The way the widow said it, kind of fearful and with her gaze lowered made Isadel very concerned. "What other conditions did he advise?"
Bannerman shrugged as the widow fiddled with her apron strings. "To be nice… to respect you as heading his kitchen."
For a moment, the concern he had warmed her, as did his present of the crisp apron. But why was he concerned about such, when he reduced Isadel to a bit of fluff with his next command?
Bannerman opened the door to the scullery. "Miss Armijo, I need to speak with you alone. Mrs. Nelson, do you mind me borrowing our chef for a moment?"
Isadel couldn't be alone with him, not now with his kiss branded on her lips. She grabbed ahold of the table. "I mind very much. We've work to do before we serve the workmen."
"We have time. The potatoes are just about to soften in the boiled water." Mrs. Nelson stirred the stew pot. "Go on. No fretting about me, ma'am."
Isadel needed to wash her hands and slip on the pretty apron, both of which were in scullery where Bannerman wanted to meet. But she couldn't move, not with him gloating with his lopsided smile.
He slipped to her side and clasped her elbow. "Come with me, my dear—"
"It's, Miss Armijo. I'm not your mistress yet."
Mrs. Nelson stumbled then caught herself on the table. Her face filled with a knowing grin, and Isadel's heart crumbled. She was Agueda to the widow. There was something Isadel craved more than revenge, respect.
Bannerman's eyes widened with crinkles. "I don't think it fair that we discuss our domestic situation in front of Mrs. Nelson."
"There is no situation. I'm a chef to you and that is all. I don't want to play your games."
"Oh, please do not force me to declare myself in front of the good widow and tell her how you stole your way—"
Isadel swiped a ladle from the table and clapped it over his lips. The smack was hard, probably enough to leave a ring. She did care that she hadn't hurt him, but she couldn't have him spreading more half-truths and lies.
He took the ladle. "Well now, this must be cleaned in the scullery. Right, Miss Armijo? He prodded her shoulder with the silver handle. "Shall we continue in private?"
Insides about to boil over, she threw up her hands and headed into the scullery.
Bannerman remained a few safe paces behind her, his laugh growing with each step. He closed the door. His chuckles had grown to a full body shake that made his wide chest puff bigger. "It would bode better for you if you listened. That might need to be your first lesson in this mistress business."
"You need to send me back to the Abbey now. We've played enough at this."
"And miss your big chance at revenge. Fine. The one thing I thought you were was brave, but I guess there is a coward buried in that burly jacket. Go to the stable down the hill, tell the new groom I told you to take the fastest horse."
She moved past him, but he caught the hem of her jacket.
"Before you flee, help me with my hand. Seems I might have re-injured it with our little outing."
Her anger softened. She pushed him to sit on a stool. "You should've told me you hurt yourself."
"You were a little too busy running."
She stomped backed into the kitchen, avoiding Mrs. Nelson's strange looks as she grabbed her sharp knife and a bucket of hot water. Lugging the heavy bucket of steaming water to him, she dropped it near Bannerman's boots. "Hand me your palm."
He did so with eyes that were no longer laughing, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. Like she skinned cod, she peeled the layers of leather. The dinner glove was stuck to a tiny break in the skin. "Sand or debris made its way inside from the punching."
"Isadel, I have a killer coming for me. Other men, good ones may die and the war could be lost if the Almeida Killer is not stopped."
"You mean the war effort that killed my family?"
Pulling his hand taut within hers, she waved her sharp knife then like she did chicken skin, thinly sliced away the last pieces of the silk glove.
He didn't flinch or move. "I trust you, Isadel, even though you nearly killed us in the park. What about trusting me?"
She pulled at the soft material. The old gash had been healing well, but the new injury happened because of her recklessness. "It's very hard to do, but I never said I didn't care. Hold your palm wide. Let it get air."
"I only smell cinnamon. Your cinnamon, Isadel."
She clasped his hand and with fingers entwined, she dunked them both into the water.
"You're not afraid of what I have?"
"No. You will be cured."
His hands tightened about hers in the shared bucket. "How will I if you run back to Hartland now?"
