"I don't recall. It's been months since I was last at the Abbey."
She glanced at him and stared as if he spoke lies. "Short memory, aye?"
His brainbox had been quite sharp when it came to details, but that was before his illness, before every thought had been consumed with finding a cure or a way to atone for his guilt. He sat on the edge of the table and watched her. She floated about the kitchen poking here, peering there as if she were doing reconnaissance, but for what? Who was she spying for?
More pots clanged. "Last time you were at the Abbey, you had two servings. You cleaned your plate."
"If it's good, why stop before it's done? I was taught to clean my plate."
A small smile snuck onto her face, which hadn't before had one. "Well, that's one thing you'll clean. You looked healthier with a full meal in you."
Dumbstruck at the lift of her lips, he wondered how he or Phipps ever mistook the lass for a boy. Even with her hair spun into a knot on her head, she was sort of pretty and moved with grace. Not a boy's stance in the least, not with those hips.
"What are you staring at? You've never seen a chef in a kitchen."
"Honestly, no." He patted his big stomach. "But I know they exist. Phipps will verify your story or falsehood. You could confess now. I would be more merciful. Remember, that's a spy's tenet."
With an eye roll, she turned back again clearing dishes off the floor. "Why couldn't cleanliness be one? How could you let a place get like this?"
If her claim of being a chef was true then perhaps working in a disaster of a kitchen would be a good start for a punishment. He folded his arms, his mouth twitching with satisfaction with each clang of a falling pot. Yes. This was the start of a good punishment.
But if she was the Almeida Killer, why hadn't she tried to kill or maim him like the other victims? According to Hartland and Pearson's reports, each victim, each one of the ground commanders of Almeida seemed to have been caught off guard. Staler, Parks, Roan—each with a throat slit in their beds. He sighed and flexed his fingers. Maybe a pretty tan face dressed as a woman or as a harlot—could that have distracted each?
He was distracted watching Armijo. Was she humming something?
The alleged chef came near, swinging the bucket. "The water's warm enough. Time to put a final dressing on the wound."
Her slight accent, the slight clipping of the dr—in dressing fell pleasing on his ear, even as her use of the word final made him question if he she played him for a fool. "Set it down. I can manage."
She sloshed the bucket, setting it on the cleared table surface. "I told you I would fix it for you. Sit on the bench, not the table where food is prepared."
He did as she commanded and slid onto the closer of two benches. "What a curious creature you are? I thought a horse thief would show more contrition or at least a softer tongue."
She grasped his hand without responding. When the jerky unwinding of the bandages could no longer keep him from uttering a wince, he yelped and pulled back his hand.
"Sorry," she said, but she didn't seem sorry with the slight smile that had appeared again. "Now for the last layer. Are you ready, Ban—Bannerman?"
That accent of hers came out again and it soured him that she was hiding it. "I'll do it." As fast as he could, he held his breath and undid the final wrap, then dunked his fist into the hot water hoping the heat would distract him from the searing feeling stinging his hand. "From what I can see, you are young and healthy. It's too much of a risk."
She pushed on his elbow to sink his hand lower in the bucket. "I said I would do it. My word is worth the risk."
"The same word you've given to Hartland…before or after you stole his horse?"
Drying her hands on her chocolate baggy jacket, she frowned. "The one said to my late father, those mean more than anything. He was a healer. He would help you."
"Promises to the dead don't mean so much when time passes."
Her burnished brown eyes lowered as she stretched a fresh bandage. "Your man has a supply of these cloths in the scullery. Are you given to bleeding a lot?"
He drove his fist into the cloth and mangled it twisting the smooth fabric until none of whatever plagued him could contaminate her. "That's none of your concern."
She knotted the cloth, tugging it tight and giving it just enough of a yank to remind him that she was no dove. "Well this kitchen is my concern now. It's unsanitary and can make you sicker. Leave me here and let me make this place neater."
"I can trust that you won't escape? Can you give me your word?"
