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With a grimace, Truman studied his scarred hand, currently gloved. After two years, he was no closer to solving the mystery of his wife’s death than he’d been when it happened. Yet the stakes in his fight with Katherine’s parents were growing higher by the day. The Abbotts insisted Truman confess and turn himself in, but he’d sooner die than blacken his family name and relinquish his lands and title without first having some kind of proof that he deserved such retribution.
He had made some progress, at least. Learning that Jack McTavish had been offered a significant amount of money about the time of the fire suggested the killer wasn’t one of Katherine’s lovers come from London, which made sense since the most likely culprits had solid alibis. That had narrowed his search the past six months to the area in which he lived—and it suggested that he was not to blame.
“What was all that about?” Wythe asked after halting his horse to wait for him.
“What was all what about?” Truman drew even with him but was still reluctant to allow the silence to be broken.
“That funeral business. Why did you want to go there?”
The indifferent tone of Wythe’s voice caused Truman’s hands to tighten on the reins. “I told you. The village bookseller died yesterday.”
“What was she to you? It isn’t as though you attend all the village funerals. You didn’t even make your presence known until the very end.”
“I wasn’t making a political statement.”
The stablemaster’s hounds came bounding from the manse to welcome him home.
“Did you even know the woman who died?” Wythe persisted.
Exasperated, Truman reined in and spoke over the yapping of the dogs. “Is it so unbelievable that I might have gained the acquaintance of a poor village bookseller?”
“I thought perhaps it was the bookseller’s daughter you were interested in.” Wythe once again slowed his horse to a stop, a knowing smile stretched across his face. “Rachel McTavish is one of the prettiest wenches I have ever seen.”
Truman stared past his cousin, seeing Miss McTavish’s face in his mind’s eye instead of the lacy branches and boughs of the trees surrounding them. She was a beauty, with her wide green eyes and thick blond hair. But she was no porcelain doll, like Katherine. Vibrant and full of life, Rachel’s face reflected emotion at all times, courage and determination chief among them.
“Well?”
Rousing himself, Truman focused on Wythe as Rachel’s image faded from his mind. “Well what?”
Wythe grinned. “Do you want me to send Anthony to fetch her and bring her to your bed?”
Irritation rose like bile in Truman’s throat. “She has just buried her mother,” he said. “Besides, I have never had anyone bring me a woman before. What makes you think I’ll start now?”
Wythe hardly looked penitent. “Don’t get self-righteous with me, cousin. Just because someone has never tasted a strawberry doesn’t mean they won’t enjoy that first sweet bite.” He arched his eyebrows in temptation. “A good lay is just what you need. You’ve been living like a shade, sullen and withdrawn, haunting the manse by night. If you’re afraid the McTavish wench will prove unwilling, don’t be. I have seen her a time or two at Elspeth’s.”
This statement bothered Truman, although he didn’t know why. Rachel was nothing to him. She hated him. He told himself not to dignify Wythe’s words with a response but couldn’t help himself. “What are you saying? She’s not one of Elspeth’s girls.…”
“All women are of the same ilk, if the price is high enough. How else do you think Rachel has contributed to her family’s coffers? It’s not as if they could live on what they make from that bloody bookshop.”
Truman scowled. “Before the roads improved, that bookshop was an important outpost. I’m sure many from the surrounding counties remain good clients. Anyway, what Miss McTavish does is her own business. See that you leave her alone.” He started his horse walking toward the end of the thicket where soft, rolling hills marked the beginning of his gardens.
Wythe trotted up to him. “You would be doing her a favor, don’t you see? What’s a quick stint on her back to pay the rent compared to walking the floor of that musty bookshop for endless hours? I’d say she is ripe for the picking. Just picture her silky hair spilling over your pillow, her legs spread to welcome you as you plow into that supple body—”
Wheeling his horse around, Truman threw his fist into Wythe’s jaw before he even knew what he was going to do.
The blow knocked his cousin down. Wythe landed with a thud, sprawled in the crunchy snow like a discarded cloak. Truman had never struck him before. He didn’t know what had come over him now, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
“Have you no decency? Don’t ever speak of Miss McTavish in such a light again. And concerning the collection of my rents, see that Mr. Lewis manages to overlook stopping by her shop for the next few months.”
With a glower, Wythe rubbed his jaw, obviously as shocked as Truman was. “She’s no lady, my lord,” he said tightly. “Just a village wench.”
“I don’t care. Stay away from Miss McTavish, as well as the maids at Blackmoor Hall. Do I make myself clear?”
Wythe glared up at him without answering. It was only when Truman stepped his horse closer that he finally nodded.
“Good.” The earl watched his cousin stand on shaky legs before offering a hand to help him mount his horse.
Wythe muttered under his breath, but Truman couldn’t make out what he said and didn’t care to try. His poverty-stricken cousin had been raised in London by a part of the family about whom Truman had only heard his parents whisper. He knew Wythe hadn’t been in a good situation, that his aunt and uncle had been different in many ways and that his own parents hadn’t approved of them. But his mother and father had taken Wythe in when Uncle John died a few years after Aunt Margaret. Problem was, by the time Wythe had come to live at Blackmoor Hall, he was already a youth of thirteen. Although that was two full years younger than Truman, who’d been fifteen at the time, Wythe hadn’t been taught to curb the wild, reckless blood that ran in his veins, and nothing they did seemed capable of overcoming those early years.
Covering the last quarter mile at a gallop, Truman left Wythe behind. As much as he wanted to believe his dead father’s prediction that his cousin would eventually govern himself as befit a Stanhope, Truman had always had his doubts. Except for that day…
