"Like Hart's horse?"
Her frown swallowed her chin. "It was the only way to get to you. And this pouch is the only way to show you I can do it. I am not afraid."
He reached for her but missed. "It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is." She'd lit the cord holding the pouch close.
Batting away the explosives, he grabbed her and forced her to duck. The burning bag hit a tree as it went off. Branches started to fall and he batted them away. When he saw an adjacent tree falling, crashing toward them, Hugh grabbed her and dove deeper into the ditch.
Branches and chunks of massive trunk covered them, making everything pitch black. The creaking noises were the worse, reminding him of Henry's death, the image of the maple's thick trunk impaling Henry, smashing him to the ground had never left Hugh's mind. It was constant like his guilt.
Then everything quieted but the sound of his heart and Isadel's rapid breath.
He fisted his hand and punched through branches. Light slipped in as he adjusted to a sitting position in the small rut. As calmly as he could, he drew Isadel's face to his. "Do you have any idea what you could've done?"
"I showed you I could do it."
He gripped her by the shoulders. If he shook her this time, he knew he might break something. Trying to remove his hands from her made his gloves tangle in her locks that were everywhere. Now, he was heated for two entirely different reasons. "What do you have to say for yourself, Isadel Armijo?"
Isadel only laughed. "You didn't think I had it in me, Bannerman. I showed you and don't use that tone. You're not my father."
Oh, he couldn't think of being her father right now no matter how much a good paddling over the knee might do. He took a long breath and smothered his rage in pine and cinnamon. "You are a grown foolhardy woman and you showed me you can't be trusted."
"But I've watched you, how carefully you measure. In the kitchen, you were so precise. I knew the amount was less than the others. If you hadn't overreacted, I would have tossed it out to where your explosions were set. We could be laughing like before."
He punched another hole in the ceiling. "This is my fault? This is a problem. And what do you know about my precision? Accidents happen, things you can't control. If the trees around your explosion have more rot or weak roots they could fall too, but you don't know where. Henry died because I was reckless. I lost the best brother, my best friend because I hadn't considered the consequences."
She caught his fist before he could knock more of the debris from over top of them. "I'm sorry. I know what it means to lose someone you love."
"My brother and I packed the roots with powder and lit a detonation cord. The first explosion was fabulous."
"Ours was fabulous."
"But the second killed him. From this ditch, Isadel, my brother Henry and I watched the workman clear stumps. They left only the solid healthy ones. We sat here. He'd split my sides with his puns. The man was a biblical scholar and loved to twist up King James verses. Salt will never look the same for me."
"How does bad jokes about things one shouldn't joke about lead to his death?"
He balled his hand about hers. "We should've made more jokes. I should've heard more, should've laughed more but I had to exhibit. We set up another powder demonstration, then went back to Sandon to await our neighbors, the St. Claires and Moldonas."
Her eyes went wide, but she had to hear him. "Moldona?"
"Forget him, Isadel. I am trying to make a point. I didn't see the risks. Just the magic of the flames, the colors in the sparks. You have to see the danger not just the magic."
She touched his cheek and gave it a rub with her pinkie. "You're dusty."
He stilled her hand, pulling it to his chest. "Dirt comes with detonations. Another reason for you to avoid them."
"Maybe the workmen returned and put more powder. I don't think you measured incorrectly. Yes, accidents happen, but you, putting too much powder in the detonation — I doubt it."
How many nights had he replayed the events of that day in his head? Isadel was right in how careful he'd been in measuring the powder. "Who can predict with a hundred percent accuracy what will happen with explosives? The tree fell and knocked into another one. That one crushed Henry." Hugh shook his head. "It's my fault and though I should blame you for this. It's mine for not anticipating what you would do. Precision for a spy is his best asset but predicting behavior, that's a luxury. We are lucky to be unhurt."
"I watched you, Bannerman. You are as meticulous in measuring as I am with my cakes. I doubt you put too much powder in the tree. You never intended to harm your brother. I say some cook went behind you and added too much vanilla."
