The Prisoner (20 page)

“More likely he fears that there would be an investigation and someone might find out that he has been, in effect, selling these children to you,” reflected Haydon.

“Either way, Charlotte is shivering upon a hard wooden bed tonight, and there is nothing I can do to save her.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “I have failed her,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“No, Genevieve, you have not.” He laid his hands upon her slender shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “From the moment you retrieved her from the prison you have provided her with a warm home and decent food and a loving family. You may not realize it, but by doing so, you have armed Charlotte with something she did not have before, and that is hope. You have also shown by your own example that women can be strong, courageous, and persevering, which will help her to endure the next few days.”

“But what about the next few years? Charlotte cannot endure the hardships and cruelties she will be made to suffer in reformatory school—”

“Tonight you were unsuccessful in your pleas to have her released, but the matter is far from finished,” Haydon vowed. “If we cannot afford a decent lawyer, then we can at least assist the one the court gives us in the preparation of Charlotte's defense. We will show the court that until this incident, Charlotte has been the very model of gentleness and lawful behavior. While we have to be careful not to implicate our other children, I will argue that Charlotte's role in this incident was in actuality very small, and that this is a matter best resolved by her parents. I will also argue that society will not be served by sending her to prison, which will cost public money and compromise any hope for her future, and therefore the wisest judgment would be for her to be returned to her home, where she will be shown the error of her ways and disciplined accordingly.”

Genevieve regarded him through a veil of tears. “You cannot accompany me to the court, Haydon—someone might recognize you there.”

“I will take that chance,” Haydon told her flatly. “As your new husband and Charlotte's stepfather, the court may be willing to listen to me—out of perverse curiosity to hear what I have to say, if nothing else. Because I was charged with murder, I was tried before the larger Circuit Court, which I understand meets here but twice a year. While some members of the local Sheriff Court may have attended those proceedings, I can assure you that between my beatings, my illness, my prison uniform, and my unkempt state, I looked very different from the man who now appears before you. Also, I did not speak in my defense, at the suggestion of my lawyer, who felt that I was more likely to antagonize the jury than elicit any sympathy from them. Therefore, there is little danger that anyone present will have heard me speak.”

“But—”

“The matter is settled, Genevieve.” Haydon was adamant. “I have no intention of permitting anyone to jail Charlotte, and no intention of letting you go down to that courthouse alone. We will deal with this matter together, and we will see that Charlotte is brought home safely. Is that understood?”

His face was harshly cut in the flickering firelight, a rough sculpting of shadows and light. The lines between his dark brows were deep, as were those creasing his forehead and webbing the skin beneath his eyes. There was pain there, and a rawness of emotion that surprised her, for although she had sensed that Haydon had grown fond of Charlotte, she would not have expected him to be so agonized over a child he had only known for over a week.

As she stared at him, she suddenly sensed that he was reacting to something that had happened long before he had ever come to Inveraray. Something that had wounded him deeply. There was so much about him Genevieve didn't know, yet in that hushed, firelit moment she felt she knew him better than he perhaps even understood himself. It made her want to lay her hand against his cheek and feel the heat of him beneath her palm, to trail her fingers along the dark bristle shadowing his jaw, to lean close and feel his warm breath upon her skin, just as she had during those long nights when he had solely belonged to her.

Unable to restrain herself, she leaned into him and pressed her mouth to his.

Desire shot through Haydon. It was just an uncertain little kiss, he understood that, an inexperienced pressure of one mouth to another, but he could not remember ever having been so aroused by one simple touch. Of course he had been impossibly stirred by Genevieve during all the long hours she had tended him and bathed him, soothing every inch of his aching body with her skillful caresses and unbearably soft hands. His body was aching now, but it was with the rigid need to be touched again, to be stroked and kneaded and clutched, not gently, but with desperate, gasping hunger. He fought to control himself, struggled to endure the sweet graze of her mouth and the clean scent of her hair and the feathery brush of her fingers against his clenched jaw. If she would but pull away he might be all right, might be able to maintain the tightly shackled control he had been exerting over himself every time he saw her, or thought of her, or inhaled the lingering summery fragrance of her after she had left a room. But she did not pull away. Instead she increased the pressure of her lips, as if she was trying to elicit a response from him and was not quite sure how to go about it.

With the fragile uncertainty of a woman who had never been properly kissed, she parted her lips ever so slightly, inviting him to taste her.

