The Prisoner (5 page)

He could not remember a woman ever staying by his side to watch over him so.

He was unaccustomed to being helpless—especially before a female he scarcely knew. And it seemed he truly was helpless. The savage beating he had received at the hands of his assailants some two weeks earlier, followed by the illness that had gripped him in prison, and then that final beating from dear Warder Sims only hours ago had combined to reduce him to a weak and shivering invalid. He had no idea how he had made it from the prison to this home. All he could remember was Jack leading him, and the sight of the lovely Miss MacPhail standing amidst a cluster of angels who were waving and calling to him.

Perhaps sensing that she was being watched, she stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She studied him a moment, her enormous brown eyes void of either suspicion or fear, as if she was merely trying to recall how a battered, half-naked man had come to be lying in her bed.

And then she bolted upright and scrambled to find something with which to cover herself.

Clearly, she had remembered.

“Good evening,” rasped Haydon, his throat painfully dry.

Genevieve grabbed the woolen shawl that had fallen onto the floor and hastily wrapped it over her shoulders and across her chest. How long had he been staring at her like that? she wondered nervously. And what was she thinking, falling asleep beside a strange, naked man, with her hair down and her feet bare, when she was supposed to be watching over him? She reached for the jug on the bedside table and poured him a glass of water, using the simple task to compose herself.

“Here,” she said, modestly clamping her shawl closed with one hand as she held the glass to his lips. “Try to take a small sip.”

The water trickled into his mouth and throat. Haydon took a swallow, then another and another, until finally the glass was drained. He was a man who had indulged heavily in the finest of wines and spirits, yet he could not remember ever finding a drink so enormously satisfying.

“Thank you.”

Genevieve placed the glass on the table and self-consciously adjusted her shawl. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

She glanced at the tray Eunice had brought up so many hours earlier. “Would you care to try some broth? It's cold now, but I could run downstairs and heat it—”

“Not hungry.”

She nodded and fell silent, uncertain what to do or say next.

All night long she had tended to him, despite Oliver's and Doreen's adamant protests that they had done as much for him as anyone could possibly do. The matter of whether he succumbed to his injuries and his fever or not, they assured her, was now in God's hands. But it had been years since Genevieve had yielded matters that she believed to be at least somewhat within her grasp, solely to God. Regardless of who this man was or what he had done, she could not simply retire and leave him to suffer through the night alone.

And so she had stayed with him.

She had spent long hours swabbing his bruised, burning body with soothing cool cloths, alternately covering him with more blankets and peeling them away, pressing the softness of her palms against his searing forehead and roughly bearded jaw as she tried to ascertain whether she was winning her desperate battle against his fever. She knew every chiseled contour of his chest and shoulders and belly, the hard heat of his skin where it stretched tightly across his pectorals, the dark swirls of hair that formed a mysterious line beneath his navel before disappearing under the thin linen of the sheets. She knew he shifted and tried to curl onto his side when a chill began to grip him, and flailed his arms and legs wide when he was suffering unbearable heat. She knew just how much water she could drizzle from the edge of a cloth between his lips without making him gag or have the water leak down the sides of his face, and how much pressure she could render in her touch to soothe him instead of causing him pain. She was familiar with every bruise and scrape and welt upon him, and was reasonably sure of which ribs were broken and which were sore but solid. This intimate knowledge had made her strangely at ease in his presence as he slept, as if she had known him for years and had no reason to feel either threatened or self-conscious.

Now that he was awake, however, she didn't feel at ease in the least.

“Did you…help him?”

She regarded him blankly.

“The boy,” Haydon explained, laboring to form the words. “Did you help him…free me?”

Her initial inclination was to assure him that she most certainly had not. But that wasn't quite true, she realized. She had watched Jack clandestinely lift the keys from the warder's belt. Instead of stopping him, she had created an enormous fuss to distract the jailer from noticing. In the ensuing melee, she had not set out to find Jack promptly and bring him back to Governor Thomson's office as she should have. Instead, she had waited nervously for him to finish whatever his business was and reappear.

Had she not at least suspected his intent—especially after Jack's insistence that she take this condemned man with her in addition to him?

“I am not in the habit of breaking convicted criminals out of prison.” She was unsure if she was trying to convince herself or him.

“You took Jack out.”

“By completely legal means, with Governor Thomson's knowledge and consent,” she retorted. “Furthermore, Jack is only a boy, and should never have been sent to prison in the first place.”

