Scoundrel of Dunborough (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

W
hat was Celeste doing here? Oh, sweet Mary, if she had seen him last night...

Gerrard adjusted his tunic, straightened his shoulders and reminded himself Celeste had no authority to upbraid him.

Maybe she had come to say that she was going back to Saint Agatha’s. That should be welcome news, and if he thought it wasn’t, he must still be the worse for wine.

“Good day, Sister Augustine,” he said, attempting to sound cheerful. “What brings you here this morning?”

Her eyes narrowed and she frowned as she studied him. “Are you ill?”

“Not at all,” he lied. His head hurt as if a thousand angry little demons were prodding him with spears. “Are you?” he asked, for she was paler than he recalled and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Merely tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Oh, sweet Mother Mary! Maybe she
had
seen him.

In spite of his shame and remorse, he smiled as he gestured for her to sit before he sank onto one of the chairs.

Regardless of his invitation, she continued to stand as stiff as a spear, with her hands in the cuffs of her habit. “I would like to speak with you, Gerrard. Alone.”

Alone? That was unexpected.

Aware that there were still servants and soldiers in the hall, he raised a brow, yet kept his voice carefully cool as he replied. “What can we possibly have to discuss that would require privacy?”

“My sister’s murder.”

Not last night—but this subject was just as unwelcome. “Surely there is nothing more to say about that.”

“I believe there is,” she replied, still grimly determined, and she had that stubborn look in her eyes. She wasn’t going to give up until she got what she wanted.

“We can talk in the solar,” he said, rising and starting down the hall.

He didn’t look to see if she followed. He didn’t have to. The soft swish of her habit gave her away. He wished he’d never seen her in anything else, and certainly not that beautiful gown cut low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts.

She is a nun, so don’t even think of her in that gown.

Instead, Gerrard forced himself to ponder what more she might want to know about Audrey’s death as he led her from the hall to the yard and around to the outer steps of the keep. It was the oldest part of the castle and couldn’t be reached from the newer hall. His father had wanted it that way.

He pushed open the door and went in first, grabbing Roland’s letter and shoving it under some other documents on the table.

When she entered, he nonchalantly continued around the table until it was between them. “Now then, I gather something’s troubling you about your sister’s death?”

This time Celeste did sit down, although she looked no less resolute. “Not just Audrey’s death, but Duncan MacHeath’s, as well,” she answered. “You told me he fell into the river. Is that what really happened?”

Wondering what she was getting at, Gerrard nodded. “Yes. His footprints were on the riverbank.”

“And no one else’s?”

Baffled, he replied, “No, why do you ask?”

“It’s been suggested to me that he might have killed himself.”

“Who the devil told you that?” Gerrard demanded with a frown.

“Is it possible?” she persisted.

Certain he was right, Gerrard shook his head. “No. MacHeath wasn’t that sort of fellow.”

“I, too, find it difficult to believe even a murderer would risk his immortal soul that way.”

Trying not to scowl, for he had no such rosy notions of an evil man’s thoughts regarding his immortal soul, Gerrard sat down. “I meant he was not a man to feel regret or remorse.”

“Have you ever wondered what made him attack Audrey that particular day?”

That, too, was unexpected—and unwelcome. The less Celeste delved into Audrey’s past, the better, even if her questions didn’t exactly touch upon his dealings with her sister. “I assumed she told him he stood no chance with her.”

“Yet Audrey has had suitors and admirers for years and she was skilled at putting them off without angering them. Surely she would have been able to refuse Mac­Heath without making him angry enough to kill her.”

Gerrard hadn’t considered that. “Maybe he did more than ask. If she pushed him away, that might have made him attack her. A man like MacHeath—it would be natural for him to use his fists or weapons.”

Celeste leaned forward, her eyes shrewdly bright. “Or perhaps Duncan wasn’t the only man who wanted Audrey and who was refused. Perhaps another man was as angry and sought to punish her, but wasn’t the sort to resort to physical violence, lest he risk imprisonment and execution. What if this other man realized how MacHeath felt and used the Scot’s jealousy and savagery for his own ends? Who knows what such a person might have said to MacHeath, the ideas he could have put into his head? It might not have taken much to goad the Scot into a rage before he spoke to my sister that day.”