"This isn't cooking, Isadel."
The roof creaked and dirt and pinecone rained.
The girl threw herself atop of him as if the small crazy thing could keep him safe. "I didn't mean to kill us. Just wanted to prove a point."
Her face laid on his and his cheek felt the softness of her hair. She smelled like cinnamon and pine. The world above stopped shifting. He could easily push her to the side and break them free, but why move and send her from him. "You're crazy, Isadel."
Though her breathing didn't slow her limbs slacked against him. "The explosions were wild and amazing. I'm not sorry for it."
He wasn't sorry about her lying against him and couldn't stop from fastening his arms about her waist. She was tiny but well curved, just like the glimpse in the tower had revealed. He pushed his face deeper into her tresses. "You are crazy, chef."
She raised her head. Her eyes had grown larger than guineas. "Does this mean no more lessons?"
The innocence in her irises foretold of many things that he could teach her, but a man needed to know he was going to live before dreaming those dreams. "Perhaps. Good thing I like crazy."
Her smile warmed him even as their makeshift shelter shifted and groaned. Just another moment, another curl to finger, another second wondering what a kiss on those lips would feel like. Wincing at Phipps being right, that Hugh fancied Isadel more than he had anyone in a long time, he closed his eyes. He saw nothing, for he couldn't picture a future except a grave marker next to Henry.
"Good. I like you too."
If he ripped off a glove and touched her face, would the memory last? Holding her would lead to wanting more of her, so he put his fists to his side. "At least you now see your plan will fail. Black powder is too dangerous, but even if you could get revenge, what will you want next?"
She lifted her countenance to him. Her lips pressed into a line, maybe even biting the plump lower one. "I don't know how to think of a day without revenge."
He knew her struggle. The same hate and loathing had been in him, but Isadel was young, young and beautiful, and could make wonderful things with her hands. "My talented chef, you need to rise above it. Anger and wanting revenge can be as dangerous as explosives. It will ruin your insides, even give room for disease to root."
Tears ran from her eyes. It was so different from the joy that had filled them when she saw the flash of the powder.
It wasn't vapors as his stepmother was given too. He could even sense its difference from Betsy upon hearing of the loss of her brother. These tears had to be from that moment when you give up, when one admitted to themselves all was lost. But it wasn't, not with another day to live and breathe. For the first time, he understood the new mercies Henry spoke of.
Hugh flicked a droplet from her eyes with his thumb and traced her cheek, stopping short of a mouth in want of a breath of hope. "Let the anger go. Don't let it have you."
"I must take revenge for Papa and Agueda. You're an expert at explosives. With your knowledge, I could have everything."
"What is everything, Isadel? Is it killing an enemy or finding a way to live past the pain?"
"Is there a difference, Bannerman?"
Her small face wrinkled along the temples, the confusion of what he meant surely marring her sun-kissed complexion. He leaned closer
and stroked a fretful line smooth then stilled. His fingers lingered on her jaw longer than they should. Hugh had never been an envious person, not even when Moldona won Betsy. But right now, he stewed, hungering to be the kidskin leather of his gloves. He wanted to touch Isadel and know the joy of it. "Yes, there is a difference. If I had sought another path, I might be different."
She clasped his arm so tightly; it was as if she needed him to hold to her reason and humanity.
Deeper into his chest, she went. Her arms fastened about his neck as she cried on his shoulder. "I've failed them again. I should've died with them that night. Then this plague of guilt would be no more. I have no hope."
"You're brave, Isadel. Don't be the third victim of your family's killer. Live past him and live well. Honor your father's hopes for you."
"There is no way to do this."
With both hands, he took her face. "Yes. Yes, there is."
There was no question in his mind about kissing her. He did so, savoring and schooling those pert lips. Inhaling cinnamon had made him hunger for her and admit to himself the need of her. When Isadel kissed him back, he was glad he hadn't hesitated. Even a dying man needed a moment to live.
Her small fist shifted against his rib and he released her.
