She was rubbing the back of Charlotte’s hand to bring her around. The girl was stirring.
“Could you help me with her feet, get her onto the bed. She should sleep it off,” Gemma suggested.
Nathan moved with some unsteadiness in the direction of the bed, feeling his way with a hand in front of him. When he found Charlotte’s knee, he bent to take hold of her feet and helped Gemma to settle her into a comfortable position.
“There is clean wash water in the next room, the one with the bath,” Gemma said, pointing to the inner door that led to a room just for bathing.
It had seemed wildly decadent to her when she had first discovered it, but now it seemed perfectly reasonable. Why risk soaking the floor of your bedchamber when washing could be done in a separate tiled chamber? Nathan moved in that direction, almost missing the door and hastily correcting himself. Gemma followed, closing the door behind them. Upon hearing the door close, Nathan seemed to sag. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the large, ceramic bathtub. Then he sat on the edge of it and his head hung. Gemma fetched the washing bowl and set it on a table beside the bathtub. Then she picked up a washcloth and soaked it in the water. Taking his hand, she began to wash the blood from it.
“He was killed? Mr. Pennington, I mean,” Gemma said.
“He was. Shot in the back by some coward!” Nathan said vehemently.
“A poacher?” Gemma asked, dreading to hear the answer.
“No,” Nathan said somberly. “It was certainly not a poacher. Pennington was shot twice. Once in the back. Once in the chest. Despite both shots, he managed to get a shot back at his attacker. He said he saw the man.”
Gemma’s hands froze in the act of squeezing red water from the washcloth.
“And?” she asked.
“He could not give a coherent description. But, he kept saying the word ‘pistol.’ He was shot twice by the same man. Once with a rifle and then the final shot was taken with a pistol.”
Gemma frowned and began work, cleaning Nathan’s face, dabbing at the blood there. To her horror, she saw what looked like a thumbprint marked out in blood against his right cheek. As though the dying man had reached up and touched his face.
“What does that tell you?” Gemma almost whispered.
“That it was not a man caught poaching. A poacher works at night and a rifle would be useless. He sets traps and comes back to them at dawn. He does not stalk about the woods, shooting at things in the dark.”
“If he wasn’t a poacher, then…”
“Good question. What did he want? If not a poacher then…who? An enemy of mine? I did not think I had any. An enemy of my father? My father is dead. An enemy of Pennington? He surely had enemies, relatives of men he had helped send to the gallows for poaching.”
“Enemies of mine,” Gemma said.
Nathan turned his head in her direction. “It had occurred to me,” he said simply.
Gemma put the washcloth into the bowl, wiping her hands on her skirts.
“This has gone far enough. I must do what I have not had the courage to do until now…”
“You are not leaving. I forbid it,” Nathan said with finality.
“You cannot forbid…”
“You gave me your word. You would not leave without my permission. I withhold it.”
Gemma gaped, unable to believe that he was holding her to the promise. Even after a man had died, he still intended to hold her to the foolish promise.
Surely he can see it means nothing now that a man has died.
Nathan touched his hair and grimaced in disgust.
“I had not realized how much of Pennington’s blood I had on me. From my hands to my hair and my clothes. I must bathe.”
“The bath is full,” Gemma said. “Charlotte drew it for me before things got a bit too much for her. It will be tepid now but…”
“I do not have the energy to retire to my own rooms. Would you mind?” Nathan said.
