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

by Vanessa Riley

  His skin was pale on his cheeks, his eyes closed. "My man has brought the onions. Now what?"

  The bits of her torn shirt wrapped about his fist had turned red. He was still bleeding.

  She scooped up some of the bandages and bound his hand, making the loops tight. She put all her weight upon it. He fidgeted, and then looked at her. "You know what you are doing?"

  "I guess you better hope so."

  His gaze lingered and once she had the wrap secure, she took a second to secure her jacket button. Shirtless with her chemise showing, she didn't want to give him a show. She'd seen how the English pigs stared when they saw her not as a cook but as some mulatto mistress.

  "So what is your name, girl?"

  "Armijo, Isadel Armijo."

  "You know medicine Miss or Mrs. Armijo from your mama?"

  "It is Miss. And I picked up what I could from my parents. Papa was a physician. Better than your Academy of Science."

  "What do we do now? There is the onion."

  "It'll need to be chopped fine and applied to the wound once we get the bleeding to stop."

  "Phipps wants no part of it. He's gone. You have to do it."

  He took a brass stick from his boot, hit something like a button, and out popped a blade. He held it out to her. The gleam of it caught her eye but so did the burs to the cutting edge, the dings in the tang. Someone had been very mean to the knife. "Here."

  When presented with a knife what does a chef do? Since there is no Moldona around to kill, she decided to dice up the onions. "I don't need this dull thing."

  She batted down his hand forcing the dull knife away, and then grabbed the burlap bag of onions releasing the pale-yellow orbs to roll on the floor.

  "So how are you going to cut them? Are you a hand-to-hand combat expert in addition to your medical degree?"

  "You make jokes." She moved slowly to her boot and pulled out a leather sheath. Holding it horizontal so he wouldn't think she tried to attack him, she slowly pulled her sharp knife free. "I'll use this."

  With his good hand, he reached out but stopped. "What do we have here?"

  Her blade was short but smooth and held not a single nick, nor would one ever dare to be there. "It's what a chef would use, not the garbage you have."

  "The garbage could slit a throat. Not sure if I like that yours is bigger than mine."

  "Boy and toys. Is this foolish thought international?" Making her motion slower than a snail, she moved to the onion. "I need very fine slices. You've trusted me thus far. I haven't run, though I could've."

  His eyes widened, but then he nodded and released her hand. "I suppose. You know a spy doesn't say what he or she can or cannot do. He acts."

  "And ruin a good knife? You are insane."

  Laughing, Bannerman sat back. "Then commence."

  She peeled the tough skin of the onion away, then sliced into it creating paper-thin wafers. She dispatched the pale flesh showing the fine strokes her mother had taught her, strokes Isadel had perfected in the village Moldona destroyed. When she looked up, she found Bannerman's light eyes staring.

  For a moment, a mere thirty seconds or so, she demurred and fought the urge to bunch up her jacket. Her appearance wasn't neat. No apron dressed her outfit, just a father's jacket and man's pantaloons, and her corset peeking over the lapel. "I'm a very sorry site. Seems my shirt has gone to another cause." She took a breath and raised her head. "Give me your palm and let me dress the wound.

  The man shrugged then rolled up his sleeve. "I've..." He pushed out his arm exposing mottled grey skin. "Be careful. I have an illness."

  There was no redness like scarlet fever. His skin was sallow but other than maybe a lack of sleep and fresh air, he looked big and healthy to her. She reached for his hand, but he blocked her and pulled back. "This is not a joke. My skin is cursed."

  His voice didn't sound of thunder this time. It held a warble like a cornered animal led to the butchers. "Just tell me what to do."

  "You are being silly. Let me do this."

  She wanted to lift her knife to him for being too stubborn, but she was no one to talk. "Let me unwrap the wound to check it. Then, I'll let you do the rest."

  He stuck his hand out. "Fine."

  She took her time and unwound the bandages until she came to the bits of her father's ruined shirt. Stopping, she caught her breath, remembering the holes in Papa's chest, in his good going-to-pray-at-the-iglesia shirt. The English soldiers were ruthless. Moldona was ruthless.

