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

by Vanessa Riley

  "If you are worried, put me elsewhere."

  He rubbed his neck. "Say you're not suicidal, then I can let you stay in here. I hear cleaning can take the life from you."

  "How would you know about cleaning?"

  That sly-smile-not-quite-smirk appeared, and she found her lips curving up too. Oh, she must be tired.

  He waved her to the cot. "It's comfortable. When I can't sleep… I find it good for my back. You can see the stars on a clear night, even hear the waves. That is if you last that long."

  He wiped a hand over his face as if that could erase the poet's lilt in his voice as he talked of the peace of the turret. "You will be comfortable. It's the best room at Sandon that's not Henry's."

  "Then where do you actually sleep?"

  "I don't, not so much."

  A gasp, maybe some sympathetic air left her lips, but it made him frown. He turned and headed to the door without mention of her punishment or when she'd return to the Abbey.

  She rushed to him and clasped his mighty arm. "Wait."

  Beneath her fingers, his thick tendons tightened. She drew her fingers away and looked to the ground. She had forgotten her place. A prisoner couldn't touch the lord of the manor.

  "Yes, Armijo."

  "Sorry. But you were leaving without telling me how long my sentence in the tower would be?"

  "Nor have I decided what would be appropriate. I have free rein on this matter from Hartland. I must think upon it carefully."

  That wasn't an answer. She had no hope of returning in time to do something to Moldona. She fidgeted with Papa's coat. "You could let my punishment be service in the kitchen."

  "Now that it's clean… doesn't seem much like a punishment. But you will make us dinner."

  She looked up and caught his gaze, intense, studying her. She slid her hands into her pockets as if that would hide her from his scrutiny. "Are you forcing me to cook, Bannerman?"

  "Do you want to eat?"

  Her stomach rumbled louder this time. The traitorous insides. Since Bannerman was giving her freedom in the place she felt most comfortable, she bucked up. "Have fresh vegetables and meats in the kitchen by four, then I will cook."

  "I'm glad you volunteered." He lumbered across the threshold. "I thought you'd see it my way. Cooking doesn't suit as your punishment either, but it's a good way to pay for your lodging and board. I'll have some hot water sent up for you. There are stains on your new shirt."

  He'd noticed? She nodded as she fingered the greasy spot on the cuff of the shirt he'd given her. "And soap and a rag, too. Keep that kitchen clean, rubble free or no one eats."

  He dipped his chin. "Yes, chef." His face held a small smile as he closed the door.

  Alone, she pulled off Papa's coat. It too had spots. A hot damp cloth could do wonders upon it to blot out the dirt and who knew what she'd encountered in Bannerman's kitchen. That was hours in her life she'd never get back, but since she'd almost jumped from the window that stood six paces from her, she didn't have a right to complain about time.

  Pounding to the glass, she touched the frame. A lock, a large iron rusty thing had been braided through loops keeping it closed. No breeze or smell could come through a locked window. She touched it and felt the cold metal. It hadn't been there before. A chill set in her fingertips. Bannerman did this while she cleaned.

  It had been his plan to keep her even before his man returned and verified her story.

  The door opened. She spun to see Phipps entering carrying a bucket and some towels. "Miss—"

  Isadel's lips curled into a deeper frown. "Knocking would be good. Even if this is my prison."

  "Sorry. It's been a long time since there have been guests." Phipps lowered the bucket and the towels, but in his hand was a small cloth. He walked to her and handed it to her. "Sandon wasn't always so gloomy. There were once many guests. His stepmother, Lady Rhodes, the parties she would thr—"

  She balled the cloth in her palm. "Where they treated to iron locks on the windows?"

  Phipps frowned and swallowed his smile. "Not that I can remember." He rubbed his neck as he scooted to the door. "Bannerman's very cautious. He wouldn't want you to get in trouble, like before."

  "Let him know that I will serve out my sentence whenever he thinks of it. No more need of locks or spies."

  "I'll tell him. Thank you for helping Bannerman with his hand. He can be quite stubborn when it comes to things. Stubborn and caution can be self-defeating."

