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

by Vanessa Riley

  Looking down from her woolgathering, she saw a lump beginning to form. She hummed and stirred, tipping her pan over the flame until she made the liquid shimmer satin. Bannerman and her beet-red cheeks would not defeat her gravy. Here she was thinking she could gain Bannerman's sympathy and soften him up as Agueda did with all men, but now she couldn't even look at the hulking man.

  Though he hadn't done or said anything untoward, the thought of being ogled like a beef steak for a hungry man left her feeling small and used up. She'd forever hide in Papa's jacket just to feel big. Yes, big enough to serve justice.

  Footsteps sounded outside the kitchen door. The rhythm of the footfalls was impatient. "Chef, how long will you keep me and Phipps waiting?"

  She wanted to yell out to Bannerman that she did hurry, but all she could do was hum. It was that or run back to the tower and burn her gravy.

  Finally, it was ready. Taking great care, she poured the gravy into the thick porcelain gravy bowl. After setting it on the table, she lifted the pies that she'd left to warm on the hearth, ten in all, and put one on each plate. The rest she pushed onto a Wedgewood platter. With a final tweak, she positioned a water glass in front of the bone white plate. Having cleaned and put away every dish, she found it easy to set the makeshift table for the two men. For a moment, pride filled her lungs. Bannerman and his manservant would eat well tonight.

  Feeling satisfied at her presentation of the meaty treat, she clanged a spoon on her pot. "Dinner is served."

  The words hadn't fully left her lips when the door slammed open and the two men barreled into the kitchen, almost shoving each other in haste. Phipps jumped to a spot and liberally poured browned gravy over his pie, but Bannerman stood to the side.

  He leaned over the table and tapped his fingers. "Why are we eating in the kitchen, chef?"

  "Oh, you have a dining room? I must've missed it in the filth. Be assured food is much better and safer in a room that is not set for collapse."

  His smile thinned as if he gritted his teeth. "This manor is very durable, I assure you. But perhaps you are right, we should see about fixing it up a little."

  Phipps's fork fell to his plate with a heavy bang. "What? Yes, let's fix the place up."

  Forcing her tone to lower and sweeten, she focused on her pot of gravy, not on Bannerman whose gaze had her cheeks burning. "Eat up. Put your dirty dishes in the scullery when you are done. Good evening."

  "You are not joining us? Aren't you hungry?"

  "Kitchen staff doesn't dine with the master. I'll be in the tower."

  He kicked the bench out blocking her path. "I insist."

  She looked down, focusing on the scratched-up wood. "I'd rather not."

  "You are my guest and my prisoner for now. Both categories supersede kitchen help."

  "This is not normal." She'd rolled up her sleeves again to show him her Blackamoor forearms, but he'd already received an eyeful upstairs. "I've worked with the Abbey's large staff. I know my place."

  "Are you more comfortable living in a place of low expectations?"

  She stepped around the bench and picked up her dish. "It's better to be underestimated, safer that way."

  "Living confined will make you look to breaking free. You'll do crazed things like steal a horse and ride hours to see a cursed man."

  "It… It wasn't prudent. Gentlemen, excuse me."

  "Do you seriously think you can kill a man? You can't even hold my gaze. You're a—"

  "Woman?" she asked no longer able resist his baiting. "The weaker sex? 'Twas Eve that cost Adam a rib and mortality. Who's the weaker one, the giver of the apple or the one who eats?"

  Phipps stuffed more pie in his mouth. "Could you make apple pie, too? I could get apples."

  Bannerman grabbed her elbow. "Look, I insist you stay and eat with us. All your meals will be in our company. That is part of your punishment. It will also tell me you haven't poisoned me and Phipps."

  His man raised his head so fast Isadel thought for sure he had left his teeth in the pie. "Well, here is to a delicious last meal." He dipped the last bits of his crust into the gravy and kept eating.

  "Will you aid my digestion and my suspicions and eat with us?"

  She jerked her arm free. "A more fitting punishment, Mr. Bannerman, would be to clean the dining room. It could be done within a day or two and then return me to Abbey Estate. Phipps, your master is standing in the way of setting a fair punishment. Why do you think that is?"

