“That would mean I have a macabre sense of humor, Miss Davidson, and that is not the case. I’m not certain what has happened to Richard Davidson, but I know someone put a bullet in the Reverend Kinnion.”
Sabrina feared her legs would collapse beneath her. She reached for the newel post. Her hand brushed his arm. He leaned forward as if to offer support, but she pulled back, confused by the jolt of something she feared to name that shot between them.
This was not the time to think of lust, or to trust this man. In the kitchen, she’d almost given in to his kiss. If he’d continued one moment more, she feared what she would have done.
A new thought struck her, and she wanted to bury her head in her arms. Not only had she thrown herself in the most wanton way possible at this man, she’d been intimate with a murderer. Could she sink any lower?
Mrs. Bossley came charging down the stairs. “What?” she demanded in her frantic tone. “What did he say? I didn’t hear all. I was too worried. Is it something about Richard?”
The widow’s silliness helped restore Sabrina’s courage. She needed to know what he knew. “Were you the someone who shot the Reverend Kinnion? Did you murder him?”
Mr. Enright frowned as if her question was ridiculous. “The good reverend was saving my life. I’d not harm him. Nor do I wish to harm your father. But I must find him. He is the only one who can give me the answers I need. Whoever shot the reverend may be searching for him as well. That person may have found him, and that is why he has disappeared.”
Panic choked her. “How do you know this?”
“It stands to reason. And, for the record, even though you haven’t asked, and I do believe it is an important question—let me state, I have not ‘murdered’ anyone.”
“Murder?” Mrs. Bossley cried out as if she’d been trying to make sense of the conversation and had just heard the relevant word. “Murder?”
Sabrina sank to the step, overwhelmed by the turn of events. Why had she gone to the bothy that day? Why had she let this silly goose, the Widow Bossley, upset her? If she had stayed at the luncheon, then perhaps, none of this would have happened. Her father would be at home, she would still retain her virtue and dignity . . .
Of course, there would always be the widow, waiting for her father to marry her. But then he might not have ever managed to have the courage to tell his daughter about Mrs. Bossley. The “what-ifs” swirled in her head.
Sabrina now understood how people lost their sanity.
“I said I have not murdered anyone,” Mr. Enright was repeating to Mrs. Bossley, with no small amount of irritation.
“Why would someone say you did if they didn’t have suspicions?” the widow challenged. “Where there is smoke, there is fire. That is what I’ve always believed.”
“Well, there is no smoke, and there is no fire,” Mr. Enright shot back.
Sabrina raised her head. “Would you tell us the truth if you had? Are murderers honest?”
“Yes,” he said. “What do I gain in lying to you? I have killed people—”
Mrs. Bossley cut him off with a shout of alarm. “Killed people?” she repeated, then released a gut-filled cry. “My Richard. My poor Riiicccchharddd—”
“Stop that nonsense,” Mr. Enright ordered, his voice ringing in the stairway and echoing Sabrina’s sentiments. The woman was giving her a headache with her carrying on. He confronted Sabrina. “You can trust me. I fought in the war. I was a colonel in the Irish Regiment. I could give you my references, but my circumstances are a bit havey-cavey right now, what with the sentence for hanging and how there might be a price on my head.”
A price on his head? And they wanted to hang him?
“I can imagine it is difficult,” Sabrina muttered. But it certainly wasn’t as difficult as realizing she’d allowed a condemned man to have his way with her.
Oh, the gossips in the valley would have a hey day with this story.
He sensed her turmoil. Leaning forward, he placed his hands on either side of the step where she sat, his eyes level with hers, those sherry brown eyes that had first sparked her interest in him. “You must trust me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m all you have,” he said in that warm accent. “Do you expect her to help you?” he asked, nodding toward the anxious Mrs. Bossley.
“Help what?” the widow demanded.
“Find Father,” Sabrina answered, frustrated by the woman’s rattlebrained worry.
“Of course I’ll help,” Mrs. Bossley was quick to say.