  Was he just talking about Bannerman? She could sense the warning was meant for her, too. Yes. She'd been irrational and hurting when Bannerman refused to help, when she thought she'd be hung for stealing a horse. "Let him also know that the desperation in me departed when I chose to keep a man from bleeding to death."

  With a nod, Phipps plodded to the door. "I'll knock as long as you are here, Miss Armijo. Hopefully, your stay will get easier."

  The door closed and Isadel's heavy eyes burned a little. Nothing got easier, not without with her family and knowing their killer still possessed freedom. She slid off her coat and started sponging the grease stain on her sleeve. The heated water and scrubbing like she'd done all night made the spot go away.

  Why couldn't hurts be the same, a little scrubbing with tears and then all gone? Staring out the locked window, the barrier to the blue morning sky made her sad. Those days were the best ones after a foggy night in Badajoz. The hillsides came alive with wild flowers, and father's laughter as sisters danced in the fresh scented air.

  Pulling Papa's coat about her like a blanket, Isadel sank upon the cot. Her heart was too heavy for standing. She wished the wool still smelled of Papa and his elixirs. It felt good to snuggle up against him in one of his bear hugs.

  They shouldn't be memories, unavenged memories. Yet, what could she do now as a prisoner to a recluse in a tower of rubble? She'd come to get him to teach her how to make controlled explosions. Maybe he'd let her borrow a cup of black powder like sugar.

  Not knowing where he kept such weapons, she lay back half-laughing, half-crying. He put a lock on the window because he did not trust Isadel to sleep in the tower without throwing herself from it. He'd never trust her with black powder. Scooping up some and trying to use it without instruction would be like attempting to make a cake with no recipe.

  Not knowing how to control the powder, she'd never risk innocents even if Moldona would die. She wasn't like those evil men who killed everyone in Badajoz even after they'd won the battle and defeated Napoleon's forces.

  Resigned, she closed her eyes and returned to continuing her nightmare, a man in regimentals noticed her sister, Agueda. He grabbed her long straight hair and towed her out of hiding. Papa tried to free her, tried to stop them until the ruby men stole his last breath, then took Agueda's too.

  From a crack in the flooring, the shine of a sword's blade flashed light into Isadel's eyes, flooding her hiding spot in the root cellar. She heard their clear tones, their increasing laughter as they abused and killed Agueda. She remembered the way one said Moldona and his clear response as they left the slaughter. The family was a few hours away from escape with the aid of an English spy. A couple hours of hiding separated her family from freedom and darkness. If only Agueda hadn't been noticed.

  But Bannerman, another proclaimed spy, noticed Isadel. She yanked on her curls, untwisting them about her fingers and stared at the rusty lock on the sill. Perhaps there was a way to sway her prison guard yet. For everything started with a notice and a pretend smile that hid anger.

  Chapter Five: Sleeping Suspicions

  Ten minutes past four. Bannerman paced at the bottom of the stairs waiting for his chef prisoner. His mind had been turning all day, weighing the possibilities. Could Miss Armijo be the answer to a silent prayer, one he'd been afraid to mouth?

  He plodded down the hall all the way to his study and back, stewing. The chef worked for Hartland. She had eavesdropped, spied upon his guests, and stole his horse. Yet, Hart would take her back
into his household. The inconsistencies were maddening.

  Hugh slow punched a wall with his good hand, cracking the dull bisque plaster. Phipps would be mad when he returned from the village or had he lost count of Hugh's attempt at anger management. He studied his hand, the plaster dust filling the indentions about his knuckle. Nothing covered up the want of hope, the need for a cure-all, the hunger for salvation.

  If Wellesley sent Joanna Pearson to save the Armijo family, then the odds where high that her father was owed a debt, that he had used his skills to provide medicine and aid to the King's forces.

  "Sir, what are you doing?"

  Phipps stood at the foot of the stairs. His hair was combed and smoothed. It looked as if he wore a clean livery.

  As he plodded toward the steps, Hugh brushed off his fingers on his tattered green waistcoat, and dangled Henry's gold watch from his pocket before pulling on a kid glove. "Who are you trying to impress?"

  With a smile that gave too much away, Phipps dimpled. "No one, but if Lord Hartland's description of Miss Armijo's skills are correct then we are in for a treat."