She washed his wound with a clean rag, gently scrubbing the bits of dirt and bark that had worked into his glove. "Men have tried to make me a whore. They left with their lives and a few cuts they'll not want to talk about. At the Abbey, Lord Hartland made sure I was left alone."
"Yes, he left you to stew in your hatred and guilt for living. I've been stewing too over my brother Henry, until you came here delivering a message. You brought me good news, that someone still cared if I lived or died. You've shaken my bonds from me. I need to do the same for you."
"How? Why?"
"Isadel, you saw today how close you need to be to set off the explosives and to ensure it hits the intended victim. You can't do that from the kitchen. As my mistress, you will have free rein to get close to Moldona and get your revenge. What is wrong with my plan if it gets what you want?"
"And what do you want? You could have Moldona here, and I could serve food that wouldn't poison everyone without the pretense of being your mistress."
"The roles change the minute Sandon has guests. I don't want you hidden away in the servants' quarters. Part of this is selfish. I still want you attending me, making me balms. Gather your intelligence out of the shadows. It also affords you protection. Moldona has roaming eyes and hands. He'll know not to touch you, unless you permit it."
She dried his wound, sliced up an onion and layered it upon the wound to cleanse it. "But what of your hands?"
"Isadel. Spies must be covert about many things, but in this thing, I won't. I will say it plain. I am very much attracted to you. It's not every day a woman almost kills me or gets the same heady pleasures from gunpowder that I do. You are a rarity. I enjoy your humor, your modesty, and your kiss. But this mistress arrangement is pretend, even if a part of me might want it to be true."
His candor was her undoing, for her cheeks felt hot and that feeling of wanting to be in his arms, the one that overtook her senses when they landed in that ditch, returned. She couldn't say anything to that. She wasn't Agueda. She would lose no more respect from Bannerman. Stewing, she wrapped his wound, nice and tight and never uttered a word.
"What is it going to be, Isadel? Will you stay and pretend to be my mistress? Will you help me catch a killer or do I send you back to Hartland?"
"What about my problems? Your plan does not kill Moldona and it does not restore the respect Mrs. Nelson had for me."
"Isadel, you are not a killer, but as my mistress you have free rein. If you corner him alone and you convince yourself again of his guilt, do what you must. I will not stand in your way nor will I help. Will you pretend to be my mistress?"
Isadel dumped the water out of her bucket, and then scrubbed it clean. "If I do this, you will not mind if I kill one of your guests?"
Bannerman came beside her at the cistern and put his bandaged hand on her shoulder. "Moldona is my friend Betsy's husband. He is rotten to her. So, killing him would be no lost to me, but do it only if he is guilty. The battlefield is chaotic. You have to be sure who the enemy is. But Isadel, you are a healer. There is a rhythm of hope about you. I've seen you move to it. It's not one of death or killing or even revenge."
"Moldona is the one. He is the slaughterer."
"Then you need the opportunity to get him to admit it. You'll not have that chance lurking in the ba
ckground at the Abbey."
She pulled at her clothes. "I am a sorry excuse for a mistress. They will look upon you with pity."
"You will need some evening gowns, but my stepmother will see to it. It will be nice having someone else as her project." Standing, he took her hand and spun her around. "You will do nicely, Isadel. I will be proud to claim you."
She felt on fire as her anger turned to something else as he twirled her.
He put both hands about her waist and lifted her as he'd done out in Sandon's park. "You'll have to get used to my hands and my size hovering about you. I tend to tower over someone so small."
"I haven't agreed."
He set her back down. "But you will. You can't resist the challenge of it, Isadel. We are so alike. Which means you can be stubborn like a mule too. What have you? Mistress or stubborn mule back to the Abbey?"
With his palms still on her like they were dancing one of those jigs she'd seen at the Abbey, it was hard to reason, but there was no flaw to his logic especially for someone like her. "The soldiers mistook Agueda for a prostitute. I suppose a mistress is an elevation for a mulatto or blackamoor or whatever term you English have for girls like me."
