by C. J. Archer
All that mattered was getting her to believe him and trust him again.
"If you speak the truth, then tell me one thing," she said. "What is between you and Widow Renny?"
He let go of her chin and rose. He rubbed his thigh. "Nothing. Cole killed her husband so I want to see how she fares now that I'm back here. She is not my mistress, Cat."
"How many men has Cole killed?"
The question rocked him. He sat heavily on one of the chairs and tried to collect his wits. If he weren't so tired, would this be easier? "Is that what Slade said to you today? That Cole has killed many men?"
"Answer my question," she snapped.
What had happened to her? She used to be sweet and demure. He recalled the delighted look on her face when he asked her to marry him, and the wonder in her eyes upon first seeing Oxley House. And then there was the breathy way she said his name when he made love to her. There'd been no sign of her temper until recently. He felt like he hardly knew her. One day she was basking in being Lady Oxley, and the next she was being willful and questioning everything. How had he lost control of his marriage so quickly?
How could he wrestle it back without losing her forever?
"Cole is a good man," he said carefully. "Whatever Slade has told you is a lie."
"And what if it wasn't Slade who told me, but something I worked out for myself? Are you suggesting that everyone has lied to me and only you speak the truth?"
"Perhaps you've simply jumped to the wrong conclusions. Perhaps Slade has put ideas into your head. He's angry at me for taking away his sport—you—and he wants to make you hate me too, as revenge."
She got to her feet. Her sewing slid from her lap onto the floor. "I am not a child! Do not talk to me like one. Slade has only confirmed what I already suspected."
His insides knotted. He was going to be sick. "He's told you that I have kept my mistresses?" he asked quietly.
Her body trembled. Her face crumpled and tears fell. He wanted to wipe them away, but knew she wouldn't let him near. Not now. Oh God, what had happened? How had he lost her after coming to realize he couldn't live without her?
She sobbed. Her tears flowed unabated and dripped off her chin. She edged closer to the bedchamber door, shaking her head over and over, as if she didn't want to believe something.
What did she know?
"You…" she spat between wracking sobs. "You killed Stephen."
Fuck, fuck, fuck! How was he going to talk his way out of this? He'd never been short of words or ideas. Never felt backed into a corner he couldn't escape from. Never felt so sick to his stomach with fear. He was losing her, losing something more precious than jewels and coins and land. He was losing his little Cat.
No, he'd already lost her.
But he couldn't let her go without a fight. If only he could think of something to say to calm her.
"Cat." He stood and approached her carefully. He held his arms out wide so she could see that he wouldn't hurt her.
She shoved him in the chest, hard, then cried out in pain. She cradled her hand and sobbed anew.
His heart ground to a halt. "You're injured. Let me look."
She turned and fled into her bedchamber. Before he could reach the door, she'd slammed the bolt home.
He tried the knob. "Cat! Please, let me see your hand."
No answer.
"Cat, I want to speak to you. I need to…" His labored breathing made it impossible to continue. His heart felt like it was going to explode into a thousand pieces yet it continued to throw itself against his ribcage without a care.
He pressed his forehead to the door and closed his eyes. How could he ever win her back when she knew the truth? He couldn't deny it anymore. He couldn't pretend that Slade was lying. She was too clever for that. She was hurt, scared, alone, and it was all his fault.
"I'll tell you everything, Cat. I'll give you all the answers you seek. Just come out here now and let me see to your hand."
"Tell me through the door."
"But your hand! At least let the wise woman look at it."
"After you talk."
He was losing this battle too. She was slipping through his fingers like water and he couldn't grasp her. "Very well." He sat heavily on the floor and leaned back against the door. He glanced at the door opposite to make sure it was closed. No one must hear this except Cat. "You're right. I killed your husband. Actually, Cole did it, but I ordered it. We're assassins, Cat. People commission us to take lives and I was commissioned to end Stephen's. But I can assure you, we only assassinate the deserving," he added quickly. It was important she understood that part. "Murderers, rapists, vile people who've escaped justice one way or another."