  "Your head is turned by the promise of a meal?"

  Brow rising as if he inspected the troops, Phipps circled Hugh then stopped. "Yours must be too. Master Henry's fancy watch and is that a fresh shirt?"

  Hugh didn't want to admit it, but it was. Something about the way the chef was concerned about cleanliness made him concerned. "Yes. I suppose we both have expectations."

  "Speaking of such, you should send Lady Rhodes a response. Your stepmother still has an expectation to be part of your life. She thinks of you as family."

  "Yes, the grown son she never birthed. I am in no mood for needling. And she would if she came to Sandon."

  "I think she would look at you as a project and help you restore the place. It could be as it once was."

  Never could Sandon be grand and peaceful like it was when Henry Bannerman walked the grounds. Anger at himself for letting Sandon comes to ruins set his hungry gut rolling. "Why are we acting silly over a hoyden who might just be an average cook or taking credit for dishes of another?"

  Wanting to force his hands into his pocket, Hugh caught his bandaged hand on Henry's watch and flailed around like a fool until he became free.

  Phipps chuckled and then stopped. "Hard to look debonair in bandages. You seem more agitated than usual." He clutched the banner as if to hold up his old legs. "What has happened?"

  "Nothing."

  "Another death, Bannerman?"

  Hugh ran a hand through his own rumpled locks. "I imagine someone, somewhere has but not here, not another commander. Our fugitive chef has not come down. I wonder what could be keeping her. That is all."

  "Well, you worked her hard enough to kill her. You don't think she's run off?"

  His man talked nonsense, but maybe it wasn't nonsense. Though he'd locked the window, maybe it wasn't a good idea to stash Armijo in the tower, the same room from which she'd tried to jump. Cold sweat beaded at the back of his neck, but he counted it as fever from his illness not fretting. Hugh pumped his hand, open and closed. "She's a young healthy woman. Hard work in the kitchen hasn't done her in. If anything, it's her hatred for Moldona that will injure her."

  "What does your old friend have to do with Miss Armijo? She's not one of his mistresses? Oh, his poor wife, Betsy St. Claire. She chose poorly. She should've chosen y—"

  Phipps had finally looked up from shining a brass button on his deep blue coat. The shift in his man's expression, a tensed jaw, a line existed where a mouth that had run on too long said everything. "Sorry, Bannerman."

  Hugh's famous temper stirred. From the foolish running on to his impatience with the chef, Hugh was only a few fevered words away from exploding. "No, she's not one of Moldona's mistresses, but she has a grievance with him over Badajoz."

  "Badajoz, the bloodbath? That was a shameful happenstance."

  How much happenstance was there in slaughter? Maybe the same amount of bad luck that led young soldiers to leave a barrel of black powder in the open to combust and kill six hundred at Almeida including Betsy's poor brother. In the midst of the fierce battle, six hundred died from a careless explosion. The anguish in her voice when Hugh spoke with her months later was unfathomable. Could Miss Armijo suffer the same pain with the loss of her family?

  Engulfed in questions and remorse, Hugh lowered his gaze to the torn carpet. "Our side won in Badajoz, but the commanders lost control. It was reported that the regiments committed atrocities to civilians including killing Miss Armijo's father and sister."

  "Is that true, Bannerman? Poor girl."

  "Truth should be an easy thing, but it's twisted by the beholder's self-interest. Miss Armijo believes Moldona is guilty. She came here hoping I'd teach her how to exact her revenge. I refused and now we are waiting for her to cook dinner."

  His man's eyes grew so wide it seemed as if they would pop. "That is the height of irony. You refused to help kill a man who has caused you nothing but embarrassment and loss."

  If Phipps only knew the depths of the man's treachery, he'd wonder how Hugh could leave him living. Trying to live differently felt weak to Hugh. How had Henry chosen a peace-filled life in world filled with war? He shook his head. "Moldona is Betsy's husband. For that fact alone, he will remain alive. She's lost too much."

  Tapping the railing of the stairs gave Hugh something to focus upon instead of counting the seconds until the chef appeared. "Did Armijo complain of the room?"

  "Only of the lock."