Haydon groaned and crushed his mouth to hers, wrapping her in his powerful arms as he dragged her against him.

He plunged his hands in the strawberry-gold of her hair, plucking away the pins until the heavy mass poured like liquid silk into his rough palms. His tongue swept along the coral of her lips and then slipped inside, tasting her deeply as his hands roamed the elegant curve of her jaw, the fine silk of her cheek, the slender column of her throat. Much to his pleasure, she did not fight him, but instead moaned and grasped the back of his neck, pulling him even closer as her own desire flamed.

Her gown was a primly buttoned affair of slate-gray, unadorned and inexpensive and well-worn, yet as Haydon cupped the soft swell of her breast, he thought it the most mysterious and erotic fashion he had ever seen. One by one the tiny black buttons at the front were freed, until finally the creamy expanse of her breasts was exposed, barely veiled by the transparent fabric of her chemise. His tongue twined with hers as his hand wandered over the lush mounds, aroused by the flimsy barrier of linen separating his rough skin from hers. He rained a hungry path of kisses along the pulse of her throat, over the delicate structure of her collarbone and down into the valley below. Her chemise was loose and dipped in a low crescent over her, enabling him to slide it across her skin with little more than a sigh, releasing the beauty of her breasts to the shifting coppery light of the fire.

Genevieve felt as if she were melting, as if her skin and flesh and bone had been transformed to molten honey. She wanted to taste Haydon's mouth again, to swirl her tongue around the whiskey-sweet wetness and heat, and feel the low rumble of him moaning against her as his hands laid claim to her body. She tried to pull him up to her once more, but he was consumed with circling his tongue across her tingling skin, setting it afire with slick little caresses. And suddenly he closed his mouth over the peak of her breast and began to suckle, sending a deep shiver of pleasure surging through her. She gasped and threaded her hands into his hair, tilting her head back as she held him at her breast and shamelessly offered herself to him. She felt her nipple tighten into a taut bud of pure sensation, and just as she thought she could bear no more he broke away and flicked his tongue over the other peak, licking and suckling until both breasts were full and aching.

He eased her back against the cushions of the sofa and continued to worship her, trailing up and down from her breasts to her mouth, while his hands roamed across the ample layers of padded crinolines and skirts that cocooned her belly and hips and thighs. Suddenly his fingers were circling her ankle, and then they were trailing up, along the thin wool of her stocking, barely grazing her calf as they found the edge of her drawers. Up and up they moved with swift certainty, and then they stole through the opening of her undergarment and began to caress the downy soft mound between her thighs.

Genevieve gasped, but Haydon only kissed her more deeply as he stroked the intimate triangle, awakening it to a myriad of glorious sensations. Hot, dark pleasure bloomed inside her, and when he lightly traced his finger along the cleft of her womanhood, he found her slick and anxious to be touched. He eased his finger inside, fondling the slippery folds of her with slow, patient strokes, teasing her and rousing her as he devoured her mouth. His own hardness was pressing against her, and she tentatively laid her hand against it. He groaned and drove his finger deeper, shocking her, exciting her, filling the terrible void that had begun to throb from the very core of her body. In and out he moved as he suckled from breast to breast. His fingers circled the honeyed petals of her in swift swirls before slipping ever deeper inside again. He altered his rhythm and his touch, teasing her, coaxing her, distilling her awareness until it was nothing but a ripple of ever-increasing pleasure, tightening and intensifying until she couldn't move, couldn't think, could only take the smallest sips of air.

Her modesty forgotten, she gripped his hardness through the wool of his trousers and restlessly shifted her hand up and down, wanting to torture him as he was torturing her. But it was impossible to concentrate on what she was doing, because the sensations swelling within her were growing hotter and deeper and tighter, until she was certain she could bear no more. And then she was shattering into a thousand sparkling pieces and she cried out, a cry of ecstasy and wonder, and Haydon crushed his mouth to hers and held her tight.

It took every fragment of his self-control to keep himself from taking her right there on the sofa, with her breasts spilling wantonly from her spinsterish gown and her ruffled skirts tangled in frothy disarray about her thighs and hips. Genevieve had ignited a desire within him that had long lain dormant, and he wanted to slake it, here, now, quickly, before the flames of her passion cooled.

He had no right to her, he reminded himself.

