather, she sat up straight and dared her eyes to grow wet. A woman destined to kill shouldn't be weepy. That was a victim's plight, and she refused to wear that crown anymore. Her greatest wish must come true. She'd risked everything to make things right, her spotless reputation and her safe employment from a man who made sure his staff treated her fairly. The earl's disappointment in her character would kill her faster than the lashings he could demand to punish a horse thief. If he exercised his rights like the wealthy hacienda owners in Spain, he'd ask for a hanging.
Too late to turn back, not that she wanted to, she kept on, urging the horse saying, "To Bann-er-man, horse. To Bann-er-man."
Another hour of hard riding and the smell of the sea, fresh and salty, seemed stronger. Soon, she should be able to see Sandon Manor, the castle hiding the reclusive spy. Fingers vibrating, she swiped at her mouth dabbing at the fresh blood coming from the corner. She'd bit down with the last jostle of the horse. How horrid she must look, probably seeming more like a lost urchin than a cook. She couldn't wear her neat uniform and keep her seat, and who needed to fret about getting creases upon her starched apron while stealing away? Riding like a man, in men's breeches just looked easy. It wasn't. It was quite hard for someone with short legs. Papa would say she was barely enough stones in weight to fill a messenger's saddlebag.
Patting the horse, she gave him a moment to catch his breath. She needed to let her pulse slow and leaned back, gazing at the rocky incline ahead of her. The slope stretched high, sticking into the clouds headless as if it had been axed like a roasting chicken. Her stomach rumbled and all she could think of was how odd it was now to remember being hungry. Did they feed prisoners in English jails? Maybe they'd shoot first and ask questions later like the British soldiers had done at Badajoz.
Righteous anger welled inside her growling gut, but so did a little teaspoon of hope. With a click of her heels, she urged the gelding forward. If the horse had done its job, she'd see Sandon from the top. Then she'd know that she'd stolen the right horse, that she'd come to the right place. She'd have a chance to no longer live with hate. "Go to Bann-er-man."
Gravel flew on every side. Isadel became breathless. The final push through the fog made her heart flip against her ribs and stay there. The pounding in her chest hurt so badly her ribs would surely poke through her coarse nankeen shirt. Papa's shirt. Bracing in the saddle, Isadel held on as her mount leapt above the clouds to the top, a flat plateau covering the hill.
Quiet surrounded her and she tugged at the strap, stopping the horse. The air smelled clean and sweet, like after the rain or a good cleaning. The salt, it burned her nostrils, only because she breathed so hard. Yet maybe it cleansed. If there was a heaven, this had to be it—quiet, pure, sweet—unseeing of the horrors below, untouched by the death of innocence—the scream of a sister, the unanswered begging prayer of Papa.
Clouds swirled for a moment, then opened and showed things—tree groves, the waters of the Bristol Channel. Joy leaped inside. They'd made it to the coast. Sandon had to be near. The tired part of her wanted to linger in this peace, but to stay in heaven was to deny the hell she'd lived. Morning meant discovery of her theft, no new mercies, no more chances. She steered the horse to the edge. The wind picked up again, spreading the fog, making it thin in spots. The gaps appeared like the insides of white Emmental cheese.
With wide eyes, she beheld the sight she'd seen from the boat smuggling her to these shores, the high turret of Sandon Manor. It was again alone in the night sky just as it had been nine months ago. With her finger, she traced the structure down to the rest of the castle, which lay shrouded by trees. The turret looked daunting, almost whispering, "don't reach for me," but Isadel had to. She stood in the stirrups and became deaf to the warning. She risked too much to turn back now. Bannerman had to see her. He had to help.
With a gulp, she hunkered down and pressed forward. The horse flew down the hill, galloping faster, sinking deeper into the steamy fog. They moved as one, splashing through mud puddles. She blocked low branches with her hand and ducked under tree limbs. The horse knew the path, slipping through openings that didn't seem to exist. It trotted, weaving and threading through the dense blanket of leaves. The horse stopped on the castle's rock-strewn drive.
