It was a dismissal, however gently given. Amanda looked on in surprise as Sister Boniface, lips compressed, hesitated only briefly before bowing her head in acquiescence to Mother Superior’s directive and leaving the room.
There was a moment’s silence. Amanda bit her lower lip as Mother Superior turned on her a faintly sorrowing, all-knowing look that made her all too conscious of her past and present misdeeds, the most notable of which was the presence of the murderer for whom all England searched not a hundred yards from where they were sitting. As the silence lengthened Amanda felt the palms of her hands grow moist with tension. Surely they couldn’t already know …
“I have received a letter from your brother,” Mother Superior said slowly at last. Amanda heaved a silent sigh of relief. At least they didn’t know about Matt. “He informs me that you are to be married soon. I trust that he has written to you himself to acquaint you with his plans?”
“Yes, Mother.” Amanda was almost lighthearted with relief. Edward and her proposed marriage to Lord Robert were something she could deal with in the future. For now all her energies had to be focused on getting Matthew Grayson restored to health, and then ridding herself of him. She was beginning to perceive just how uncomfortable she was going to be while she kept her guilty secret. To say nothing of what would be in store for her if it were revealed …
“You no doubt received your brother’s letter yesterday, as I did. That would account for your lack of appetite at dinner last night and this morning’s unauthorized absence and general untidiness that Sister Boniface was just telling me about?”
“Yes, Mother. I was … a little upset.”
Mother Superior nodded. “That is understandable. Very well, we will say no more about your misdeeds. I trust you have resigned yourself to obeying your brother about this marriage?”
Amanda hesitated. It was useless to appeal to Mother Superior for support against Edward in this matter. If Lord Robert had been a moral degenerate or impossibly ancient or deformed in some way, Mother Superior might have interceded for her. But under the circumstances she would not see the need for such intervention. After all, the only options open to a girl of Amanda’s birth and background were marriage or the Church, and Amanda was clearly not cut out for the Church.
“Well, Amanda.” Mother Superior prompted.
“Yes, Mother,” Amanda replied with scarcely a guilty flush. “I have resigned myself.”
“You’re a good child, Amanda,” Mother Superior said unexpectedly. “Impulsive, and a little too quick to anger at times, but a good child. It is a pity that your father died when he did—I have never felt that our convent was the right setting for one of your nature. However, your brother disagreed with me, and I did not push the matter for fear that you would find yourself in an environment even less suited to you than this. But think upon this: after your marriage you will be free both of this convent and of your brother’s domination. Your husband’s authority will be far kinder, I am sure, and you will soon have his children to fill up your life. It can be a good life, Amanda, if you let it.”
“Yes, Mother.” Amanda just managed to hide the rebellious flash of her eyes by meekly lowering her head. She had not the slightest intention of marrying Lord Robert, but until she had worked out just how she was going to contrive to avoid it, she would keep her own counsel.
“That is all I wished to say to you, Amanda. You may go along to breakfast now. Tell Sister Patrick that I said you may eat in the kitchen, since I caused you to miss the scheduled meal.”
“Yes, Mother.” Amanda rose, bobbed a little curtsy, and headed for the door. As her hand touched the knob Mother Superior spoke again.
“Amanda … you know that if you want to talk, to discuss anything that may be troubling you, I am here. I will do whatever I can to make things easier for you, my dear.”
Amanda felt swift tears rise to her eyes. She blinked rapidly, desperate not to let them fall. Kindness always brought her to the brink of tears, whereas harshness did not, possibly because she had known so little kindness since her father died.
“Thank you, Mother,” she said huskily. “I will remember.” Then, with a sudden, heartshaking smile at the old woman, she let herself out of the room.
