But what demon had made him do it so shockingly? Not for the first time he wondered with despair if he, too, were touched by his mother’s madness.
Jerusa sighed, a deep shudder that shook her body, and slowly opened her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I should never have left the inn.”
“No apologies, Rusa,” he murmured. “No apologies.”
She shook her head. “I’m not a child. I should have known better.”
“You haven’t made things any easier for me, true enough.” Morbleu, was that an understatement. By some quirk of the winds he and Jerusa had arrived in Seabrook before Gilles Rochet’s sloop. Michel would have been willing to wait for him here a day or two—his confidence in Gilles was worth that—but now they would have to leave Seabrook immediately, this night if possible. With any luck the dead sailor’s body wouldn’t be discovered before dawn, and by then he intended to be long gone.
He took the hem of Jerusa’s skirt and swept it back and forth through the water, trying to rinse away the bloodstains.
“You don’t have to do that now, Michel,” she said. “I’d rather go back to the inn, and Mrs. Cartwright can tend to those—those spots there.”
“Not if I can help it, she won’t. Right now you’re the one who’s in the greater danger of meeting Jack Ketch.”
She looked at him uncertainly, remembering what he’d told her in the alley. “Don’t be foolish, Michel. What have I done?”
“Not a thing, ma petite, but the constable will trust his eyes and ears more than your word,” said Michel bleakly. “I had no choice but to kill the man, Jerusa. I couldn’t put you at that risk, not with his knife at your throat. It had to be quick.”
Briefly she closed her eyes again as her throat tightened at the memory. Michel accused her father of being a murderer, but was what he’d done himself any different? She didn’t want to consider how deftly, how deliberately Michel must have thrust his knife into the other man. Yet if he hadn’t, she would be the one who’d died instead. Dear God, why was it all so complicated?
“I had no choice,” said Michel again, desperate that she understand. He had killed the man to save her. If he had to, he would do it again. In his world, the difference between life and death could often be measured by a second’s hesitation, and tonight he had nearly been too late. “You must believe me, Jerusa.”
Troubled and confused though she was, she still nodded. “Mr. Lovell—he’s dead, then?”
Michel sighed. “Sacristi, did he know your name, too?”
“I had to tell him,” she said softly, her shoulders drooping. “I didn’t see the harm in it. I wanted his captain to take me back to Newport, you see.”
“At least he’s past telling anyone else.” Michel sat back on his heels and whistled low under his breath. “All we must contend with now is that half the town knows your face.”
“And because I’m a stranger in this town, and because I was the last one to be seen walking with Mr. Lovell and I’ve his blood on my gown, then everyone will think I killed him.” She pressed her hand over her mouth, fighting to keep back her tears. “Oh, Michel!”
“They may think what they please, chérie,” he said softly. He took her into his arms to comfort her, even as he told himself he shouldn’t. “But before they touch you, they’ll have to answer to me.”
Wearily she slipped her arms around his waist, holding him tight as she rested her head against his chest. This once she would forget what their fathers had done, and pray that Michel could to the same. She would forget about the bridegroom she’d left behind and about the dark-haired woman in the miniature in the saddlebag. None of it mattered, not really. But twice now Michel had saved her life, and he was promising to do it a third. She wouldn’t doubt him again. If he said he would watch over her, he would.
His embrace tightened around her protectively. No one had trusted him like this before, but then, he’d never let anyone come this close, either. But with her, it somehow seemed right.
Right as rain.
Jerusa sat upright in the center of the bed and with both hands aimed the pistol at the door and whoever had knocked on the other side.
“Who is it?” she called, trying to make her voice sound properly sleepy.
“Who else could it be, Rusa?” answered Michel softly, so as not to wake Mrs. Cartwright’s other guests.
Jerusa flung back the coverlet and bounded to open the door, the pistol still in her hand. “You’ve been gone so long,” she said breathlessly as Michel slipped into the room. “I was afraid something had happened.”
“Less than an hour. And what more could happen, eh?” He frowned as he noted that she was completely dressed, down to her shoes. “You were supposed to rest.”
“Oh, Michel, how could I possibly sleep?” She fought back the impulse to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. Things had been different by the well. Then he’d offered his embrace as comfort, and welcomed hers in return. Now she wasn’t as sure.
“I suppose sleep was too much to expect, chère.” But she did look better, he decided, her eyes bright with excitement, and some of his worry for her slipped away. “No visitors?”
“Not a soul,” she declared as she handed him the pistol, keeping to herself how she’d imagined every creak on the stairs to be the constable coming for her.
“Just as well,” he said dryly as he disarmed the flintlock. There’d been a time, and not so long ago, when she would have cheerfully emptied the same gun into his back, and now she handed it to him without a thought. Progress, he supposed, though of what sort he wasn’t sure. “Gather your things and we’ll leave.”
She didn’t have much. At Michel’s suggestion she had changed back into the clothes that the Cartwrights had washed and returned earlier, and she’d already packed the green gown into a neat bundle she could carry with one hand.
“Can we get the horses from the stable at this hour?” she asked. “Though I suppose there must be a boy who’ll let us take them.”
“The horses are gone, Rusa. I sold them this afternoon.”
“Sold them?” she cried with dismay. “Even Abigail?”
He tucked the pistol into his belt and slung the saddlebag over his shoulder. “Abigail and Buck both. As charming as they were, ma chérie, we didn’t need them any longer.”
“But we can’t stay in Seabrook, Michel,” she said anxiously. “You said that yourself.”
“And I also said we were leaving. Just not on horseback.” Carefully he laid two guineas on the edge of the table where Mrs. Cartwright would be sure to find them, a more than generous settling of their account. Generous enough, he hoped, that she’d also forget Master and Mistress Geary had been her guests if the constable did come asking questions.
“By sea, then,” she said uneasily, clutching her bundle to her chest in both arms. “By ship?”
“By ship.” He took the single candlestick from the table and turned to face her. “But you needn’t worry that I’ll take you back to the Hannah Barlow.”
In the draft from the window the candle’s flame flared and flickered, dancing shadows across the angular planes of his face, masking his expression from her.
“Or to Newport?” Reminding herself of all they’d shared together, she dared to ask, and dared more to pray he’d say yes.
For a long moment he stood before her in silence with his fingers cupped around the little flame to shield it. Mordieu, why had she asked this one thing of him? Her eyes were so luminous, filled with candlelight and hope