“He is not looking for your help,” Sabrina replied. She had no desire to partner with the widow. “He is looking for mine.”
“But I will help anyway,” Mrs. Bossley insisted. “I must.”
Sabrina ignored her. Instead, she challenged Mr. Enright. “Why do I need your help? You may be behind his disappearance.”
He did not balk at the accusation but actually smiled. “You know where I was when he disappeared. In my condition, do you believe I could have played a hand in it without your knowledge?”
“Your knowledge?” Mrs. Bossley repeated. “What does that mean?”
Mr. Enright answered for Sabrina. “It means I understand what serious trouble her father might be in.”
“Perhaps it would be wiser to use the law instead of you,” Sabrina countered. It would not be wise to be beholden to this man.
“Your father is the law,” Mr. Enright pointed out. “Who acts when he is not here?”
“The earl,” Mrs. Bossley answered.
“Which means we might as well not have anyone,” Sabrina said, her tone bitter, and she knew she had no choice but to accept Mr. Enright’s help. “It would probably take a week to make my uncle comprehend the danger of the situation. Besides, if father is in trouble, and his disappearance strongly points in that direction, then he would not want his circumstances to be bandied about.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Mrs. Bossley echoed. “We need Mr. Enright’s help,” she told Sabrina. “He is a military man. And that is something. But I want to know, sir, why do people believe you are a murderer?”
“That is a good question,” Sabrina agreed with no small amount of sarcasm. “Mr. Enright, do you have an answer?”
“I do,” he said, straightening. “But you may not enjoy what I have to say.”
“The only way we’ll know is if you tell us,” Sabrina said.
The line of his mouth flattened. He obviously did not like her attitude, but she would not apologize.
She didn’t want him to believe her gullible, in spite of what had happened between them earlier.
He turned his attention in the direction of the kitchen. “I will tell all,” he said, “but I must eat first. I’m starving.” He didn’t wait for her comment but started down the hall. Rolf had come down the stairs and now fell into step beside him, his nails making a prancing sound on the floor.
Mrs. Bossley leaned over the railing, watching him leave with some concern. “What did he say?” she asked, as if uncertain she understood.
“That he is hungry,” Sabrina answered. “And he is jolly well not going to answer any questions until his belly is full.” She stood. “Come, let us hear his tale.”
“Should we trust him?”
“Rolf doesn’t like men, but he appears to accept Mr. Enright. However, should we trust him? Absolutely not,” Sabrina replied grimly, aware that she had no choice. He already carried a very big secret of hers.
A damaging one.
“For right now, we’ll play his game.” Sabrina rose to her feet and started down the hall, her shoulders back, her pride around her. Mrs. Bossley hesitated a moment, then came trotting behind her.
In the kitchen, Mr. Enright had picked up the broom and was sweeping up the broken pottery pieces. He chewed on a hunk of bread he had torn off from the loaf that had been on the table until he’d taken his leap across it. Rolf was chewing, too. Apparently, Mr. Enright had shared his bread with a very happy dog before
placing what was left on the table.
The pottery pieces swept into a pile in the corner, he set the broom aside and easily carried the tub of water out of the kitchen. What usually gave Sabrina fits, he did easily. He tossed the water out into the yard.
Sabrina stored the soaps away. Mrs. Bossley sniffed the air. “Are these your soaps?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Bossley took another sniff just as Mr. Enright walked by. Sabrina did as well and realized Mr. Enright carried the scent of her soaps. She didn’t think anything of it other than that the man had obviously bathed, which was not a bad thing.
However, Mrs. Bossley raised a quizzical eyebrow. She looked from Mr. Enright to Sabrina and back again.
Sabrina frowned. She didn’t know what conclusions the widow was forming in her hen-headed mind, but she didn’t trust her.
Mr. Enright lifted the lid on the pot warming on the hearth. He inhaled with satisfaction. “This is what I’ve been needing.”
