Was that so wrong?
"Give me a sign," she whispered as she put her hands together in prayer and tried to regulate her breathing. "Show me the way. Tell me what to do."
She did not expect to see a host of angels; she did not expect to hear the rapturous sound of a harp or to feel her soul soar. But she did hear her name echoing in her mind.
Marie Labelle … Anna Sinclair.
She stopped being Marie Labelle the moment she thrust the knife into Victor's back. In truth, she stopped being Anna Sinclair the moment she accepted the position of governess to a lying scoundrel.
She despised both of them for being so weak, so vulnerable, for bowing so easily to the demands and desires of men. As if it wasn't enough to have two women competing for prominence, now she had a
third.
Now she had the woman who had come to an old monastery, who had fallen in love, allowed her lover to see the real person hidden inside. The woman who had lost more than her freedom or reputation. The woman who had lost her heart.
Then the answer came to her.
She had to leave. She had to go as far away as she could. She could not reclaim her reputation or her heart, but she could reclaim her freedom.
Without allowing any other thought to penetrate her addled mind, she raced to her room. There was no time to pack the few meagre belongings. All she needed was her Bible, money and her thick cape.
But her most prized possession was not on the side table. Frantically, she searched the floor, under pillows, in drawers. Panic flared.
Her mind replayed the moment she had last held it in her hand.
Shaking her head, she rushed along the corridor to the room at the end of the hall. Barging into Marcus' private quarters without knocking, she scoured the chamber. Where else could it be? Who else would know of her attachment to it?
Anna heard the thud of booted footsteps coming towards her. Marcus appeared in the doorway. Her heart lurched. She wanted to run into his arms and forget all about the cottage in Marlow, pretend she'd never heard his confession.
But she was tired of being weak and merciful.
"Where is it?" she blurted before he could ask what she was doing rummaging around in his drawers. "What have you done with it?"
Marcus shrugged. "With what?"
"My Bible. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. The brown leather-bound book I keep by my bed."
Her pulse was racing; her throat felt tight. Each word sounded more croaky than the last.
Marcus frowned as he stepped into the room. "Why would I have it? Why would you think it is in here? What motive would I have for taking it?"
Distrust flowed like hot lava through her veins, consuming what remained of all logical thought. She raised her chin. "Perhaps you were the one I heard that night in the stables? You're the only one who knows my name. You're the only one who knows of my previous profession. Perhaps you thought by scaring me I'd be forced to trust you. And then I would tell you what you want to know. I would tell you where to find Miss Beaufort so you could run back to your friend and act the dutiful hero."
The muscles in his jaw twitched as his expression darkened. He raised an arrogant brow. "If you believe me capable of such a heinous crime, then why are you still here? I'm not forcing you to stay. I can write to Dane and ask him to make alternative arrangements."
His cold tone hurt her like a sharp slap to the face. The shock made her reconsider her harsh words. But she could not retract them; she could not bow and scrape to him.
"I don't need a man to make arrangements for me. I am more than capable of taking care of myself."
With his mouth set in a firm line, he stepped back. Pride forced her to walk past him. In the morning, she would go down to the village, see Lucy Tullier or ask Lenard if there were any rooms at the inn. The man obviously needed the money. Perhaps she could set sail with the smugglers and ask them to leave her in Guernsey.
Feeling a little nauseous and with her mind replaying the events of the evening, she struggled to sleep. She heard Marcus pacing back and forth along the length of the corridor, his heavy gait evidence of his sour mood. A few times, he stopped outside her door, the silence almost deafening while she waited to see if he would knock.
She supposed she had been quite scathing in her outburst. Of course, she knew he was not the man she'd heard in the stables. But Marcus had betrayed her. How could she ever trust him again? No doubt, he would use her bitter accusation against her to ease the burden of his own guilt.
The bright morning sun streaming in through her window did nothing to relieve her chaotic mind and aching body. Nausea had progressed into a stabbing pain just behind her navel, and she felt hot, short of breath. Perhaps it had something to do with the ale she'd drunk at the inn. Perhaps this was the pain of heartbreak.
After hiding in her room all morning, Anna plucked up the courage to go and speak to Marcus, and so made her way downstairs. Whatever happened between them, she was grateful for his hospitality and could not leave without explaining her plans. The thought caused her stomach to lurch. Hopefully, Selene would know of something to ease the pain. She was a marvel when it came to plants and herbs. The balm she'd made for Anna's hands had worked a treat. They were almost as soft and smooth as when she'd first arrived.