Her heart quivered with guilt. She felt sorry for him and even worse for trying to make Moldona his problem. "You've been sick? Sorry."
With a shake of his head, he stood adjusting his torn stained sleeve as if he smoothed finery for the ballroom. "That's an empty word."
Ringing his hand, he kicked her jacket to her. "Cover up, woman, then tell me why you lied to get in here."
With her shirt and jacket torn clean off exposing her chemise, she should feel shame, but she didn't, only tired, and hungering for something to end on her terms. Tossing the shirt as if it had been cut up like a child's paper snowflake, she gathered up her father's coat and slid inside. "I stole a horse to come here. I can't go back without you. Then, I thought why go back. I'd only face a magistrate and Lord Hartland's disappointment in my character. I don't want to see his face twist like those on his staff."
As if her honest statement had befuddled him, he rubbed fingers through his hair, but stopped. His right hand bled, sprinkling crimson drops onto his rumpled gold locks. He stopped and rubbed a smear between his forefinger and a thumb. "Ruinous woman. Look what you've done."
Hoping to catch him distracted, Isadel jumped up and pivoted to the door. "I won't be a bother anymore."
Before she could cross the threshold, he'd grabbed her with his good hand. It slid to her wrist and latched on to her. His skin felt dry and paper thin. He spun her then grabbed her about the middle. "You'll not cause such an upset and crawl out of here."
She tried to break free, but he had her arm pinned. Shirt ripped to shreds, hat gone, she wanted to go. But maybe Bannerman would try to humble her as Moldona did her sister. No one would do that to Isadel, not without a fight. "You've made your point. You want none of me. I'll turn myself in. Let me go."
He scooped her up over his broad shoulder. "What? Now you're ready for jail? A minute has changed your mind? Another minute, and it will be changed back. Then you are bound to do something foolish that will cause me more injury. You can't be trusted."
That instinct to do as she pleased, to live by her own wits started pulsing in her veins. She thrashed and kicked but couldn't get free of his grip. "Let me go. I'll not be used up by you. I'm no flirt. Not asking for this. Let me go."
He jerked open the closet and tossed her inside. "You'll not be looking for another open window to jump from either."
The door slammed shut as she sprang up from the hard floor. She didn't hear the kiss of a metal lock, but even as she shook the handle like a mad woman, the door refused to budge. "Let me out of here."
His voice vibrated the door. "In due time."
She let go of the handle as if it were a red-hot spit that had been seasoned over the hearth. She clamped her mouth to keep the begging words from her tongue. Trapped like she'd been in Papa's root cellar, overhearing the killing of her family, she panicked, pushing and kicking at the door. "You can't keep me."
"Looks like I am, for now."
She shook the door until her fingers vibrated. It barely moved, and from the way it did, Isadel knew bulky Bannerman probably leaned against it. She peeked out the keyhole and only saw darkness, maybe green, the fabric of his waistcoat. Until he decided to move, she would stay in the closet. Too weak to counter his strength— too feeble to push on the sliding door of the root cellar and save Papa and Agueda— Isadel wished then as she did now to have taken the same bullet to her temple as her sister.
Sliding down the door, Isadel died inside all over again. Miss Pearson tossed her onto the boat to escape the carnage the British soldiers left. She said she was rescuing Isadel, but all she did was sentence her to a coward's death daily. Closing her eyes, she could still see the burning city. The spy Pearson said let the dead bury the dead. Badajoz, her beloved father and sister—all gone while she fled to the land of her people's slaughterer.
Gasping but trying to keep it inside, she craned her head against the door and tried to remember Papa's voice. She couldn't hear it anymore, but Mama's song still felt strong in her mind. To keep calm, she had hummed it when she learned Moldona would come to sup at Lord Hartland's Abbey. Isadel let the tune vibrate her lips and focused on what it felt like to dance in the air out the turret's window.
"You alive in there, woman?"
Debating whether to respond, she opened her eyes to the small closet and accepted she had nothing more to lose. "Yes."
"Good." He said. "Let's keep it that way."
