Linda Barlow (60 page)

She put her face in her hands. Oh God.
Pris.
Further pretense seemed pointless. "Is she dead?"

Francis looked into the fire and didn't answer.

Alexandra had an image of the elegant dark-haired beauty whose blue eyes had been filled with determination... and fear. The female friend she had never been able to make. Finally a bond had been forged between them—affection, confidence, mutual respect. Forgiveness for past injuries. Reconciliation. A new beginning.

Now she was dead. Francis had killed her. And Will. And helpless, harmless Ned.

A great red rage took her. "You bastard! You scurvy, blackhearted
swine!"

"I've destroyed her copy," he went on as if she hadn't spoken. He reached into his doublet and drew out a scrolled paper. "This is your copy, along with the note I substituted that night, the note I thought had been burned long ago. It wasn't very intelligent of you, Alix, to hide it here." He nodded at Merwynna's shelves, which, she could now see, had been thoroughly rummaged through. "I will destroy your copy now."

Without hesitation she leapt up and snatched at the papers, but he whipped them out of her reach. Then he stepped over to the hearth and flung her precious evidence—Priscilla's testimony and the note Francis himself had forged—onto the fire. Alexandra dived toward the hearth, but it was too late. The dry old paper caught immediately, flaring orange, and then bright yellow as it burned.

Speechless with anger and grief, Alexandra watched her case against Francis crinkle away to ash. "There's yet another copy." Because she was trembling too much to stand, she resumed her seat at the herb table. "'Tis safely hidden where you'll never find it. If anything happens to me, it will be given directly to Roger."

"Dear clever Alix. I almost wish that were true." He pulled out a kerchief and wiped hot ashes off the end of his sword, then absently polished the blade. She envisioned him fighting, his smooth fluid movements, and the dance that almost invariably brought death to his opponents.

For an instant, as he turned it, the shiny metal blade reflected the red of the fire—fire-red, blood-red. She had seen him kill with that sword. That night on the Thames, just before he'd been wounded.
A gray-eyed man will strike me to the heart.
No such prophecy had ever been made for her.

"Why did you do it? Why did you murder an unarmed drunken man, a half-wit, and a terrified woman? You're a man of God, Francis!"

"I am damned," he replied, his voice dull and heavy.

"Deny it. Please. Tell me 'tis all a bizarre mistake."

"I cannot." He turned to her, his gray eyes alight with all the passions that he usually kept so well hidden. "You've found me out, just as you were so determined to do. Damn you! Why the
hell
couldn't you just leave it alone?"

"They were my friends. They didn't deserve to die. What reason could you have possibly had? How do you justify it to yourself? Roger might have had some motive to kill his brother, if he were greedy and ambitious, that is. But you..."

"Will's death was an accident. That first death, at least, happened by mischance."

She waited, curious, in spite of herself.

"It was my doing, that I don't deny, but I did not intend what happened."

"How can you claim that? You lured him out that night into an ambush."

"No. I lured him out, it's true, but I meant him no harm. What I intended was to talk some sense into him. I knew his plans, you see. If the child was a boy—an heir—he intended to renounce his betrothal contract with you and marry his mistress instead." His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. "I was doing you a favor. I meant to lecture Will on the legal difficulties involved in breaking a formal marriage contract. I intended to convince him—before he could announce his son's birth to his family—that he was morally obligated to wed you."

"Why should you bother about my betrothal? You never cared for me. From the day we met, we disliked each other."

"That is true. Until recently on the
Argo
I thought you were nothing but an unmitigated troublemaker. Now, unfortunately for us both, I've grown rather fond of you. No, keep your seat," he added as she half-rose. The flat of his blade touched her shoulder and pressed her back down. "I wanted you married to Will because I knew Roger was coming home. I was afraid of what would happen when you and he met. And I was right to be afraid, wasn't I?"

She was dumbfounded. "How could you have known? I'm not beautiful or witty or seductive—nobody was more surprised than I when he grew to love me. How could you have foreseen such an unlikely event?"

"You underestimate yourself, my friend. Your beauty is not conventional, but it is vivid and alluring—even I, who have no interest in women, can perceive that. You are highly intelligent, also, a quality Roger admires. You are honest, loyal, and determined, and you stand up to him in a way that few people dare to do." He paused. "Your courage too is remarkable. It will be there to support you at the moment when you need it most."

She knew then that he was going to kill her. The breath rushed out of her, leaving her empty and ill. For an instant she thought she would be sick. The room seemed to glide around in slow, surging circles.
He was going to kill her.
And her brains might have been cooked and mashed for all the help they were giving her; she couldn't think of any way to stop him.

He moved a little closer to her; she shrank into herself on her stool. "What happened that night with Will?" She was desperate to keep him talking, desperate to stay alive. Courage? What courage? She'd borne too much already; she didn't have the fortitude to deal with this.

"I sent the message and went up the road to wait for Will. He came directly, riding like a madman. Despite your speculation, I did not leap out and frighten his horse—nothing like that; I gave him plenty of warning. He saw me and stopped.

"He dismounted and we talked. As gently as possible, I told him that he had a son, but that the child was illegitimate and must remain so. He was legally bound to you. I went on to insist—and this was my mistake, I realize now—that a debt-ridden widow like Pris Martin was no fit wife for the next Baron of Whitcombe."

"Oh heavens!"

"Aye. Like all the Trevors, Will was proud. He had fallen in love and had made up his mind. He was also drunk and, because of it, easily aroused to anger. And clumsy. He drew on me and ordered me out of his way. I was unarmed, except for my infamous Turkish dagger, but he set upon me nonetheless. In short, he lost his temper, and I, who am usually more controlled, responded by losing mine. I kicked the bloody sword out of his hand and hit him as hard as I could. He went over backward into the ditch and struck his head on something, an old tree limb, I believe, or maybe a rock. I’m not sure; it was dark." Francis stopped a moment, his voice vibrating with tension. "I thought he was dead. I was sure of it."