  "See, the site of me has you weepy. I told you to let me do it, woman."

  He plucked off the rest of the cloth. "Now what?"

  "Es mejor remojar… Soak it in the bucket." She cleared her throat. Remembering the past made her speech fast, very Spanish. She worked her jaw and said slowly. "Rinse it very good in the water."

  There was a smirk on his face. "Don't know why you are hiding your native tongue."

  "Better to be thought slow-witted than a traitor."

  "You sure you're not a spy? One of Hartland's creations for Wellesley?"

  When she looked at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses, he shrugged then struggled to get the last bits of the reddened cloths removed. Finally done, he barreled his fist into the bucket.

  Water flew up from the bucket, splashing her, but she wouldn't complain, not with the grimace painting his face. The wound had to be deep. It couldn't have been caused by their tussle at the window. Maybe his curse was real and not just something said to scare her.

  "You are struggling. Let me clean it." She leaned in, but he jerked the bucket away. Water sloshed.

  "I told you no. I am sick. I don't want you contaminated."

  Though the wound needed scrubbing like how she'd remove silk from an ear of corn, she'd not press. Waiting another minute and watching him thrash and slosh, she could take no more. "Lift it out," she said and held a towel for him.

  Like wrapping a crust around a tender beefsteak, she dried the badly scabbed hand. "This will sting."

  "You mean it will sting more? You are cruel."

  Lumping up the onion slivers, she pressed them deep into the flesh. "Babes. Why are men babes?"

  His eyes watered. "I'm no babe, lass."

  She wasn't sure if it was the rawness of the onions doing him in or the pain, but a feeling of satisfaction whipped through her. "I said it would sting."

  After ten minutes of light whimpering, he pumped his fingers. "It feels a little better. You may not be a complete menace."

  She sliced up another onion very close to him making sure he couldn't miss the odor. Surely distracted by trying not to tear up herself, she waggled up more of his sleeve. It was scarred and mottled. A healed lesion scabbed his elbow. His vanilla skin waged war with grey spots. He was sick.

  He frowned as she lumped onions beyond the wound up his forearm. "Is this necessary?"

  "Seems you are letting these wounds get the better of you. My father would suggest a plaster of aloe. He was very good at doctoring my town. He would've had you healed up in no time."

  "This is no rash. It's leprous."

  With a shake of her head, she dismissed the notion. "My father has healed people of worse. Everyone came to our town to be cared for by him."

  "What town was this?"

  "Badajoz." The word charred her tongue filling her with renewed rage. "The killers led by Moldona murdered a man known for healing, a man many including you red coated men came to for help." She stashed the knife in the waistband of her pantaloons then slapped a bandage on his palm, winding and wrapping in the onion slivers onto his palm and wrist. Once she made sure it was good and tight, she dumped his hand and stood. "You know it is Badajoz. I told you before." She stood and looked to the door. "Why pretend to be dense?"

  He changed from a lethargic red-eyed lump to a stallion galloping and blocking the door. "It's the spy's tenet number one, strive for underestimation. I hope you are not thinking of leaving."

  "I should go back to Lord Hart
land and face my punishment."

  "As I told Phipps, you are mine to punish. I am a man of my word. That's tenet number two, keeping my word. Once I have the horse returned, Hartland is no longer injured, but you've barged in here and disturbed my peace. You even laced me with onions like a mutton. That alone is worth punishment."

  He seemed dangerous again and she doubted he'd let her go.

  "I promised Hartland to kill the next foot soldier he sent to retrieve me. Lucky, you." With his good hand, he wrapped a strand of her hair about it and yanked her chin up. "Since you are a chef and not a soldier, I suppose you think I will spare you?"

  She barely reached his chest. He had to be six foot maybe six and a half foot, but she wouldn't let him know he frightened her. Though, at this moment, he did. She put her fingers on the shaft of her knife, pulled it out and handed it to him. "Do your worst or let me go."

  He grabbed the knife and spun it so it rested close to her neck. "Are you more stupid or brave? Or do you think I'll be easy on you because you're a woman?"

