Twenty-two

The door snicked shut behind Emily.

Caitlin waited, hoping Michael would speak. What could he possibly have done that was so terrible? But he just lay there, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the ceiling.

Well, if he didn't want to tell her, he didn't have to. She could hardly force it out of him.

Pursing her lips, she turned to the bowl of food Mrs. Flemming had left. Oaten porridge with a generous drizzle of honey—Caitlin's own honey, by the looks of it. Rich and dark, it would have been from last fall's harvest, made from the gum tree's blossoms.

The now familiar heartache drifted in, but at least this bit of the farm's bounty would be useful. It would nourish Michael now, when he most needed it.

She took up the bowl, spooned out a bite, and brought it to his mouth. He grimaced and shook his head, still without looking at her.

"You really should eat," she urged. He probably hadn't had a decent meal since he'd left the house six days ago.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Not yet." He winced.

She set the bowl aside. "Tea then?"

He stared at the teapot for a moment. Then, as if in defeat, "All right."

She poured him a steaming cup, which he took with a sullen expression . . . and balanced on his chest without drinking. Again, his eyes closed.

Caitlin stared at him, not sure what to do or say. He looked awful, lying there on the hard floor, his head resting on a bag of sugar. He'd not shaved in days, and his beard was growing in, patchy and gray. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and the lines creasing their sides and the corners of his mouth appeared deeper than she remembered.

Then there was the smell: stale rum and days-old sweat.

Who knew what demons haunted this man? Far more of them and fiercer ones than she'd suspected, apparently.

Without thinking, she bent forward and kissed his forehead.

His eyes sprang open. The tea upset, spilling into the saucer and onto his shirt.

"Bah." He put the cup down, then turned to her, glaring.

She pulled back. "I'm sorry, are you burn—"

"I'm fine," he snapped. But as quickly as it had come, his anger drained away. His head dropped. "I'm sorry. I'm . . . I'm not a good man, Caitlin."

What was this about? She'd barely seen him angry in the whole year he'd been with her, but ever since she'd asked him to come with her, he'd been on the sharp edge of a deep rage. He seemed so . . . so lost . . . And the drink. Why? What was this monster that had him so firmly in its grip? And if he couldn't speak of it, even to her, what chance did he have of ever freeing himself?

Slowly, softly, she spoke, infusing each word with all the care she felt for him. "What did you do, Michael? Why were you sent here? Tell me."

He was quiet for a long time, his eyes trained on the ceiling. She didn't push. At long last, a pained relief flickered across his face. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and began to speak in a low, droning tone, as if reading from a book. "I kidnapped an innocent man. I let him rot in a pit with no light, no air, no human company. For weeks." He drew a long breath. "And I usurped my uncle's title. I fought to keep it from my cousin, even when I knew full well it wasn't mine by right. I was cruel to him—my cousin I mean—and his sister. And I planned to—"

"Your uncle's title? He was—"

"The Earl of Banton. The one Mrs. Flemming told you of just now."

Caitlin felt her mouth drop open. "Your uncle is an earl ?"

"Was," Michael continued in that even, hollow tone. "A Scottish one. He's dead now. It was my uncle's son I wronged, and his sister. And the man I kidnapped, Sommerbell. He was a friend of theirs." He took a long breath. "They only wanted what was right. And I did everything I could to stop them."

Caitlin's head spun as if she were the one who'd had too much grog. But Michael seemed to be done talking. Indeed, he appeared too weary to even lift his head. So, unsure of what else to do, she poured him another cup of now-tepid tea. "Drink this," she commanded.

As if he were a child resigned to his lot, Michael took the cup and drained it. Then, finally, he accepted a spoonful of porridge. She might have imagined it, but it seemed to bring some color back to his cheeks, a bit of life into his eyes. After he'd eaten half the bowl, she spoke again. "Now, what's this about your cousins?"

"My father's brother was the Earl of Banton." Michael set the porridge aside. "He was married to Lady Eleanor, a good friend to my parents in London."

He'd told her he came from London. At least that much was true.

"The earl, my uncle, was seldom in town. He spent his time at Darnalay, the family estate, a castle in the north of Scotland. He only ever came to London when it was absolutely necessary. And even then, he was always busy working. I barely knew him."

"Darnalay. That's the place Mrs. Flemming spoke of."

"Yes." Michael paused, staring at his hands, lost in thought. "Lady Eleanor, my aunt, she never had children, so I was the presumptive heir to the earldom. My father died when I was twenty, but my whole life before that—it was all he ever cared about. That I would inherit the title and restore honor to the family name. And Lady Eleanor wanted it too. Just before she passed, she told me I was the son she'd never had. She hated her husband, and to know that I would become the earl—" Michael stopped again. Swallowed. "It pleased her."

"She hated him? And your father did, too. Why?"

