Twenty-one

Try as he might, Michael could never quite recall the following days. The memories were there, he was sure of it. But as soon as he turned his attention to them, they slipped away, out of focus, then disappeared.

The only thing he could remember with any detail was that first drink. The welcome burn of the rum down his throat. The comfort of it in his stomach. The way, as if by magic, it so quickly wore down all the sharp edges in his mind.

The immense sense of relief.

But after that, everything blurred. He was only able to piece events together from what others told him and the few fragments of memory he retained. He'd written himself a pass and signed it with Caitlin's name, then he'd taken his pipe and two jugs of rum and made his way to Sydney. He must have walked most of the way. He remembered crouching in the dark, hiding in a ditch, the rasp of his own breath overpowering Caitlin's and Hud's shouts of his name. Then there was a jostling wagon, straw sticking in his hair and prickling his skin. Hard boards under his arse. A man shouting angry words.

Somehow, he'd found his way to The Rocks and the familiar dank mustiness of a grog house, a relief after the blistering heat of the streets. The blurred cheer of a drunken man raising a toast. A smear of cheap perfume, mixed with the sour smell of unwashed men.

Hard-packed dirt against his cheek as he spun into the emptiness of sleep.

The broken memories could have made him think it was only one afternoon. But in fact, he wandered the streets of Sydney, drunk, for at least four days before Davey found him.

"How long do you think he'll sleep for?" A voice. A dream.

"Your guess is as good as mine. He could barely walk when they came in."

A sigh. A cool hand on his forehead.

"How did he even pay? All that drink, I wonder."

"Davey supposed he sold his clothes. He hadna any coat when he found him or boots or hat."

"He did take those things when he left."

Caitlin. That was Caitlin's voice.

The hand lifted from his head, and Michael wanted to reach out for it, bring it back, but he couldn't move. His body was missing, somehow. There were only his thoughts. And the sound of the two women talking.

"Thank you." Caitlin's voice again. Soft and dear. "I don't know what I'd have done without you."

"You can thank Davey, not me. I wouldna dared go where—where he found him." This voice was Scottish and seemed disapproving. But the woman's tone softened. "What—why would he do this, do you think? After a whole year without drink?"

There was a long pause. Or perhaps Michael had drifted in his sleep, away from the dream.

"I've lost Swindale." The sadness and fatigue was thick in Caitlin's voice. This was no dream.

"What?"

"They found an heir to me husband's estate. A man in England. He wants it—Swindale, I mean." The other woman must have given Caitlin a look because she quickly added, "There's no fighting it. He has Bathurst's backing. We saw proof."

"What's to become of you, then?" The second woman sounded like she still didn't believe it. "If you like, we could find a place. At least for a time . . ."

"I'm going to Scotland. There's a dower portion for me there. An estate." There was a pause. "I asked Michael to go with me, and—he said no. Then he left."

"I see." Emily Flemming. That's who it was.

Another long silence. They were looking at him, most probably. Shaking their heads in pity.

Finally, Mrs. Flemming spoke again. "Whereabouts in Scotland?"

"Somewhere in the North. I'm not sure exactly. With everything else . . . It's written down, but I never looked."

"Most of my friends are near Glasgow, but Lord Banton and his wife have their estate in the North, near Inverness. I've not ever met them, but I know his sister and her husband quite well. And Will—a good friend of mine and Davey's—is a good friend of his. I could write you a letter."

"That would be kind of you."

The Earl of bloody Banton.

A picture appeared in Michael's mind: Caitlin at Darnalay Castle, talking and laughing with Cameron. He'd just told her the story of his evil cousin who'd usurped his title and imprisoned Percy Sommerbell in a dungeon, and she was wide-eyed with shock, unbelieving that any man could be so cruel.

Michael wished he were dead. Why did they have to find him? Why couldn't they have just left him alone with his drink?

He must have made some kind of noise because the conversation stopped. There was a rustle of fabric, a movement of air, the cool palm settling again on his forehead. Then Caitlin's voice, anxious. "Michael? Are you awake?" And, more sternly, "Michael. Look at me."

Bah. He didn't want to open his eyes. Didn't want to see her ever again. Still, her voice, her touch . . . Perhaps he would look. Just one last time.

But it was more difficult than he'd imagined. His eyelids seemed fused. And when he finally did get some light in, it pierced him like a lance straight through the skull.

He shut his eyes again, tight. Everything spun, then stilled. What was he lying on? Not a bed, surely. It was too hard. A floor? A table? He swallowed. His throat was like dry tree bark, and his tongue stuck in his mouth heavy, sore, and bloated.

"Let's get you up, then." Caitlin's hand left his forehead, and her arms came around him from behind, propping him up against a pillow. "Drink this." Cold metal touched his lips. "‘Tis only water." The liquid poured down his throat, sweet and pure.

