No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5)

by Vanessa Riley

  She rubbed at her forehead. A hint of oak and tobacco hit her nose as she walked closer to the desk. The one time she made Bannerman tea, he had sat in Hartland's library with a pile of books about ancient medicine at his feet as he puffed on a pipe. Reading seemed to ease his restlessness.

  Her skin prickled as she took another deep inhale and prepared to see the big hulk of a man again. The right words to get him to agree to return to the Abbey Estate and help her kill her enemy hadn't materialized.

  Her stomach soured, rolling in her famished middle. She hadn't thought this part out enough. Pacing from the large patio door to a book-laden desk, she tried to number her arguments. She stopped and fingered an open tome upon the smooth maple writing surface. A recipe for skin lotion made with arsenic dotted the page. That's not very good. Papa had warned her and her sister about the horrible practices women used to lighten their skin.

  With a shake of her head, she stepped back, then loosened a button of her bulky jacket and fanned her head with her hat. Her nerves had her heart racing again. She shoved the hat back on, scooping up a thick curl that had come loose. Her resolve of not caring what she looked like, or even that she favored a boy, began to slip. She would see the fastidious Bannerman again as a wrinkled frog.

  Maybe like a genie or a handsome prince, he'd grant her wish. She didn't need a kiss to break a curse, but craved a black powder recipe, which would make beastly Moldona disappear.

  The door behind her blew open, rattling pages from the rush of air. The shock of it hitting the wall made her duck as if avoiding gunshot or a cannon's fire. She bit her lip and spun. A huge man barreled toward her. "Bannerman?"

  "Yes. It's good to know the name of the man who will kill you."

  Dark gold, almost red hair covered his face like thick lion fur. The wavy locks that had been parted to perfection were gone, replaced by wild curls. He looked like a beast, a large, hulking beast.

  She stepped toward the door, but he flung a poker in her direction. It whizzed past her head, missing her temple by an inch. With a thunk, it sunk into the wall. "I didn't say you could go."

  A gasp left her, but then she caught his hazel eyes, the ones she'd spied at the Abbey Estate, the ones that lit in laughter to Lord Hartland's jests. Wellington's explosives expert stood in front of her. "Bannerman, sir, it is you."

  He swiped at his mane. "How dare Hartland send someone for me again. I'm done."

  Stomping toward his desk, he kicked an emerald chair, sending it sliding across the scarred mahogany floor. It stopped an inch from her boot, but she stood still and stared at him.

  As if filled with remorse, he rubbed a gloved hand over his face then pivoted toward the hearth. "Boy, what favor does he want? Or does he send news? Has he found the Almeida Killer?"

  More confused at the changes in the once well-groomed man she'd seen a few months ago than by his gibberish about Almeida, she pitched her head side to side. "I'm not sure if his note has more news of a two-year old bloodbath that savaged my Spanish lands. But, I know he wants you to return with me."

  "No! Hart will not order me around. Nor will one of his foot soldiers."

  His voice felt like thunder. His shaking fist would surely hit with a punch of lightning, still she held the note out to him.

  "I swore to him I'd kill the next messenger who came to me." Bannerman flexed his gloved fingers. "I guess you're the lucky one he chose to die."

  Death didn't scare Isadel any more than living with regrets. She folded her arms about her. "I've always been lucky like that."

  "I'll give it to Hartland. He knew how much the former me liked a good joke. But a dead man has no room for laughter or more guilt. Return to Hart and tell him no."

  She stamped her foot like a girl, but hardened her voice. "Do your worst, or return with me to Hartland Abbey. No middle ground."

  He came near. She could smell the stench of metal coming from his arm or his hand—so like her father's apothecary shop. His arms flexed as he hovered. He was large, larger than she remembered, but as a good servant, she'd never been this near to him.

  His scent, ferrous or sulfur, strangled. "No one gives me ultimatums."

  If this was the end, part of her was glad of it. Straightening her spine, she held her breath and waited to be throttled, waited for darkness to overcome her when he choked the air from her throat betwixt his large hands. That had to be a better fate than going to prison or living with the knowledge she'd failed at her one chance to kill her enemy.

