By Love Unveiled

by Deborah Martin

  “What is it?” Mina asked.

  The soldier dropped his head back onto the pillow and covered his face. “It can’t be. You’re dead!”

  Clearly the man was delirious. Garett shot Mina a questioning glance, but she shrugged as if she didn’t know quite what to make of it, either. She continued tucking the man’s sheets around him, ignoring his words.

  “Don’t talk,” she soothed him. “ ’Tis not good for you to talk.”

  The soldier dropped his hands from his face and stared at her, his eyes a bright, feverish blue. “I know you’re dead.”

  “Nay.” She took his hand. “Can’t you feel my fingers? I’m quite alive.”

  He shook his head violently, then began to cough. “No, you’re not. But ’tis all right.”

  “Shh, shh,” she murmured.

  “Mayhap you’re an angel now.” He pinned her with his fever-ridden gaze, then nodded painfully. “ ’Twould be good for me. Good to have an angel nearby if I die.”

  Mina did resemble an angel, with her soft hair glowing in the lamplight. No wonder the soldier thought he was already halfway into heaven.

  “You’re not dying,” she assured the soldier.

  The soldier’s face softened, and his voice grew wistful. “You’re an angel. ’Tis fitting. Always knew you were a good girl.”

  It was odd how the soldier seemed so certain he knew Mina. Just who did he think she was?

  The soldier struggled to rise. “Never believed the wicked things Tearle said of you. All lies, it was. Nasty lies about your mother, too… old lecher.” He groaned, then shifted in the bed. “Always wanting her body though she was a gypsy.”

  Suddenly Garett wasn’t so certain the man was delirious. When Mina blanched, Garett’s blood ran cold. She regarded him hastily, fear in her eyes, then dropped her gaze.

  “You were sent as a vision to me. Your father—” The solder paused to cough again.

  Mina’s hands shook. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she countered. “Now, hush, before you hurt yourself!”

  Her tone didn’t intimidate the soldier, for he fixed pain-filled eyes on her. “Can see why Tearle wanted you and your mother… even if you are dead.”

  “I’m not dead at all.” Her lips thinned as she caught sight of the blood seeping through the bandages. “Now see what your foolishness has done? You’ve hurt yourself. Lie still, and let me give you something to help you sleep.”

  Wanting to hear what else the soldier had to say, Garett darted forward to stop her, but the sight of the man’s wounds made him hesitate. She was right—the man had to be kept still. So Garett watched grimly as Mina forced her special opium-laced cinnamon tea between the soldier’s lips.

  As she continued her ministrations, he couldn’t ignore the cold suspicion gripping his heart. What had Tearle said? Even women have their prices.

  Then there had been all her questions about whom he would or wouldn’t kill. Why did that interest her? Clearly, the soldier had known her. And Tearle had known Mina’s mother, the gypsy, but how? He hadn’t lived in Falkham House since long before Mina had claimed to have come to Lydgate. The soldier had even hinted that Tearle and Mina—

  No, he couldn’t believe it.

  He watched Mina remove the soldier’s bindings with shaky fingers. The soldier had mentioned things she’d done. Had she done them with Tearle or against Tearle? Garett wished to God he’d questioned the man before Mina had hurried to sedate him. Why was it that the one thing the soldier had revealed was something he didn’t want to hear?

  But he couldn’t just dismiss it as delirious ravings. Too many bits of truth were mingled with the madness, and she’d clearly wanted them squelched. He had to find out more. If she was somehow connected to Tearle, she could be more dangerous than he’d realized. If Garett was to force a confession from his uncle, he couldn’t have Mina telling the man about Garett’s every move.

  He clenched his fist so tightly that his nails bit into his palm. She wouldn’t look at him. Clearly she hid something. What was it? He had to know! Whatever it cost him, he’d find out what she was… who she was. Somehow he’d get it out of her.

  For once, he’d make the duplicitous Mina tell him the truth.

  Chapter Nine

  On a huge hill,

  Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will

  Reach her, about must, and about must go.

  —John Donne, “Satire 3”

  As Marianne washed the blood from the soldier’s reopened wounds under Garett’s watchful eye, she cursed herself for a fool. She should have been prepared for the possibility that Sir Pitney’s spy might recognize her.

  When Sir Pitney had been trying to force her father into selling Falkham House, his men had been everywhere, spreading their lies that her mother was a witch. Any man who’d worked for Pitney in the last few years was certain to have known about that ridiculous maneuver of his.

  Pitney had underestimated the townspeople’s loyalty to her parents. And their intense dislike for him. During his short tenure as owner of Falkham House he’d been hard and cruel, unconcerned about his tenants or their needs. So of course his accusations of witchcraft had fallen on deaf ears.

  Yet now, two years after he’d spread his lies, he was finally going to succeed in ruining her life. The soldier’s words had to have raised questions in Garett’s mind about her identity.

  At least the man hadn’t revealed her family name. But he’d revealed that she was supposed to be dead.

  A chill shook her. How might Garett interpret that? If he guessed…

  She fought panic as she bound the soldier’s wounds with fresh bandages. Oh, why couldn’t the soldier have chosen to rave while Garett was out of the room? With her heart pounding, she snatched a glimpse of Garett’s face, then dropped her eyes as she saw him watching her, his expression unreadable.

