Unraveled (Turner, #3)

He had thought as long as it was dry and he wasn’t alone, he could manage the darkness. But the smallest sound of liquid—the bare splash of water—and he’d been transported back. Back to that cellar. He had been the one shivering on the cold floor, the one who had felt the water seep through the one thin blanket that had been allotted him. In that moment, he’d been transported back to the truth of his past, and he’d felt all that old terror.

He took a deep breath of cleansing air and looked up at her. For one second, he hoped she had misconstrued what she’d seen.

Instead, her face was a mask of confused sympathy. She stood, staring at him, her lips pressed together. She appeared to be searching for something to say.

“Don’t bother with platitudes. Don’t ask after my health.” He found a handkerchief in his pocket and wiped his mouth off. “I’m perfectly well,” he added, feeling idiotic.

“Actually,” she said, “what I was going to say was: I’m sorry.”

He winced. “That’s even worse. Don’t pity me, for God’s sake.”

“I’m apologizing. I thought you were an unfeeling brute. But—you’re not. Are you.” It was not a question she was asking.

He spat again, his mouth sour. “Don’t make too much of it. It was just bad fish, understand?”

Her clear green eyes bored into his.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said. “That’s as bad as your story about the cats.”

He bowed his head, not wanting to acknowledge that. “I’ll just need a moment.” He coughed and planted one foot on the ground. “I’ll go back.” He curled his lip, and he attempted to stand. His muscles ached. Deep inside, that image swirled, floodwaters washing up.

“You’re shaking.” Her hand landed on his shoulder. “Was it…that wasn’t the smell, was it?”

“Yes,” he said, a moment too late for believability.

Her nose wrinkled.

“No,” he amended softly. “It wasn’t the smell. But I can return.” He just wasn’t sure what would happen if he did.

“No. George isn’t there now. If he was killed by the other inmates, he won’t be any less gone if we go back immediately. You shouldn’t subject yourself to…” She trailed off, not knowing what it was.

He shouldn’t have been so relieved at the reprieve. “I should have sent my clerk. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have delegated the task. He’s better at this sort of thing.” He started to stand.

Her hand was surprisingly strong, driving him back to his knees. For one second, it seemed precisely right that he should be brought low before her. The rain fell around them. It dampened her hair into separate strings; in the uneven light, they seemed bright red against the dark color of her dress. He knelt before her, as if he were some kind of bedraggled knight, and the umbrella lying on the ground before him her sword.

A fanciful thought, rather belied by reality. The rain fell on his face, belled on his eyelashes. She seemed almost mystical, outlined by the water that stung his eyes. Before her, rain was just rain, washing everything away.

She reached into her own pocket and drew out a white scrap. And then she reached forward to wipe the rain from his forehead.

He snatched the fabric from her hand. “I can’t abide being fussed over.”

“Lord Justice,” she said, “I think you should go home and rest.”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve no need.”

“What was that back there? It wasn’t fish, and it wasn’t the scent.”

He stared mutely at her, and then held out her handkerchief in return.

She sighed and reached out to help him up. He was shaky enough that he took her arm, and he leaned on it. He let her open the umbrella.

“Is there anyone here to accompany you home?”

He glanced back at the gaol. Briefly, he considered lying. Only briefly. He shook his head.

“Will there be someone waiting for your arrival?”

His charwoman would be long gone; no other servants would be around today. No need for her to know that. “Yes,” he said.

“Who?”

“My dog.” He sighed and looked to the sky. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s very good company.”

“You’re trying to figure out how to rid yourself of me, aren’t you?”

“Damn.” The word had no rancor. “On this short an acquaintance, you should not know me so well.”

She put her head to one side and considered him. So help him, if she spouted one word about what he needed, he was going to walk away and never speak to her again. He didn’t want her bloody pity.

Maybe she saw the warning in his eyes, because she simply shrugged. “I’m the last one seen in your company, and it would be dreadfully inconvenient if I were to fall under suspicion. I just want to make sure that nobody kills you on your way home.” Only the sparkle in her eyes suggested she was teasing.

That was the moment when he realized he was in trouble. She didn’t insist on plying him with concern. In fact, she’d believed him when he said he didn’t like fuss. Her hair was dripping from the rain; her gown was spattered.

He couldn’t remember why he’d thought she wasn’t pretty before. His elder brother would have had something brilliantly charming to say at the moment. Smite could think of nothing.