The rest of the day seemed to crawl. Amanda ate on schedule, prayed on schedule, did her lessons and assigned tasks on schedule, and chatted desultorily with the other girls just as she did nearly every day. But inwardly she was a seething mass of worry and impatience. Every time the bell rang, announcing arrivals to the convent—and it seemed to jingle with a previously unknown frequency—her heart jumped into her mouth as she waited for someone to burst in with the news that the escaped murderer had been captured, and had named his accomplice. As the day wore on and that particular hideous fantasy remained just that, she began to worry more and more about Matt himself. He had seemed very ill. What if he were dying even as she sat here impatiently picking out the stitches she had set into a shirt for the poor. (The straggly things had not met Sister Mary Joseph’s approval.) What on earth would she do if he died? Even alive and bearing much of his own weight, he was heavy. If he were dead—and she understood now the origin of the expression “deadweight”—it would be impossible for her to move him. But she couldn’t just leave him in the cave, either. First, it would be barbaric to deny him a proper final resting place; second, he would inevitably begin to smell … Amanda felt a gentle nudge in the small of her back from one of the girls who sat behind her, and looked up to find Sister Mary Joseph watching her with shrewd hazel eyes. Immediately Amanda dropped her eyes to her work and saw to her horror she had just sewn a neat seam—the neatest she had sewn all day—up the front of the shirt where she should have been setting in button holes. Gritting her teeth, she began to unpick the stitches and vowed to keep her mind on what she was doing if it killed her. It would never do if her behavior aroused suspicion among the nuns.
After dinner and evening prayers the girls were allowed an hour to spend as they pleased. Amanda usually joined her friends in the small sitting room, where they would talk and giggle until it was time to go to bed. But tonight she was too on edge to exchange mindless chatter. Pleading a headache, she managed to escape from Susan and Bess, another of her particular friends, to her bedchamber. She spent the next hour pacing her floor in a fever of impatience. Would they never go to bed? But at last the bell chimed for lights out. Amanda got into bed fully clothed, in case Sister Boniface decided to make one of her infrequent bed checks, and waited.
When the small clock near her bed told her that two hours had passed, she judged it safe to get up. Usually she never left the convent until the early-morning hours, but tonight she couldn’t wait any longer. The conviction stayed obstinately with her that Matt had died and she would be left with the problem of his body, and she would never be able to rest until she was sure he was alive. Besides, he would be hungry—if he were still alive, that is.
She had decided that she would never be able to get him enough to eat if she merely saved the scraps of her own meals. Even if she didn’t eat at all, the small portions Sister Patrick doled out to her, after long experience with her small appetite, would hardly make a light snack for a man of his size. No, she would have to take the chance of raiding the convent’s supplies; not the pantry, which held food destined for the convent’s own table—that would be missed immediately—but the larder for the needy poor. After all, Matt was quite as needy as any of the families in the parish; few of them could truthfully claim not to have eaten for days, as they all knew that the convent would provide food for anyone who asked.
During the day she had managed to accumulate a collection of supplies: a bottle of basilicum powder tucked in her pocket while she helped Sister Agnes nurse a child whose cut arm had got infected; a shirt and a pair of loose workman’s trousers from the pile of clothes that she was supposed to be refurbishing for the poor; eating utensils, including a rather sharp knife, which she almost had second thoughts about; a battered washpan, a chipped mirror, and a sliver of soap for his toilette; and a couple of tallow candles she had spirited from the kitchen that morning as she ate her belated breakfast. To these articles she added her own towel, bundling everything in one of the two blankets that were always kept folded in the bottom of her wardrobe. Then, hoisting the burden to her back, she crept from the room.
The interior of the convent was pitch black. Amanda did not dare to light a candle, so she was left with no choice but to negotiate the stairs in the dark. With every cautious step, she prayed that someone had not been careless enough to leave one of their possessions on the stairs. The nuns were always preaching the virtues of neatness, and for the first time Amanda saw how right they were. A place for everything and everything in its place was the only way to live—especially if one was bent on nefarious activities. A single crash or thud, to say nothing of the terrible din that would result if she should tumble down the stairs, would bring the whole convent upon her.
