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“I’m just trying to tell you that I have a little experience…”
He smirked. “So you think you can do what no one else has managed or even wanted to prove? That your new husband is entirely innocent.”
“Yes!”
“And you do not believe for one moment that I am likely responsible.” He shook his head, his smile wry. “No doubt the more you investigate, the more you will see how many people agree Mary must have died by my hand.”
“It doesn’t matter what people think.”
“So you are not persuaded at all that it might have been me?”
“You told me you did not kill her, and I believe you, Cillian. Why isthat so hard to believe?”
“You should have left this alone,” he snapped. “You shouldn’t be doing any of this. You could have simply taken me at my word.”
Ivy resisted the desire to curse aloud. This was like talking to a stone wall. So many years of people thinking the worst of him, and he could not, for one second, believe she might think differently. Clearly, they did not understand one another as much as she had hoped.
“Shall we just sit around whilst everyone accuses you of doing something you did not? Wait and see if that man tries to harm more of my animals? Or worse?”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his posture stiffening. “Nor the animals.”
“Just because you are content to pretend the past does not exist, does not mean I am.”
“It’s my past, Ivy!” he snapped. “Mine. Not yours.” He adjusted his eye patch then cursed and yanked it off, sending it flying across the room.
Ivy flinched when she saw the indents in his face left by the patch.
His expression shuttered. She cursed herself for revealing her discomfort. No doubt he thought it to do with his scars and not to do with how much she wished he did not feel the need to cover them. The eye patch looked mightily uncomfortable.
“You cannot stroll in here and pretend you know everything,” he said in low tones. “Do not think you know me.”
“I know you’re not a killer.”
“Your behaviors say otherwise.” Cillian swept a hand through his hair and sighed. “It doesn’t matter. There’ll be no more investigating anyway. I’ve made arrangements.”
***
Hadmadearrangements was a lie. Cillian had been pondering arrangements since that brick had been flung through the window. Marshall was getting closer, bolder, and more dangerous, and if Ivy did not cease this nonsense, she’d wind up harmed, of that Cillian had no doubt.
Brow furrowed, Ivy peered up at him. He wished she didn’t look so lovely, so tempting. All he wanted to do was scoop her up and take her upstairs. But how was he to keep her safe if he let himself be swayed by a mere glance his way?
“What does that mean? Made arrangements?”
“You’ll go to your fathers,” he said as coolly as he could manage. “As soon as possible.”
“And you have spoken to my father about this?”
“Yes,” he lied again.
He’d send a special messenger this afternoon. It would be easy enough to arrange and he doubted the earl would have any objections to his daughter returning home for a while.
“So you have just organized this without a single word to me?” Red splotches stained her cheeks.
Cillian scowled. He’d seen his wife blush on many an occasion. It seemed to be something she did with regularly and more often than not, he rather adored it, most especially when her cheeks were rosy after his kisses.
Nevertheless, he’d never witnessed this fiery color that made her look as though she might well blow up on him like a gunpowder barrel too close to an open flame.
He’d made Ivy furious. He didn’t know that was something that could be done. And, frankly, if he was not so concerned about her, so damned frustrated at her bold behavior with regards to Marshall, he’d admire it.