He waited, but no sound came from the other side.
"Cat? Did you hear me?"
"Stephen was none of those things. You should have checked before you took the money from an anonymous coward." Vile hatred dripped from her tongue. If she believed Stephen innocent, then it wasn't surprising that she thought ill of Hughe.
"He murdered a man." He didn't tell her that the man Stephen murdered was the husband of the woman he supposedly raped. Hughe had found that accusation more difficult to prove, since the woman in question hadn't spoken of the incident to anyone except her husband.
"He didn't kill anyone. Your facts are wrong."
"I checked them thoroughly, Cat. I know, beyond doubt, that he killed a man named Crabb."
She fell silent.
"I can assure you, I would never take a commission without being positive of my target's guilt, and certain that he wouldn't face justice the usual way. I know we haven't known one another long, but I would hope that you know that about me. I am not an indiscriminate killer, Cat."
Again, silence. He waited, his heart pounding in his throat. Perhaps he should try and break the door down. Then finally he heard a soft cry.
He turned and pressed his palm to the door. The wood felt warm, smooth. "Cat, my sweet. Open the door. Let me in."
Her cry turned to a sob. "Stephen wouldn't do that! He was a fool, but no killer! You ended an innocent man's life for a few coins. You sicken me, Hughe. I'd rather be married to a poor fool like Stephen than you, with all your wealth and deceit. I hate you. I hate you!"
Her words punched him in the gut and robbed him of breath. He gasped for air, but his throat was too tight, his chest too. He could hear her crying on the other side of the door, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing to make it better. Only worse.
Nevertheless, he must continue and tell her everything. She deserved to know the truth. Whether she believe him or not remained to be seen, but he had to try and make her see that he was no villain. Having her shun him was one thing, but having her hate him was worse than any injury he'd ever incurred.
"He was seen by no less than three men," he persisted.
"Then why didn't they go to the authorities and let them arrest him?"
"Because they were paid not to. They were poor men, peasants. They were given more money than they receive in a year of hard work."
Her gasp came through loud and clear before she fell silent once more.
"I paid them more to talk and they did, but they feared for their lives and wouldn't go to the authorities." It was time to tell her the rest too. If he were to convince her he needed to tell her the full story. "When I dug further, I discovered that your husband had…taken advantage of Mistress Crabb, against her will."
"No! He would never do that."
"The woman's husband found out and confronted him, bit Stephen killed him. One night, when Stephen got drunk, he boasted about it to his retainers in an inn. The innkeeper overheard him."
Still she didn't speak, but he hoped she was listening.
"I know it's a lot to take in, but you must believe me when I tell you that he wasn't the man you thought he was."
"Neither are you." She spoke so quietly he almost missed it.
"No," he murmured. "Neither am I." His
heart had finally calmed somewhat, only to reveal a hollowed out cavity in his chest instead. He waited, hoping she would unbolt the door, but she didn't. "Can I come in to check your hand?" he asked.
"No," she croaked. She was crying again.
"Can I send for the wise woman?"
"Yes."
He heaved himself to his feet with great effort. His thigh ached, his head felt heavy and his heart bruised. He found one of her maids and asked her to send for Widow Dawson from the village. Then he settled himself back on the floor by Cat's door and waited. But it was no use. He couldn't think straight. Could only recall the echo of her words:
I hate you.
***
Widow Dawson assured Cat that her hand wasn't broken, only bruised. It would heal perfectly, but she must use it sparingly. Fortunately, it was her left.
The wise woman applied a comfrey-scented balm to the swollen skin then bound the hand. She worked quickly and spoke in a heavy country accent to her young daughter who stood nearby. The girl, Bel, was apparently learning her mother's trade, only she didn't appear to be listening. She stared wide-eyed at Cat the entire time. Or rather, stared at Cat's clothing and jewels.
"There," Widow Dawson said, tying up the end of the bandage. "Be careful with it, m'lady. Don't go doin' whatever it was that did this again."
"I hit it on a door," Cat said.