"What is it you want, Isadel?" His tone sounded low and calm as if he cared.
The pound of a set of footsteps from behind made her turn. Bannerman hadn't taken his hands from her even as his man stood at the threshold. The lord of the manor had claimed his brown bit o'muslin.
Phipps cleared his throat. "Bannerman, I sent notes with the new footman. I requested your stepmother come right away and the Moldonas at month's end. Three weeks from now. Will you two be ready? This scheme will be dangerous if Moldona is the Almeida Killer or if this gathering draws the killer to Sandon. We can't be divided in this."
"I'm prepared, but I'm not sure about our chef." He folded his arms and thumbed his chin as if he were in deep thought, then said, "Phipps, hire more people. The place will need to be painted before my stepmother arrives. And some groundsmen are needed. It seems my dove has damaged the landscape with an unexpected explosion. Naughty girl. And have a horse ready in the stable. Miss Armijo can borrow it anytime she feels the need to run."
She couldn't look at Bannerman anymore and focused on Phipps. "Your employer is having fun. I'm not sure I should play along. I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea."
"Yes, of course. Sir, Miss Armijo. I'll go see about more workers." He pedaled out of the room as if it were on fire.
Bannerman bubbled into more laughter.
"Phipps has left. You should follow. Mrs. Nelson and I have to ready dinner."
"Yes, and one last thing." He picked her up and planted a kiss on her lips.
Startled, she swung back and slapped him as hard as she could.
He put her back down. "Yes, we'll have to practice this. My stepmother, the Lady Rhodes, and Betsy St. Claire Moldona are very astute. They can detect a sham."
She wiped at her mouth. "Then let them know this business between us is fake."
"The less who know the truth, the better. And unlike you, I don't trust them with my secrets. I need this portrayal to seem true enough to draw a killer and enough to potentially absolve my friend's husband of your family's murder."
"I thought you did not care for Moldona."
"Moldona, no, but his wife is an old friend. She has suffered a great deal. I'd like to spare her more anguish."
"Bannerman, what will you do if Moldona shows he's guilty?"
He shrugged. "There is no punishment for that crime in England. I will let you exact justice, but I must stop the Almeida Killer. There is much at stake, but believe me your feelings matter to me. And you can't keep calling me Bannerman. We need to be more personal. Call me Hugh."
"H-ugh." She shook her head. "Bann-er-man sounds better."
"It's all perspective, but my name does sound good on your tongue. See you at dinner, my sweet."
With the door swinging shut, Isadel was left with questions. What would she have to do to be convincing as a mistress, and what did she truly want other than Moldona's head on a platter? She sank onto her stool overwhelmed with the scent of Hugh Bannerman on her hands.
Hugh wanted to chuckle, wanted to delight in teasing Isadel. She deserved censure for going against his wishes and igniting the powder bag. She could've killed them. Yet, punishment was the last thing on his mind when he kissed her in the ditch or now in the scullery.
He slugged into his study. His desk had been cleaned. The fresh pine soap smell hit him, but he'd wished it was cinnamon, Isadel's cinnamon. Why was she so unsettled? Was it that she wanted Hugh to kill Moldona so badly nothing else mattered? Some women merely asked for pearls.
Pressing forward, he stared at the neatness of his study. The mounds of books he'd collected and scoured for a cure had been put away. With a fresh coat of buttermilk colored paint, this room wouldn't reflect his desperation, as if things were so easy to erase—like the aftermath of an explosion on the enemy or hapless innocents like Henry. What would he say to Hugh over forcing Isadel to play this game of baiting a killer?
Hugh sat in his favorite chair, which had been cleaned and polished. He tapped the fretwork of the stiles, circled a tattoo scribed into the armrest, measuring his actions and thinking of his favorite chef. From this seat, he'd searched in desperation for a cure, something to let him live. Today, he found something better than a reason to live a long life, a moment with Isadel smiling. But that was no more and the guise they were about to do felt more wrong.
Phipps walked inside and closed the door tight behind him.