Lord Hartland's friend sounded concerned. Even though he told her would not help, he acted as if he cared even risking falling. "You didn't have to toss me to the floor."
"You didn't have to try my patience. I still reserve the right to kill you."
His tone sounded more agitated than furious. Rough and grumpy, maybe he might have a heart that could be turned to help. Her sister would know how. Pretty Agueda could do anything.
With a sigh, she tucked her legs beneath her, then filled her lungs again, sniffing the cedar lining of her prison. "I suppose I'll wait for you to open this door. If you persist at this punishment for more than a day, return Lord Hartland's horse."
"More orders, woman?" His tone had sharpened. "I don't take orders from civilians. I give them."
"But since you're retired, you can't give them any more."
"I didn't retire from being a man, so I don't take kindly to orders from a green girl."
"Then take suggestions. Dice up some onions and put it on your open wound. That should cleanse it and keep it from becoming gangrenous."
"Onions? I'm not food."
His voice sounded snappy as if she'd said something lunatic. She could match him. "You don't look like you'd taste good anyway. Get the onions. They will help."
He pounded on the door. "You think you are funny. You want me to be ridiculous."
She didn't want him to grow angrier, but Papa said cuts could be nasty business. Closing her eyes, she laid back against the door hoping to feel him move from it. "I'll say it again. Onions. You need onions on that wound."
He grumbled something she could not understand, but she did not care. She'd offered advice. Sooner or later, she'd be free of this closet. Hopefully it would be sooner so she could return to the Abbey Estate before Moldona's visit.
Scooping a piece of her torn shirt, he pushed it onto his glove which now held a good red stain. Hugh sat and scooted his back against the door. He should revel in the fact the sprite had quieted. What a mouth on that one. Her silly command to return Hart's horse or to put onions on his sore made him laugh. Rubbish.
Of course, Hart would get his horse back, not that he'd notice or mind. And onions were for eating. Hugh tapped his stomach. Eating had been something at which he was fond of, but the books said a bland diet of white foods would calm the eruptions and slow the progress of his leprosy. Onions were yellow. Ridiculous. "Phipps!"
No one showed at the door, which was unusual for the spry fellow. What if this woman didn't come alone? Was Phipps dealing with her companions—the guilty Almeida Killer or killers?
A foolhardy girl would be a great distraction to allow the fiends to strike. Hugh's blasted pulse ticked up. If Phipps faced danger by himself, he'd… Hugh didn't know what he'd do. Vowing to never take another life had become his creed, but injury to his most loyal man would surely test his resolve. "Phipps!"
"In a moment, sir. Just stowed the horse. It's one of Lord Hartland's."
His man's voice didn't sound distressed, only mildly annoyed. Very normal for Phipps.
Relief washed over Hugh, pushing out of his tired lungs. Nothing was working to make him better. Everything stole his energy. With the strength of an ox, he should be able to defeat anything, including this leprosy.
That's why he knew his condition had to be a curse, one earned from his sins, every faceless and known person he'd killed in battle, working for Wellesley or by accident. Killing for King, country, or happenstance with explosives was second nature and it made him an indispensable killer, but all good things had to e
nd. This time Hugh would die.
Hugh stretched and knocked the door with his elbow. "You still alive in there?"
A tap came back, a weak feminine one. She hadn't killed herself in the dark. "Good. I don't want to clean in there either."
"I'm sure that's true."
"How can you have a sharp tongue and yet want to kill yourself? You should keep chattering and allow others to do the dirty work for you."
"No. No British butcher will kill me."
Her voice sounded loud, clear, and bitter. How much did she know about Hugh? And why hadn't the clear determination ringing in her words been there moments earlier on the sill? He patted the cloth over his wound. "Tell you what. I won't let any of them get to you. That would just leave me and at the moment, I'm undecided."
"Let me out, and then do it. I'm not afraid to die."
Well, that was obvious. Yet, for a suicidal miss, the girl seemed to possess the spunk of a warrior. Another contradiction. "You're not one of Wellesley's spies? If you are, you need better training. The first lesson is annoyance is a nuisance. You're the first to be killed."
