Iris nodded once but said nothing, letting the woman have her reminiscences.
“When one takes the vows of marriage, it can be convenient to forget that the person you are bonding yourself to may not always be the person you’d hoped for. They may possess…peculiar tastes, of which their spouse might be…dismayed upon learning. Bad habits. Undesirable urges. Perhaps even things that are…awful.” Caris paused, and her hands squeezed Iris’s as her eyes pleaded. “Sinful things,” she insisted.
“A spouse’s role, however,” Caris continued, “is not to judge. Only God can do that. And sometimes you are so enamored with...I don’t know. Their boldness, perhaps. Their daring to tempt God’s laws. Even natural laws. The horrible awesomeness, the recoil, it is an illness in itself for which there is no cure.
“And after so long,” Caris Hargrave continued. “So many years, you realize that whatever has been done with your knowledge you also bear guilt for.”
“No,” Iris whispered.
“Yes,” Caris replied fiercely. “A man and a woman cannot be married as long as Lord Hargrave and I and not bear responsibility for the other’s bad deeds. We are one flesh in God, are we not?”
Iris felt a tear escape down her cheek. “What if he one day kills you too?”
Caris’s voice was barely audible. “Don’t you see? He would never do that. He would never show me such mercy.”
Iris laid her head in Caris Hargrave’s lap, her heart breaking for the fragile woman who held her. Who could withstand such horrors and still gain their feet each morning, knowing there would never be escape for them outside death?
And Iris realized then that, no matter Caris Hargrave’s delicate body, even she had no idea of the lady’s immense strength.
She only hoped the woman would hold on to such strength when Vaughn Hargrave was finally accused of all the murders he’d committed.
“Now,” Caris said a little more briskly. “Let us discuss something more pleasant. We have had enough death and despair for one night, I think. You will accompany the hunt tomorrow?”
Iris raised her head with a sniff, resolved to give the lady whatever peace she could. “I suppose I must. What shall I do if I encounter Lady Paget?”
“Dear, resourceful Beryl.” She stroked the side of her face with barely tracing fingertips. “If there is anything that has come out of this tragedy, it is that I am now completely sure you will think of something wonderful.”
Chapter 13
The hunting party staged their breakfast outside the walls of Darlyrede House on a knoll overlooking the river. The air was crisp with the coming chill of winter, the leaves on the ground frosted sparkling white, crackling under the feet of the nobles who milled about to keep warm.
The atmosphere was festive, almost frenzied with the undercurrent of the unknown that had gripped the hold since the disastrous feast the night before. Cletus had been laid in the ground just after dawn, Padraig, Lucan, and a handful of servants the only mourners. And although Padraig wasn’t necessarily mourning the man himself, he could not discount the fact that Cletus had indeed given his life in service to Padraig.
Father Kettering had only glared at Padraig and escaped the graveyard after the last amen. He would let the man be this morning, but Padraig was determined to have his father’s pin back.
Now he stood in the midst of strangers on the hill, feeling both ignored and scrutinized amid the shouts of laughter, the baying of hounds, and the clanging of gear. An explosive report rang out over the river valley, causing Padraig to jump and turn as a roar of approval came from the group.
Vaughn Hargrave stood at the crest of the knoll, behind a fork rest on which a long arquebus was perched, smoke from the weapon hanging in the heavy air. The man met Padraig’s gaze for the briefest moment, then his grin broadened.
“Don’t worry,” said a voice at his side. “He daren’t bring it on the hunt with us. He’s only firing to boast. And to scare the game into the valley. The veneur has sent lads ahead to contain them.”
Padraig turned his head to regard a short, round man with thin, mousy brown hair. He was considerably older than Padraig and was dressed in the fashion of a wealthy lord.
“Edwin Hood,” the man supplied as an afterthought. “Of Steadport Hall. Your first hunt?”
“The first one so formal. Padraig Boyd,” Padraig responded. “Of Caedmaray.”
“I know who you are. Oh, don’t worry,” the man advised a second time, apparently recognizing Padraig’s guarded expression. “I’m not of the same camp as Paget. I simply wished to introduce myself as Hargrave hasn’t seen fit to.” He raised his voice conspicuously. “I couldn’t very well wait around in hopes of Montague doing the propers, now could I?”
Lucan approached, a steaming mug in each hand, his typically solemn expression lightening as he regarded the rotund gentleman to Padraig’s side.
“Lord Hood, it’s been too long.” Lucan handed a mug to Padraig.
“I say it has,” Lord Hood replied. “It seems you have taken on quite the project in Master Boyd, Montague. I’m rather surprised at this alliance, I must confess.”
“Little to be surprised for, my lord. Nothing more than my duty to the king.”
Padraig sipped the mulled cider and looked between the two men, his instinct tingling at the undercurrent of information flowing somehow just beyond his comprehension. “The pair of you are long acquainted.”
“Oh, aye.” Lord Hood laughed. “The pride of English chivalry was yet a babe in swaddling clothes when first I knew him. The old Lord Montague and I were neighbors. How fares your sister, Lucan? Still cloistered away, I assume.”
Padraig felt his brows raise and he turned his face toward the dark-haired knight, pinning him with an exaggeratedly curious expression.
“It’s the best place