Isadel sized up the worn door, the overgrowth of vines hugging the limestone brick. That sense of being alone, of not wanting to bear the company of others, closed in upon her, but she welcomed it and pushed it into her heart. Nothing alleviated her misery more than the isolation of not explaining, of not searching for ways to fit into this very English world. Emboldened, she jumped down and walked with her chin up to the door.
It took three knocks, three shifts in her stance, three stampings of her short boots, before the door opened. A grizzled man with a lantern and a balding head glared at her. "We've no use for beggars, boy."
Boy? She surely must look like one with her hair pulled up in her hat. Yet, being thought a man might serve her. "Sir." She coughed and deepened her hoarse voice. "I'm no beggar. I'm a cook…chef."
"Don't need one of those either."
A thief and want-to-be-murderer had no room for shame. Shoving all the pride she had left into her spine, she stood up straight, probably exposing her ankles from her father's old breeches. He wasn't that tall either. "I bring a message for your employer, Bann-er-man."
The man wriggled his hooked nose. "Jump on your horse and leave, cook-chef. Take it with you."
She curled her tongue and tried that long name again in what she hoped sounded clipped, very English. "I'm here for Mr. Bannerman." She kept her voice even making sure no hitch of feminine desperation could be heard. "It's a matter of death."
Brow furrowing with more crevices, the fellow pulled a knife from his pocket, waving it as if to intimidate her, but she'd skinned too many chickens for that. "So you're looking for him? You'll have to kill me to get to him."
Kill this man? He needed to know her private thoughts of murder had nothing to do with his master, well not really. She raised her hands and shook her head. "Not here for that."
"Then what, boy? Why did you come?"
Like Papa, she spread her feet apart and tried to seem rooted and certain. "Your master is safe from me. And he'll see me. I come from Lord Hartland." She let her gaze lift to the grand stairs behind the gatekeeper. "Is Bannerman in the tower? I can run up there and deliver the message."
Happy her tone sounded clear, she pushed inside, but the old fellow stepped in her path.
"I said no visitors."
She was too close to lose out now. Fumbling with Papa's coat, she produced the letter and fluttered it, exposing the earl's wax mark. "Tell the master that I have a letter from Hartland. He has to see this."
He held out his palm, but there was no way Isadel would give him the letter. She couldn't, not without an audience with the explosives expert. "I must only offer this to Bannerman."
After sixty beats of her heart, the man nodded his thin pointy chin and waved her further inside. "You don't look like an assassin."
Assassin? Isadel wanted to be one, just not for Bannerman
. "I'm a messenger, today."
"Scrawny you? Yes, that's what Hartland would send. No turret for you, boy. The drawing room. Easier for you to make your delivery then go."
So, Bannerman was up there. Did he enjoy the air, the hazy night sky, that feeling of being on top of the world?
Before her longing for peace drove her up those stairs, she focused on the old man and traipsed behind him. Trying hard not to stare at the holes in the wall or the torn tapestries, she focused on what to say to Bannerman. Yet, the melon-sized holes, the broken lath and plaster sent a tremor to her middle. What could have done it? Who would dare destroy the gilded trim, the papered orange walls? This place was nothing like the duke's beautiful Abbey.
The butler turned to her, and she dropped her gaze. She wasn't here to assess the housekeeping. This destruction was none of her business.
The fellow stopped at a door half-off its hinges. He pressed it open and waved her inside. "Wait in here. Make sure the brass doorknobs and books remain."
Without protest, Isadel nodded. What the old man thought of her meant nothing, just like the insults of her employer's staff. Talk was cheap, and it couldn't kill a soul that had already died from sorrow. Every hope she ever possessed went away with her father and sister's murder at the hands of British pigs. The only thing worth anything to Isadel was revenge.
The door shut behind her with a thud. How it managed to stay upright was a wonder. The room was cold and grey. A fire seemed to be dying. Someone had left it to wither. Bannerman? He couldn't be in the turret and here, too. Maybe the rumors of him dying and becoming a ghost were true, but then why would Lord Hartland keep sending him notes?
No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5) Page 1