"So annoy you more and my work will be done?"
He coughed to cover a laugh. Her boldness hit his dormant funny cord inside, but humor didn't push her to the window's edge literally. "Tell me why you want Moldona dead."
"He killed my family at Badajoz."
"You mean your family was killed under his taking of the city?"
"No, he killed them, but not before humbling my sister. That's what girls like us get."
Moldona? He was a skunk, but rape and murder? Hugh never should've helped him so Moldona could be in command at Almeida.
By default, this girl's burdens could be his fault. Hugh looked at his hands, the growing red stains. When would there ever be enough blood on his hands? Would they ever be clean?
What was left of Hugh's marrow was stubborn. Unlike the boy...woman in the closet, he wouldn't stop trying to find a cure. He wouldn't stop wanting to live, though he didn't deserve to. Hugh stretched and knocked the door with his elbow. "I'm not coming for you yet. Need to get a handle on this wound you made me reopen."
She didn't respond even when he elbowed the door again.
A couple of minutes of this odd impasse stirred his impatient gut. His thinned skin itched from the odd silence. Not even the rhythm or hiss of air sweeping past the open window soothed him. He never liked quiet. The absence of noise meant his mind would wander. The noise of regrets—boom, boom, boom. Too many faces frozen with fear right before the detonation of one of his well-timed explosions. Nothing was worse than the past, the things he caused couldn't be changed and he needed to take care of this sore. With his skin so thin and leathery, it had to be cleansed or it would become gangrenous like the girl said. "Phipps! Bandages."
He waited for Hart's crazy messenger to shout, 'and onions' again, but she stayed silent. That surely couldn't be good.
Poking at the reddened cloth, he stopped. The lotions and tonics did nothing for his leprosy but made his skin dry like desert sand. Lifting the cloth too soon would disturb the fresh clots. He could bleed out this time. "You really made this cut bad, woman."
"I told you how to make it good. Sliced onion. That's what Papa would suggest." Her voice became louder, clearer, maybe even prideful. "It was something he learned from Mama."
Thoughts of his stepmother flashed through his mind. And it made him recoil. She always tried to mother him and his brother but not too many years separated them. "Was your mother a trained a physician?" He heard his snide tones and kept going. "Perhaps a graduate of the Academy of Science?"
"No. Just an enslaved woman who learned things to survive."
Didn't the girl look mulatto or Blackamoor? He closed his eyes and tried to remember but only saw piles of thick ebony hair. Focusing again on the window, the darkness and stars now showing, he wished his own fog would blow away. "So, what was your mother? African, Jamaican, American, other? Tell me what remote place would know more than English physicians or even the ancient Greeks. I am sure that none of these sources would suggest onions as a cure-all? Ridiculous. "
"Don't believe me. Ridicule me, but not something which could help."
The clear tones of her voice shook his confidence in dismissing her. What if she were correct? What if he scoffed at something that could bring restoration?
His man lumbered into the room. "Sir. Where's… You're bleeding."
Hugh dropped his hands to his side as if he'd been caught stealing secrets, but contemplating the girl's foolishness made him feel caught, naked, exposed to ridicule. "Go get more bandages."
Phipps didn't agree but charged at the window. He leaned over with his hand cupped to his eyes. "The boy? Were you not able to stop him?"
"I stopped him."
Pivoting, Phipps's lips scrunched into a frown. The creases around his mouth deepened with deep disapproval. "Sir, you threw him out the window?"
Didn't his man know him better? Twenty years of service should be an indication of his character, well more so his resolve. He had vowed never to kill again and that pledge extended to wayward boys and girls. "What do you think me capable of doing?"
Touching the broken trim and fingering a recently patched indention in the wall, Phipps looked as if he were dusting, not poking a thumb into Hugh's self-righteous statement. "You're capable of many things, Bannerman. I've seen the devil on your shoulder as much as an angel. You tell me who was with you in this room that looks vacant."