"But he was still alive; he lived for three days, while you sat faithfully beside his bed, praying, no doubt, for his breath to stop."

"No. In sooth I have never prayed so sincerely for a man to live. I was sick with fear that he would die and Roger would discover that I was responsible. Roger's loyalty to his family is far stronger than he lets on. Our friendship has survived many crises, but this it would not survive."

"So, after our encounter in the woodland, when I so carelessly put your own lost dagger into your hands, you killed Ned, to keep Roger from learning the truth."

"Yes. I realized the lad must have been a witness to what had happened that night. I found him in the forest and followed him back to his cave. It was so isolated there that I hoped his body would remain hidden for a much longer period of time. Leave it to you to discover him so quickly." He thrust his sword back into its scabbard, then sat down upon the herb table, so close to her that she could feel the heat generated by his body. "I was sorry for silencing him, but there seemed no other way."

"No other way? Why didn't you go to Roger and explain? If it occurred as you just described, it was an accident. Such tragedies happen. It wasn't a crime until you hid it and compounded it with other murders. A half-wit boy, Francis. A woman."

"There is a small chance that Pris Martin might still be alive. She fled from me and was thrown from her horse. I found the papers in her clothing. I saw no point in running her through. It was raining last night, and there was nobody about. She was unconscious, and by morning she would most likely have been dead of exposure. I don't like to put a sword in someone unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Heaven forbid that you should do anything so unchristian!"

He reached out and caught her chin between his fingers. His eyes were as metallic as his sword. "I hate this, Alexandra. I hate every moment of it, I assure you. I should have confessed to Roger in the beginning; you're right about that. But I did not, and now it's too late. He must never know."

She drew a deep breath and jerked her chin out of his hand. "So, what now?" He hadn't been able to run Pris through. Alan had set out after her—perhaps, with luck, he would find her. Perhaps Pris would survive. Perhaps Francis, who had refrained from putting his sword through one woman, would falter again, now, with her. "The evidence has been destroyed and there's no one to speak against you."

He rose to rummage in Merwynna's shelves. "There's you." He turned back to her with something in his hands. It was a length of Merwynna's homemade rope.

"No, Francis." She jerked to her feet and backed away, wondering if he was going to strangle her as he had strangled Ned. Again her wits seemed to be operating with all the speed and incisiveness of honeyed candy. Was this how you felt when you knew death was imminent and there was no escape—paralyzed, impotent, helpless?

She put the table between them. "Despite my suspicions, I've said nothing to Roger. Now that there's no evidence to prove my case, there's no point in my ever saying anything. I've cried wolf too often. Besides, he trusts you."

He kicked the table aside. It crashed to the floor with a violence that shocked her. She made an involuntary little sound in the back of her throat.

"I'm sick about this, Alix. I may not show it, but I feel—" He stopped. His hands shook slightly; he wound the cord around his own wrists, and then pulled it free. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

She backed again, but there was nowhere to go. She felt the herb shelves hard against her shoulders as he closed upon her. The fire cast his shadow before him, like a demon. "I saved your life."

"I told you you'd regret it."

Oh God!
He was going to do it. "I am carrying Roger's child."

"Liar!" Cursing, he spun her around, seizing her wrists and jerking them together behind her back. She struggled, crying out at his sudden roughness. He restrained her effortlessly and bound her, winding the rope several times around her wrists before pulling it tight. "I should have killed you last summer. 'Twould have been far less painful for all of us."

"’Tis no lie. My babe will be born in April. He's lost one child already, and one woman, Celestine. You saw how deeply that hurt him. Imagine how this will affect him, Francis. He loves me."

"Yes. And there's a part of me that has wanted to kill you ever since the day I first saw you together."

"Do you think he'll turn to you in his grief? Don't deceive yourself. He doesn't feel what you feel. As much as he cares about you, he will never give you what you want."

"You think I don't know that? I've known it since he was a boy of fifteen. I've accepted it. I've tolerated his love affairs, his women. I even tolerated you. I made no attempt to stop your marriage, did I? But there's one thing I cannot,
will not
tolerate. I cannot allow you the power to destroy the trust and the friendship between him and me.
That
is something I will not give up, though my soul is damned for all eternity to hell."

She swallowed. She felt tears crowded behind her eyes, whether for Francis or herself she wasn't entirely sure. "I'll never tell him," she heard herself say. "'Twould hurt him too much. Spare me and I'll keep your secret forever."

"No."

She set her jaw. "You don't trust me? What harm can I do you now? Do you think I want vengeance?"

"I think you want justice. Your loyalty to your dead friends will demand that you reveal the truth. No, don't deny it," he added as she opened her mouth to argue. "I've watched you chase that truth for over a year. Watched you and feared you as I have never feared a woman in my life. I am sorry. Child or no child, you're going to die."

"My child is innocent of any of this! Is that the price of your soul, Francis—a half-witted boy, two women, and an unborn babe? Even condemned prisoners are spared execution until after their children are born."

Francis was breathing hard, almost as hard as she. He turned his face away from her and coughed. "I see no sign of pregnancy," he said when he could speak. "You are very likely lying."

"I am but two months gone."

"Then the babe has not yet quickened within you," he countered. His voice rose ominously. "I am damned already, so cease your arguments." He shoved her toward the door. "Enough. I had no more than a few hours' start on Roger. This must be finished now." He took one of her arms just above the elbow. "Outside, quickly, before the witch comes back and I have to kill her too."