But it was Martin who’d pressed him to drink all that gin despite Mrs. Chapman’s disapproval so he could ruin everything when he got home.
No. He had been on the road to ruin long before Martin turned up at the Silver Pony. No one had made Gareth drink three glasses of rum punch and who knows how many tankards of ale. He had dug his own hole quite ably without any assistance from Martin. There was no need to see the ribald ribbing from the men he drank with as any sort of threat to his manhood. All the talk about being controlled by a mere slip of a girl—it was nothing but the usual good-natured teasing of a bridegroom.
But he’d taken it wrong. It set something dark off in him. Something he couldn’t even articulate, and certainly could not have explained last night.
“What do you mean?” Gareth repeated.
“I stopped the wedding, though I thought more to delay it. She took care of it better than I could,” he chuckled. “She’s quite the little shrew, ain’t she? You don’t need to marry her for her money anyhow, Major.”
Gareth startled. How did Martin know?
“I see you’re surprised. Aye, I know all about your bargain. I’m old but I’m not deaf. Heard a few things that got my curiosity up, and after reading all them papers—well, I put two and two together. But don’t worry. I got your mother’s jewelry back, y’see.”
Martin reached into his coat, held up a small leather sack and shook it. “I was saving it for when we really needed it. I reckon that’s about now. Once I collect the reward from the Earl of Egremont for finding his daughter, I’ll have more than I know what to do with, so it’s all yours.”
Gareth was dumbfounded. Martin had the jewelry he’d accused Rob Allen of taking. For one wild second Gareth pictured his mother’s emerald ring on Annie’s freckled hand.
But she wouldn’t want it now. He’d broken his promise to her.
He ignored the bag Martin tossed on the bench. “Keep the jewelry. It’s worth much more than the reward Egremont is offering.” At least he hoped it was. Gareth had no idea what “a very generous reward” might mean to Annie’s father. “Please don’t tell him where she is. Annie can’t go home. Her father is—he’s an evil man. Sinful.”
Martin clucked. “You don’t know that, only what she’s said. And she’s a little liar.”
“Ian knows. Talk to Ian. He has proof from a clergyman friend that she had reason to run away and lie.” It was he who was lying—there was no proof, just a weepy impression from a maid, but it was imperative that he convince Martin not to reveal Annie’s whereabouts.
Annie could have died yesterday if he hadn’t gotten to her in time. She’d been so pale lying on her bed, her room filling with smoke. He’d accused her of napping while she burnt his house down, but she was innocent.
As she’d said, over and over, and he’d been too arrogant to listen.
Martin was absolutely insane. He’d set the kitchen fire in a misguided attempt to save Gareth. What else had he done to “save” him?
Martin looked doubtful, but picked up the bag. “I’ll need a nest egg. I don’t suppose you’ll want me around anymore now, but getting rid of her was worth it. I didn’t mean for the fire to spread, and it didn’t. I was real careful. Kept it to the old stove, and you needed a new one anyways. And she’d almost burned the kitchen down before, didn’t she. It was where I got the idea.”
Gareth didn’t want to talk about the fire or the wedding anymore. There was something much, much worse to discuss. If Martin had the jewelry, that meant he had been to the dower house, maybe even saw the murderer.
Maybe even was the murderer.
Gareth couldn’t get his mind around it. Setting a fire was one thing. Murder was another. Martin had been his friend.
“Where did you find the jewels? We searched Bronwen’s house thoroughly.”
“Any fool could have found them. T’were with her fancy undergarments and handkerchiefs in a dresser drawer. I brought the bag home and hid it in the cellar afterward until that fancy London girl came around snooping. I should have taken care of her when she fell.”
Duw. Gareth thought his brain had been hit with a lightning bolt. He tried to keep his face blank from the shock he felt.
“You were in the cellar that day? Annie said she’d heard something before she tumbled down the stairs.”
“Aye. Though she never saw me. Kept to the shadows, I did. Story of me life.” Martin chuckled, but Gareth saw no humor in any of this.