  The butler wiped his mouth of crumbs. "Maybe a bit of sense has finally hit him."

  "I'm right here you know. You don't have to speak of me as if I'm absent."

  "Why are you stringing my punishment? I'm not a kite." She put her pot down, and forced her fingers not to clutch her jacket. "Tell me what it is that you want, so I can do it, then leave for the Abbey."

  "Bannerman," Phipps said, "The Abbey sounds like a sanctified request, so be careful how you respond."

  The huge man cast a look that silenced Phipps's chuckles. "As part of your punishment, you will tell me your father's recipe for skin conditions. You said he had one. Give it to me and if I think of nothing else and you happen to cause me no more worry, I'll send you back in time to face Moldona."

  Phipps squinted as he shook his head, but his mouth was full, maybe too full to respond.

  Isadel tried to block the man-of-all-work's antics and focus on Bannerman and his offer. "You go from fretting about me poisoning pies to trying to purloin my papa's potion. Incredible."

  The big man smirked a little. "You have a way of phrasing things, Miss Armijo, but that doesn't answer my question."

  "You believe me now that I could know it. Even though my papa was trusted by your Wellesley, you must be at a loss to believe a woman…a weak woman."

  "Hartland says your father was a great physician. I am inclined to believe him."

  "Because of another man, your light eyes have been opened. I thought they worked well earlier in the tower even without any intervention." She covered her mouth and fled toward the closest hiding place, the scullery, and closed the door.

  "Go after her, Bannerman. An upset chef might stop cooking." Phipps's voice was loud, but so where the boot footfalls that followed.

  The ground shook as a pounding sensation rattled the door. "Open up, Miss Armijo."

  "I've thrown myself in here, Bannerman. Nothing left for you to do." She stood back and watched the door shake.

  The hinges and panels lifted and he set the poor broken frame down with a thud. "I didn't feel like shouting through the door," Bannerman said. He stepped closer, crossing the pebbled floor of the scullery. "Now, can we try this again in a civilized manner?"

  "Civilized? You just ripped off the door, you big lion." Wanting to hide in Papa's coat, she folded her arms about her shoulders as tightly as she could. Why can't I go?"

  "Miss Armijo, I have requested you eat with us. It's a simple order. You can return to your room afterward."

  "I mean back to the Abbey." Lowering her tone, she started again. "I have to work twice as hard to be deemed acceptable. I can handle that at the Abbey. I don't want to do that here with you looking at me as if I were still half-naked."

  "I told you I was wrong for not knocking, and I saw nothing I hadn't seen before."

  She dropped her head. "How can I ever hold your gaze?"

  With his gloved hand, he lifted her chin, the motion soft and gentle. "You were mostly covered up except for some mighty strong arms. Yes, you do have to prove yourself. Hartland is a trusted friend and he vouches for you, but I must still get to know you. Miss Armijo, you know what it means to trust, do you not? And I must prove myself to you too. You're not alone in this. We are both trying to find our way."

  So close to him, she sensed his power and the strength of his desperation. A man so big surely couldn't voice it, but his gaze said the words, please help me. No power on earth could make her pivot from his wide hazel eyes. "I know what trust costs." Taking a step bac
k, she scooted her palms up Papa's billowy sleeve wanting it to be a shield to Bannerman's sweet talk. Nothing plied her heart more than his sad eyes. "Is there no other way to punish me other than to take the secrets of a dead man? If Moldona hadn't killed him, Papa would be here helping you."

  Bannerman crowded her again. "I want to trust his daughter, Isadel Armijo, who diced me up with onions to cleanse a wound as her father would. You could've left me bleeding or fixed it so my wound would fester." He ripped up his sleeve and showed the scarring on his arm. "I could expose more damaged flesh to you if you want see a similar amount of exposure." He jiggled the thick leather belt at his waist. "It would be no problem."

  "Stop. This is a scullery." She slapped at his hands, knocking them from his buckle. "Unless I am washing you off with lye to be stowed away, don't."

  His smirk was pure evil. "You're looking at me again and you touched me. At least my being ridiculous can give you some comfort."

  "You're too big to ignore."

  "Miss Armijo, you know what I have. The leprosy is killing me. I deserve to die, but no good can come from me for my last days if I'm covered in sores, with paper thin skin."