"Good reason." The bluntness in Michael's tone made it clear that he'd held no love for his uncle either. "He had a woman—a mistress who used to be a whore. He had two children by her and kept them at the castle. He spent all his time there, barely saw Eleanor, hardly acknowledged her as his wife. He never had time for Father or for me. It was humiliating."

"I see. He loved this woman, then. His mistress."

"He must have." Michael swallowed, his lips pursed, as if he'd eaten something foul. "When he died, and I inherited, I went to Darnalay to make improvements."

" Improvements ?" Caitlin knew what that meant. It was the same in Scotland as it had been in Ireland, only worse. "Evictions, you mean?"

Michael nodded, a look of pure misery on his face.

She wanted to understand, truly. But a coldness crept through Caitlin's limbs, and she felt herself drawing away. She'd thought she'd known this man . . .

As if he'd heard her, he repeated, "I told you. I'm not a good man."

His words, so full of pain, brought her back. "Men change."

"Perhaps," he allowed, "but the story's not over yet."

She set her jaw. "Go on."

He brought a hand to his face and scrubbed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's rather complicated. But what matters is, after I got to Darnalay, I discovered the existence of a letter written by my uncle and his mistress to their children. Lady Eleanor had just passed, and it seems before the dirt had settled on her grave, my uncle married the mistress in Edinburgh. On the way home to Darnalay, they were killed in an accident. He never had time to make things official, but the letter confirmed my uncle's intent that—" Michael broke off, that look of bitter distaste creasing his face once more. "That his son, Cameron , inherit the title."

Caitlin's head was spinning. "Your cousin. But he was a bastard by birth. Surely—"

"In Scotland it's permissible for parents to marry after the birth of their child. The claim was lawful."

"I see."

"But it seemed so ludicrous. That I would lose the title I'd been promised, that my father and Lady Eleanor had so wanted for me. To a bastard ."

Caitlin's eyes widened at the force in his words. "Did you destroy this letter, then?"

"If I had, I'd still be the earl. The letter went missing. I extended my stay, searched all the servants' quarters, all the cottages. It had simply . . . disappeared. Then, one day, a man came to the castle. Percy Sommerbell. He was in love with my cousin Jane, and he had the letter—or at least he claimed he did. He demanded I give up the title, or he'd take it to court."

"And where were the cousins in all this?"

"Glasgow. I banished them before I even arrived at Darnalay. They never saw the letter or knew of its existence. Cameron was studying to be a doctor."

"Ah." Caitlin understood what he said, but it all seemed too fanciful to be real. A story from the storybooks. And Michael—Michael was the villain.

"So I put him in the dungeon," Michael continued. "Sommerbell, that is. It was a mad impulse, but I thought—I thought he'd concede quickly and give up the letter. It was so dark down there, and cold. No one could stand it for long. Or so I thought. He did, though. Two weeks he was down there. He nearly went mad. And the longer it lasted, the harder it was to think of freeing him. It was so wrong . I was petrified. Cameron came, looking for him, and I claimed I'd never seen him. He shook his head. "I lied. I just—I wanted it all to go away."

She rested a hand on his arm. "And how did it end?"

"Jane, Cameron's sister. I'd never met her before. I didn't know her, so she disguised herself as a servant and—" He hesitated, as if there was some part of the story he was leaving out. "And in the middle of the night, she slipped out of her room, found him, and set him free. They escaped."

"With the letter?"

Michael nodded.

"Did you give chase?"

He snorted. "They took all the horses in the stable. There was nothing I could do. The following day, I left and . . . I ran. I knew I was in the wrong, and after what I'd done to Sommerbell—if I was caught . . . I just . . . I didn't know what else to do. I went to London and tried to disappear. I thought I'd change my name, but they found me. I was tried, convicted, and sent here."

Somehow, a weight seemed to lift from Michael's countenance with the end of the story. He sat himself up a bit and watched her, gauging her reaction.

But Caitlin herself didn't know how she felt. It was so far from anything she'd imagined. He'd done wrong. Truly. The kidnapping and lies were only part of it. If she were honest, it was the evictions that pained her most. It was so close to what had happened to her own people. And Michael had been the landlord . . .

"Are you sorry?" was all she could think to say.

His eyes widened. "Sorry? That's not—of course I'm sorry. Looking back . . . I can't even believe I did it. That it was me. That man's face, in the dungeon, looking up at me, half crazed. It never leaves me." He squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head, as if trying to fling the memory away. "He would scream sometimes, about suffocating or being attacked by snakes. He must have seen things in the dark. It was terrible."

"Your nightmares." Of course. That's what they were about.

"Yes."

Caitlin steeled herself. "And the people, the tenants. You burned them out, I expect? For sheep?"

