at least one dedicated enough to his craft to imbibe all these bottles. A man known for his rampages and, occasionally, violence.
William met Beck at the horses. “Jasper was here.”
Beck’s eyes widened as he passed him his reins. “Are you sure?”
“Let’s ask him and find out.”
They rode in silence, with only the storm to distract them. A curious rage stirred within him, that his mother had been disturbed, his home violated. The anger poured through his veins, burning and flaming until all he could see was red.
He hadn’t known this violence lived within him. He had been an obedient child. Had to be, for sometimes that was the only peace to be found. Rarely disrespectful, never rebellious.
Now anger threatened to consume him, and he was glad of it. Staid, responsible William could only mourn and lament and make the fucking arrangements for repair. This William could fight back.
The small hut came into view, and they both dismounted. William rapped on the knotted door. It opened to reveal a girl with long dark hair that shone streaks of silver in the moonlight. Jasper’s daughter, he recalled. The memory jarred him. He’d forgotten her.
He preferred to forget.
Her doe eyes widened. “My lord. How may I serve you?”
“Your father,” William said.
She glanced back then licked her lips. “I think he’s in the barn, but—”
William strode to the slanted building. Beck followed, a silent observer. He hoped the girl didn’t follow. The barn smelled of manure and moldy hay. He kicked open a stall, empty, and then pushed open the next. A snoring heap of man huddled on the straw.
He hauled Jasper up by his grimy shirtfront.
After a few startled snorts, Jasper peered at him from under sagging eyelids. “What be the meaning of this?”
William’s hands tightened before he pushed Jasper to his feet. He wasn’t sure how he knew Jasper was connected, but he did. Or maybe he just needed Jasper to be connected, because he had nothing else to look for, no one else to blame.
“Were you at the abbey?”
“No,” he said with belligerence. “When?”
“Last night. The one before. Were you there?”
Jasper frowned, seeming confused now. “Mayhap I was. What’s it to you? A man’s got to have some peace.”
“What about the manor? Were you there, as well? Did you pour pig’s blood on our bed?”
Soft gasps of shock came from behind him, punctuated by a long wail. Apparently the girl had brought her mother and younger sister, as well. Mercy, that was the girl’s name. It came to him with a flash of warmth. The women shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t protect them from this. He couldn’t protect anyone.
Jasper’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Finally, he said, “I didn’t do nothing, sir. I swear it.”
“My lord,” Beck corrected mildly.
Jasper seemed to rouse from his stupor of sleep and alcohol. “No, no, sir. I didn’t touch the crypt, sir. I wouldn’t have—”
“I said nothing about the crypt.”
“I didn’t… I don’t…” The man’s words slurred. One of his eyes slid to the right, while the other remained centered, like a painting melting in the sun.
How would Jasper know about the crypt unless he’d seen something? From the ridge of the abbey, he would have had the perfect view. Or he might have done it. For the jewelry? Then he would have been disappointed. A few pearls and a handsomely embroidered dress had been all that remained for her at the end. Still a bounty for a commoner like Jasper, but hardly what he would have expected from a noble. It wouldn’t have taken a great deal of cunning, just brute strength to hammer through the granite. And most damning of all, the hint of guilt in Jasper’s slack expression.
“Tell me what you did with her.”
“I’m no grave robber! And it ain’t as if she’s alive to feel it.”
William’s stomach lurched. Jasper didn’t even seem to realize how he betrayed himself. He yanked himself out of reach with more agility than William could credit.
Eyes bulging, Jasper grasped the neck of a broken bottle from the heap. “Stay away! You won’t be pinning this on me!”
Worry streaked through him for the women, his own thoughts ringing in his head: can’t protect them, can’t save them. He stepped forward to disarm him but was dragged back. Jasper’s wife clung to his back, momentarily anchoring him in place. By the time he shook her off and drew his pistol, Jasper had the youngest child in his grip, the spike of glass held to her face.
William froze, unable to fire without risking the girl.
“Tell them,” Jasper spat into her face. “Tell them I couldn’t have done it. I was here, with you.”
The girl whimpered, a little-girl sound of fear and shock.
“I never meant to hurt no one. She couldn’t feel the fire.”
For a moment William thought he was referring to the little girl he held—that she couldn’t feel the pain from his makeshift weapon. But then he realized who he meant. And it ain’t as if she’s alive to feel it. Jasper had burned the body. Burned. She could never rest in peace, not ever.
A low sound vibrated from William’s chest, something between grief and rage. “You bastard.”
Jasper tightened his grip and hauled the girl closer, holding the shard at her neck. Mercy screamed. Fury and fear clawed at William; he raised his arm, found his aim, and took the shot. Jasper recoiled with a look of shock. Thick hands released their grip on the child, and she scampered away to her mother.
He stared in shock at the smoking pistol he held. He’d had his share of fights in the gambling houses of London, but he’d never shot a man. The report still echoed in his head, followed by the thud of a limp body. A dead one.
He’d truly become a monster now, and yet he felt strangely detached. The women cried behind him, the child and the mother. Not Mercy, though. She stared at him with something akin to shock. Naturally, she would be horrified. He would be horrified, too, if he didn’t feel so damn hollow. So cheated. This man had taken buckets of blood, bodies of it, and barely paid him back at all. His vision was blurry and his morality in tatters.
William turned to the group, and a huddled mass of white nightdresses shrank back. Regret churned his stomach. He would never hurt them; didn’t they know that? But neither could he protect them.
A small, pale hand touched his arm and lowered it. He hadn’t even realized he’d still been pointing it toward a blank space.
“It’s over,” she said, and he heard relief in her voice. If she had any fear, she refused to show it. Her innocent eyes, her graceful neck, her tattered gown, they were all a facade. A feint, to confuse her opponent. She was not weak. She was stronger than he.
He stared at her, bemused. Even though her calmness was directed against him, he drew strength from it, as if she might hold the key. As if she could save him from himself. The idea was lunacy but only fitting, considering he was mad. Definitely mad, when he felt a stirring attraction to the slim body in a too-large nightgown. The breasts and hips, clear beneath the thin, damp cloth, formed the body of a young woman. Of course she was. If they had played together, she couldn’t be much younger than he. The town hadn’t stopped growing, stopped changing, just because he’d left.
“You aren’t going to cry, then? Or scream at me?” Like her mother was doing. He could barely hear her. All his senses were attuned to Mercy.
“No,”