Kenna slipped on her own gloves. “Do not do violence on my account, Tom. I wasn’t injured. If the poor soul set the trap is in need of food mayhap I can help.”
“You’re too tender-hearted, young Kenna,” Tom admonished her as they left the cottage.
After leaving the curricle on the road Kenna found it difficult to keep up with Tom’s long strides as they tramped through the woods. Her breath frosted in front of her and the only sounds she could hear were their feet crunching the snow beneath them and her own labored breathing.
“I think it’s over here, Tom.” She pointed to a circle of tall pines. Dusk was already upon them and the deepening forest shadows made it hard for Kenna to orient herself.
Tom found the trap by stubbing his toe on it. His vociferous cursing obliterated all other sounds as he bent over to examine the trap. Neither he nor Kenna heard the warning click of the shotgun being aimed in their direction. It seemed to Kenna that Tom collapsed at her side in the same moment she heard the explosion.
Her shout of alarm faded and she heard the fleeing steps of the hunter as he pushed his way through the underbrush in which he had hidden. Hardly knowing which way to turn, half expecting a lead ball to pierce her, Kenna dropped to her knees beside Tom. He was clutching his shoulder and breathing hard but his eyes were clear.
“Tis a scratch, nothing more.”
“Are you certain, Tom? I think our poacher meant to kill you. My shouting frightened him off.”
Tom’s eyes clouded and an odd, faintly alarmed expression etched his leathery features. “I wonder.”
“What?” Kenna had been frowning at the blood seeping through Tom’s fingers as he held his wound and had not heard him.
“Help me up.”
Tom wobbled precariously once he was standing. It was obvious to both of them that he could not walk without assistance. “I’m going to Dunnelly for help,” Kenna said as Tom leaned against a tree. “I’ll bring some servants and a litter.”
Tom eased himself down the trunk until he was sitting at its base, “No, don’t go to Dunnelly. Bring Young Tom and Jack. Their cottages aren’t far.”
“But the way to Dunnelly is easy. I can’t leave you for the time it will take to find your sons.”
“Do as I say,” Tom ordered roughly. “I want no help from Dunnelly. D’you ken?”
Kenna didn’t understand but neither was she going to let him bleed to death while they argued. She reached under her dress and tore her slip, wadding up the linen and gave it to Tom to hold on his wound. “I won’t be long.”
“I know you won’t.” He closed his eyes wearily and when he opened them Kenna had disappeared from his sight.
By the time Kenna returned with Tom’s sons in tow it was necessary to carry a torch. The light wavered eerily in the dark wood, casting shadows on the grim, sturdy faces of Young Tom and Jack. She had told her breathless story, first to Jack, then to his brother, while pulling at their coat sleeves, urging them to hurry. Kenna held the torch and led the way while Jack carried a hastily improvised litter under one arm and blankets in the other. Young Tom had the presence of mind to take a flask of liquor which he had helped himself to twice.
Nearing Tom, Kenna’s steps faltered and she raised the torch higher, scarcely believing what she was seeing. Rhys Canning was bending over Tom, his caped greatcoat partially concealing the wounded man from her view. His gloved hands were on Tom’s shoulders and she saw them slide toward the old man’s throat.
Fear seized her. “Get away from him!” Kenna called, rushing forward. “Don’t you dare touch him!”
Rhys looked up, surprise in his clear eyes and a grim slant about his mouth. “Kenna. Stay where you are.” When she did not heed his words, Rhys stepped in front of Tom, catching Kenna in his arms and wresting the torch from her hand. “Just once can’t you listen to me?”
Kenna struggled, bobbing and weaving in Rhys’s hold so that she could have a look at Tom. Rhys’s anger made no impact even though she felt it in the hardness of his grip. “Let me go! I need to see him. Why won’t you let me help Tom?”
Rhys handed the torch to Jack and dragged Kenna a few feet away while Young Tom knelt beside his father. “It’s too late. He’s dead, Kenna,” Rhys said softly. He thought she hadn’t heard until she sagged against him, burying her face in his shoulder. Before he thought better of it, Rhys slid his hands around Kenna’s waist and held her close, offering her comfort as he had ached to offer it for years. Over her shoulder he watched Jack and Young Tom lay their father on the crude litter and he kept Kenna’s face averted until Jack covered the body with a blanket.
“It was only a shoulder wound,” she mumbled against his coat. “Tom said it was nothing.” She sobbed jerkily. “He wouldn’t let me go to Dunnelly for help.” Even in her misery she could feel Rhys stiffen. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Your friend did not die from his wound,” Rhys said.
“What?” She tried to push away from Rhys but he would not let her go.
“Tom Allen was strangled.”
“No! It can’t be. You’re lying.” This time she did manage to get away and ran to where Tom and Jack were standing over their father’s body. Blind to everything but her own horror and grief, Kenna yanked at Jack’s rough sleeve. “Rhys says your father was—”
“Murdered,” Jack said between clenched teeth. “His lordship is right. It weren’t any lead shot that killed me dad.”
Kenna pressed the back of her hand to her eyes, impatiently clearing away the tears that would not stop. “But how…who would do…? Not Old Tom! He never hurt anyone!” She felt Rhys at her back, his hands resting lightly on her arms.