Punching through the floor to focus his anger wouldn't exactly help Hugh's cause. It might feel better, but he'd felt better a little too much, ramming huge holes in the plaster of Sandon. "I didn't kill anyone today. Nor did anyone get tossed or thrown from the window. The devil's still here."
A crease or two relaxed on his brow. Maybe even a sigh released. "If you are sitting on the boy, he's a goner. Where is he?"
"He is a she, and I tossed her into the closet."
The man's eyes went big, but he'd served too long to think Hugh offered a spy's misstatement. However, the lines on his forehead returned, and he nodded. "Well, he/ she...is alive in there? Mighty quiet. You sure they haven't…"
Hugh banged on the door. "Say something so Phipps, my man-of-all-work, will know you live."
"Get him onions for the wound," she said. Then again became quiet as a mouse.
"What?" Phipps's face scrunched up. "He…she must be kidding."
Hugh groaned. "Just bring me bandages. I need your assistance while I keep the door barred from our jester sent by Hart."
"And bring him sliced onions." His prisoner tapped on the door. "Onions. It will purify the wound and stop infection. The wound will heal better."
Now Phipps smiled wide. "Sir, do I heed the voice, your captive's voice?"
Onions? She did sound confident. Could she know something of it? The girl claimed to work for Hart and that fellow invented everything. Was Hugh desperate enough to try this? Yes. Yes, he was. He'd do anything for healing. He made a sawing motion in his wounded palm. "Bring me onions."
The stunned look on his man's face as he peered over his glasses said everything. "Bannerman, have you lost a lot of blood? Feeling dizzy?"
"Phipps, if you keep delaying, I will lose more."
His man dragged to the door. "Taking the word of a thief?"
Desperation must not look so good on someone so big, but that was the suit of clothes Hugh had been made to wear. What exactly did he have to lose by taking the word of a so-called horse thief? Someone who'd just attempted suicide. Yes. Hugh was truly desperate. He nodded. "Bring the onions."
With a shrug, his man clasped the broken trim of the threshold. "I'll be back as fast as I can. I'd recommend you keep your temper at bay. Can't keep the walls up and trap the messenger in the closet." Phipps left, fussing under his breath.
Hugh bent a knee, pulling it closer to lay his palm on. It had become heavier.
"Has this place been under at
tack?" Her tone was lower. "It looks like war hit it."
He couldn't answer as he shifted his boots along the rough floorboards. Sandon, the home of his father and his father's father barely stood. It creaked in the wind from its poor conditions, the result of Hugh's neglect, his uncontrollable rage. Sandon would've fared better under his brother. Henry was a man given to drawing and inspiration. What marvels the world would have seen had he lived as he brought light to the missionary work he'd planned. Hugh's unthinking actions snuffed his brother's wick.
Hugh was not meant for estate management. The work of a soldier was to serve his country and kill the enemies. What does a man of war do when it's time to be at peace? Battling Napoleon wouldn't go on forever. "What is your name, girl? Hello in there. Do you have word of Almeida?"
The girl never answered, leaving Hugh to wonder if she were an enemy, for why else would she come to him now?
He banged on the door with his elbow. "You still alive in there?"
Isadel heard the slower beating on the door. His last words sounded drained, kind of choppy. Her hearing was very good and she could tell if a dish was done based on this hiss of the steam, the thumbing of a rolling boil. The huge man could be bleeding out. There was no coming back from that. She'd seen a blood letting go horribly wrong, and her papa wasn't able to save the woman. She pushed on the door. "Let me help."
Nothing. Bannerman gave her no answer.
Though she may have helped him injure himself, he was a grown man making his own decisions. If he needed her, he'd ask.
Footsteps sounded. Someone came into the room. Maybe they'd help him. She relaxed against the door, folded her arms, and tried to pretend she did not care. But she was her father's daughter. She cared very much, particularly when he said he injured himself struggling with her.
Annoyed, she knocked again.
This time the door opened. She pressed on the crack and it opened fully. Blinking like a crazed person, she let her eyes adjust to the candlelight. Her gaze locked on the hulking man leaning against the wall.
No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5) Page 3