  Hugh Bannerman raised his hands ready to punch the messenger through the wall as he'd done with everyone else who'd stood against him, but the boy merely did the task Hart had requested, just as Phipps, his man-of-all-work would do. Hugh took a breath and lowered his fists. He turned and let his frustration meet the desk. When he tapped it, the legs split and sent his piles of research spilling to the floor.

  He flexed his palm, but the rapid action hadn't caused his hand to bleed again. Relieved, he pivoted but frowned to mask his concern and said, "So you are prepared to die, boy? Or is Hart prepared to let you die? Must be tough knowing how expendable your life is?"

  The foolhardy messenger shrugged. "I sent myself. Didn't know there were extra benefits for coming."

  Hugh almost laughed. The boy wasn't frightened, maybe he even had a death wish like himself. Hart was a better spy for he probably prepared the boy. Maybe even told the lad of Hugh's vow to never take another life. Never again would he willingly take an innocent spirit, even of his enemies. He'd be a man of principle like his brother.

  "Hartland says the situation is dire."

  "It's always dire. I have retired. I'll be merciful and give you one last chance to leave. Mercy is a good thing for an active spy to possess." Hugh rubbed his stubbly beard. The dry skin beneath itched worse with each treatment. "Pity, I'm retired. And volunteering is a dangerous business. Why did you elect yourself?"

  The sorry fellow in baggy breeches that hit the floor bent his head. "I need… Lord Hartland needs you to return."

  His voice sounded light and weak, maybe even feminine. "So, Hart's running out of men. You're barely breeched. What are you like seven?"

  The slight fellow tossed the note on the floor at Hugh's boot. "Old enough, and I wanted to see the man he brags on, the one who killed hundreds, even people standing beside him with his detonations and nary a scratch happened to his person."

  At least this boy had guts to utter such nonsense. Perhaps this gall is how he slipped past Phipps. "There's always a scratch. Some just can't be seen."

  He turned and struck a stinking sulfurous match and lit candles on the mantle. Pivoting back, he pointed to the paper. "Why don't you pick that up, and we'll start this again?"

  The messenger put a shaking hand to his hip. "With the threats or without?"

  So, the fellow was nervous. Good. He thought about forcing him to scoop up the letter, but the runt would probably freeze like a scared rabbit or vomit all over himself like the last two grooms. Hugh relented, bent and picked up Hart's impressive parchment folded with perfect crisp line. "I'll have to keep my option to kill you open, you know. Especially since you're making me work."

  A hint of cloves or maybe cinnamon wafted from the paper. Very odd for Hart. He started to open the letter then stopped. It would be no different than the last summons. Something was in crisis that needed his explosion making skills or maybe, just maybe he'd figured out the identity of the Almeida Killer and sent a warning. Hart was a good man, even to his gruff friends. "The world didn't end with my rejection of your master's last two requests. I'm sure it won't with this one."

  Staring as if he could see through Hugh, the boy's eyes, a cross between henna and gold grew wider. "But you must return. There will be no hope for me if you don't."

  Bannerman closed his gloved fingers about the paper. Had he left some bit of greying skin exposed? Maybe he hadn't been careful and the messenger saw his strange leprosy. "Did anyone ever tell you it was impolite to ga
wk?"

  "You kicked a chair at me, sir. Perhaps that makes things even."

  Stuffing his one hand behind his back, Hugh leaned against the hearth, and looked away from the young man and the shadows consuming the dim room. Sandon wasn't always like this. "Be gone. I don't make idle threats."

  Waiting for the boy to wilt and blow away, Hugh let his gaze drift into the flames. In the smoke and flying ash, he saw the face of another young man, one with a quick wit who talked for days about what he would do with Sandon once their father relented and allowed him to manage it separate their stepmother's influence. Then Henry would wax on about the missionary trip he would take. Grandeur and respectability—that was the Bannerman family bond.

  Both the living and the dead would hate how Hugh allowed the place to fester like the plague rotting his skin. He whipped his palm near the flames reaching for the missing poker, remembering too late that he'd sent it crashing into the wall. He pivoted and eased his arms to the side. "You're still here? You came to die?"