Gerrard regarded Celeste incredulously. “You mean someone
used
Duncan to kill your sister?”

“Yes.”

He rose abruptly. “God’s blood, Celeste! Do you really believe any man could be so sly and underhanded?”

“Can’t you?” she asked as she, too, got to her feet and looked at him as if he were a child who failed to comprehend an easy lesson. “Are you truly that innocent?”

“I haven’t been considered innocent in a very long time.”

“Naive, then, if you don’t realize that some people are capable of any manner of bad things to get what they want, including revenge, especially if they can cast the blame on someone else.”

As he had sometimes cast it on Roland, Gerrard thought.

He wondered if she meant to make that comparison. Or was it purely by chance?

“What kind of convent is Saint Agatha’s, anyway,” he asked warily, “that you would come up with such an idea?”

“One like any other,” she replied, “where women are shut up together with few things to take their minds from slights, no matter how petty. Where they have plenty of time to brood and scheme.”

“Sweet merciful Mary! As bad as that?”

“There are only a few among the sisters and novices who are like that. A good mother superior soon discovers who they are and deals with them, either by showing them the error of their ways or sending them to another convent if need be. Or, if they are truly unable to find peace, back to their families with the suggestion that the holy life does not suit them.

“Now, as to my sister’s suitors,” she continued, “did you hear of anyone arguing or quarreling with her? Or denouncing her in any way?”

“No,” Gerrard honestly replied. His men talked and jested about the women with whom they dallied, but Audrey had never been among them.

“No gossip among the soldiers here?”

“Not about your sister.”

“There must be others who might have such information. Her maidservant, perhaps, or the village priest.”

“Martha hasn’t been...well...since it happened. She found your sister’s body.”

Celeste’s expression softened as she crossed herself and murmured, “Poor woman.”

In the next moment, however, that determined, resolute look returned. “What about the priest?”

“Audrey was no nun.”

Unlike Celeste, Audrey was a worldly woman, willing to use whatever means a beautiful one possessed to get what she wanted.

“No, but he would not be a suitor, either,” Celeste replied, “so she might have felt free to speak to him about any difficulties.”

Gerrard frowned. He didn’t think talking to Father Denzail would do any good. Celeste might find out things about her sister that would be unpleasant to hear. “Are you sure you want to do this? Duncan MacHeath confessed his guilt to Roland and then died. Does it really matter how his death came about?”

“I need to know if there was more to my sister’s death than one angry, jealous man,” she said firmly. “And shouldn’t you find out if there’s someone in Dunborough who would compel another to murder? Who can say what other things a man like that might be capable of?”

If such a fellow existed, which Gerrard truly doubted.

Nevertheless, he was also certain that Celeste would not give up until she’d spoken to the priest and Martha, so it would be useless to argue any more.

It would be best if he went with her, too, especially to see Audrey’s maidservant. He could well believe Celeste would go there by herself, regardless of the distance, and he didn’t want her traveling alone.

“Very well,” he said. “First we’ll go to see Father Denzail, then I’ll take you to Martha.”

* * *

Mass had already started by the time Celeste and Gerrard reached the church. Celeste quickly knelt with the villagers and, as the ceremony progressed, tried not to look at Gerrard. He stood leaning against a pillar, his expression unreadable, his arms crossed and his brows lowered. Like the rest of his family, he apparently had no use for the church. It was unfortunate he had never had the chance to learn the comfort it could bring and the different kind of family it could provide.

Unfortunately, Father Denzail wasn’t likely to encourage him to want to learn those lessons. The priest was about forty-five, she thought, his hair more gray than brown. He was shorter than Gerrard, as were most men, and his shoulders slightly rounded, as if he’d spent days hunched over a desk in a scriptorium copying manuscripts. Perhaps he had and so was more used to dealing with quill, ink and parchment than inspiring his flock.

After the mass had concluded and the people were filing out, Celeste continued to kneel in prayer. She would not draw any more attention to herself by acknowledging Gerrard. That they had arrived together was enough to get tongues wagging.

