The Heir - Catherine Coulter [113]
She shook her head against his shoulder. “It was awful. I didn’t think I’d ever see the sunlight again the way it slants over the house in the late afternoon.” She paused a moment, rubbing her nose against the soft material of his jacket. “I was afraid I would never see you again.”
“Ah,” he said. He lifted her chin with his finger, stared down at her for a very long time, then kissed her, very gently. “We both need to bathe. Let me look at that cut in your hair.”
It wasn’t as bad as it looked, thank God. He let the matted hair fall back. It had just bled a lot, as did most scalp wounds.
“You’ll do. Bathe now. Then, I would like to speak with you.”
It was then that she made up her mind. He still didn’t believe her, but he had come, nonetheless, to care for her. The very least she owed him was the truth.
“And I wish to speak to you.”
Damn the consequences.
The earl just smiled down at her, wondering what she would say, wondering if she would ask his forgiveness. He remembered her words against his shoulder in the small monk’s cell. She’d thought he believed her. What was that all about? No, he wouldn’t think about that. Surely she would admit everything to him. Hadn’t she just said that she wanted to speak to him? He wanted it over and done with. And, he knew, there was more, so much more. There was Gervaise, and what the damned bastard had done.
“Grace is fetching your tub. I had best demand the same of poor Grubbs.” he turned, reluctantly, not really wanting her out of his sight for a single moment, to leave the earl’s bedchamber.
“Justin?”
“Yes?”
Her voice was softer than the butter Cook had served just that morning. “I thank you. You saved me. I knew you would come and you did.”
“You would do the same for me, would you not?”
“Yes, I would, but you know, my lord, I imagine that I would have moved more quickly.” She struck a pose. In her filthy gown, her matted hair, her scratched hands and face, she struck a wonderful pose, saying now, “I doubt though, upon serious reflection, that I would have left you entombed for quite so long.”
He laughed, he couldn’t help it. “That was very well done. Don’t ever change,” he said, and left her.
Unfortunately, they had no time to speak before the evening meal.
As to be expected, the dinner conversation soon turned to the mysterious skeleton uncovered in the wall of the chamber.
“There was no clue at all to the poor man’s identity?” Lady Ann asked the earl.
“Unfortunately none whatsoever. From his manner of dress, I would estimate that he met his violent end some twenty years ago. As to how or why, or, for that matter, by whose hand—” The earl shrugged and forked down another bite of sautéed pork loin.
Arabella bit her cheek. She loved pork, but tonight she couldn’t face it. Dear God, she held all the answers to their questions on a small square of faded paper. She could imagine the shock and horror on their faces were she to tell them that it was her father who had killed the man—Magdalaine’s lover—a man named Charles. And Gervaise—how would he react, were he to know the truth? Or, perhaps, did Gervaise already know? She lowered her head and toyed with the few errant green beans in the middle of her plate. She wanted more than anything to be alone, away from everyone, to think. She had to decide what to do.
“Dear Arabella, how very awful for you to be shut in with the man’s skeleton. You are so very brave. Goodness, I would have died of fright on the spot.” Elsbeth shuddered, a pea dropping off her fork.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Arabella said, focusing the full strength of her belief on her half-sister. “You would have found the skeleton and you would have turned perfectly white—at least that’s what I did—but then you would have thought about it and been very practical about the whole matter.”
“Would I?” Elsbeth was frowning down at