She had to light a candle in the larder to see what she was doing, but she shut the door firmly behind her and was as quick as she could be. When the job was done and the candle extinguished, she let out a sigh of relief. From there it seemed almost easy negotiating the stairs to the lower level of the cellar, where she at last dared to relight the candle. It required a considerable amount of juggling to get herself, the bundle, and the candle through the trapdoor and down the shallow flight of rough stairs on the other side without setting herself on fire or dropping the bundle, but she managed. Then she made her way along the passage, the candle casting a flickering pool of yellow light to show her the way. When she reached the cavern where she had left Matt, she raised the candle high so that the light illuminated most of the room. There was the feather tick, and the blanket she had left him—but he was not in them. In fact, she thought with a tingle of panic, he did not seem to be anywhere at all …
“Matt?” she called softly, uncertainly, fear and worry combining to make the blood pound in her ears. Where on earth could he be? Perhaps he had gone berserk and was even now watching her from the shadows, awaiting his chance to silence her forever … Unnerved, she began to back quickly toward the passage and the haven of the trapdoor. Something closed over her shoulder. She screamed, whirling and dropping both bundle and candle. The candle immediately went out, and she was left in pitch blackness while arms locked roughly about her and a hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her breath …
“Good God, you damn near scared the life out of me. What was the screech in aid of?” The gravelly voice coming from somewhere over the top of her head sounded sane, and faintly exasperated. Amanda sagged with relief and drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he removed his hand.
“You scared the life out of
me,
” she retorted shakily, pushing away from the hard masculine chest that she had clung to in her relief. “What on earth were you thinking of, to grab me like that?”
“Did you think to find me lying meekly where you left me, waiting like a tethered goat for my fate? I wasn’t sure you’d come alone—and I had to be,” he said. Amanda thought for a moment, then nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see her in the enveloping darkness. After all, he had no more reason to trust her than she had to trust him. “Did you bring some food?” he added, the studied casualness of his voice doing little to disguise his eagerness for her answer.
“Yes, I did, but you made me drop it all. Serve you right if everything’s ruined.”
“Ruined or not, I’ll eat it,” he promised, and Amanda heard the faint scrape of a match head against stone. A flame flared as Matt lit the candle she had left him the night before, which he withdrew from a pocket of his breeches. By its light she saw that he looked pale and hollow-eyed, with the scratches she had inflicted on him standing out starkly against his skin and a bruise she hadn’t noticed the night before purpling just above his temple …
“I don’t want to rush you, but could you gather up whatever it was you dropped and bring me something to eat? I’m so hungry I could almost eat you.”
A quirky smile accompanied this last as he eased himself away from the rock wall that had been supporting his weight and walked with slow, careful steps to the mattress, where he sank down with obvious relief. Amanda eyed him nervously. It was just possible that he might not be jesting.
“It was a joke,” he said wearily, catching her eyes upon him and correctly interpreting the look in them. “A joke, Amanda. You can take it on faith that I wouldn’t hurt you even if you never fed me. Just as I’m taking it on faith that you won’t betray me.”
Amanda looked at him thoughtfully. He was sitting on the feather tick, his long legs bent at the knees so that they were slightly raised, his head leaning tiredly back against a convenient rock formation as if he didn’t have the strength to hold it upright any longer. His shirt and breeches were stiff with salt and filthy, but they were dry. His eyes, smoky-looking by candlelight, gleamed at her.
“All right,” she said slowly. “I’ll trust you if you’ll trust me. Is it agreed?”
He smiled at her briefly. “Agreed.”
Amanda smiled back at him, then knelt and began to gather up the food.
“What did you bring me?” he asked, his voice, despite its growly overtones, so nearly that of a little boy on Christmas morning that Amanda smiled again.
“A blanket and some soap and—”
“I’m talking about
food,
” he interrupted impatiently.
Amanda was on her knees searching for the slab of cheese she’d hacked from the large piece in the larder. Apparently the thing had taken refuge behind one of the irregularities in the stone floor. She found it and added it to a plate that already contained cold gammon and two thick slices of bread. He was watching her every move avidly; instead of answering, she carried the plate to him. He took it and was already sinking white teeth into the meat when she turned away to get the water bottle, which fortunately had survived the fall intact. No doubt he would have preferred wine, she thought as she returned to sink down onto a rock near him, the rest of the edible provisions she had brought in her lap, but if she started raiding the convent’s meager store of sacramental wine, the fat would soon be in the fire, indeed.