  His skill with the weapon showed. For though it rested on her skin, it barely pricked. Yet, she knew better than to thrash about. The shards of her knife would dice her to bits. She relaxed within his hold. "I won't beg for my life. I'll only ask again for what I came for. Teach me how to control black powder."

  "You risked your position to come to a stranger—"

  "You're not a stranger. I saw you at the Abbey Estate. "

  Releasing her, he stepped backward. "You know nothing of me."

  "I knew enough to find you. And I've heard the stories. I know you hate Moldona, too."

  Bannerman's forehead crinkled as his eyes drifted. He was reaching for something, a notion or bits of images of seeing her in the background at the Abbey.

  "You won't get close to him now. Hartland won't trust a horse thief."

  "I found you. I can get to him. I just need the right weapon to do it. Will you teach me?"

  "Moldona has many sins, but my hands are stained too."

  "Then, out of my way. I'll go back and beg Hartland's forgiveness. Perhaps something will happen to give me a chance at revenge."

  Again, he blocked her path. "You will not be leaving, especially as you have me smelling like a roast. I didn't think chefs left without dishing the final course."

  The tilt in his brow, the smirk on his face, it hit her. He wanted something. She remembered standing near him with no shirt just a baggy jacket and corset. She bunched up her lapels. "Name the price for my freedom."

  "In due time. I must assess your story and give you a shirt. I'm a little tired of you clutching that jacket like it is gold."

  She felt her brows rise; maybe they flew from her face. "Your shirt will swallow me. I'll trip over the lacing. And nothing can replace my father's."

  He nodded. "Follow me."

  He led her down the dirty hall to a pristine door. No scratches, no dings, perfect and polished.

  She braced as he opened the door. But unlike before, he pushed on it as if it were hallowed ground.

  "I have a shirt for you."

  As he shoved her inside, she gaped at how clean the room was, orderly and untouched by rubble. Butter colored walls, a pile of books on a nightstand, an unbroken burgundy chair, a perfectly situated emerald-green tapestry rug. This was another house, not Sandon.

  Bannerman walked to the closet and pulled out a crisp shirt, one too small for him and shoved it in her hands. "Change into this. In addition to being your warden, I am a gentleman. When you're dressed, come out. Don't touch anything."

  "Why? Is the owner coming back?"

  "Not this side of glory, girly. Be quick."

  He pushed out of her way and slammed the door.

  She pulled off her father's coat and slipped on the shirt. It was fine silk and though a little big, she liked it. Looking in the gilded mirror, she spied a connecting door. Wondering if it led to escape, she stared at but didn't move toward it. With her luck, Bannerman might expect that and she would lose the little rapport she'd built. Her sister Agueda wouldn't run, not when there was a man to soften and ply to her cause.

  Isadel wasn't a coward, not in that sense of running. She feared other things, like disappointing Papa and not being strong. After wiping her eye, she scooped on her jacket then headed to the door.

  When she slipped out of the room, she found Bannerman waiting, staring at the room as if he were somewhere else.

  She cleared her throat. "So now what, warden?"

  "Nothing until my man comes back and your story is verified. How long do I marinate in onions?"

  "Let it set for an hour then we'll wash the wound again in hot water."

  "Chef, in an hour the water Phipps heated will be cold. My man won't return in time to get more heated. Seems your recipe is flawed. Not quite what your father would do."

  Waving her knife, he offered the rebuke as if he knew the man. As if he knew the disapproval Papa would have at her plan for revenge.

  Shaking her head, she folded her arms. "Thank you for the shirt. Now take me to the hovel you call a kitchen. If your man servant can heat water in there, then I can."

  The humor in his eyes faded, hiding in the contemplative flakes of gold in his hazel irises. "If I take you to the kitchen, what promise do I have that you will not escape or find more ways to do harm?"

  She took the knife from him before he could move and aimed for his heart. "If it was harm I sought, I'd find it. You might be big, but I'm fast."

  A smirk the size of a plantain or banana filled his face as he pushed her hand down. "Well, put that knife away and come, chef. More rubble awaits."

