Through the Smoke

“I have fulfilled my end of the bargain with you, my lord, and you have fulfilled yours,” she said. “There is nothing more between your family and mine, no reason for you to be here.”

He ignored the flower in her outstretched hand. “You may not believe this, but I am sincerely sorry.” His eyes flicked Geordie’s way. “For you and the lad.”

The pain in Rachel’s chest intensified. This man had caused her to break her promise, and for what? For nothing! Because of him, she had left her mother, and her mother had died in her absence. The physician Lord Druridge had held out as a carrot in front of her nose hadn’t been worth her time in fetching him.

Her throat constricted, her eyes burned, and her hands began to shake with the effort of holding her emotions inside. “Go. The last thing I need from you is your pity.”

He acknowledged her words with a slight nod. Then he reached behind his saddle to retrieve the cloak she had left at Blackmoor Hall. “Later, if there is anything I can do—”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she broke in, grabbing it. “Our business is done. You see, I have nothing left to trade.”

He blanched but made no reply. Climbing back onto his horse, he dipped his head in farewell, wheeled around, and galloped toward the man who waited for him.

Rachel collapsed to her knees, at last letting the tears run, unheeded, down her cheeks.

“What is it, child? Was that Lord Druridge?” Mrs. Tate’s breathless voice rose behind her as she trudged back into the cemetery.

Turning, Rachel saw that Geordie accompanied her and had quit crying, his surprise and interest in what had just occurred momentarily supplanting his grief.

“Was that really the earl?” he asked, sounding more than a trifle awestruck.

Rachel nodded. Draping her old cloak over one arm, she stifled her sobs and gazed down at the flower Lord Druridge had brought to her mother’s grave. The bloom, a perfect yellow bud, was in its first blush of life. All thorns had been stripped from its stem.

“Where would ’e have gotten a fresh rose at this time of year?” Mrs. Tate asked.

“From his greenhouse,” Rachel answered absently. “He could have brought her an entire spring garden, but all she needed was a doctor.”

“’E brought the doctor, didn’t ’e? Which reminds me, lass. ’E left ye some money yesterday, just before ’e took that doctor fellow ’ome. ’E asked me to wait until after the funeral and then see that ye got what ye needed.” She reached inside her skirt and handed Rachel a ten-pound note.

Fresh anger made Rachel’s blood boil. Ten pounds was more than most miners made in two months. She could never accept such a sum, especially from him. She refused to owe him anything but her monthly rent, not even a kind thought or a thank-you. Neither would she let Lord Druridge make her feel as though she had sold her own mother out for money. She had traded information for a physician, nothing more, nothing less.

“—kind of’im, wouldn’t you agree?” Mrs. Tate was saying. “To be so generous? I think the villagers are wrong about ’im. ’E ’as a sober appearance perhaps, but there must be a soft ’eart beneath that ’ard shell. Only a good man would trouble ’imself to bring a doctor to the bed of a dyin’ stranger in the middle of—”

“That was no favor,” Rachel interrupted.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She handed the rose to her neighbor because she could no longer bear the sight of it. “Mrs. Tate?”

“Aye?”

“Can I borrow Gilly?”

Her neighbor’s face creased into a worried frown. “Aye. A man brought ’im ’ome from Blackmoor Hall just this mornin’ lookin’ fat as butter. But what’s the matter, lass? Don’t ye feel well? Of course ye don’t. Who would, at their dear mother’s funeral? Forgive me for prattlin’ on. We need to get ye ’ome, like ye said. Ye don’t need to go anywhere on old Gilly. I will take care of ye. Come on.”

“Gilly! You’re not going to leave me, are you, Rachel?” Geordie gaped at her. The donkey’s name had managed to draw his attention away from the departing earl. “I’m sorry I was bad,” he said, his hands clutching at her skirt. “I’ll be a good lad now, I promise. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave me, Rachel.”

“I won’t leave you, Geordie.” Rachel rubbed his back and allowed Mrs. Tate to cluck over them as they made their way to the cottage. But she knew, come Geordie’s bedtime, she had a delivery to make.

“You’re not much for conversation today.”

Truman looked up to see Wythe squinting at him, once again trying to break the silence that had engulfed them throughout the thirty-minute ride to Blackmoor Hall. “I’m a little preoccupied; that’s all.”

“You’ve been sullen as hell.”

Truman peered through the trees to view the southern wall of his home. He loved this part of the journey from the village. He could hear the surf crashing on the rocks below, smell the rich earth, despite its winter slumber. Today, with the sun glistening off the snow, he admired, for the millionth time, the beauty of the black, craggy rocks that broke up the wintry scene, and the tall, leafless trees that swayed with the salt-laden wind blowing in from the sea. Blackmoor Hall soothed him in so many ways. He’d grown up here, with good parents who had given him happiness and love.

But all the pleasant memories of his youth couldn’t erase the image of Rachel, pale and drawn, at her mother’s funeral. She looked so forlorn, so completely lost, as if the weight of the world now rested on her shoulders.

Would Mrs. McTavish have lived if he had brought the doctor sooner?

The thought Truman had been avoiding since leaving Rachel at her cottage yesterday crept in, demanding an audience. He’d been so determined to win his personal battle with the past that he’d taken the gamble, but it was Rachel who had lost.

Living with that knowledge would be difficult. Especially because he had gleaned so little information about Jack McTavish. Rachel had merely confirmed what Truman had already suspected, which left him with the same short list of possible murderers: a group of disgruntled miners, the father of Katherine’s unborn babe, or Wythe.

Truman watched as his cousin rode ahead, picking his way through the trees. Wythe stood to inherit Blackmoor Hall as long as Truman had no heir.

But if Wythe had set the fire, why did he pull Truman from the flames? And why would Wythe destroy so much of what he hoped to inherit?