She was innocent and pure, a woman who had devoted her life to saving lost children from a bleak and unforgiving world. What could she possibly want with a selfish bastard like him, who had wasted most of his life in a drunken orgy of pleasure, gambling and drinking and rutting? He had carelessly permitted his family's fortune to dwindle until it was less than half of what he had originally inherited from his staid, thoroughly responsible brother. He had recklessly copulated with a married woman and created an unwanted child who was doomed to a life of loneliness and misery, until she finally decided she could bear the cruelties of this world no more. Now he was running from the law, accused of murdering a man he did in fact kill, albeit in self-defense, afraid to be known by his own name, without so much as a penny for food or shelter. In the midst of this appalling situation, he was selfishly ravishing the woman who had risked everything in her world to try to help him.

Hating himself, he rolled off of her. He stood and began to straighten his clothing, staring morosely into the fire.

Genevieve's senses began to return. Her heated flesh was suddenly cold and shockingly bare now that the comfort of Haydon's powerful body stretched over her was gone. Mortified, she rose from the sofa, pulling down her skirts before she clumsily began the task of buttoning up the gaping bodice of her gown.

“Forgive me,” said Haydon tautly. “I should never have touched you.”

What could she possibly say to that? she wondered miserably. Obviously he was trying to spare her feelings, for surely he could not have forgotten that it was she who had kissed him. But she had never imagined that a simple, tender kiss could burst into such a frenzy of heat and lust, of wanting to touch and taste and grope and feel, deep within, the sensations that had flooded her body with such glorious abandon. No kiss that she had shared with Charles had ever exploded into such a breathless, spinning vortex of erotic desire. And even though her skin was now chilled by Haydon's abandonment of her and her own shame, the area between her legs was still mysteriously wet and aching for more.

“I must go,” she managed in a tiny voice, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. And then, because her breeding and her irrevocably instilled civility would not permit her to do otherwise, she added awkwardly, “Good night, Lord Redmond.”

Haydon closed his eyes as he listened to the door close behind her, excruciatingly aware of her summery citrus fragrance upon the air, his clothes, his skin.

He would never touch her again, he vowed fiercely. He had already destroyed one innocent life by following the torch of his lust, and he'd gladly burn in hell before ever doing so again.

Chapter Eight

T
HE INVERARAY COURTHOUSE WAS AN ELEGANTLY
spare building of precisely cut blocks of biscuit-colored stone. Completed in
1820
, it had been designed by the architect James Gillespie Graham, who had been sensitive enough to realize that men who were cooped up in a chamber with the onerous burden of dispensing justice all day long might appreciate a little light and air. Therefore, several large, paned windows filled the relatively spacious courtroom with either inspiring cheer or oppressive gloom, depending on the weather.

On the cold December day of Charlotte's trial, a thick gray mantle of cloud effectively blocked any hope of sunlight. This left the courtroom both freezing and dark, forcing the sheriff, lawyers, and clerks to bundle themselves in extra layers beneath their black robes. With their yellowing sausage-roll wigs perched precariously upon their heads and their wrinkled robes ballooning out around them, they looked like a flock of bored, fattened ducks ready to be plucked and roasted upon a spit, Genevieve thought.

“…and since that terrible day I've not been able to have an easy moment, either in my shop, or on the street, or even in my own bed at night,” Mr. Ingram mewled pitifully. “Those young ruffians beat me so badly I suffer constant pain. The doctor has told me I will have to endure it for the rest of my life.” He rubbed his gray head and winced, as if he were afflicted at that very moment, then gave the sheriff a mournful look.

“Thank you, Mr. Ingram,” said Mr. Fenton. The prosecuting counsel was a pasty-faced man with a sharply pointed beak of a nose, beneath which he sported an enormous lobster-red mustache. “You may step down.”

Mr. Ingram made a great show of hobbling as slowly and stiffly as possible to his seat on the hard wooden benches where the audience sat. Genevieve had an almost irrepressible urge to yell out “fire!” and then see how quickly Mr. Ingram was able to flee the confines of the building. When she had paid him a visit but three days earlier he had flapped his arms with athletic vigor as he scrambled about pointing to the damages his shop had incurred. His current physical impairment had mysteriously manifested itself since then.

