Or a disgruntled widow who wanted complete ownership of her home.
The thought was so ugly, so utterly devastating, Drew pushed it as far away as he could.
“Damn, that hurts.” Blood was dripping down his leg into his boot and staining his trousers. He took out a handkerchief and pressed it against the wound, which was thankfully only a graze.
The thug in the alley who never demanded his purse. The strange intruder outside Blackbird Heath that night determined to bludgeon him. His initial suspicions, Drew dismissed, sobloody busy tupping Hesterthat he’d written off both incidents as common thievery or drunken mischief.
But being shot at, three times, was not coincidence. Not when there was only one person in all of Lincolnshire who could possibly benefit from Drew being dead.
And he was sharing a bed with her.
The pain of his gunshot wound matched that of his heart. Luckily, neither would kill him.
I’m a fool.
After a good stretch of time, Drew turned his horse back to the road, alert to anyone who could possibly be following him. But he was very close to Blackbird Heath. He doubted whoever shot at him would risk being seen by one of the farmhands.
Drew pressed a palm against his chest, willing the ache to stop. The horrible suspicion he’d harbored for weeks now screamed loudly in his head and he could no longer ignore it. He’d seen no signs of duplicity in Hester. No indication she was secretly planning his murder. If anything, she gave a noteworthy performance of a woman who was in love with him.
It can’t be true. It can’t.
He supposed it could be one of the other residents of Blackbird Heath, all of whom would suffer if he sold the farm. But Drew thought Mrs. Ebersole far more likely to poison him than take shots. Dobbins was horribly nearsighted. Jake, well, there was a reason Hester only allowed him the simplest tasks. He was more likely to shoot himself than anyone else.
Drew rode back, relieved to see the house before him and stumbled as he dismounted. His thigh throbbed from the bullet; the entire length of his trousers now soaked in blood. The conclusion he’d arrived at was the only logical one. As unwelcome as it was.
A flash of red appeared at the corner of the house as the sun caught on the thick plait of Hester’s hair, turning it to flame. “There you are. You’re back from Horncastle sooner than I expected.”
A smile of greeting graced her lovely mouth, which rarely pursed into an angry rosette any longer. She carried a basket of eggs over one arm, skirts fluttering about her ankles as she approached, looking innocent and lovely.
“Surprised to see me?” he said in a composed tone, careful to keep the sharp upper-crust accent in place purely because Drew knew Hester didn’t care for it.
She halted at his tone, the slash of her brows drawing together. “Well, yes. I didn’t expect you until closer to—” Hester’s smile faltered as her eyes caught sight of the blood soaking his trousers. The basket of eggs dropped, several of them breaking or rolling about the grass.
“Drew, what happened?” Her hands reached for him.
“Don’t touch me.” Drew snapped. “Or pretend an ounce of concern.”
“But you’re hurt. What on earth happened? Let me—”
“Finish what you started?” He stepped out of her reach, barely able to look at her. As much as it—destroyed him, there simply wasn’t anyone else. Only Hester would gain from his death. “My mother would have been impressed with your acting skills. You missed your calling.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Drew. The loss of blood has made you nonsensical.” She tried again to reach for him and he danced away.
“No, it was more the shots fired at me.”
Hester’s eyes widened. “Someone shot at you?” she said in disbelief. “Why on earth would anyone—”
“Just stop it. You must think me a complete fool. I’m not letting you anywhere near me, for all I know you’ve a blade strapped to your thigh or perhaps you’ve trained King George to peck me to death.”
“Drew,” she said carefully. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please let me see to your wound, you’re bleeding everywhere. Maybe it was someone out hunting who didn’t see you.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence a moment longer, Mrs. Black. I know it was you. You’ve long wanted to be rid of me. Well, you’ve failed once more.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Drew’s words didn’tsink in right away. She was too worried about the blood soaking through his trousers. The wound needed to be cleaned. It could become infected. She needed to summon a physician and—she blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon. You think I did this?”
“I underestimated you, Mrs. Black.” Drew glared at her, hobbling up the steps to the front door. “I thought the worst you could do was put a snake in my bed.” An ugly bark left him. “Or feed me cabbage. First a knife. Then nearly being bludgeoned. My only question is why it took you so long to use a pistol.” Blood trailed behind him as he winced with each step.