  Hoping to escape his questions, she lifted the soiled bandages and headed for the door.

  “Leave them,” Garett ordered.

  She stifled a groan. “I must wash them or—”

  “Later,” Garett clipped out. “Now you’re coming with me. We must talk.”

  She could insist on staying with the soldier. No, that would only prolong her torment. Better to have his inquisition done with.

  Still, as Garett ushered her into his chambers, her heart beat a staccato rhythm that wouldn’t be quelled. What could she tell Garett about her family without revealing too much?

  Garett motioned for her to take a chair, but she remained standing, not wanting to give him any advantage. After all, at the moment the advantages were all his.

  He seemed to know it. His lowering stare pinned her where she stood, making her stomach roil.

  “Had you hoped he wouldn’t awaken?” he asked.

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “The soldier. If he’d died, your little secret would have died with him.”

  Garett’s imperious tone reminded her of Father’s, when he’d been trying to elicit a confession of her petty misdeeds. She stared at the scowling earl, forcing herself not to be intimidated. She was no longer a child, easily cowed. “What little secret?” she asked evenly.

  The set of Garett’s jaw revealed his displeasure. “He knows you. And Tearle knows you. Surely you see what I must make of that?”

  The vague question was designed to bring confessions tumbling from her lips. Well, she wasn’t such a ninny. “Make of it what you wish, my lord, but your fabrications aren’t necessarily truth.”

  That answer clearly tried his patience. “Deuce take it, Mina, how does a minion of Tearle’s—or even Tearle himself—know you and your parents so well?”

  She strove for nonchalance. “If I knew, I’d tell you, but I have no idea.”

  With a bleak frown, he ran his fingers through his hair. “I am not one of your patients, I’ll have you know. That soldier may lie down and hush when you croon to him, but I demand answers! Do you work for Tearle
? Did he send you here to finish what the highwaymen began?”

  She gaped at him. He couldn’t actually think— He couldn’t possibly have the audacity, the overweening nerve to believe—

  “Answer me!” he bellowed.

  “I could have killed you ten times over, my lord, if I’d so chosen!” She strode boldly up to him as her temper rose. “I could have slipped enough laudanum in your wine to send you forever into sleep or put mustard and hedge garlic into your wounds until you screamed for me to stop the burning. I did none of that.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Think back to that night. Why, it wounded me even to cause you a moment of pain! Surely you saw that?”

  A muscle pulsed in Garett’s clenched jaw. “You saved me because you had to. There were too many witnesses. If you’d killed me, your own freedom would have been forfeit, for the constable would have come for you first.”

  “And since then? We were alone in the garden, alone in the forest… don’t you think I could have thrust a knife through your heart if I’d wanted? But I didn’t. And after how you touched me and we…” She choked back her hurt. “How could you even think I’d try to kill you, especially for some vile scoundrel like Sir Pitney?”

  Though a guilty flush filled his cheeks, his eyes narrowed when she mentioned his uncle. “So you do know Tearle.”

  Oh, heavens. She shouldn’t have mentioned him.

  She felt like Ulysses trying to steer a course between Scylla and Charybdis. She couldn’t deny the soldier’s words, but neither could she tell the truth or let Garett continue in his erroneous idea that she worked for his uncle. So how could she allay his suspicions? Would the gypsy girl she pretended to be have known Sir Pitney? That didn’t seem right somehow… and yet—

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” Garett snapped.

  “Yes,” she blurted out. “I know Sir Pitney.”

  Garett’s eyes turned a flinty, cold gray. “How? Why?”

  Marianne cast desperately about for some half-truth that might keep Garett from guessing too much about her, but nothing came to mind.

  “Were you his mistress?”

  Marianne’s startled expression was perfectly genuine. “That’s repulsive! He’s as old as… as Sir Henry, and I’ve already told you I wasn’t his mistress. Why must you always think such nasty things about me?”

  “Gypsy women sometimes have protectors, as I’ve pointed out before. And an old protector is as good as a young one, if not better, for he has more money.”

  “For the last time, I’ve never had a protector! And if I chose one, it wouldn’t be your uncle.”

  “Why not?” Garett persisted. “He has wealth enough and good connections. What objection do you have to him?”

  “Faith, but you’re as bad as a constable with your questions!” She whirled to put her back to him. Him and his infernal suspicions. What could she say that wouldn’t reveal her identity?

  “Answer me, Mina.”

  She hesitated, but nothing came to mind except the truth. “Sir Pitney knew my father. And my mother.”

  “And?”

  “He knew enough about Mother’s relationship to my father to ruin him.”

  “So did he ruin your father?” Garett was implacable.

  A solution to her dilemma leapt into her mind. “I’m not going to tell you such a thing. I have no reason to believe that you’ll keep quiet about my father’s indiscretions if you guess who he was.”

  “By your own admission, your father’s family abandoned you,” he stated baldly, stepping forward until he towered over her. When she started to move back, he caught her by her wrists. “Why protect a family who never acknowledged you?”