He looked at her, eyes shining and so, so sad. He knew what this meant to her. "I meant to, but it all happened before the evictions were scheduled. I'm glad of that now. I don't believe I could live with that on my conscience on top of everything else." He broke off, swallowed. "I—I thought it was the right thing to do. I was so sure." He blinked, then wiped his eyes. "And so bloody wrong."

Caitlin felt her breathing relax. The rest, she could forgive—or understand, at least. He'd been misguided, surely, by his father and aunt. He'd been cruel, yes, but he'd thought his actions were justified somehow. And he'd been too young and too scared to give himself up once he'd realized how deluded and wrong he was. There was no doubt he'd changed. He truly was a different person now than he had been, just as she was different from the night walker who'd nicked that handkerchief all those years ago. But if he'd—if he'd really been the one to burn out the farms of innocent families, even if he regretted it, and even if he'd changed . . . It would haunt her.

She squeezed his arm. "You were young."

His eyes blazed. "It doesn't matter. I'm a villain, Caitlin. They still tell stories of the evil cousin, Michael Dunn. The Flemmings know of me, though somehow they've never connected the tales with the man. My cousins hate me, and that poor devil that I—"

"But you've changed, and you've served your sentence. Surely that counts for something."

Michael let out a long, angry breath, once again refusing to look at her.

Caitlin shifted. It was uncomfortable sitting on the floor. Her back ached. She'd thought knowing would help somehow. But now that she did . . . it only made matters worse. She had to leave, and he'd—he'd die here. She knew it, better now than she had before. He'd kill himself with drink and guilt and misery. Mr. Flemming would try to help, but there was a limit to what one man could do for another. And Mr. Flemming had a family to look after.

If only Michael would agree to come with her. She could watch over him, keep him safe. Perhaps someday convince him to forgive himself.

She looked at him, still miserably staring at the ceiling. "I still don't understand why." She spoke slowly, watching his face to be sure she didn't anger him any more than she already had.

His eyes darted to her. " Why ? I told you. Because I was a damn fool. I thought I was doing right, avenging my aunt and bringing honor to my family name, when in fact—"

"That's not what I meant," she interrupted, before he had the chance to spiral back into that pit. "I mean why you can't come with me to the dower estate." Michael pressed his lips together. "We needn't meet your cousins or their friends. Surely Scotland's a big enough place for us all without bumping into one another."

"No." His tone was as firm as she'd ever heard it. He was terrified, and now she understood why. But even still . . .

"Consider it. You could come as me secretary. Change your name if you like. Once we're there, you'd never even have to leave the estate." His eyes narrowed. "You could, of course," she added quickly. "I wouldn't hold you there. But it would be like when we were at the farm, before. Content. At least I was."

He shook his head, ignoring the pathetic plea in her voice. "But that was only temporary. A year. What would I even do as your secretary? You can read and write now. You've no need of me."

"Of course I've need of you." The words came out louder than she'd intended, but she wanted to shout them, to shake him until he saw sense. "I like you, Michael. I was planning to ask you to stay, you know. To stay with me at the farm."

His eyes widened. "Stay with you? After my sentence?"

"Of course. I—I was so content. ‘Twas a good life we had." Her voice broke.

"But the things I've done. The way I came at you. I don't deserve—"

"Rubbish. I know you, Michael Dunn. You are a good man. Certainly now, and even then . . . you didn't know any better. You loved your aunt. And you wanted to make your father proud. You'd never known any tenant farmers. They were strangers to you." She bit her lip, trying to think of anything more she could say. "And people change Michael. They learn from their mistakes. That's what matters."

His eyes shone in the dim room, like sunlight through cobalt glass. For a moment, Caitlin thought he would relent there and then, agree to go. But instead, he shook his head, broke her gaze, and looked away.

"Please. It would mean so much to me."

Silence.

"What have you got to lose? If it goes poorly, you could go anywhere and be a drunk in the gutter. Glasgow. Edinburgh. Manchester. Dublin. There's no end to cities that would welcome you. Why not try?"

His brow lowered, then raised again. "What if my cousin comes?" He spoke to the ceiling. "What if Mrs. Flemming writes to him and tells him of you, and he comes to call? He'd know me."

A smile pushed at Caitlin's lips. She was winning. "Well then, we'd hide you away, wouldn't we. They'd never know. Please ." She pressed her hands together as if in prayer. "I would feel so much better with you there." For her own sake, but for his too. It would kill her to leave him here like this. To be an ocean away and not know what became of him. To always be fearing the worst.

She could see the muscles of Michael's jaw working. His mind was fighting the idea with everything it had.

But at last, his eyes slid back toward hers. She met his gaze on equal terms, and they looked at one other. Really looked. Through the eyes into the truth of what lay beyond. Then, unsmiling, he spoke. "Very well. If Davey can get me free in time, I'll come with you."