  "Well, she'll have to prove she hasn't the inclination to jum…jump. Phipps, check out side." Hugh leapt up the first step, then another, until his tree trunk legs moved faster than a flying cannon ball. "The girl was clever and had a head start. Make sure no horse is missing. She is a horse thief."

  The sound of his own heavy footfall, half-stomping, half board creaking stirred up more flames in his hungry gut. The wench had made a fool of him, when he'd begun to place hope in her.

  He jumped the final set of stairs; happy he hadn't fallen through the weak floors. He marched to the tower door, ripped it open, and then froze.

  The chef wasn't gone, but standing half naked before him, just a mere shift separating her from the chilly air. She fell backwards fumbling her way into the shirt that billowed like window curtains.

  "What!" Her voice screeched. "Can't you knock?"

  He pivoted as best a gentleman could but being all man, one made for reconnaissance, an iron map painted in his head. A mental image of her loveliness, the generous curves the thin cotton couldn't obscure would stay with him longer than it should. "Sorry."

  How he or Phipps thought the chef was a man was ludicrous. Madness really.

  "You are still in here, Bannerman. I'm not dressed. This is not proper."

  She was right. But that didn't make him move.

  "Go on!"

  With a few blinks, his proper brain returned and he dragged himself out of the door. He closed it and put his whole weight upon the battered wood frame. "I didn't mean…I thought…" He wiped at his face marveling at the perspiration beading his now flooded brow.

  Hugh wasn't a schoolboy and hadn't always lived the life of a monk as he did now. And he definitely wasn't the novice who became flustered because Betsy walked beside him. He cleared his throat. "You're late for dinner. The kitchen remains as you prescribed."

  "You saw nothing?" Her voice vibrated through the wood panel, stroking the base of his skull.

  Hugh saw too much and would remember or imagine more. "I'll knock as long as you stay here. I apologize."

  The sounds of her moving about, pulling on boots echoed. "Why were you in such a rush? Are you that hungry?"

  He didn't want to seem a fool, but acting like one did not help. He closed his eyes and just blurted out the truth. "I thought you had left. My anger doesn't let me think sometimes."

  "Mine does. It makes my brainbox focus constantly on revenge. I have no rest from thes
e thoughts."

  He laid his head fully against the door. No one alive understood how it felt to be trapped in anger or regret. Only his brother did and Hugh's showing off to impress Betsy with his controlled detonations took Henry away. "Some anger just isn't meant to leave. I'd like to say time makes things better, but it doesn't. It just makes you older with more responsibilities and more things to lose."

  "Then, it is good that I am young with nothing to keep me from wanting Moldona dead."

  Her tone was so flat; it made him wonder to what lengths would she go to watch Moldona die.

  The door opened and Hugh fell backward. He caught the frame and stayed upright. Popping up and pivoting, he stared at her.

  Her hair was up in a bun and the baggy jacket and breeches swallowed her whole as before. Somehow that didn't seem fair. "Well, chef," he said, "the kitchen is waiting for you. I'd like to understand for myself how great your talents are. Hartland is willing to take you back after betraying his confidence."

  "I guess you'll have to taste and see what is good."

  Before he followed, Hugh watched her float down the stairs engulfed in course fabric. Sharp-tongue, direct, and yet demure, the chef wasn't like Betsy or the memories of her. With the image of the young woman's dark curly locks dripping to her waist, shadowing her shift, sticking like perfume, Hugh had that sinking feeling he'd unleashed some new type of explosive. He paced to catch Isadel as fast as he could.

  Isadel stirred the pot watching the gravy of the beef steaks come together. Wishing and humming, Mama's song allowed the onions to develop the perfect translucent glow and kept her head from exploding. The tune of flying to heaven and finding the grace of the day, that had to calm her blood and keep Isadel from dying from embarrassment when she faced Bannerman again.

  Wishing she was Agueda who knew no shame, Isadel beat her spoon again in the thickening sauce. The savory goodness would contrast the richness of the buttery crusts of her meaty pies. She pushed up her sleeve and pivoted to the big plank topped table. She'd already set two places, one for Phipps and one for Bannerman. In a small cast iron dish, she'd take a few morsels back to the tower to eat and hide.