“Nor should I.” It was an enormous effort just to talk. He wearily closed his eyes.

His brow was furrowed and his jaw clenched, indicating he was experiencing pain. Genevieve wet a cloth and pressed it lightly against his forehead, trying to ease his discomfort. A stifled groan escaped his lips. She removed the cloth, dipped it in cool water once more, and began to skim it over his face.

What kind of a man would rise to the defense of a young thief, when he himself was so racked with fever and pain he could barely stand? she wondered. Jack had told her that this man had been gravely ill and injured even before he rose from his bed, tore the prison warder off Jack and threw him across the cell. Surely he must have known that in his condition he could not possibly win a battle against Warder Sims. And he had not even befriended the lad. According to Jack, they had scarcely exchanged a half-dozen words with each other in the entire time they had shared a cell.

For a convicted murderer, he was capable of remarkable compassion and nobility.

His head dropped to one side and his breathing grew deep, indicating that he had fallen asleep. Genevieve leaned over him and gently lay her hand against his brow. He was still overly hot, but not with the same burning intensity he had suffered an hour earlier. Still, experience in dealing with the children's fevers had taught her that the body's temperature could drop and then suddenly flare again with alarming speed. She would have to monitor him carefully to try to make sure that didn't happen. She adjusted the blankets over him, then picked up the tray Eunice had prepared, intending to return it to the kitchen and bring up some fresh water.

“Stay.”

His voice was rough, making it sound more a command than a plea. But his blue eyes were clouded with fever and desperation, and she knew that he was not trying to intimidate her.

“I shall only be gone a few moments,” she assured him.

He shook his head. “They will come for me soon and I will be hanged. Until then, stay. Please.”

“They will come and I will send them away,” Genevieve returned emphatically. “They need not know you are here.”

His eyes widened slightly in surprise. And then they closed, as if he no longer had the strength to keep them open.

Genevieve hesitated.

And then she set the tray down and returned to her chair, preparing to stay by his side for the rest of the night.

Chapter Three

C
EASE YER POUNDIN
'!”
SHOUTED OLIVER IRRITABLY
. “I canna move faster than this!”

That was, in fact, a matter of debate. Whoever was rapping heavily upon the front door appeared to take him at his word, however, and the insistent knocking stopped.

“Have ye nae learned the virtue of patience?” Oliver grumbled, grasping the latch with his gnarled hands. “Did yer ma nae teach ye 'tis no proper to be breakin' down an old man's door?” He swung the door open, finishing crossly, “Have ye no more manners than a stinkin', hairy—oh, beggin' yer pardon, Governor Thomson.”

“Kindly inform Miss MacPhail that Police Constable Drummond and I must speak with her at once on a most urgent matter,” said Governor Thomson impatiently.

Oliver leaned against the door and idly scratched his white head. “What's amiss, then? Did someone finally take a torch to that nasty pile o' rubble ye call a jail?”

Indignation nearly turned the roots of Governor Thomson's wiry beard pink. “I'll have you know I run a respectable prison, which meets with all the current recommendations of the Inspector of Prisons for Scotland. Second, what I choose to discuss with Miss MacPhail is none of your concern. And third, if you had learned anything whatsoever about being a butler since you left my prison, you would open this door this minute and escort the constable and myself into the drawing room to await Miss MacPhail's company.”

Oliver snapped his brows together in a snowy scowl. “Is that so? Well, I'd wager yer precious inspector would make a far different list of recommendations if he'd been made to actually stay in that stinkin' cesspool a week or so. Second, I'm nae in the habit of lettin' anyone enter this house without havin' them state their business first. And third, as Miss MacPhail is my mistress, I'll be lettin' her decide whether ye'll be sittin' in her house or standin' out here biding yer time on the doorstep.” He slammed the door in their startled faces.

“Let them stew over that for a moment.” He chuckled. “Are ye ready, then, lassie?”

“Almost,” said Genevieve, lifting her skirts as she hurried down the staircase. She had been tending to her patient, who was still sleeping, and had needed a moment to straighten her appearance before facing the authorities. “You may show them into the drawing room, Oliver.” She rushed into the room and seated herself.

Oliver waited another moment, just to further annoy Governor Thomson before finally opening the door. “Miss MacPhail will see ye both in the drawing room.” He raised an arthritic arm and gestured grandly at the modestly appointed room.

