“Trust me.” Tombstone’s voice softened.
Gwynnie peered at him over the rim of the glass. “You said before that your mother was a healer.”
“She was.” Tombstone nodded. Gwynnie noted the past tense. Clearly, she was no longer of this world. “She knew what she was doing, as do I. Now, drink.”
Breathing deeply to find her courage, Gwynnie lifted the cup to her lips. It was hot, but nowhere near as foul-tasting as she had expected. The dominant taste was of mint, which tickled the back of her throat. The more she drank, the more the bitter taste of the dwale left her tongue.
“What else is in here?” she asked after a minute.
“Don’t ask.” He shook his head. “You will not like it.”
She decided he was right and continued drinking, for it was helping.
“Your mother was a healer then. Who was your father?” At her question, Tombstone fell silent. He moved away from the fire and went to stand beside Esme. Gwynnie sensed the brief window she had been given into Tombstone’s life had closed. Changing the subject, she said, “Please, tell me she will live.”
Tombstone opened one of Esme’s eyelids and peered closely at the eye. “Time will tell. I have done all that I can.” He walked slowly back toward Gwynnie. “Now you can tell me exactly what happened.”
“You won’t believe me.” Gwynnie clutched the glass with both hands, lacing her fingers tightly together.
“Try me.”
She said nothing, raising the glass to her lips.
Tombstone sighed heavily. He dragged out a chair and placed it beside the fire, sitting down in front of Gwynnie. Resting his elbows on his knees, he bent toward her. “I am not Pascal,” he said, with sudden strength. “He may not trust the word of a maid, but he and I are different men.”
Gwynnie’s fingers fidgeted on the glass, wanting to believe him.
“You can trust me.”
“Trust you? You have been sharp with me enough times to make me unsure whether I should like you or not. When I offered you information, you even shouted at me for it.”
He sighed and ran a hand across his face. “I never claimed to be a man of easy temperament, but you can trust me. Please, tell me what happened. If you do not…” He held his arms out wide. “There is nothing I can do to help.”
Gwynnie’s lips parted. It was a leap of faith, but here by the fire, with the mint liquid in her hands, it was the safest she had felt for some time.
CHAPTER 22
“Renard made me drink the dwale.” Gwynnie didn’t look at Tombstone as she said the words. She stared down, watching the green leaves floating in her glass. She wondered what her mother would say now, to hear her revealing what had happened, but there was a great gulf between her and Emlyn at this moment. She didn’t even know where her mother was.
“Why would he do that?” Tombstone leaned forward in his chair again, the wood creaking beneath him.
“Not for his own gain.” Gwynnie looked up, finding Tombstone’s gaze level with her own. She took a shaky sip of the mint before she went on. “Renard came to my chamber. My mother had gone for a walk. He broke in. He was not particularly good at picking the lock, but he managed it.”
She noticed Tombstone frowning, but she went on. “He took me from the room. I fought him, but I…” She shrugged. She had stood little chance against Renard. “He took me to the tiltyard. His master was there, waiting for us.”
“Do not tell me.” Tombstone closed his eyes. He sat back in his chair, sighing deeply. “Fitzroy, the Duke of Richmond —”
“I said you wouldn’t believe me.” Gwynnie’s breath hitched. Tears pooled in her eyes once more and streaked her cheeks. She wiped them away with the heel of her hand.
“Why did they want to see you?”
Gwynnie sniffed, holding back more tears. She would have to tell him everything.
“He attacked her.” The sudden sound of Esme’s voice made Gwynnie drop her glass.
The hot liquid burnt her lap and she yelped at the pain. Tombstone jumped to his feet. He threw a fresh cloth at Gwynnie to mop up the tea, then he hurried to Esme’s side.
“Goodwife Battersby, please, do not sit up,” he urged, moving the chamber pot so it was within easy reach. “You are dizzy, yes?”
“I am,” she whispered weakly.
“If you feel sick, use this.”
Gwynnie just stared at Esme, overwhelmed with relief that the woman was awake.
“I … I do not know what they wanted with her,” Esme whispered, her eyes flitting up to meet Tombstone’s. “I tried to get her away from them. They would not let me take her. Then they…” She inhaled deeply and reached a hand up to her bruised face.
“Who struck her?” Tombstone asked Gwynnie.
“Renard. On his master’s orders,” Gwynnie answered.
“It is true,” Esme murmured as her eyes closed again.
“You must rest,” Tombstone urged gently. “Please, rest. Call me if you need me.”
She closed her eyes once more and he drew the blanket up over her body. Gwynnie watched, her lips parted. Tombstone cared for the lady with a soft touch indeed. He stepped back, returning to Gwynnie and pouring more minty water into her glass.
“Drink,” he pleaded, pushing it once again into Gwynnie’s hands. He placed a finger to his lips, indicating that they should talk quietly now. “To my mind, striking down Esme and leaving you beside her, intoxicated with dwale, suggests they wanted you to be found there. They wanted you to be accused of the attack.”