"Does this mean you will help me? You will kill my enemy? You could be in the room to set the cord. My plan could work with your aid."
The remnants of a temper he'd slain reemerged and he jerked his hands from her. "I'm greedy, Isadel. I'll not be satisfied with a mere piece of you, especially when your lips only know revenge."
"Bannerman!!!"
The shout came from above. It sounded like Phipps, but the urgency in tone, made Hugh's racing pulse beat faster.
"Time to rejoin the world. Let's forget this."
She gripped his lapels. "Forget what? The explosives or that you kissed me?"
"Both. I'm a dying man. I'm not entering the heavens with another death on my hands or the incredible frustrations that you women can work."
With her delectable lips pressed into a full pout, she said. "You're not dying. My seeds will cure you, but do as you say and forget everything."
Moving as far as she could from him in the tight space, she put her back to him and began righting her bun. "Send me back to the Abbey and we can pretend that nothing has happened at all.
The huff in her voice sounded to his ears as if she'd have more difficulty in doing so. "You haven't completed your final punishment."
"I think so. Forgetting I kissed you is enough."
There was hurt in her words. For a man who lived by calculations, this was unexpected.
"Bannerman!!! Are you down there?"
"Yes. Stand back, Phipps." Hugh beat through the branches and trunks until a good three-foot hole formed.
Before she could protest, he picked her up by the waist and shoved her through. "Move thirty paces back and tell Phipps to do so as well."
She nodded and started running. When it sounded as if she'd gotten clear, he used his full strength to blow the hole wider. Pine and bark flew everywhere as he powered through. When he climbed out of the wide hole, Phipps ran to him. Isadel did too but at a slower pace.
His man wiped his brow. It brimmed with sweat. "You are alive."
"Of course."
"You don't understand. They're all dead. The Almeida Killer has gotten to Junot."
"What are you talking about?"
"He's dead. Lord Hartland sent intelligence from the Pearson spy. Junot's dead. The killer's reach goes into France."
"What did Hart say of it?"
"He's investigating, but the fiend will not stop. He'll go after Wellesley. The war efforts will be in jeopardy. We are vulnerable here, especially with you playing with explosives."
Being a sitting duck or waiting to be killed by an assassin, that was worse than waiting for leprosy to do him in. No more. Hugh pumped his hand driving one fist into his palm. "It's time to draw out the killer. No more living in the shadows."
Phipps brushed leaves from Hugh's coat. "What do you mean?"
"Send word to my stepmother. She will know how to put a final sparkle on Sandon. Double the workers to finish the repairs as soon as possible. Then we will invite Moldona and all the rest of the commanders here. That will draw the killer to me."
"Moldona," Isadel said. "Here? Oh, now you'll send me back to the Abbey?"
In mid stroke, Phipps stopped, and then hit him a little harder as he brushed at his coat. "You're not sending her back to the Abbey. I was hoping she'd stay a little longer."
"Miss Armijo is not returning yet."
She lowered her head. "So, I will serve my father's killer under your roof?"
"No, Isadel. You will not be serving him." Hugh waved his hand stopping his man from attacking his great coat further. "She's not going anywhere. On the contrary, Miss Armijo will dine with us. As my mistress, she will have full run of the house. She will be free to eavesdrop or skulk anywhere in Sandon."
Isadel stepped to him and clutched the lapels of his coat. "No. Just because, I let… No."
"I think it an adequate final punishment, and as my mistress you can get as close as you desire to Moldona. You can even try to kill him."
Isadel whispered something under her breath before turning away. He almost wished she still possessed the freedom to speak her thoughts to his face.
Shaking his head like it had suddenly come loose, Phipps started pacing in circles. "You want me to invite Moldona here? He'll bring Miss Betsy St. Claire, your old—"
"Phipps, it's Mrs. Moldona. They've been married about a year now. Moldona may have done many things that warrant death. He may be the Almeida Killer. If that is so, no one will kill him. He will be turned over to the crown for punishment." He plodded in front of Isadel and kept his gloved hands to his side. She wasn't the only person who now felt constrained. He brushed at his dusty breeches. "Miss Armijo, I'll need your assistance to pull off this charade."