Regarding him with irritation, Governor Thomson removed his coat and hat and held them out for Oliver to take.

“'Tis kind o' ye to offer, but I canna say I'm particularly fond of black,” Oliver told him. “Makes ye look like a corpse, Guv'ner, if ye dinna mind my sayin' so. Besides, ye'll only be wantin' them again when ye're leaving.”

Governor Thomson huffed with exasperation and marched into the drawing room, carrying his rejected attire. Constable Drummond removed his own hat and followed behind him, his thin mouth pressed into a line of disgust, as if Oliver's rudeness was no more than what he expected.

“Good morning, Governor Thomson,” said Genevieve pleasantly. “Constable Drummond. Please, sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”

“That won't be necessary,” Constable Drummond replied before Governor Thomson could accept.

“Forgive us for disturbing you this morning, Miss MacPhail,” Governor Thomson apologized, plopping his corpulent backside into a chair, “but I'm afraid something terrible has happened. Lord Redmond has escaped.”

Genevieve regarded him blankly. “Who?”

“The murderer who shared a cell with the boy you took home with you last night, Miss MacPhail,” Constable Drummond explained. “He was Lord Haydon Kent, Marquess of Redmond. I believe you exchanged some words with him before leaving the prison.”

Constable Drummond was a tall, dour man of some forty years, with unfashionably long hair that dripped in a scraggly fringe below his collar. More hair oozed in two dark stripes along the sides of his face, which only served to accentuate the thinness of his somber features. Genevieve had first met him when she had gone to rescue Charlotte a year earlier from prison, and she had taken an immediate dislike to him. It was he who had arrested the poor child, who was all of ten at the time, for the criminal offense of stealing a turnip and two apples from a garden. It was Constable Drummond's impenetrable conviction that those individuals who did not uphold the law deserved to be dealt the harshest of consequences, be they adult or child, and he had not been supportive of Genevieve taking Charlotte into her tender custody.

“Of course. I was not aware of his name.” Somehow Genevieve managed to keep her expression neutral.
The warder used to call him “his lordship.”
Jack had said. Her own father had been a viscount, and her former betrothed was an earl, so she was not easily impressed with aristocratic titles and the preposterous implication of social, moral, and intellectual superiority that accompanied them.

Nevertheless, it was somehow disconcerting to think that the naked man whose battered, aching body she had swabbed throughout the night was a marquess.

“My maid told me when she returned from the prison last night that the prisoner from Jack's cell was missing.” She drew her brow together in feigned worry. “I had hoped you would have found him by now.”

“Rest assured, he can't have gone far,” said Governor Thomson, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His waistcoat was straining tautly against its buttons, which looked as if they might suddenly fly off at any moment. “Not in his condition.”

He appeared to be trying to convince himself as much as her. Clearly it did not reflect well upon his abilities to have a dangerous murderer escape from his prison the very night before the man was to be executed. It occurred to Genevieve that the governor might well be in danger of losing his position for such a grave blunder. The possibility was troubling. Whatever his faults, she had carefully cultivated a valuable partnership with him over the years. With Governor Thomson running the prison, she was always informed when there was a child sentenced to languish behind its foul walls. She could not be certain a new governor would be nearly so accommodating—or so open to bribery.

“I will find him.” Constable Drummond spoke with a harsh resolve that Genevieve found unsettling. “Have no fear of that. I expect he will be locked up again before nightfall, and hanged first thing tomorrow.”

She managed what she hoped was a sufficiently bright smile. “How very reassuring. Just hearing you say that makes me feel much better. As I'm certain you can appreciate, a woman with young children becomes most anxious when she hears that a dangerous killer is lurking on the streets. Until you have succeeded in your capture of him, I shall be sure to keep careful watch over all of my family. Thank you both for taking the time to come here to warn me. It was most kind of you.” She rose, as if presuming their discussion was finished.

“Actually, that isn't the sole purpose for our visit.” Governor Thomson shifted awkwardly once again. Genevieve thought he looked like a giant egg wobbling back and forth. “We wanted to speak to the lad.”

She arched her brows in confusion. “You mean Jack? Why?”

“It is possible your new—” Constable Drummond's mouth tightened as he searched for a palatable noun “—
charge
can provide us with some clue as to where Lord Redmond may have gone.” The word “charge” was laden with scorn.

“What makes you think he has any knowledge of such a thing?”