  A tear slipped out to roll down her face, then another and another. The charade was suddenly too much for her. She hated playing this role, hated not being able to shout to the world that her father was a good, honest man. But she dared not tell the truth, for her life and her aunt’s life might be forfeit if she did.

  Her tears, however, seemed to touch some human feeling buried deep within Garett. He gazed at her, then muttered a low curse and released her wrists, only to draw her into his arms.

  Relieved that the inquisition seemed to be over, she let him hold her as her tears fell unbridled, soaking his linen shirt.

  “Damn you, Mina,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re a liar who steals into my soul to torment me when I’m least prepared.”

  “I’ve never done you harm,” she whispered achingly. “Why must you always suspect me of such despicable acts?”

  The low groan that escaped his lips pierced her. Abruptly he released her, turning away to stride to the fireplace. He stood staring into its depths, a dark silhouette against the leaping flames. “Because you came to me cloaked in black cloth and lies. Because you have gypsy blood.” He paused, and she could see the muscles in his back tighten. “Because you know my treacherous uncle.”

  “Not in the way you think.”

  He shot her a fierce glance. “And because you’re the first woman to touch my heart since my mother was murdered ten years ago. That’s what worries me most.”

  She stilled, her breath drying up in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to touch his heart. Or be so terribly glad of it.

  So why did she want to comfort him? Why did his expression, a mix of self-reproach and desire, send a heady rush of excitement through her veins, mingled with a bittersweet longing?

  “What shall I do with you, sweetling?” He glanced beyond her to the door that led into the chamber where the soldier lay. “If you work for Tearle, I dare not let you go. Until you tell me who you are and why I should believe your claims of innocence, I must have you where I can keep an eye on you.”

  She tensed. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll have to be my… ah… guest here… until such time as you tell me the truth about your past. Until you can prove Tearle didn’t send you to pry into my affairs and search for a weakness through which to strike at me.”

  “Guest? Guest?” Her voice rose with her temper. “You mean ‘prisoner’! You can’t do that to a—” She stopped just short of saying “lady.”

  “To a gypsy?” His eyes narrowed on her. When she dropped her gaze, he caught her by the chin to force her head up. “All you need do is tell the truth. And don’t give me any of your tales, for I can tell when you’re lying. You must tell me it all, or I swear I’ll keep you here until you do.”

  “You’re a devil and a blackguard!”

  “You’re not the first person to say so,” he replied coolly. “But you’re the only person who’s lied to me without repercussion. I intend to rectify that. I want the truth. Now.”

  She jerked free of his grip to back away from him. “If I give you the truth, my lord, it could cost me a great deal. I won’t risk it.”

  “You won’t tell me,” he said in disbelief.

  “No more than I’ve already said. I’ve never been nor will ever be a spy or mistress or anything for Sir Pitney. You can trust my word on that.”

  His lips thinned. “I cannot. The last time I trusted someone, he stole my title, my lands, and everything I held dear.” His eyes darkened to winter sleet. “I’ve lost the habit of trusting people.”

  Marianne tried another approach. “If you keep me here, my aunt will report you to the constable.”

  He snorted. “The constable has known my family all his life. He’ll not countenance the foolish claims of a gypsy wench like your aunt.”

  Oh, Lord, he really meant to do this. “You’d keep me here against my will? What kind of man does such a despicable thing?”

  “One who’s tired of being lied to. Come now, if you fear Tearle, I’ll be your protector, no matter what you tell me, even if you say that Tearle used his knowledge of your father to force you into his service or something equally sordid. Just tell me the truth.”

  She gazed at him a long moment. How she wanted to unburden herself to someone! But him? She didn’t dare. Even if he’d ha
d naught to do with Father’s arrest, he was still a king’s man. He wouldn’t harbor a woman said to be an accomplice to an attempt at regicide, no matter how much he desired her.

  “I have nothing to say,” she whispered.

  Her answer leached the warmth from his eyes. He lifted his hand nearly to her cheek before dropping it. “Then I hope time loosens your tongue. Otherwise, you and I shall spend a long, silent winter together.”

  Chapter Ten

  The brain may devise laws for the blood,

  but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree.

  —Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Will stood outside the gypsy wagon and glanced around him, frowning. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, although the early morning was milder than usual for fall and not a cloud marred the blue sky. With great reluctance, he raised his hand to tap at the doors, but they opened before he could touch them.

  Tamara stood in the entrance, her face taut with anxiety. “Where is she?”

  She put her hands on her hips, and the action thrust her ample bosom forward. Will fought the urge to stare at her breasts. Given that the simple loose blouse and heavy skirt she generally wore were tousled, she had probably just come from her bed. Her hair, a soft cloud of sable curls, fell to her shoulders in wild abandon, and the sight of it drove every thought from his head.

  Keep your mind on the business at hand and off Tamara’s sweet curves. ’Twill be bad enough when she hears—

  “Well?”

  “She’s still at the manor.”

  Tamara swore, then marched past him down the crude wooden steps that Will himself had built for the wagon in an attempt to soften her toward him.

  “Where are you going?” he cried, hurrying after her.

  “To rescue my niece from your demon master.”