"So you told me, m'lady."
Cat didn't have to look her in the eye to know Widow Dawson didn't believe her. She hoped the wise woman wouldn't share her suspicions with Hughe.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, m'lady?"
"That's all, thank you."
The wise woman's gentle, knowing eyes narrowed to slits. "I have remedies for the heart—"
"My heart is well."
"Is it? Only the swelling of yer eyes tells a different story."
"Tears of pain." Cat indicated her hand.
"Hmmm." Widow Dawson pressed the stopper into the jar of balm and returned it to her basket. "Bel, pass me the cloth."
The girl didn't answer. Her attention was focused on the fabric of Cat's skirt. She rubbed the smooth silk between her thumb and forefinger. She'd probably not seen anything so fine.
"Bel! Listen to me, girl, and stop yer gawping."
Bel colored and dipped her head, but needed to be told again to fetch the cloth.
"She's not usually so addle-brained," Widow Dawson said with a smile. "Can't keep her quiet most days. Talks about this and that all day long. S'pose I'll be hearin' about the lovely Lady Oxley now."
"Mama!" Bel whispered with an embarrassed glance at Cat.
"If there's anything you need, m'lady, be sure to have them fetch me."
"Thank you." Cat watched the little girl as she efficiently packed away her mother's things. "Just a moment," Cat said, crossing to her sewing basket. She pulled out a ribbon of green velvet that she'd intended to halve and use as garters. "Would you like this, Bel?" she asked, holding the ribbon out to the girl.
Bel's mouth fell open. She went to reach for the ribbon, but her mother stayed her hand.
"His lordship has already paid me, m'lady."
"This is a gift," Cat said. "For your daughter."
Bel looked to her mother with a heart-rending plea in her eyes. Widow Dawson nodded and smiled at Cat.
"Thank you, m'lady," Bel said, kissing Cat's hand. "Thank you, thank you." She held the ribbon to her cheek and rubbed it against her skin.
"Put it in the basket, child," Widow Dawson said. "Don't get it dirty now."
The girl did as she was told, only to cast longing glances at the basket. Cat couldn't help smiling, despite her mood.
"There now," Widow Dawson said. "It's nice to see you smile, m'lady. You've got pretty eyes when they light up."
Cat walked with them to the door and Bel opened it. Hughe rose from a chair in the outer chamber. A frown scored his forehead and weariness settled into the lines around his eyes and mouth. He swallowed and his gaze connected briefly with Cat's before turning to the wise woman.
"How is her hand?" he asked.
"Nothing broken," Widow Dawson said. "Just some bruising. Her ladyship is to be careful with it, m'lord."
"I'll see that she's taken care of," Hughe said with a tentative smile at Cat.
Her heart took a dive. It had been lurching here and there in her chest ever since Hughe's declaration through the closed door. She'd managed to put aside his accusations about Stephen while Widow Dawson and Bel were with her, but now they came rushing back with a vengeance. On the one hand, she believed Hughe. He sounded so convincing and his evidence seemed reasonable. Yet he had lied to her all along. Why should she believe him on this? Particularly when Stephen had not been cruel to her. He wouldn't kill a man or force a woman. It was absurd!
"And who will take care of you, m'lord?" Widow Dawson asked. At Hughe's frown, she added, "You look in need of a good night's rest. I can make up a sleeping draft."
"You worry too much." He gently tugged Bel's braid. "Be good to your mama."
"Aye, m'lord." Bel gave an awkward curtsey then giggled.
She left with her mother, but Hughe didn't walk them out. He turned to Cat and opened his mouth to say something. She shut her bedchamber door before he could speak. He did not knock or call out to her. Whether he remained in the outer chamber, she couldn't say. She would ask her maids when they returned. Or perhaps it was better not to know.
A few moments later, she heard two male voices raised in anger, one Hughe's, the other Slade's. Cat pressed her ear to the door.
"Get out," Hughe growled. "Stay away from her. In fact, leave Sutton Hall. Today."