"Yes. Now leave." She pivoted without asking to withdraw and tugged the bucket of onions and fouled water to the scullery.
Was she a servant, a chef, as she claimed, another in Hart's collection of misfits? His doubts had begun to mount again as did his worries of his lesion becoming septic. Could she have tricked him with the onions? Well, he'd know in a few hours if the fevers started. "I guess I trust you for now. You have given me your word. I'd hate to have to chase you down and kill you. We were starting to get along."
She didn't turn to face him but waved her hand. "Yes, yes. Now leave."
The woman either meant she would keep her word or she was confident in her trickery. He took a final look at her scooping up the horrible pans and towing them to the scullery before backing out and heading to his study.
Once inside, he went to his desk and rummaged in the pile of books until he found the notes Hart had sent weeks earlier. Each victim had been killed at close range with a knife. A knife. Maybe there was a league of killers and this little chef had been dispatched for him.
Was that how they were trained? Drop into the commander's lives, cause a ruckus, gain confidences and then, wham…strike? His heart pounded as he flexed his hand. Phipps brought the onions, so, they couldn't have been tainted. His man was loyal. He would never be in league with devils.
That feeling in his stomach, that something was afoot twisted his gut. Maybe Isadel Armijo and the like were trained by the best assassins, Napoleon's assassins. For how else could these intelligent men have allowed themselves to be killed so easily except by lowering their guards with an intriguing female? For a man like Hugh, being led astray by a woman was a fate worse than death. He pulled his stick knife from his pocket and started to sharpen it. He'd get the better of the chef before she struck.
Isadel stoked the fire in the hearth. She doubted there was enough water in the world that could be heated to clean all the horrible dishes. How could that man let it get to such a state? Didn't he know kitchens were where magic happened? Lumps of grain, gushy yolks spun in roaring waves of heat to make lusty crusty loaves, buttery biscuits, a heady caramel meringue.
She slapped the poker against the crimson bricks then dusted her hands against her coat. Isadel was careful not to get the sleeve of her borrowed shirt dirty. It was very fine, very soft with a weave she'd only seen created by Lord Hartland's master tailor. She smoothed the cuff as she ducked it inside her jacket. This place made no sense. Ruin was everywhere, but Bannerman kept his brother's shirt and one room clean and tidy.
Well, she held onto her clothes too, her father's. She had that in common with Bannerman. How could she have misheard his disdain for Moldona? In his discussions with Lord Hartland, why did it sound as if Bannerman hated Moldona? Maybe he did hate him, just not as much as her.
Picking up the poker, again she tapped the crossed wood in the hearth. A chunk broke free landing at the edge of the orange flames, hissing and spitting sparks. Anger boiling, roiling at the top of her stomach, she hit the log again splitting it. She'd risked everything to find Sandon for nothing. With what she'd done, how could she return to Abbey Estate? If she begged Lord Hartland, would he take her back?
He was good hearted, but he surely wouldn't let her around Moldona. She'd have to hope Moldona stumbled and broke his neck. The man should come to Sandon. There was definitely enough debris here to do the job.
Yet, that notion was no com
fort.
She'd failed her sister, Agueda and Papa again. At least she acted this time, even if it was for naught.
A scream filled her stomach and roared all the way to her tongue, but she muffled it, stowing it in her breast with the rest of her rage.
With a shake of her head, she focused on the piles of dishes. Would Bannerman be grateful enough for her cleaning the hog pen that he'd relent? Could he be made to understand? She still had the sense he wanted something, and took comfort it wasn't in the way other men looked at her when her hair was out and dressed like a woman. She loved the safety of the kitchen. No one bothered her here. No man wanted anything from her but her biscuits.
The door swung open and she startled.
Bannerman pounded inside. "Just checking to see—"
"To see if I was still here?"
A grin swept across his face. "That and to make sure you hadn't been crushed by a mound of plates."
She took a pot from the stove. It hissed with steam as she dumped it into the bucket she'd chosen to soak the vessels with the hardest set stains. "As you can see, I haven't run, nor have I been trampled or quit."