“It should be mutton stew,” Sabrina said. She took a taper from the kitchen mantel, lit it off the fire, then used it to light candles around the kitchen. She set one of the candlesticks on the table.
Sabrina fetched three bowls from the cupboard. “Mrs. Bossley, the spoons and a knife are in that bin on the cupboard. Mr. Enright, will you bring the pot of stew to the table?”
Mrs. Bossley proved, for once, that she could be less than contrary by doing as bid—or so Sabrina had thought. She changed her mind when she surveyed the table settings. “Where is the knife?” Mrs. Bossley had only brought over spoons.
“Do you think it is wise?” Mrs. Bossley shot a pointed glance in Mr. Enright’s direction. He was taking the chairs from against the wall and placing them around the table for seating.
Sabrina had fetched a small crock of butter from the pantry for their bread. She now silently agreed with the widow and pushed the butter to the side.
Of course, he’d noticed their whispering. “I’m not a murderer,” he grumbled.
“But you are accused of murder,” Sabrina stated.
He grunted his frustration.
Their dinner was ready.
“Shall we?” Sabrina said, indicating that she and Mrs. Bossley would sit on one side of the table. Mr. Convicted Murderer could stay on the other. He had the good manners to wait until the ladies had taken their seats before sitting himself. Indeed, he had impeccable manners.
Also, to her surprise, Rolf chose Mr. Enright’s side of the table. She frowned at her hound and picked up the serving spoon.
Playing the hostess, she passed Mrs. Bossley her portion of the stew, but as she handed Mr. Enright his bowl, she said, “Very well, sir, you have food, and we haven’t gone screaming down the road. Now, tell us, whom did you murder?”
Chapter Eleven
Mac understood he was on trial here and that Miss Davidson would be a harsher judge than the one who had sentenced him.
For the past hour, she had behaved like a marionette on very tight strings. She might want to give the impression she was in control of her emotions, but her hands shook slightly—and it had to do with the unspoken between them, with what had happened in her bed. He could almost feel her fears. And he knew why.
Miss Davidson was of that class of women who believed they must do everything right and proper. No mistakes allowed. She gritted her teeth as if reminding herself to be brave. She feared being vulnerable. She feared being human.
He understood women like her because he’d been raised around them. He had been the male version until his brother and sweetheart’s betrayal and years in the military and learning how bloody hard it was just to live, let alone be constantly honorable. Experience had knocked that nonsense out of him.
And sooner or later, he and she needed to discuss their situation. She was a magistrate’s daughter. He could imagine she had some prestige in this country society. What if it became known she had consorted with the likes of him?
Or, more exactly, what she thought he was?
For the first since he’d learned of his brother’s death and his inheritance, Mac wanted to use the title, earl of Ballin. He wanted to toss it out and watch her reaction. Would it ease her mind? Or would she still regret what had passed between them . . . because he didn’t.
He’d been lost in the depth of exhaustion and illness. His body had been battered, beaten, and weakened. And then her kiss had reminded him of something he’d forgotten over those long months in the Old Tolbooth—that there was magic in a woman’s touch. From the ancient sirens to the kiss Miss Davidson had bestowed, they all, every feminine one of them, had a gift that could restore a man’s soul.
When she’d so passionately given herself to him, the sweet, blessed headiness, the power of his release had made him feel whole again. He’d slept better in those few hours after having made love to her than he had in years.
She’d healed him, and her sweet body had restored his will to push forward. The despair, the grief, the sorrow that had dogged him for so long had vanished and been replaced by a very intense interest in her.
So, perhaps he did owe her something . . . like his story.
“I was accused of murdering Gordana Raney,” he started. “She was a young lass in Edinburgh with the voice of a songbird, and she was very popular. She chose to sing for her living instead of earning it in unsavory ways, but she was with a rough crowd. After all, they were the ones who had the money.” He tasted the soup. It was warm, unseasoned, and manna from heaven could not have tasted better. “Is there something to drink?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Bossley echoed. “I could do with some whisky. It would settle my nerves.” Half of her hair was pinned; the other half was down around her shoulders. She reminded Mac of nothing more than a scarecrow that had been blown in the wind.