  It wasn't fair to barter with a man's life not remembering Papa's voice, whispering, haga lo que es correcto, a toda costa, paloma mía, do what is right, at all costs, my dove. She nodded her head. "Retrieve aloe stalks and Gynocardia seeds."

  He rubbed his skull as if she said a joke. "Not Gynocardia seeds." His big chest deflated as if it had sprung a heavy leak. "One of my books talks of Gynocardia seeds. The East India traders call it, Chaulmoogra. It does not work. Your father was wrong."

  Unafraid and angered, she shook her head. He'd basically called Papa a liar. She closed the gap between them and poked through his waistcoat drumming a big solid rib bone. "Your book is wrong. You English believe you are always right, that you can do no wrong. We both know that is untrue."

  "I have tried those seeds. It does not work, Armijo. It is possible for a self-righteous chef to be wrong."

  "Your people have labeled the wrong tree as Chaulmoogra. Ask the traders to bring you the true seeds of the Kalaw tree. Those seeds and those alone, have the oil I need to save you, but don't believe me. Keep to your books, your chaulmoogra, your English ways, and return me to the abbey. I'm going to the tower."

  She tried to pass him, but Bannerman clasped her hand and drove it deeper into his chest. His heart pounded beneath her finger tips making hers race.

  He dipped his chin and stole her gaze again. "When you want to kill a man, you go for his heart. A quick sharp jab with your knife will do it. Don't hesitate or delay with lies. I need no more false hope."

  "I'm not lying. And why would I waste a good knife cutting through all that muscle?"

  Deep-set crinkles appeared around his eyes that had lost their seriousness. He tucked her hand on the crook of his arm. "It's time for dinner, that is if Phipps has left some. I here it is very good."

  When they arrived at the table, several pies remained.

  "Phipps, get word to our London merchants. Have them import the Kalaw seeds as soon as possible. Tell them I'll pay double upon confirmation that these are the Kalaw and not Gynocardia or Chaulmoogra seeds."

  When he sat, she shoved her hands in her pocket so he couldn't take it again and she wouldn't crave his power. He had the strength to right wrongs or even to admit them. He didn't have to come to her.

  "Sit, chef, and get used to us. You will have to verify the seeds. You have to be our guest for a few weeks."

  Clasping an inner seam in the wool jacket, she peered up at the ceiling. "Not as if I have a choice."

  "No, you don't. You will have to make due with our arrangements at Sandon, which includes eating with Phipps and me. And the way Phipps is devouring your pies, you can be well trusted in the kitchen. You are no typical prisoner. You have the run of Sandon, for what it's worth."

  "Am I free like the wind? No. There is a brass lock on my sill."

  "That is for our mutual protection, you from jumping. Me from barging in thinking you leaped. If I had remembered and not thought you too clever, I would not have barged in upon you."

  She couldn't complain of his logic though she wanted to. "I should count my circumstances lucky."

  Phipps coughed as if he were interrupting something. "I think we're lucky. This food is magical. Bannerman, eat."

  Her warden reached and grabbed one of the pastries from his plate and popped it into his mouth.

  She wasn't exactly holding her breath, but she exhaled when a smile exploded on his face. No one could beat her pastry crusts.

  "Very good, Miss Armijo," he said when his face recovered. "I should've known. Hartland is exact. You are a wonder."

  "Thank you." Hoping his contentment would cause amnesia, she picked up her bucket and aimed for the door.

  "I don't want to force you, Armijo, but if you voluntarily comply, I'll show you some things about black powder during your stay. It won't be enough to give your murderous dreams hope, but it should show you that I'm trying to trust you."

  The breath caught in her lungs. She stopped and stared at him. She saw no tricks or pity in his hazel eyes. "You are serious?"

  "But, Bannerman," Phipps said between bites. "You said you'd never touch the stuff again."

  "I will show her the basics. Miss Armijo, I want you to understand the danger and power of the powder. You need to understand both. Now, sit and eat." He waved his hand toward the skewed bench. "Compliance may help me arrive upon the final tasks to complete your punishment sooner, give or take the timing to identify the seeds. Who knows? It may simply be eating with two men who may have forgotten table manners." He chuckled and pulled another pie to his plate. "Sit, Armijo. Taste. Your handiwork is good, very good."