He climbed up on the table she had just scrubbed clean and sat. "Tell me about Badajoz."
She rolled up the sleeve to Papa's coat that had fallen. She started working at an oily film that looked like gruel stuck on the bottom of a pot. "What was this, a poultice? It smells of tar, like something my father would make."
"I asked about Badajoz."
"Yes." The pot slipped from her fingers and slammed into the basin with a clang, kicking up suds. "Do you want to know what it smelled like before the English guns, before there was blood everywhere?"
"I heard Badajoz was bad. If it was like Almeida, then I know it was bad. I fought in Almeida. Moldona served there too."
"Did he kill other Spanish families at Almeida as he did in Badajoz?"
"No. No civilians—"
"Then it wasn't like Badajoz." Her fingers shook, and she balled them up as if that would hide how she felt. "Was there something else you wanted?"
"Moldona's name makes you angry. Any other names you take issue with upon hearing? There were other commanders of Almeida who also fought in Badajoz."
"Ban-Ba." She stopped, controlled the curl of her tongue that had started teasing the accent she tried hard to hide. "Bannerman could be one, even if he's not one of the Badajoz killers."
She put her back to his growing smile and took a second pot from the hearth. It hissed with steam as she dumped it into the basin. Somewhere between washing the third fork and straightening a bent spoon, she felt the heat of his stare. "What do you want?"
"Tell me of your father."
"You want to know about the man who helped you redcoats take care of your wounded at Almeida only to be cut down by the English no more than eighteen months later. Is that enough insight for you?"
Bannerman folded his arms, still seated on her clean table. "Do you cook spicy food?"
"Why, because I am a Spaniard? No fretting. I cook suitably for weak palates."
He put a hand to his scruffy beard. "I wondered if you seasoned your food with anger."
She straightened her shoulders. "Are you calling me, like you people say, an angry black-Blackamoor woman?"
"I wouldn't call any woman who can work a knife like you angry, at least not to your face, but I do wonder how many have come away unscathed. Have you ever killed a man, Miss Armijo?"
Lifting a pile of clean wet dishes, she put them down hard next to his hip. "Not this week. But keep sitting on my clean table and we'll see if the number holds."
He popped up and grabbed her wrist. "Have you killed a man?"
His eyes, his expression had drained of humor. The pressure he exerted on her wrist hurt. He could probably snap her in two if she made a false move.
"Have you, woman?"
"No, I have not. That is why I came to you."
Releasing her, he shoved his hands behind him. "I'm giving you some leeway, Miss Armijo, but do not forget you are my prisoner. And cleaning the kitchen will not pay your debt."
She held his gaze even as his voice became harsh as if he'd barked a command to a soldier. "I know you will not be easy."
"I'm not easy with many things, but why clean when you don't have to? I never said it would be your punishment."
Grasping his bandaged limb, she used it as a spit poker and pointed out the plentiful piles yet to clean. "The horrid condition of this kitchen and scullery cannot be unseen. It's a tragedy. You don't stand down, not when you can help."
He swiveled his neck from side to side as his finger clasped about hers. Maybe it never hit him how bad he'd let things get. Maybe he needed someone to bring attention to the tragedy.
Gently, she eased his palm to his side and went back to her stack of plates in the basin of the scullery. The Wedgwood platter that had been soaking would not relent and held onto its stubborn stains originating from weeks or months of neglect. With her chin up, she returned to the kitchen passing him to set another pot onto the stove. "You are a monster to keep a kitchen like this."
He marched over to her crowding the free space she'd made through the dishes. He was large, larger than when he trudged into his study, or when he'd flung her onto the floor. "Miss Armijo." He made his voice low, softer than before. "You come to me, knowing the weapons I excel at, maybe even hearing I murdered my brother, you call me a monster for a dirty kitchen? Seems this rubble is the least of my sins."
"Can't you be redeemed if you use your skills to right a wrong?"