But when it looked as if the priest was going to leave, she rose and called out to him. “Father!”

Father Denzail put on a welcoming smile. In spite of that, she could tell he wasn’t pleased even before he darted a swift and wary sideways glance at Gerrard.

“I’m sorry to detain you, Father,” she said. “I’m Sister Augustine, Audrey D’Orleau’s sister.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you had arrived,” he answered. “I’ve been expecting you at mass long before now.”

Celeste clasped her hands and, regarding him woefully, wondered if it was a greater sin to lie to a priest. However, she wasn’t going to admit that guilt for feigning holy sisterhood had kept her away. “I’ve been overwhelmed with the need to prepare the house for sale, and sorrow for my sister, too.”

The little man’s visage softened. “I’ve offered many prayers for your poor sister and masses have been said.”

“Thank you, Father. I wanted to ask you now, though, if Audrey ever spoke to you of any fears she harbored.”

“I wish she
had
been afraid,” he mournfully replied. “I wish she’d feared for her immortal soul.”

His expression decidedly unfriendly, Gerrard pushed himself from the pillar and strolled closer. “I’ve heard you often went to visit Audrey. I wonder why.”

The priest straightened his narrow, rounded shoulders. “I was trying to make her see the error of her ways and bring her closer to God.”

“God, or yourself?”

“Gerrard!” Celeste gasped.

He raised a brow at her and said, “You want the truth, don’t you?”

“Perhaps Father Denzail and I should speak alone,” she replied, not pleased by Gerrard’s hostile manner. That was hardly going to encourage the priest to provide information. “Come, Father, let us go to the sacristy. We can talk privately there.”

“There’s no need, Sister,” he replied, licking his lips and nervously fingering his crucifix. “I have nothing to say that this man need not hear. Yes, I visited your sister. I tried to get her to lead a more sedate and serious life. Regrettably, she paid me no heed. In spite of her defiance, I have done all I can to ensure that she finds her way to heaven. Eventually.”

“You never noticed anything amiss between her and Duncan MacHeath?”

“No, although I suggested such a barbarian was not a fit servant for her.” There was a hint of anger in the little man’s voice as he added, “She laughed at me when I tried to warn her.”

“At least you tried,” Celeste said placatingly. “No one else did.”

“I confess I had no idea you were such a perceptive man,” Gerrard remarked, “provided you did indeed dare to say such a thing to Audrey, which I doubt.”

There was no need for him to be so insolent. Yet before Celeste could speak, Father Denzail displayed more backbone than she expected. “And I fear no amount of praying will save your tarnished soul, Gerrard!”

The priest started to leave and Celeste quickly put her hand on his arm to detain him. “Please, Father, I’m trying to learn more about my sister and her life. Did you hear of any quarrels she had with other men?”

“My concern was with your sister’s immortal soul, not rumors and gossip,” he snapped.

Gerrard’s next remark didn’t ease the tension in the church. “If you weren’t listening to rumors and gossip, how did you guess her immortal soul was in danger?”

Celeste shot him another condemning glance, then took the priest’s arm and led him a little farther away. “Speaking of immortal souls, Father, do you think it’s possible that Duncan MacHeath took his own life?”

The priest stared at her with surprise. “The man was clearly in league with the devil, but I never...” He frowned. “I suppose he might, since his soul was already lost, like some others I could name,” he said, glaring at Gerrard. “That’s all I have to say about your sister or that Scot.” He pointed at Gerrard. “As for you, you young rogue, you are indeed your father’s son!”

With that parting shot, the priest scurried away like a squirrel and disappeared through the sacristy door.

To be sure, Gerrard hadn’t behaved well, either with courtesy or respect, yet to compare him—or anyone—to the vicious Sir Blane was a terrible insult. Gerrard had a long way to go before he could ever be as evil as his father.

“He shouldn’t have insulted you that way,” Celeste said, hoping to take away some of the sting of that remark. “I’m sure it was only Father Denzail’s pride talking. You
were
rude to him and you upset him with your implication that his visits to Audrey had a lustful motive.”