“Are you married to him?”
Jemima’s heart flipped and she immediately realised Peter was trying to get her out. He was willing to put everything at risk to try to save her.
She just couldn’t allow him to do it. She knew her journey to the gallows was inevitable. Even Peter, bless him, couldn’t overturn the judgement of a court of law. Clearly he knew that too and had decided to risk his own future wellbeing in a desperate attempt to claim her as his wife.
The gaoler tapped his desk. “He says that you are his wife.”
It took every ounce of brazenness she possessed to continue to stare blankly at Mr Simpson. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as she fought the urge to run across the room and hug or hit Peter, she wasn’t sure which. She was humbled that he was prepared to take such a drastic step on her behalf, and angry with him for risking everything to try to resolve what was a hopeless situation.
Reluctantly she turned to stare at the one man she wanted to see more than anything in the world and in equal measure, never wanted to see again.
Especially here.
A heavy weight settled in her chest as she looked at him, and despite the emotions that battered her senses, she kept her gaze impassive as she studied him from head to toe. His fashionably cut brown hair was windswept, as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly, or had ridden there at a full gallop. His clothing, although fine, was dusty and crumpled, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes. Wherever he had been when he had learned of her fate, he had called at the gaol swiftly in an attempt to help her.
Even from several feet away, she could see the hard determination, warring with lurking fear shining clearly in his beseeching eyes. Looking into his eyes now, she knew that he realised that he couldn’t save her, but was trying anyway. The fact that he was trying to claim her as his wife snuffed out the last flickering ray of hope she possessed, turning it to ash in her heart.
In that moment, she understood just how much of a hold Peter had on her heart. It warmed her and chilled her to the bone in equal measure. It was wonderful that he had put everything he had at such risk to come to her aid, but it was horrifying that he had learned of her situation and imminent future – or lack of it. The last thing she wanted was to know that he would be there in the morning to watch her die.
It helped her make the right decision. Despite the growing knot of grief in her chest, she firmed her jaw and turned flinty eyes back to Mr Simpson, the gaoler.
“I have no idea who he is. I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Jemima stated boldly, her emotionless eyes holding the gaoler’s defiantly for several moments. Peter’s immediate objection cut deeply into her wounded soul, and she couldn’t look at him. Her hold on her own emotions was tenuous at best. If she looked at him, or allowed him to see the cracks in her armour, she would crumple.
“Are you sure?” His voice dropped several notches as he studied her, clearly giving her a chance to change her response. Did he know she wasn’t being honest with him? Jemima wondered why he was studying her so closely and, in particular, why he didn’t seem willing to accept her answer.
“Jemima, for God’s sake!” Peter spat, moving swiftly forward.
As he approached, Jemima shuffled sideways to avoid him, her chains rattling against the stone floor. The noise made him pause and look down at her hands and feet in consternation.
Her love for him drove her to take the horrible step of pushing him away forever. With every ounce of fortitude she possessed, Jemima turned her head sideways to glare contemptuously at him. Inside, her heart swelled with longing for something she knew could never be hers. Sucking in a deep breath, she turned her gaze back to the gaoler.
“He’s lying. I’m not married to him,” she said flatly, shuffling toward the door. She didn’t want to go back to the horrid pit of a cell. The warmth of the fireplace had soothed her achingly cold flesh and it was bliss to feel human again, if only for a short while, but she couldn’t stay there for much longer without giving in to the clawing need to touch him. She was struggling enough to contain her own emotions; she couldn’t cope with his as well.
“Jemima, you are my wife!” Peter protested, following her and grabbing her elbow to swing her around to face him. He cursed when she yanked her elbow out of his hold.
Immediately the gaoler who had escorted her to the office stepped forward to intervene, only to be waved back into his corner by Mr Simpson.
“I am not your wife. I don’t know who you are, or what you want,” Jemima bit out, clenching her teeth hard against the need to cry.
Dominic Cavendish, the oldest of the Cavendish brothers, who until now had been standing before the fire, slowly moved forward to stand beside her. His brother, Sebastian, moved with him, clearly prepared to step between her and the door if she tried to leave until this was resolved. But it was the youngest man standing next to the door, Edward Cavendish, who captured her attention. He was silent and watchful as the scene played out before him.
Her gaze met and held his for several long moments, and a wealth of understanding swept between them. Immediately her thoughts turned to Eliza. She didn’t know why. Why him, and not the others. But she knew, somehow, that if anyone could get a final note to her sister, he would.
“Jemima, for God’s sake, stop this,” Peter pleaded from directly behind her.
Jemima could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Her body cried out in desperate need as the memories of their nights together came flooding back. She couldn’t turn round. She couldn’t look at him. His voice held a hint of desperation that was clear to everyone, and it made her sick to her stomach with the unfairness of it all.
“I want to go back,” she murmured to the gaoler, her desperate gaze meeting his for several long moments. She fought the urge to scream at him when he made no move to take her back to the cell.
“You can’t go back, Jemima. You don’t belong here. We know you are innocent,” Peter declared, his voice heavily laced with frustration. Why wasn’t she helping herself?
Her hair hung in a tangled mass down her back; so wildly unkempt she looked like a banshee. Dark smudges lay beneath eyes that shone out from a gaunt face, so pale that she was almost ethereal.
The months since he had last seen her had clearly been anything but kind. She was so thin, he felt certain that he could pick her up with one hand. He could see the bony protrusions of her knuckles so clearly, the skin was almost translucent. But it was her eyes that disturbed him. Or, rather, what lurked in those amber orbs.
The helpless desolation he had seen in them when she had looked at him earlier had branded his soul. His heart clenched painfully at the soul-wrenching hopelessness he could see in the depths of her steady gaze. When she had looked at him so contemptuously, he had - for one very brief moment - wondered if he had finally lost her after all. But he had seen the look she had shared with the gaoler, the emotions she was trying so desperately to hide, and knew that she wasn’t lost. She just thought she was.
If he was honest, he knew the odds were stacked against them, but the battle-hardened warrior within him refused to just stand back and simply accept that she was going to the gallows. While she had breath in her body, there was still a ray of hope that they could get a stay of execution, or persuade the gaoler that she was a lady of quality and not the person she claimed she was. It would be enough – maybe – to get a stay of execution while they got her out. She may have given up on saving herself, but he wasn’t going to admit defeat so readily. There simply had to be a way to get her out of there. If the marriage thing didn’t work, then they would have to come up with another plan. He wasn’t going to leave her there.