“And you just left her there when she fell.”
Martin shrugged. “She was breathing. I thought if she had a good scare she wouldn’t bother to come down again. But to be on the safe side, I brought up the jewelry and hid it in my room.”
The world shifted under Gareth’s feet. Months of agony. And it was his “friend” who was responsible for them.
“You murdered Bronwen. And—and took her against her will.”
“Aye.” Martin said it with no remorse. Said it with near-pride. “She needed killing after what she did to you, leaving you in your hour of need, taking the jewels from your old da and then spreading all those filthy rumors. The other—well, I wanted to know what all the fuss was about, didn’t I? Your cousin Ian, that Parry Lewys—they all dipped their wick in. Who knows who else. Why not me? She was a faithless bitch and loved every minute of it until I put my hand around her throat.”
Sweet Jesus. Gareth could see Bronwen desperate, pleading, agreeing to anything. Martin was wiry and fit. Strong. She’d had no chance against him.
And Gareth was the cause of it all. Martin’s loyalty to him had been perverted beyond reason. He may not have killed Bronwen, but he was responsible just the same.
Gareth didn’t think he had the physical strength or will to frog-march Martin to the village jail right now. Could justice ever be served anyway? Nothing would bring back Bronwen. Martin was unlikely to kill again, but he’d orphaned Bronwen’s two girls, and for that he should pay.
Martin shuffled his feet. “You’ll be all right?”
He sounded uncertain after his gruesome confession. No more so than Gareth. He couldn’t imagine ever being “all right” again. But he nodded, trying desperately to think what he must do next.
“I’ll leave you, then, Major.”
“No!”
Both men looked up as Ian Morgan emerged from the makeshift sacristy. His face was white, his eyes blazing. Ian was as anguished as the day he learned Bronwen was dead.
“I heard everything. Everything. You cannot just let him go, Gareth. He killed her.”
Gareth wasn’t going to let him go. He just hadn’t risen to his feet quite yet. He lurched up from his seat, but not before Ian had tackled the older man to the stone chapel floor. The bag of jewelry flew from Martin’s hand and skittered under a bench.
There was a sickening crack as Martin’s head hit the sharp-edged base of the lectern. Ian looked down with horror as blood pooled beneath them, irrevocably staining his house of worship. He scrambled up and backed away, turning to Gareth with bleak eyes.
“Is he dead?”
Gareth bent over Martin and pressed two fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse. How many times had he done this act after a battle? He did not know whether he should be relieved or not, but he felt faint and thready movement beneath Martin’s collar. But the bright blood continued to flow, seeping between the crevices of the rock tile underfoot.
“Not yet.” There was no doctor in Llanwyr. One of them would have to ride to Hay-on-Wye.
“I loved her, Gareth. I know she toyed with me, but it didn’t matter.”
Gently, Gareth turned Martin to the side to inspect the wound. Ian gasped and quickly looked away, realizing what he saw surely meant.
“This was an accident, Ian. You didn’t mean to kill him.”
“Oh, but I did. And in my church.” His voice was dull. Dazed.
“You know you didn’t,” Gareth snapped. “Never mind martyring yourself. You simply stopped a crim
inal from fleeing. You’ll have to fetch help. Go to the Silver Pony. It seems everyone is there. Someone can ride to Hay to get Dr. Cole.” He wouldn’t be much use, though.
“I’m sorry, Gareth. For doubting you. For everything.”
“Tell Annie what happened. Tell her I was wrong. And an idiot.”
Ian’s lips twisted. “She told me when she came to me to delay the wedding that you were in rare form last night.”
“Apparently so.” He couldn’t remember it all, but what he did recollect was bad enough. Gareth tugged off his cravat and wedged it into the deep wound in the back of Martin’s head. White turned crimson in seconds. “Go on, Ian.”
His cousin left, closing the church door behind him. Gareth sat back on his haunches, wondering how this day could get any worse. If Annie wouldn’t see him when this vigil was over, he didn’t think he could bear it. He needed to talk to her, needed to explain. She’d been uncomfortable with Martin from the first day, and he’d simply dismissed her feelings. Gareth might be older, but it was she who was the wise one.
