He leaned down and pressed a kiss to those pouting lips. They curved up, and her arms rose to wrap around his neck.
She smelled of sleep and lilies. “Rand?”
“Yes, my sweet. I’m here.” Was it silly of him to be so glad she hadn’t said someone else’s name? He knew she was his, knew it as well as he knew which English words came from Latin.
Her eyes slid languidly open. “Could you read the journal?”
He smiled and sat beside her on the bed, his fingers playing idly in her hair. “Alban Nesbitt,” he said, “has never contrived a code I couldn’t decipher.”
She sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What did it say, Rand?” Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers rubbing the faint scars. “What did it say?”
“It said he planned to murder Bennett Armstrong. I love you, Lily Ashcroft, and we’re going to be married.”
He would make it so. He hadn’t come this far to fail now.
Before Lily rose for breakfast, he was riding hard for Hawkridge, the journal and notes in one hand.
SIXTY-SEVEN
RAND ARRIVED at Hawkridge to find the marquess and Margery at breakfast, sullen and silent.
His arrival took care of that.
“It’s here,” he said, striding in and waving his papers. “In Alban’s own hand. His plans to kill Bennett Armstrong, here in black and white.”
Margery’s face lit like a full moon on a cloudless night. The marquess took one look at her and frowned. “Sit down, Randal. I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
Rand took some spice bread and a bowl of meat pottage from the leather-topped sideboard and carried them to the table. He sat and spread his evidence on the cedarwood surface.
The marquess deliberately looked away, focusing on his food.
Margery pushed her pottage around in her bowl, evidently too excited to eat. “What did you find, Rand?”
“The journal ended on the day of Alban’s death.” Ignoring the marquess’s wince, Rand took a big bite of the fruited spice bread. He’d been awake twenty-six hours without taking any time to eat. “Here”—he rustled through the papers with one hand—“here’s the crucial passage.” He held out a page to Margery.
Her hand shook as she took it. Although it was a translation, not Alban’s writing, the words on the paper were his.
As she scanned down the page, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Rand’s father looked annoyed before she even began reading. “‘I cannot allow this to happen. Margery belongs to me. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”
The marquess snatched the sheet from her hand. His eyes narrowed before his gaze shifted to Rand. “This isn’t Alban’s hand. It’s yours.”
“Actually, that’s Lady Rose Ashcroft’s writing.” Rand wasn’t at all surprised the old goat didn’t recognize his own son’s hand. He’d never bothered to look at any of Rand’s lessons. “Her writing is much tidier than mine.”
With a flick of his still-nimble wrist, his father tossed the paper onto the table. “I’ll never believe that’s what the journal says. Do you think me a fool? You’d claim anything in order to wed that Ashcroft chit.” He looked back down to his food, cutting a bite of ham with a fitful, angry motion. “Those aren’t Alban’s words. I know—I knew—my son.”
Rand struggled for calm. “No, Father, you didn’t.”
The man’s gaze jerked up from his breakfast. Rand hadn’t called him Father in fifteen years or more. Staring at Rand, he stabbed blindly with his fork.
“You didn’t know him,” Rand repeated. “You knew the son you wished he was.”
“Hogwash.” Having managed to spear some ham, he stuck it in his mouth, taking his time to chew and swallow before continuing. “My son was incapable of premeditated murder.”
“Are you aware that your son kept knives under his bed? A collection to rival a museum’s. Most of them stained with blood.”
If Rand could judge from his expression, his father hadn’t known. “There have been no murders in this district other than Alban’s.”
“Not of people,” Rand agreed. “But I’d wager animals have been found senselessly slaughtered.”
From the look on his father’s face, he’d hit home. “What of it? It’s no crime.”
“It could be a small leap from beasts to humankind.”
The marquess pursed his lips and shook his head, but his armor had cracked. Rand could see it in his eyes. He pressed his sudden advantage. “Come to Alban’s chambers. I’ll show you the blades. After you see the evidence, your imagination will fill in the rest.” With that, he rose and strode out of the room, trusting the marquess would follow.
When he heard an additional set of footsteps as they crossed the great hall, he glanced over his shoulder. “Wait in the dining room, Margery. This isn’t fit for a lady’s eyes.”
Lily had seen the knives—and worse, to Rand’s regret. He had no intention of allowing another woman to witness his brother’s depravity.
But Margery lifted her chin. “I’m no lady, as your father often reminds me. Only a mere miss. And seeing as I was supposed to wed the man, I feel entitled to view what I escaped.”
By the time she finished her brave speech, they were all standing in Alban’s bedchamber. Rand sighed and gave up.
“Where?” the marquess asked, clearly discomfited in the disarray that made it seem as though his eldest son were still alive. “I see no knives.”
“They’re under the bed.” Rand stooped to pull out the box. They’d left it unlocked. He lifted the lid.
“Mercy me,” Margery whispered, looking away.
Her hand went protectively to her abdomen, and Rand winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the telltale gesture. He went to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “He’s gone,” he said softly. “He cannot hurt you now.”
“Or anyone else.” He felt her shudder, then straighten. “Or anything else.”
He looked to the marquess. “Well?”
The man’s jaw looked tense enough to crack walnuts. “This proves nothing. Alban was an avid hunter, as
