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“I certainly did. I think she started workin’ at the Castle around the same time I did. She would come by the stables sometimes to give us the leftovers from the scullery. I always thought she was rather nice. It’s hard to believe that she’s the one who has been doin’ all the killin’.”
“Well, ye never truly ken someone’s true colors. She may truly be green with envy.”
“May?” Georgie blinked, but he resumed his eating without missing a beat. Christal had told Matthew to make sure he ate every bit as she handed over the large bowl. Matthew did not think he would have a problem. “Are ye nae sure she did it?”
“She claims she dinnae.”
“And do ye believe her?”
“I ken I should believe the facts. She looks guilty.” Yet Matthew could not ignore the feeling in the back of his mind that perhaps they should not be so ready to jump to conclusions. He understood why they wanted to believe that Jamilyn was the culprit. He understood how vital it was too, not just for Jonet’s, but for everyone’s peace of mind.
Nay, she is guilty. She has to be.
He shoved the nagging thought aside and nodded. “She was caught tryin’ to sneak out of the village. She was tryin’ to run away because she thought we were gettin’ close to findin’ out that she killed Dougal, especially since she had been the one to find Mr. Anderson. I’m nae surprised she would try to deny her guilt either.”
“She was the one who found them?” Georgie was already halfway through his porridge, his head bent as he concentrated on eating. “And she found Dougal too? This daenae sound odd to ye?”
It did. That was what had kept him up last night, as he held a sleeping Jonet in his arms. He could easily believe that she was lying, that she had truly done those terrible deeds and was trying to leave before she was caught. Yet when she had said that she was the one to find Mr. Anderson’s body, and that was why she left, fearing she would be labelled the murderer, it felt odd. Matthew could not determine where such a lie would fit in. It might have been much better if she had not mentioned that at all.
Georgie exclaimed suddenly, drawing Matthew out of his thoughts. He looked at the teenage boy to see him scraping his spoon against the bottom of the bowl, trying to gather what was left of his porridge. He shoved the spoon into his mouth and sighed.
“When I’m finally able to get out of this bed, I’m goin’ straight to Christal and I’m givin’ her a big kiss.”
“She just might hit ye over the head with a spoon,” Matthew pointed out.
“It would be completely worth the trouble. She should be made a queen, I tell ye.”
Matthew laughed. A knock came at the door and when he turned, he saw a fresh-faced girl peeking her head in.
“Ah, Mr. McDulaigh,” she said, coming all the way into the room. “The Laird have asked that ye see him in his office.”
Dread coiled in the pit of his stomach. He could already tell what the Laird would want to talk about, and Matthew was not looking forward to that conversation. That rising feeling that Jamilyn might not be the one who had killed Dougal was growing too intense to ignore.
He nodded and flashed Georgie a grin, hoping the boy would not notice his falling mood. The maid came over to fetch Georgie’s bowl and Matthew took that moment of distraction to leave the room. He took a deep breath as he made his way to the Laird’s office, bracing himself for what was to come.
The room was empty.
Matthew frowned and ventured further into the room, looking around for signs that the Laird had been here and would return shortly. When he found none, he decided to sit and wait, thinking that the Laird might have sent the order before he had arrived at the office.
A few minutes passed and that coiling dread morphed into deep unease. Matthew left the office and made his way down to the dungeons, wondering if he would find the Laird there. Yet it was empty, save for the sleeping brigands and Jamilyn sitting in the corner of her cell. She did not see him, and he chose not to make himself known, slipping away silently.
The unease grew. Matthew went to the Castle’s entrance and found the guards stationed there. He asked if the Laird had left the Castle and they confirmed, saying that it had been about an hour since he had been gone.
Matthew grew incredibly agitated. He took off, racing back to Jonet’s bedroom with this heart in his throat. He pushed aside the f
rightened thoughts, telling himself that he was only overthinking. Perhaps the maid had been mistaken. Perhaps the Laird had forgotten he had sent for him. Perhaps Matthew had taken too long to arrive, and the Laird had grown impatient and left. No matter how odd the explanation seemed, he kept repeating them to himself, wanting to be assure that all was fine.
When he arrived at Jonet’s room to find her gone, he knew there was no longer any chance of that.
Chapter 27
It was the sunlight that had woken Jonet in the end, the same annoying rays she had been trying to escape and to ignore for what felt like an hour of her life. She tossed and turned in her bed, rolling from one side to the other in a failed attempt to escape the sun’s ruse to tear her from the bed. When she finally gave in, Jonet stared up at the ceiling above her, a calm settled over her body and then she realized that she was alone.
The memory of last night came rushing back to her. It had been quite a long night, one that had begun with Dougal’s honor service and had ended with her giving into the exhaustion she had been victim of the for the past few days. Learning the name of the person who had killed her uncle, who had sent her into a pit of despair and self-deprecation after her Murdock and Henry died, did not feel as good as she had thought it would. There was still a heavy feeling on her heart, thinking about Jamilyn’s crying face as Jonet had walked away from her.
Only one person had made the night better and as she had fallen asleep in his arms, Jonet felt safer than ever. She sat up groggily, running her hand through her hair as she swept the room. He was not here.
At that moment, the door opened, and Freya slipped in. She blinked when she saw Jonet sitting up in bed.