Ian had said “delay,” not cancel. Surely that was a good sign? If anything could be considered good on this day.
He watched as Martin’s breaths became shallower, the space between each ticking into eternity. He held the old man’s hand in his own, and gave it a squeeze.
“Better to go now, I think,” he said quietly. Even hushed, his voice echoed in the empty church.
Gareth knew at once when his words were obeyed. He rose unsteadily and covered Martin’s body with his coat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the soft leather bag under the Miller family bench and reached under to get it. He drew the string on the bag and peered inside at the jumble of metal and gems. Most were unfamiliar to him—Bronwen’s jewels, meant for her daughters. He fished out the emerald and pearl ring that had belonged to his mother and her mother before her.
For a bit of trumpery, it had caused enough trouble, though it never had been on Bronwen’s hand. She’d worn the Lewys sapphires even after they became engaged. Would Annie want it, after last night? He rested his head on the back of a bench and closed his eyes.
The door burst open a few moments later. Several dozen people spilled into the church, their cheeks rosy from drink. Full of life. Curiosity. To a man and woman, they stared at the crumpled figure at the base of the lectern.
Mrs. Chapman was the first to speak. “He’s dead?”
“Aye.”
“Good riddance.” There was a general murmuring of approval, but Gareth would have none of it.
“Be quiet!” He couldn’t in all charity defend the man, but it was unseemly they should be so bloodthirsty in church.
“Gareth?”
He searched the little crowd for her, failing to see her until she pushed her way to the front. She wore her best bronze dress—her wedding dress—under her cloak, but looked less than a radiant bride. There were smudges under her eyes, and the rouge she’d applied was too bright for her pale face.
“Is the party a success, Annie?”
She nodded.
“Good. You deserve a bit of fun.”
“I’m not having fun, Gareth.” Her eyes darted to the body.
Jim, the ostler at the Silver Pony, stepped forward. “Come on, lads, let’s get old Martin to the Widow Benedict’s. She can lay him out proper-like.” A few men joined him to carry the body away.
But the blood was left, a massive puddle of it. Annie looked as though she might faint. Gareth gathered her up and set her down on the bench. The rest of the spontaneous congregation began to leave, but Gareth raised his hand.
“Wait. Please.” He had everyone’s attention, though he just wanted Annie’s. But an audience might go a little way to persuading her to listen, convince her that he was sincere.
“This morning I was supposed to marry the woman that I love beyond all measure. But I let her down. She offered so much, and asked only one thing of me when we decided to marry—that I stop drinking.” He caught a few frowns on the men’s faces, and a few smug nods on the ladies’. “But I never stopped, not really. Since my accident—no, before—I had fallen into the bad habit of drinking my troubles away. Or trying to. Nothing ever worked, though. Since August I’ve had what I thought was even more reason to pickle myself. Most of you wouldn’t speak to me.” There was a murmur of guilty denial, but he went on.
“You were right to suspect me, for who knows what I might have done? I didn’t know myself when I came out of the blackness every morning.” He took a ragged breath. Public speaking had never been his forte. He was, as he dimly remembered saying last night, a man of action. “Annie.”
Her rust-colored lashes fanned her cheeks and flickered at her name. She held her hands tight in her lap, head bowed, not looking up. As though, he thought, she was praying. What would she ask for?
“I don’t know exactly what I did last night, or exactly what I said, but I know I was wrong. I hurt you, dismissed you. I wish I could say I was not myself, but I’m afraid I was. I’ve turned into someone quite unworthy of marrying you.”
Ah, that lifted her gaze to his. He saw a tiny V of puzzlement between her bronze brows.