She glanced at Charlotte, who sat with her back straight and her small hands tightly clenched upon her lap in the prisoner's box. Her long days in prison had leeched her of color, giving her skin an almost luminescent quality, as she silently listened to the witnesses bear testimony against her. Genevieve had brought her a gown of dark-green wool to wear, which did not fit particularly well, but was clean and appropriately modest. Eunice and Doreen had enhanced it with a snowy ruff le of lace at the cuffs, which had been stripped from one of Genevieve's old gowns, and helped to make Charlotte look less like the rough street urchin Mr. Ingram and Lord and Lady Struthers were claiming her to be. Her auburn hair had been neatly brushed and pulled away from her face with the assistance of a satin strip of emerald ribbon, and Genevieve had taken care to ensure that her face and hands were well scrubbed with fragrant soap and then rubbed with Eunice's special olive-oil cold cream until they glowed with ladylike softness. Appearances were important when one was being judged, and Genevieve wanted Charlotte to look every inch the gentle young lady who had no place in either a prison or a reformatory school.

“If it please the court, Your Honor, the defense would like to call Mrs. Maxwell Blake,” said Mr. Pollock, the defense counsel.

The sheriff wearily leaned over his bench, planted his bulbous chin in his hand and nodded. While his elevated position gave him an excellent view of everyone within his courtroom, it had the distinct disadvantage of putting him on perpetual exhibit, precluding the possibility of closing his eyes for a few moments. He had already presided over five cases that day, and there were six more to follow after this one. It didn't help that he had been suffering from a most uncomfortable digestive upset since luncheon, which was making him feel decidedly impatient with both the solicitors' and their witnesses' theatrics. All he wanted at that particular moment was a nice, restorative cup of tea, and perhaps a sweet bannock to help settle his stomach. There was this case to finish and then one more concerning a drunken brawl in a tavern, he decided stoically, before he could order a recess and retire to his chamber for a brief respite. He sighed and tapped his foot restlessly upon the floor, determined to make sure that things started to move along at a faster clip.

Haydon watched as Genevieve inhaled a steadying breath before rising to take her place on the witness stand. She had not permitted anyone but him to accompany her to the courthouse, and even his presence had elicited considerable argument. Ever since their passionate interlude a few nights earlier, she had done everything she could to avoid him, much to the bemusement of the rest of the household. When she had occasionally found herself in the same room with him, she had quickly found some urgent reason to be elsewhere. While Haydon sympathized with her discomfiture and had no wish to further aggravate it, he had been utterly resolute that they attend Charlotte's trial together. Regardless of the complexity of their relationship when they were in private, to the rest of the world they were Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Blake, blissfully happy newlyweds. He could well imagine how tongues would flap if they did not attend together something as momentous as their daughter's trial. The image of respectful domesticity they could present as a couple would only support their argument that Charlotte should be restored to them, he told Genevieve firmly, and ultimately she had accepted the wisdom of his argument.

Beyond what the rest of Inveraray thought, Haydon could not bear the thought of leaving poor little Charlotte to face her ordeal without him. He supposed on some level this was a manifestation of the guilt he carried around with him every day of his life. He had made a point of giving her encouraging smiles throughout the proceedings, and while she was clearly too distressed to smile back, he sensed that Charlotte was glad of his presence. When that listless fool of a judge finally deemed her not guilty, Haydon was going to scoop her up into his arms and take both her and Genevieve home, where they bloody well belonged.

“I swear by Almighty God and as I shall answer to God at the Great Day of Judgment that I shall tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” Genevieve's voice was tense but clear as she repeated the oath after the sheriff.

“Mrs. Blake, you are currently the guardian of the accused, are you not?” asked Mr. Fenton, the prosecutor.

“I am.”

“Would you kindly explain to the court how you came to have responsibility for her?”

“Unnecessary,” interjected the sheriff with an impatient wave of his hand. “I am aware of Mrs. Blake's arrangement with Governor Thomson and this court. I believe that arrangement clearly stipulates that should the children in her care break the law again, her custody is nullified and the children are returned to the charge of the court—is that not so?”

“It is, Your Honor.” Mr. Fenton's mouth curved with satisfaction. “Therefore the prosecution moves that the accused be returned to the prison system immediately to serve the remainder of her sentence and any additional sentence Your Honor may elect to impose upon her at this time.”

“No!” cried Genevieve.