Miss Davidson looked at both of them with impatience, and with more than a hint of contempt toward the older woman. She did not like Mrs. Bossley. She obviously did not approve of a liaison between the older woman and her father.
Pulling her own unpinned and slightly wild, dark hair over her shoulder, Miss Davidson rose from the table. “Whisky for you both?”
Mac shook his head. “Not for me. I swore off whisky when they yanked me from my bed after a night of drinking too much of it and accused me of murder. Do you have wine? And if not, I’ll be pleased with water.”
His hostess arched an eyebrow, a silent warning that for this trouble, his story had better be good.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Bossley said to Mac as she leaned forward. “But let us start from the beginning. What is your name?”
“Cormac Enright.”
“And you are Irish,” Mrs. Bossley said, her nostrils twitching with a slight hint of disapproval.
“Proudly so.”
Mrs. Bossley considered him a moment, then with the right touch of slyness, said, “I knew an Irish lad once. He was a charmer.”
“Tell us a lad you haven’t ‘known,’” Miss Davidson murmured as she placed a dram of amber liquid in front of Mrs. Bossley and another beside her own plate. Mac received water although he could see a corked wine bottle on the cupboard shelf. He sighed and toasted her before taking a sip.
“On with your story,” Miss Davidson said, seating herself and crossing her arms tightly against her chest. She had not touched her meal, and she did not touch her glass.
“Gordana was well-known around a gaming den called the Rook’s Nest. That is where I met her. Have you ever heard of it?”
“I’ve never been to Edinburgh,” Miss Davidson said.
Mrs. Bossley answered, “I have, many a time.”
“And did you patronize the Rook’s Nest?” Miss Davidson asked an edge to her tone.
“Of course not,” the older woman answered but then smiled as she delivered a piece of information that would repay Miss Davidson for her feline testiness, “But your father did.”
Miss Davidson’s reaction was swift. “A gaming hell? My father would
not patronize such a place.”
“Well, he did,” Mrs. Bossley said simply.
“Yes, he did,” Mac echoed. “He testified during my trial to it.”
Miss Davidson sat back, her arms dropping to her side, her expression stunned. “And when did he supposedly do this? He rarely travels to Edinburgh, and only on matters of a legal nature.”
“The trial was in May,” Mac said.
“He wasn’t in Edinburgh in May.”
“He was,” Mrs. Bossley chimed in.
Miss Davidson turned in her seat to face the woman. “How do you know this?”
“Because he told me,” Mrs. Bossley answered. “He said he had to go to court in Edinburgh. He was quite worried about it. When he returned, I asked if all was well. He didn’t want to discuss the matter or his business, and that was, I believe, the last time he’s been to Edinburgh. Of course, before then, he and the earl traveled there several times.”
A small frown line formed between Miss Davidson’s brows. “I didn’t know this.”
“Well, he wasn’t in the valley. Where did he tell you he was?” Mrs. Bossley wondered. “Sometimes he was gone for several days. And in May, he was there for almost a week.”
“He traveled to Perth quite a bit. Another magistrate in that area, Sir James, was quite ill. Father would go and help the man by fulfilling some of his duties.”
“Well, he may have stopped at Perth,” Mrs. Bossley said. “Is it not on the way to Edinburgh?”
“But why would he not tell me the truth?” Miss Davidson shook her head as if it did not all make sense. “And why would he go to a gaming hell with the earl? My uncle has ruined this family with his gambling. That is the last place Father would take him.”
“Who is the earl we are discussing?” Mac prodded.
“The earl of Tay is my uncle,” Miss Davidson informed him.
Mac tucked this piece of information away. The earl of Tay had been sitting in the front row of his trial.
Miss Davidson reached for her whisky and took a sip. “I don’t understand why Father would not say something to me,” she repeated.
The Groom Says Yes Page 11