  The fellow looked placid, too calm. "I have a death wish. That is why I am here."

  The letter in Bannerman's fingers seemed less important. Curiosity about the messenger and his boldness took control. He had a kinship to the absurd, something he'd forsaken for too long, not since his brother. With a grunt, he dropped the letter to the scratched surface of his desk. "You didn't just come to drop off Lord Hartland's note? Out with it."

  Pulling at his loose collar and baggy jacket, the fellow shifted his stance. "You are right. I came for me. Lord Hartland doesn't know that I am the one delivering this correspondence."

  Hugh groaned loud and long. "Let me guess. You need revenge. I've injured someone in your family. A drunken row? Or better, I killed some traitor in your blood…" He paused for a second, his eyes for the first time taking notice of the footman's off colored skin, the thicker full lips. "Well, one of your bloodlines. A traitor who dares to be against Mother England. What are you, Spanish? From Almeida?"

  When the boy shifted his stance, Hugh readied to pounce. The Almeida Killer had already killed three of his fellow commanders of that siege. Soon, the only living English soldiers remaining would be Hugh, Nev, Moldona, Cox and Wellesley. "Take care your next action. It could be your last."

  The boy shuffled his lean fingers, ones surely too delicate to maim a living soul, over his mouth. He wiped off beads of sweat. Then he stopped and shoved his nervous palms to his backside. "I want revenge, but not against you. I need you to teach me how to make an explosion, one deadly controlled explosion. I only need to kill one man."

  As if he had held his breath, the boy let it out in a huff then shrugged his shoulders.

  Foolish mortal. If Hugh could find humor from the misguided fool, it might give ease to his nerves tonight allowing more time for the latest lesions on his hands to heal. "Killing someone sounds easy, very righteous in the planning, but things rarely work as intended. Consequences follow even when things don't work."

  "This one has to work. I don't want others hurt, just Moldona."

  The room seemed to close in upon Hugh. Luckily, his practice of subterfuge kept him upright. Moldona wasn't his rival anymore, just the man who'd stolen Betsy, the love of Hugh's life away. "So, you want to murder the Conqueror of Badajoz?"

  "I'm from Badajoz. You hate him. Lord Hartland said you did." The messenger stepped closer. Desperation painted his long lean face. "I need your help."

  "Everyone is from somewhere. That doesn't make you special. Go back to Hartland. Tell him no. I'm not returning."

  "I can't go back." He bent and pulled a knife from his boot and tossed it at Hugh's foot. "Kill me as you said. I'm a horse thief. As Lord Hartland's friend, it is in your right."

  The amusement drained away as he stared at the shiny blade. It wasn't the type you'd have to fend off a footpad, but something he'd seen in a kitchen. He picked it up. "Boy, do you know who I am? I don't kill like this."

  "I know who you are. I came because of that. And I'd rather die here than a little everyday with my memories." The fellow spun and ran. His footfalls didn't sound as if he'd fled toward the house door but deeper into Sandon. The boy said he was a thief. What could he possibly steal from here?

  "Bannerman!"

  His man's yell told Hugh he'd soon find out.

  Rushing out of the drawing room, he saw old Phipps running from the stairs. His face was blood red like when he discovered a new hole in the wall, or something else Hugh had broken.

  "Lord Hartland's groom. He's in the turret. I think he's going to jump."

  Suicide was a coward's death. His admiration for the messenger died.

  Bannerman turned and put his fingers on the shaft of the family sword, Henry's sword, but pulled away as if he'd touched flames. He didn't think himself worthy to finger the prized possession only to scare off a coward. Instead, he'd use his fists and readied to smash sense into the fool. He pushed past Phipps and pounded to the stairs, taking them by twos. The old structure creaked, surely his weight would make them break and fall apart on his next fevered rant.

  When he reached the turret, he found the boy sitting on the broken sill with legs dangling in the night air.

  He truly would jump and that set Hugh's heart pumping like it did when he struck a match to a detonation cord. It would only be a few more seconds before the blast and the smell of death claimed the air. "Boy, it doesn't have to be this way. You are living on your hate. You think it goes away when you die?"