“I want to be someone you can place your faith in. Rely on. But I need help. And it won’t take anything but your heart to give me the strength I need. Please tell me I have it, my Lady Anne, even after everything. I swear to you in front of all these witnesses I will never touch another drop of liquor again. Not at Christmas. Not at the christenings of our children. You can pour me a cup of your wretched coffee instead and it shall taste like the elixir of the gods to me. Forgive me, Annie. Marry me.” He dropped to his knee and held out the ring.
He heard a sniffle behind him. Someone had been moved to tears by his speech. Was Annie?
CHAPTER 29
Oh, Lord in Heaven. She must not laugh. She must not.
But her nerves were overset, and she longed for one of her evil governesses to pinch her quiet in church.
Gareth was the picture of penitence. Everything he said rang true. Anne had never seen a more magnificent public grovel, and no doubt some in the crowd would think it was the most romantic thing they’d ever seen.
And it was romantic, save for the fact his knee was very close to a hideous botch of blood that was congealing on the floor. If he shifted over an inch or two—
What on earth was wrong with her? She had wanted to talk to him about their future, and he was talking. There was a rather pretty ring in his outstretched hand, too. She didn’t want to think how he’d come by it.
To be proved right about Martin did not bring her any satisfaction. And Gareth was really only half-right when he identified the difficulty between them. Anne couldn’t possibly continue this conversation with every available eye upon them.
She’d risen in the dark to get Llanwyr to stop the wedding and get the word out that the party would go on all the same. It would have been a wicked waste of food and effort if it had not. Mrs. Chapman and her girls had worked so hard on such short notice.
And, as Gareth said, he’d made paper garlands.
The wedding breakfast had been relatively merry, although the guests were confused by the lack of an actual bride and groom. Anne had said vaguely that “something had come up” to prevent their immediate marriage, and had taken a big bite of cake to stop the questions.
Well, the villagers knew now that Gareth had been drunk and disorderly. They probably thought she was a little termagant for restricting his fun on his last night of bachelorhood. Despite the area’s Methodism, she had been surprised to see so many of the men partake of spirits this morning. The women, too. It was a good thing Ian wasn’t there to see them.
“Annie,” Gareth whispered. “Say something. I’m dying here.”
“Oh! Do get up, or your pants will be ruined,” she whispered back. “All right, everyone,” she said brightly. “Please go back to the inn and continue with the festivities. We’ll join you later.”
/> Gareth frowned but stood. He staggered when a few men clapped him on the back and told him what a fool he was making of himself.
“You need to get the upper hand, Major, do just as you please, drink or no drink, or she’ll run you right into the ground. Mark my words, you’ve got to begin as you mean to go on. Put the girl in her place.”
“Under you!” one of the men guffawed.
“Frank Bryson, you are in chapel!” His wife clouted him on the back of his head.
Finally, finally they were alone. Anne didn’t want to spend one more minute in this building until it was properly cleaned. Exorcised of what had happened.
“Take me home, please.”
“Have you nothing to say?” Gareth asked quietly.
“I have a great deal to say, but not here.” She stared pointedly at the spot where Martin had lain.
“Of course, you’re right. I really am remarkably dense, aren’t I? A regular cloth-head. I believed everything Martin said.”
“You’d known him all your life. Trusted him. Why wouldn’t you?”
“But I love you, Annie.”
“Love isn’t some magical state that makes one see clearly. In fact, I think it does the opposite more often than not.”
She did love Gareth. He’d pierced her defenses, made her feel whole again. She’d never expected to lead an ordinary life, but these weeks with him had been a miraculous mix of comfort and affection, apart from the drudge work and wretched weather.
He’d had a very hard year, a year that would have flattened most any man. Now he’d taken his battered pride and laid it at her feet in front of half of Llanwyr. Men were such silly creatures, always seeking to be in control, even if they had to trick themselves with drink or whatever was handy to think they were.
This morning Gareth was stone sober. He’d witnessed a death. She hoped he was ready to plan their life together. Anne wanted her marriage to be a true partnership. No one needed to be in charge, did they? He was not still in the army, and she was not his foot soldier. By the same token, she would not be forever tugging at his leash. She would no more give him orders than she would follow his.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 27