She was kneeling over him. He must be on the ground. But where?

His eyes blinked open again. There was her face, concerned and tired, but he couldn't focus on it. He quickly shifted his gaze to the wall behind her, whitewashed and clean, with crates stacked against it and some bulging grain bags propped beside them. A string of onions hung from the ceiling.

He must be behind Davey's shop, in a storeroom.

"I'll fetch some food." The click of a door shutting told Michael that Mrs. Flemming had left the room.

Caitlin tipped the water cup to give him more—too much. He spluttered, and some of the liquid spilled down his chin. Impulsively, he raised a hand to wipe it away. His stubble felt thick and bristly. How many days had it been since he'd shaved?

Christ . He let his head fall back to the—no, it wasn't a pillow. It was too hard for that. A bag of flour, perhaps?

"Six days," Caitlin said, as if she'd heard his thoughts—though in reality she was scolding him, "six days since you left the farm." She set the cup down. "And what were you thinking ?"

"I—" What had he been thinking? He couldn't remember. "H-how did you find me?"

" I didn't. Mr. Flemming did. I looked for you on the road, but you were nowhere. I didn't know what to do or where to go, so I came here, and he went out to look for you." With the last word, the anger in Caitlin's voice broke. She sank to a seated position beside him and took his hand, cradling it in hers. Michael allowed himself to look at her hands, so small against his, yet stronger. So much stronger. "I was so worried." The torment in her voice washed over him, and he wished more than anything that he could take it from her. He deserved that pain. Not Caitlin.

And so, though he dreaded what he might see— because he dreaded what he might see—he brought his gaze to rest on her face.

Her skin was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. They looked at him with an anguish that nearly cracked him in two.

No, he couldn't do this. His head dropped back, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. If only he could have another drink. "I didn't mean to worry you." The words grated against his throat like a knife sawing through thick wood. "But you said I should—"

"I know what I said," she snapped. "And don't you think I've been regretting it every second of every day since?" She tightened her grasp on his hand. "I didn't mean it. Surely you knew I didn't mean it." Her voice shook. "Michael, I—If you don't want to go with me, that's what it is. I'll get by. Emily has friends there, and she—"

"I know. I heard."

Caitlin paused for a moment, and he could feel her looking at him before she continued. "But you can't live like this. You'll drink yourself to death, Michael. Tell me you won't, that you'll find employment or work for Mr. Flemming or something . Not this."

Michael stared hard at the ceiling. He couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear because the hard fact was that he wanted to drink himself to death. He wanted a bloody drink right now. More than anything in the world.

"Michael, please." She moved her face so it was in his line of sight. Unavoidable. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. "Promise me."

"I can't," he finally managed.

She blinked. "Can't what?"

"Promise. Go with you. I can't—" A sudden, unexpected tightness lodged in his throat. Michael hadn't cried since he was a child. He wasn't about to start now.

"And why can't you?" Her eyes narrowed. "What is it? What's happened to you? Is it what they did to you at Moreton Bay? You were so much better at Swindale. And you never touched a drop. I thought—"

"No." Michael closed his eyes again, blocking the sight of her. And from the blackness, the answer came.

If she knew his true evil, the depravity of who he really was, she would have no choice but to finally leave him to his fate. He'd tell her. Every last despicable act.

"I can't go to Scotland because of what I did there. Because of why I was transported."

"Oh." There was a long silence. "But how could forgery possibly be that—"

"It wasn't forgery." He snapped his eyes back open. "I lied. About that and about never being in Scotland. And a good many other things."

He could practically hear her mind whirring, trying to make sense of his words. "What was it, then? Was it horse thievery or murder or rape or—"

"No. None of those."

"Then what could possibly be so bad to—" Caitlin was cut off by the door swinging open.

"Here we are." Mrs. Flemming bustled in, holding a tray with a teapot, an empty cup, and a bowl filled with some kind of food. "Now, Michael, this is just plain oaten porridge. It'll be good for . . ." Her words trailed off as she took in the pair in front of her. Caitlin, sitting on the floor, her skirts pooled around her. The clasp of their hands. The look passing between them. "Is everything all right?"

Caitlin swallowed and twisted her head toward the other woman. "It is." Her mouth contorted into a false smile. "Just fine."

Mrs. Flemming raised her brows, clearly not believing it. She bent down and set the tray on a crate. Then she straightened back up and dusted her apron. "I've work to attend to." She spoke intently, as if the words held a deeper, invisible meaning. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Blackwell, I'll leave this to you."

"Of course. It's no trouble." Caitlin smiled again, this time more naturally. Clearly the other woman understood that they desired privacy. And she wasn't offended.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything," Mrs. Flemming called over her shoulder as she left the room.