Lifting his damp sleeve, he showed her his scabbed elbow. "My sins are on my skin."
At this she laughed, she laughed hard to keep from crying. "No, that's what you say about the descendants of Ham, all who look like me." She wiped at her face, pushing away some beads of perspiration that looked suspiciously like tears. "You might not be so pale or bleed so easily if you had a proper meal."
"Food solves all problems, woman?"
She stirred her pot of water as if it were soup. "There is life in it. The power to keep away death."
"Yes, and you want to take a proper meal and do in Moldona. Why not just poison him or slit his throat? I have a few friends that recently met an end that way. Seems effective. If you are Lord Hartland's cook, surely you'd have access to do it. With the chemicals he keeps, I have no doubt you'd have a wide selection from which to choose."
"It could end up in the wrong mouths. I want a controlled detonation like the ones you and Lord Hartland joked of, the ones he says that only you can do. I just want it to kill Moldona and harm no one else."
"Explosives rarely work like that. Why not use your knife work? If the onion is a small example of your prowess, I'd think you'd have a fair chance at Moldona."
She stared up at him and wondered if the smell of soapy water of an almost clean kitchen had forced his senses to leave. "And what if he overpowers me as you did?"
"He doesn't have my strength. He's weak in so many areas. You could have a chance especially if he's swilling Hart's port."
Bannerman moved closer, took a knife from the water, dangled it until its gleam caught the light. "I was at Almeida. I was one of the commanders. Moldona served under me. So perhaps I am responsible for him. He learned everything from me. You could say I am responsible for Almeida and Badajoz."
Was Bannerman trying to make himself the focus of her rage?
She grasped the knife's handle and took it from his finger. The hold was so slack; it was as if he wanted her to strike. But Isadel knew what biding her time, biting her tongue meant. The past year in an English kitchen schooled her well. "Lord Hartland has said Wellington's special reserve did what had to be done. Did that include the murder of innocents?"
"Killers are in the ranks, to be sure. I am or was one. And innocence or the perception of it is another spy tenet. Innocence is in the eye of the beholder. I know some of my deeds now require penance."
She swallowed t
he lump in her throat, the hard knot that seemed to grow and choke all the air away from her lungs. Bannerman baited her and it was working. Looking down she found her fingers clenched about the knife, but it was Moldona who needed to die.
She dropped the knife in the water as if it had been heated red-hot in the hearth. "Is that what you are doing, hiding in this wreck of a place? Is this your penance? The evil you've done must be great."
His wide eyes squinted as he shrugged. "Guilt can grow thick like iron chains." He turned and walked back to the table and almost sat on the surface when he popped up. "You seem determined to clean this kitchen. Once you give up, stay in here until I return. I'd rather not put you in irons or toss you back in the closet."
"You don't trust that I will stay? You think I will run before your man can verify my story?"
"It's a fair reservation. You come dressed as a male, when clearly, you're not. What other falsehoods are you capable of?"
"No falsehoods. But maybe a few secrets and knowledge of herbs that could heal your lesions quite nicely." She pushed up her sleeve to dip deeper into the basin.
His eyes widened like saucers. "The white spots on your arm. The discoloration, what is it from?"
That voice of his, which had been low and steady, cracked a little. "What are those?"
She squinted at him and dunked her hand into the water. He looked like a blend of a naughty boy and a wide-eyed lamb.
"What's this discoloration on your arm? How did you fix it? Your father?"
"Remember, you don't believe me. You have to wait for your man to come back." She stepped close to him flinging droplets from her hands. Some fell on his scuffed boots. "You can't look at me and see truth. Can you?"
Reaching around her, he stirred the water with his good hand. "You know who I am. I don't have the same luxury, but maybe you know something about freckles. There are tiny ones on your nose."
His fingers had become sopping wet. He flexed and flicked water on her flared nostrils. "But I will know about you soon. You could take this one last chance to confess."
His tone sounded richer, almost playful. That couldn't be good.
No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5) Page 5