  He left her with the knife and turned his back upon her. Foolhardy man. Maybe he thought he could overpower her. "Is there some spy tenet about trusting strangers?"

  He paused and scratched his beard. "There is one about meekness and allowing an opponent to believe they have the upper hand. It makes them comfortable and open to mistakes. Come along, chef, and play nice."

  She stuffed the knife into her waistband again and followed. With a goal of learning Bannerman's secrets with black powder, she wouldn't let her mind wander to despair. Yes, she was small. But when focused, she shared the rage of a giant, at least the size of Bannerman. Maybe more so.

  Chapter Three: No Good, Dirty Kitchen

  Perhaps it was cruel setting the girl up in the hovel Phipps called not fit to stable animals, but where else would one keep a chef but in a kitchen? Hugh held the door open wide. "Welcome to the kitchen of Sandon Manor."

  Miss Armijo stepped inside. Her mouth went slack as if she'd seen a ghost. Perhaps there were of a few burnt dinners of days past haunting the ceiling. "How can you be so cruel?"

  "It's a beauté." He chuckled and pushed deeper into the room. "Like what you see?"

  "There are no words for a travesty such as this. Dishes and broken pots stacked to the rafters. Why would you allow such? That room upstairs. It's nothing like this or the rest of the house."

  "That was my brother's room."

  She poked at a stack of plates. "Did he run from here screaming?"

  With his good hand, he gripped the big table and bent over it. "No. Henry Bannerman never saw Sandon like this, but my brother is not coming back. He died in the park at the rear of the estate from one of my first explosions. Black powder is unpredictable. It's not something easily mastered, even for a chef."

  Her cheeks trembled for a second, and she looked away as she began sorting through dishes. "Is there a bucket so that I can heat water?"

  He scanned the mounds of dishes and saw one stashed under a bench. He reached down and tried to seize it with his hurt hand before stopping. That was unwise. He shifted to his other hand and picked it up. "Now what?"

  "Go fill it with water."

  Looking around, he wondered where to do so. This place was foreign. Though Hugh loved food, he hadn't truly spent time in its preparation.

  "The scullery. A house this big must have
a scullery with a cistern for water. The abbey had pumps to pull it inside."

  Over the piles of ruined cloths and dirty pots, he looked around and saw a tiny room. Could that be it? He went inside and discovered double stone sinks and a faucet. He tucked his bucket underneath and twisted the lever. Cool water fell from the pipe filling his bucket. Feeling accomplished, he returned to the kitchen.

  Miss Armijo had cleared a path. The stove blazed with a purgatory fire. She took the bucket from him and set it on the stove. "Good. This will take a half an hour or more to heat. It's hard to say."

  "A scullery maid… Would she know how long it takes to heat water, but not a chef?"

  "One might. But a chef never guesses at things like this." Poking at slots, Isadel looked to see where the wood or coals would be added. "Certainty is the best measure. This is my first time using this stove."

  "Certainty is a luxury."

  "I suppose it's not one of your spy tenets. Pity."

  Yes, he was testing her. She was different from the people Elizabeth, his stepmother, had last employed to staff Sandon. Why would Hart have a mulatto chef from Spain? Weren't their enough in England? It didn't quite make sense. But the duke was into collecting eclectic things, why not people. "How did you come to work for the Duke of Hartland?"

  She had her back to him as she gathered up pots and pans and towed them into the scullery. "Miss Pearson's doing. My papa, he helped the English forces in Almeida and they remembered. She tried to smuggle our family out but only I made it."

  "Your father was in Almeida?"

  The chef picked up a Wedgwood platter and wiped the gravy stained side. "Yes. He saved a great many people that day, but his doctoring was repaid by your people butchering him and everyone in Badajoz. Barely two years have passed. Are your memories so short?"

  One look at her with her tightly curled fingers, the lines furrowing her temples foretold that her memories were long and fresh. What images in her head inflamed her soul? She swiped at her forehead then picked up a huge ladle. "Miss Pearson, she set me up in my position at Abbey Estate. You had my roasts on your last stay. Was it something to complain about?"