“If it please Your Honor,” interjected Mr. Pollock in a weary drone. The defense counsel was a sleepy-looking man whose aged eyelids had sagged to the point where his eyes were mere slits against the folds of flaccid skin, making it difficult for Genevieve to assess whether or not he was actually awake. “The defense respectfully suggests that the defendant has fared well in Mrs. Blake's home, this unfortunate incident notwithstanding. As the appropriated goods have been restored and Mrs. Blake has agreed to make full restitution to Mr. Ingram for any and all damages he may have suffered to his shop, I respectfully submit that there is no merit to sending the accused back to prison—not when she has a decent home to go to. Mrs. Blake has pledged that she will take pains to ensure that the accused understands the grave error of her ways, and that nothing such as this unfortunate incident will ever happen again.”

“Mrs. Blake is in no position to make such a sweeping assurance,” countered Mr. Fenton warningly. “At present she has six children to care for, all of whom have been implicated in this heinous assault, and have stood before this court previously for committing serious crimes—”

“That's not true,” protested Genevieve. “My brother Jamie has never been charged with a crime.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Honor,” he apologized, his lobster-colored mustache twitching with irritation. “Apparently Mrs. Blake does have custody of one child who thus far does not have a criminal record. We are still investigating his role in this barbaric attack upon Mr. Ingram and Lord and Lady Struthers, however, along with the actions of Mrs. Blake's other wards.” He glanced meaningfully at Genevieve.

Genevieve's heart sank. It was clear he was inferring that he would dearly like to see the rest of the children charged.

“At any rate,” he continued in a briskly pleasant tone, “the fact that the defendant has returned to her unlawful ways makes it amply clear that the environment that Mrs. Blake has created in her home has not been advantageous for the accused, and therefore she should be returned to prison so that she may be appropriately punished—for her own sake, and for the sake of the society in which we all live.”

“With all due respect, Your Honor, to return the defendant to prison would serve neither this child nor society at large,” argued Mr. Pollock. “Her best hope of understanding her error and to subsequently be rehabilitated is to send her home to her mother and father, where she can be taught by the example of a loving and law-abiding family.”

“The so-called law-abiding family is comprised entirely of thieves and urchins, Mr. and Mrs. Blake themselves notwithstanding,” interjected Mr. Fenton scornfully. “The children are attended to by two women and a man who have all been imprisoned for stealing. It is scarcely a model of lawfulness and propriety, and clearly not a fitting environment for the accused, who has demonstrated her inability to control her innate criminal tendencies.”

“She doesn't have innate criminal tendencies,” objected Genevieve fiercely, trying to seize the opportunity to say something on Charlotte's behalf. “She's just a child who made a mistake—”

“Mrs. Blake, I fear I must remind you that you are only permitted to answer questions that are directly asked of you by either counsel or myself,” interrupted the sheriff.

“Then someone should ask me something!” she flared hotly.

The sheriff blinked, clearly astonished by her belligerent tone. “Mr. Pollock, do you have any questions for your witness?”

The defense counsel consulted his notes for a moment. “Mrs. Blake, would you kindly tell the court why you believe that Charlotte should be returned to your custody?”

“When Charlotte came to live with me a year ago, she barely spoke to anyone,” Genevieve began. “Her life with her father had been a misery. He was a drunken brute who beat her and forced her to assist him with his stealing, which was how she came to stand before the court in the first place—”

“And how did she change while living with you?” prodded Mr. Pollock, sensing that the sheriff 's attention was growing severely strained. Tales of children being neglected and abused by their parents or guardians were commonplace, and scarcely grounds for leniency when it came to the law.

“She became a different girl,” Genevieve replied. “Once she finally realized that no one in her new home was ever going to raise a hand to her, she slowly permitted herself to be the child she was. She began to talk a little, and then smile, and then she even started to laugh. Now she participates in her studies extremely well, and has learned how to read and write with amazing speed. She performs her household chores with cheer and grace, and she attends church with the entire family every Sunday. She is a serious, studious child who shows an enormous capacity for love and devotion. I know she has made a grave error in judgment, Your Honor,” she said, looking at the sheriff, “but I implore you to demonstrate compassion and return her to me. I can promise you that nothing like this will ever happen again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Blake.” Mr. Pollock nodded with satisfaction. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

The sheriff stifled a yawn. “Does the prosecuting counsel have any questions for this witness?”

“Actually, yes.” He sauntered over to Genevieve and scratched his scalp beneath the edge of his wig. “Mrs. Blake, I must confess that I am somewhat confused. If the home that you have provided for the accused is such a paradigm of virtue and stability, in which everything she could possibly need has been duly provided, why then was she caught in the act of stealing from Mr. Ingram's shop?”