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“Bridget, please,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“You know about Mary,” she said in a hushed voice. “Graham, I am so,sovery sorry.”
“I need to know what happened,” he said, pressing her onward. “Ever since I arrived in Hertfordshire, you have been evasive. I must know right away—what did you have to do with all this? Andwhy?”
“Your return…” Bridget trailed off, shaking her head. She gripped his forearms so tightly, she feared her nails would pierce or bruise his flesh. “I knew you would come back for the funeral, but I did not think of the implications. And Graham… I have always loved you. Always, as long as I can remember. When I saw your face, I could not resist spending time with you, even though I knew it was wrong.”
Graham’s nostrils flared. He’d decided the best way was to charm her into telling him the truth, perhaps even to kiss her and make her give in. But standing there before her, he could not bring himself to do so. This woman had killed his sister. Why? Envy? Rage?
It did not matter. The idea of kissing her had been foolish, the mere notion of charming the truth out of her silly. He could hardly look her in the eyes, let alone kiss her.
“If you love me, then why did you kill my sister?” Graham demanded.
Bridget gaped at him for a moment. “What?”
“I know it was you who struck the fatal blow,” Graham said. “So, tell me why!”
He grasped her hard by the shoulders then, shaking her. She released him, and before she could even think about her next actions, she raised her hand and slapped him straight across the face.
Graham’s head whipped to the side, and she immediately blanched and covered her mouth with that same hand, taking a big step backwards. “Graham—oh, my! I am so sorry. But… how dare you accuse me of that?!”
He looked at her in confusion. “But I thought—”
“How could you think I would ever do such a thing!” Bridget gasped. It was her turn to be angry now. A bolt of lightning cracked open the sky above, lighting the two of them in stark black and white. “I loved Mary like a sister!”
“But your drawings,” Graham said. He reached into his shirt pocket, fishing for something, and pulled out a damp sheet of paper. When he unfolded it, Bridget saw how he had discovered her secret.
A charcoal drawing, depicting a prostrate woman bleeding out beside a lake.
Bridget could scarcely stand to look at it, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Only in the privacy of the solarium or her rooms had she ever looked upon these drawings of Mary, and even then, they made her weep. To remember the way her friend had looked on that day was far too painful. It reminded her of what she intended to do at the end of their conversation. Suddenly, the lake seemed far less frightening an end.
“You look upon it as if you yourself did not draw the scene,” Graham scoffed. “What does it mean, Bridget? My understanding was that Mary’s death was an accident, but from the looks of this, you struck the killing blow.”
“No,” Bridget said. “No—I did not do that to her.”
Graham took a step back and wetted his lips as something dawned on him. “All right.Youdidn’t do this to her. Butsomeonedid. And you know who, don’t you? That is why you drew this. You had to let it out, the guilt.”
Bridget swallowed hard and braced herself, Graham still clutching her by the shoulders. Were it not for his grasp keeping her aloft, she knew she would have collapsed.
“I cannot speak the name,” she said. “He told me he would ruin my family.”
“He? Who is he? Speak, Bridget!” Graham said. “For Mary—and for yourself, as well. We have reached the point of no return. We can only go forward from here.”
She nodded, steadying herself, and then she looked into his eyes.
“You must already suspect the true culprit,” she murmured, hoping she would not have to say the name, as if the words would summon him there.
“Of course,” Graham said. “Yet I need to hear it from your lips, after you have lied to me for so long.”
Bridget let out a wretched sob, her jaw clenched. But she looked up at the man she loved, knowing it was time to reveal everything. “It was Lord Bragg,” she whispered. “He killed her right in front of me.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Bridget collapsed into sobs as she spoke, and Graham had to hold her to him to stop her from falling. They were both soaking wet, and the storm was intensifying. It had grown even worse now, with thunder roaring and lightning crackling on the dark horizon. Their horses whinnied anxiously from the nearby tree, and Graham looked toward them to see that the trees were bending in the wind.
“Bridget, we should go,” he murmured into her hair as she wept against his chest. “The storm...”
“I can’t,” she gasped out.