"Bannerman. My father was steward over this place. It is in my family's line to serve the Bannermans. I followed you to war as your batman. I've seen you do a lot of strange things but drawing Isadel Armijo into this, well that's pretty low."
"Remember, she came to me to find out how to make explosives. She wanted to serve a cake that would make Moldona disappear."
Wiping his mouth, Phipps posted at the desk's edge. "Perhaps, but you can dissuade her of such."
"No. Isadel Armijo is reckless. She almost got us killed today, and I loved it."
Phipps leaned forward. "What are you saying?"
What was Hugh trying to say? Should he just admit to his loyal friend that he was right, that Hugh fancied Isadel. No, that was too much truth to say aloud. Spies don't divulge such secrets, not without torture. He drummed his finger along the desk. "Miss Armijo has the same anger that a certain young man had until his batman, his-man-of-all-work set him on a better path. Armijo has no batman. The guide she had was a father killed by one of ours and a song from a mother long past. She's alone. I want to help her, but I am a soldier too. I have to catch the Almeida Killer. Maybe that will right all the wrongs I've done."
"Your killing was for the English cause and the guilt you bear over Master Henry is ill-placed."
"Phipps, you don't know my dreams. The faces of those who died."
His man slammed a fist on the desk. "Accidents happen and your actions were in service to the king. No one could ask more of you. But what does that have to do with our chef?"
"She thinks she could have saved her family from the British soldiers who ravaged Badajoz after the siege. She believes that Moldona personally did this. She must know he is guilty with no doubts before she strikes. That is the only way to live with the consequences."
"Then you are helping her? Here I thought this was just an elaborate scheme to have her end up in your bed."
Hugh sat back in his chair and thought about putting his dusty boots on the surface but stopped. "If that is what I wanted, I'd be more direct."
Phipps's glance never wavered. "I suppose, but you are out of practice."
"Some things aren't so easy to forget, but she has me thinking. The day Henry died, how many people visited Sandon that day?"
"Betsy St. Claire, your stepmother, Moldona, and about five or six workmen. Why do you ask?"
"I've always been prec
ise when measuring powder. How is it that the charge was enough to blow the stump and that healthy tree onto Henry? It's been a long time, but that explosion seemed a great deal bigger than the amount of powder I set."
"Bannerman, you're chasing ghosts when there is a chef who is crying in the scullery. I had to calm down Mrs. Nelson in the larder and convince her you are no martyr plying on foreigners.
Hugh scratched his non-existent beard. "Armijo was crying in scullery while you were begging in the larder? There is a joke in there somewhere. I'm sure of it.
With a shrug, Phipps pivoted and marched to the door. "Make jokes of it as you want, but don't ruin something that could be special. All of our kitchen staff is special."
"Just make sure Armijo has not escaped out the back door or gone near my black powder stash. It's been a long day."
"Well, prepare for a longer month. You know how it is when Elizabeth Bannerman comes."
"You mean Elizabeth Smythe, the countess of Rhodes. She found another old man to marry her, but he's still reasonably healthy. I think we sent her spoons."
Phipps shook his head, probably a perpetual happenstance as they prepare for this visit. "You need anything?"
"Just a hope and prayer that Moldona isn't more of a killer than me. If he is the Almeida Killer, he's walking in here a dead man. Wellesley will ensure it. Too many good men have died. If he is the Armijo family assassin, I don't know. Perhaps, he's still a dead man."
"You won't spare him for Miss St. Claire, I mean Mrs. Moldona's sake? I remember you caring for her a great deal."
Hugh had loved Betsy once, but the time was never right for them. He was in deep mourning over Henry. Then, she was in mourning for her brother. When it seemed as if their fates would mesh with her letters alluding to her possibly loving Hugh, she eloped with Moldona. With a sigh, Hugh decided to put his feet on the desk sans boots. They needed to be aired with all the tramping he and the chef did today.
"She will always be a friend. Check the weapons. Elizabeth's trappings will make enough noise to ensure the true killer shows. We'll need to be ready with enough power to stop the fiend. His life will be handed over to the crown. My vow to never kill again will remain intact."
No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5) Page 13