Constable Drummond leaned back and steepled his long fingers together, studying her. Genevieve regarded him with brittle calm.

“They must have talked about something, Miss MacPhail.” His manner was infuriatingly condescending, as if he were trying to explain the obvious to a dullard. “Lord Redmond is not from Inveraray, and was arrested for his brutal crime shortly after he arrived here. This leaves us with limited clues as to where he might be hiding. Given his severely weakened condition at the time of his escape, we do not believe he can have traveled very far. We know he did not return to the inn where he was staying prior to his arrest, or to the tavern at which he became intoxicated on the night of the murder. We need to find out from the lad if Lord Redmond made any mention of his acquaintances in Inveraray, or discussed some place where he might go were he to escape.”

“I have known Jack only a short while, but I can tell you he is not a boy who engages much in conversation.” Her tone was light as she finished obligingly, “However, if you believe he may be of some assistance, of course you must speak with him. Oliver, would you be kind enough to fetch Jack and ask him to join us?”

Oliver poked his scraggly white head around the door to the drawing room. “Aye.”

He disappeared and returned a moment later, with Jack reluctantly following.

The lad who entered the room bore scant resemblance to the filthy urchin who had left the prison the previous night. His skin had been scrubbed clean with fragrant soap and a brush, and his greasy tangle of brown hair had been washed, trimmed, and neatly combed. He was dressed in a tailored jacket, white shirt and dark pair of trousers, and on his feet were a pair of worn but well-polished shoes. His jacket hung a little too loose on his thin frame, and his shorter hair was springing into curls that had completely resisted Doreen's efforts to make them lie flat. At first glance he looked like a perfect, albeit somewhat uncomfortable, young gentleman.

Only the raw animosity burning in his gray eyes and the scar across his left cheek suggested otherwise.

“Jack, you remember Governor Thomson,” said Genevieve.

Jack glared at the governor.

“And this is Police Constable Drummond,” she continued, ignoring the hostility emanating from the boy. She would educate him on his manners later. At the moment, she was more concerned that he not lose his temper or say anything that might give their visitors reason to be suspicious.

“Actually, Jack and I are well acquainted.” Constable Drummond regarded the boy with obvious contempt. “Aren't we, Jack?”

Jack gave the constable a single curt nod.

“These gentlemen would like to ask you a few questions about Lord Redmond,” Genevieve continued. “He's the man with whom you shared your cell at the prison,” she explained, realizing that Jack would be unfamiliar with his title. “As Doreen mentioned on returning from the prison last night, he has escaped.”

Jack said nothing.

“Tell us, lad, did Lord Redmond ever mention anything to you about his plans for escape?” asked Governor Thomson hopefully.

“No.”

Constable Drummond regarded him with barely contained derision. It was his unflinching conviction that Jack was a liar and a thief, and therefore could not be trusted. “Ever talk about having acquaintances in Inveraray?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention any place in Inveraray at all—a tavern he was familiar with, or an inn where he might have taken a meal?” Governor Thomson prompted.

“No.”

Constable Drummond tapped his fingertips thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. “Did he talk at all about his family or friends?”

Jack shook his head.

“Well, then, just what did you talk about?” asked Governor Thomson, perplexed.

He shrugged.

“You must have talked about something.” Constable Drummond's voice was vaguely menacing. “All those hours you spent together.”

Jack flashed him a look of undiluted loathing. “He was sick most of the time, and just lay on his bed. And I wasn't there to make friends with a bloody murderer,” he finished bitterly.

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

“Yes, well, fine then,” said Governor Thomson, somewhat chagrined at having the fact that he had placed a mere boy in the same cell with a deadly killer pointed out. “I guess that's that, then.” He regarded Constable Drummond hopefully. “Is it?”

“That's all for the lad—for now.” Constable Drummond met Jack's glare with cool disdain, neither convinced nor impressed by his protest of ignorance. “I should like to ask Miss MacPhail a few questions, however.”

“Thank you, Jack.” Genevieve gave the boy an encouraging smile. “You may go.”

He hesitated, as if he wanted to stay and hear what she was going to say. It was obvious he was not convinced that he could trust her. Genevieve suspected there had been far too many betrayals in his life for him to believe that she would keep her word and protect the man lying helpless in her room.

“Come on, then, laddie.” Oliver placed his hand upon the boy's bony shoulder. “Let's see if we canna convince Eunice to give us a chunk of that shortbread she just took from the oven.”