  His voice had a lilt that bordered on charming. That notion seemed a little frightening, but she'd acquiesce for a chance at learning how to use black powder. She pivoted and crossed back to the table. When she sat on the bench he'd kicked out, he hooked the edge with his foot, lifted it and her, setting the bench back in line with the table.

  Though Phipps had almost cleaned his plate save a few crumbs, he bowed his head and said. "Let this food, this unexpected blessing be nourishing to our hungry hearts."

  Bannerman looked at her and she at him.

  She didn't understand this gaze, nor did she want to and demurred, turning toward her pie. She piled bits of the flaky crust upon her tongue. It was good, but nothing nourished her soul more than the hope that she was one step closer to avenging Papa and Agueda. By time the seeds arrived, perhaps she'd cobble together enough information about black powder to develop a recipe, one set to deliver a controlled explosion, one to kill Moldona.

  Chapter Six: Restless Delights

  For the old Hugh, a good meal was a necessary component to relax and get a full night's sleep. Then, he'd become ill. The research called for a bland diet of white foods to calm his system. That regimen stole his strength. Luckily, he had a great deal to spare. He rolled to his side, fluffed his pillow and thought about meat pies.

  The wonderful taste of the chef's food stayed on his tongue. The lightness of the crust, the savory shredded beef, the tang of garlic and onions, yes, her medicinal onions were true delights. He could see why Hart would take her back despite her treachery.

  If he were Hart, he would too. Maybe her food could be some continued ransom between him and his friend. Hugh closed his eyes. He tried finding a more comfortable spot on the mattress, breathing more deeply, counting seconds for imaginary detonations, even reading one of Henry's missionary tomes. …Nothing. The excitement and questions about Kalaw seeds made his mind race. Had he been blessed enough to stumble on a cure, one coming from a part homicidal, part suicidal, part healer chef?

  Well, if the healer part was the most dominant, then the Lord did work in mysterious ways as Henry claimed. Hugh sighed and stared at the ceiling. Who was Isadel Armijo truly? Could he fully trust her?<
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  Armijo's father had gained favor with Wellesley. That was true. Mr. Armijo may have been a physician, but he may not have known how to cure leprosy. None of the physicians in London had. Why would Spain, a little place like Badajoz be different?

  But a girl from Badajoz, one who felt the need to avenge deaths. Her claim that Moldona killed her family—that could not be correct. He was a lout, a womanizer, but not a murderer. Right?

  If Hugh hadn't failed to turn in Moldona for leaving out the powder barrel, the one that caused the deadly explosion, he would never have been left in the military to cause havoc in Badajoz.

  None of this would matter if Miss Armijo were mistaken. She sounded certain but errors happen, memories shift. Certainty. That was a luxury, one he desperately wanted right now. He'd hate to think Betsy was married to a monster or that he had indirectly caused another innocent death. "What am I going to do, Henry? I miss your council, your voice of wisdom."

  The quiet of the room, his brother's old room, smothered. He pushed up, wanting the smell of Henry's cigars. Hugh couldn't stay here. The place he fled on nights like this, the tower room was occupied. The chef was there.

  Somewhere else in Sandon had to have peace, a place to hide from his mounting guilt. He tossed on his robe and put his bare feet on the pristine planks of the floor. Henry's old room was the master quarters, complete with a Mrs. Bannerman or mistress chamber. Their father had made good use of it stowing Elizabeth there. She stayed in it until he and Henry were courting age as she put it. Elizabeth would hate how every other room of Sandon had been scarred by Hugh's temper.

  Lumbering in the dark, he plodded to the window. The abrasions to his ankles had healed up nicely. One benefit to his poor diet. Losing a little weight made his clothes hang about him, stopping the chaffing that led to lesions.

  He pulled at the curtains and let the moon shine bright upon the thick forest below. The trees had grown so thick he could see the crypt where generations of Bannerman's lay. Hugh didn't want to be put there. He wanted to be buried aside his brother in the fields. The guilt of Henry's passing, or the hundreds Hugh had killed doing his job, that's what Hugh thought would be the death of him, not leprosy.