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The silence that followed lasted far longer than she preferred. She inwardly sighed with relief when he returned to his task and believed the topic dropped. But then, “You were pushed.”
Since it wasn’t a question, she didn’t bother responding. Which she was glad. She hated thinking about the past, let alone talking about it. More silence fell between them.
Then he asked, “How did you get those scars on your back?”
Ivy felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. Not only because of the fact he was the only person who had ever seen those scars, but also from the matter in which he had seen them. Thoughts of her lying naked in his arms, left her feeling very uncomfortable. She shifted away from him.
He dropped his hands, but did not otherwise move. “Prison?”
“No!” she blurted out before she could bite her tongue. Then sighed and automatically rubbed her raw wrists. “I’ve never been to prison.”
She was uncertain how this bit of information was received since he remained still in the darkness. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat. “I find that hard to believe. The way you were able to free yourself from those handcuffs as well as my restraints, and those scars on your back say otherwise.”
Ivy stared into the flames as they burned hotter. Unwillingly, images from the past flooded back to mind. “There are other kinds of prisons, Mr. Michalski.”
Again he fell silent. Ivy could not bear to look him in the face. Her past was by far too humiliating. If anyone ever suspected what she and Moira had endured, she would rather bury herself alive than face their disgust.
Then out of the silence, he asked unexpectedly, “Why did you do it, Ivy? Why did you kill that man?”
Chapter 8
Sam studied her expression, waiting for revealing signs. He was not disappointed. Her chin shot up, a frown etched across her innocent face. How he hated the act. Almost resented it. He knew her next words would be of denial. Not that he would have believed them. Long before her, he had become immune to such pleas. Particularly from a female.
“Don’t bother denying it. There’s an eyewitness to the murder.”
He wished the lighting was better so he could read her eyes. But as it was, she dropped her chin again and cast her eyes into darkness. He supposed it was smart of her to remain silent. Anything she said, she knew could be held against her in court.
But Sam needed to know.
“Did he put those scars on your back?”
For several minutes he didn’t think she was going to answer. Then at last she offered one single word. “No.”
He waited for her to continue, hoping for her to continue. But she remained silent. Simply sat shivering and staring into the fire. So small and frail. Not the image one associated with a heartless criminal.
He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Knew he was falling for her innocent act. Perhaps that was why he needed to understand her reasons for ruthlessly killing a man in cold blood. He was growing soft.
With a thrust, he pushed himself away from her and moved to the other side of the fire. He knew better than to let a woman get to him. What he should have done was remain distant as he planned from the beginning. But that was before he held her soft body in his arms, saw the ugly evidence of abuse on her back. He cursed silently at the fierce shock of rage he felt for that man, any man, laying his hands on her.
If her act of murder was triggered by the abuse at the hands of her victim, he would have almost have applauded her crime. But she had denied it. And he believed her. It would be too easy for her to agree killing the man was based on self-defense. It might be difficult to prove in a court of law seeing that her victim was the son of an influential and respected gentleman, but the evidence on her back would have been enough to provide reasonable doubt.
But, oddly and more importantly, Sam needed this, wanted it. Otherwise, he was left with no other conclusion. Ivy McGregor was a cold-blooded killer.
* * *
Ivy gave her neck a tentative touch. She could feel the raw skin where the rope burned into her flesh. A chilly foreshadow to the fate awaiting her in Chicago.
“Is it still sore?”
She glanced up, her hand stilling automatically, before she dropped it in her lap. “Fine.”
“The poultice should start healing it soon,” he told her as he poked the fire with a long thin stick. “The pain should eventually ease.”
She was already beginning to feel their effects. “How did ye know about the plants?”
“I’ve done a lot of tracking. Getting familiar with the outdoors was mandatory if I wanted to survive.”
“Have ye always done this? I mean, have ye—have ye always—ye know—“