"I don't. We are not." She tugged at her father's jacket. "How will I fool anyone into thinking I am nothing more than a common harlot?"
"Yes." Phipps said. "A gentleman's mistress is a fancy one."
In lieu of pounding Phipps, Hugh pounded his own skull. "You are not helping. Miss Armijo, dearest, my stepmother will take care of that. She's quite acquainted with the role of a gentleman's mistress. She'll make you into the part."
It was hard to determine whose mouth had dropped open farther, his man or his pretend woman. He wiggled his finger at them. "Come along, you two, we've work to do."
It was almost comical the situation Hugh had constructed. With his stepmother arriving, Moldona bringing Betsy, and Hugh's enraged chef, there would be three women in Sandon who held him in disregard. Yet, the latest addition to his collection, Isadel Armijo, was the only one whose opinion concerned him, that and her ability to slice up things with her knife. There were daggers in the chestnut colored eyes right now and he dared not turn his back on her, literally and figuratively.
Staying a step ahead of her anger might prove as daunting as waiting out the Almeida assassin.
Chapter Nine: Mistress of Punishment
Humiliated and furious, Isadel stomped back to Sandon. She didn't wait for Phipps or Bannerman, the smuggest man in the world. How egotistical could he be that he'd use her position in his household to make her into a mistress? Even if it was pretend, he shouldn't have the right to do it as some extracted punishment.
Why did she have to kiss him back? Wasn't that consent? When Agueda waved at the redcoats, wasn't that consent, too?
Upon setting foot in the house, Isadel felt lost and unsure. Sandon had been further raised. The smell of fresh paint swept through the halls, but it wouldn't take away the scent of him—bergamot, pine and aloe, a medicinal clean smell. It was on her hands, probably on her coat from being so close to him.
She shook her head, hoping to make some sense of things and to forget the feeling of him kissing her a
nd how his arms tightened about her when she kissed him back. "The kitchen. That's where I'll go."
"You mean hide." Bannerman was leaning at the threshold, grinning.
Phipps pushed from behind him. His gaze seemed to cut between them. "I'll go ready the correspondences, but Bannerman, Miss Armijo don't let this affect dinner. Remember, pies?"
His man turned into the study.
"I have to go prepare dinner."
The euphoria of watching black powder causing sweet destruction fizzled the minute he said Moldona and mistress. Rethinking it continued to drain hope from Isadel with each step upon the newly repaired hardwoods. A sense of numbness replaced everything, except anger, closing off her insides from the comfort that Mama's song had tried to fill, especially the space behind her ribs.
"Miss Armijo, I must speak with you."
Bannerman's voice cut through her like an axe to the back. She wasn't a hen set to be slaughtered, so she kept moving.
"Chef, we have a menu of sorts to plan."
She pivoted and saw hulking Bannerman a few paces behind and gaining. "I have duties," she flung open the door to the kitchen.
He caught it and barreled inside. "This is a wretched beginning. If my chef can't stand a little heat, how will this ever work out?" He chuckled and the noise echoed as if he was at her ear.
Did he want her witless again and open to his charms? She swiped at her brow. "Mrs. Nelson, are we ready to start dinner?"
The widow bounced up from a seat at the hearth. "Miss Armijo, the stew pot of vegetables is almost done. What will you have me do next?"
Would scorching everything black be an option? No, Isadel would never have anyone waste food or ruin a clean. "When it is ready to serve the workmen, let's do so. Then prepare two bowls of it for Mr. Bannerman and Mr. Phipps. Place it in the dining room for them."
"You mean three bowls? Mr. Bannerman was insistent that you would eat with them, Miss Armijo. That's what he said when he hired me."
"Yes, ma'am." Bannerman said, with a smile that was less prideful. "Those plans haven't changed."
Mrs. Nelson drew back toward the stove. "I need this job very much. Just tell me what to do."
No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5) Page 12