"My lord Oxley! I am wounded. Cat is my sister-in-law. I only wish to see how she is. They told me the wise woman was here. Something to do with Cat's hand?"
"You won't be seeing her or speaking to her again. Get. Out." The dark thread of fury changed Hughe's voice to one Cat didn't recognize. She shivered. For the first time since learning of his work, she could well believe he was a killer.
"My lord," Slade said. He didn't sound like a threatened man or a worried one. He sounded smug. Cat hated him. No matter what Hughe told her, she would not divulge a word of it to Slade.
She returned to the bed and sat on the mattress. She picked up one of the cushions and cradled it against her chest. It would seem there wasn't a single person in her life that she could trust anymore. She was truly alone, more so than she'd ever been.
***
Hughe settled the pallet across the doorway to Cat's bedchamber. Her maids had gone in to her some time earlier, eyeing him curiously. No doubt they thought it unusual for an earl to be watching over his wife. Lynden had also come to voice his concern. Unmanly, he'd called it. As if someone like Lynden knew what manliness was. Hughe had told him so too, although he regretted that now. He'd still been seething after Slade's visit. The prick wasn't going anywhere near Cat. Not while there was breath left in Hughe's body.
He knew Cat hadn't simply hit her hand against a wall or door. According to Widow Dawson, whom he'd spoken to away from Cat's apartments, the bruising was not confined to one spot. It looked as if her hand had been enclosed and crushed.
Slade must have done it. Not Hislop; Elizabeth had assured Hughe that the brute had gone nowhere near Cat that morning. But Slade had. He'd done that to her.
What did the cur have over her? Why was she protecting him? Because of some sense of duty to her brother-in-law? Or because she feared what Hughe would do to him?
She knew he was a killer now, and he suspected she didn't quite believe his motives were altogether pure. She hated him for what he'd done to her first husband, and perhaps even feared him too.
Christ. Hughe pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them. He buried his head in his hands and fought against the wave of sorrow threatening to undo him. He'd lost his wife. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that he could win her back, in time, but the task seemed monumental, conside
ring the amount of lies he had to untangle. Lies of his own creation. Yet he was determined to try every day for as long as he lived. He might manage it too, if she didn't leave him entirely.
The thought brought a fresh wave of nausea. She wouldn't leave him. Would she?
He finally drifted off to sleep sometime late into the night, only to be plagued by dreams of Cat's first husband professing his innocence. Then Cat appeared, naked and enticing on the bed. She beckoned him with her finger and arched her back, offering herself to him. But Hislop descended from nowhere and whisked her away. Hughe reached for her, but she shook her head and said: I'd rather be married to a poor fool like Stephen than a heartless wretch like you.
The two of them disappeared, replaced by a bulky, shadowy figure with its right arm raised. Moonlight glinted off a blade grasped in the man's hand. The stink of sweat and horse filled the chamber. Hughe snapped fully awake, but did not move. He was not dreaming.
Someone had come to kill him.
CHAPTER 12
The man approached carefully, his footsteps surprisingly light for a big fellow. Yet there was the smallest crunching of the rush matting under his boots. It must have been that sound which woke Hughe.
He waited without moving, his eyes opened barely a slit, until the fellow was alongside him. Then he grabbed the man's legs and tripped him over before he had a chance to plunge the blade. The intruder fell backward, arms flailing. Hughe jumped to his feet, snatched the knife then caught him by the jerkin. The thump of his landing would have woken Cat and he couldn't allow that.
He dragged the fellow out to the landing and shut the door. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window, Hughe could just make out his face. Sweat glistened on his bald head and above his top lip. He was grimy, his chin covered in stubble. Hughe recognized him as a Larkham man, Upfield. The same fellow who'd organized a mob of villagers to kill Cole, and had recently turned on the Renny boys.
What in God's name was he doing here? Hughe flexed his fingers around the knife handle. Upfield must have come to kill him. How had he known of Hughe's involvement in the saga? He'd visited the village wearing a disguise on all occasions but one.