  The messenger didn't turn, but kept facing straight ahead pointed toward the sky. "The air does feel cold here. If the fog weren't so greedy, you could see for miles, maybe even eternity. The air feels cold like God's breath. If I squint, maybe I can see him stir the waters."

  Pounding closer, Hugh came near enough that he could grab the lad or assist him in leaping. It was too soon to test his vow of never killing. One more footfall, a few more seconds, that's what Hugh needed to make a difference. "So, what's your name?"

  "You didn't care before." The gravel in the boy's voice became less, but it held no tears. It sounded of raw anger. "Don't pretend now."

  "Boy. I'm a spy. That is what we do, but this is crazy. And why stain my walls? Old Phipps and I will have to clean up your bones from the garden."

  Still not turning, he let go of the sill with one hand and cupped his eyes. "That will be a hardship since cleaning is something you are not apt to do." He sighed. "Those soft clouds. The rush of the wind, so peaceful and endless… You think this is what freedom truly looks like?"

  The wobbly window started to crack. It moaned like it would break. Hugh had kicked it in his last crazed fever. Well, he punished it and every spare wall in Sandon. Now close enough to grab the boy, Hugh could stop the suicide, but a man needed a chance to choose. Another day, he'd give into weakness again, for those demons of depression pressed late into the night, even at Hugh. He leaned over and grabbed the upper edge of the open window. "You have too much humor inside to jump. Come inside and convince me of why I should help you kill Moldona."

  "You just don't want to clean." The boy leaned forward and kicked his boots like he was at the water's edge. "Tell me why it's best to see a tomorrow with no justice."

  Above the peaceful wind noise, the fool's voice sounded as if it bore pain. The boy was too young for that. He didn't know the frustration of guessing how to tamp down his own strength or how to stop wearing upon his skin the guilt of every death he'd caused. No that was Hugh's special torment. "You don't know anything. You are young and alive. Everything seems tragic."

  Hugh reached out and grasped his shoulder. "This ends now."

  The boy's hat flew away as they struggled.

  Hugh's fingers tore off the jacket and pieces of his shirt, revealing a corset and curves. He'd uncovered a lass. "What? You came to trick me?"

  Raven hair spilled down her back as she turned. With her hands, she covered her chemise and tottered on the open sill. The wood gave way. She fell forward, b
ut he caught an arm. "Woman."

  He refused to let go as they both dangled out of the window.

  Chapter Two: Windows or Closets of the Soul

  Chapter Two: Windows or Closets of the Soul

  Feet swinging in the air, Isadel tried to free herself of the brute latched onto her arm. "You fool, let me be. I wasn't ready to jump."

  His arm tightened about her. "This is a funny way to show it. Stop fighting so I can save you."

  The strength in his muscles would surely pull her apart, but she didn't want to be saved, not half-dressed. She fought him harder, punching at his thick forearm.

  "You're not falling from my window, woman. Well, that's if the window holds us both."

  Thoughts of death had pressed her. It wasn't her time, but maybe this was the nudge she needed. "I prefer a quick end, not dangling into infinity. Let me go."

  "Boy, Woman. Stop squirming before you make me fall."

  She wanted to punch him again, but she didn't want him to die. He wasn't the cause of her misery. Yet, the anger dangling in the top of her stomach wanted to drop, wanted to go somewhere else than stay trapped inside her limbs. "Why live without justice?"

  "You'll not know if you give up now. Please come back into the window. Let me help you."

  She couldn't wish her life over, but refused to plead for anything. "I ask nothing more of you, neither to die or to live."

  Bannerman pulled her into his melon-sized arms and stared into her face. He glowered like a snarling bear then flung her to the floor.

  With a bang, she hit the wood planks and rolled. Glimpses of dark oak boards and white ceiling alternated within her vision until she hit the wall.

  When the world stopped and settled, the plaster won. She lay flat on her back staring up at the vaulted ceiling of the turret. It hovered above, snowy and foggy like clouds. Then the bear-like Bannerman with sinful hazy irises crowded her view. Dark creases lined his thinned eye sockets. Lack of sleep must be his companion, too. Maybe sickness visited as well.