The Madman's Daughter (The Madman's Daughter 1)

He paused, listening, but his grip tightened on my waist. His hair hung loose over the sides of his face, hiding all but his fierce blue eyes.

A voice called from the courtyard. It was Father’s. I gasped.

“Montgomery! You worthless fool, are you in here?”

Montgomery’s fingers curled into the folds of my dress, protectively. My lips fell open but he placed a finger against them. I pressed farther into the barn wall, wishing I could disappear into it.

Montgomery pulled his hair back. He stepped out of the stall, blocking me from Father’s view. “Duke stumbled on the ride today. I thought he might have a sprain.” I detected an edge to his voice. After all, their earlier argument wasn’t the sort of spat that would blow over easily.

“Get him saddled,” Father snapped. “And Duchess as well. Ajax has killed again. That striped fellow, Lear. The beasts are rattled. It’s time to put an end to this, storm or not.”

I kept a hand pressed to my mouth, afraid to make the slightest sound. Father couldn’t find me here. I wouldn’t put it past him to kill Montgomery.

Montgomery met my eyes briefly before closing the stall gate behind him. I heard the sound of his footsteps on the stone floor.

“Balthasar is gathering the men,” Father said. “Prince will come with us. He may be a fool, but at least he can hold a gun.”

“And Juliet?”

“She’ll stay with Alice. This was a fortress once. Nothing can get through these walls.”

I heard the sound of jangling bridles in the tack room. And then Father’s voice, lower.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten your insolence tonight. The minute Ajax is dead, you and I will have words.”

I heard the creak of the door’s hinges as Father left. A moment later, Montgomery unlatched the stall gate.

“He’s gone to the salon. Quick, hurry to your room.”

“Be careful,” I said.

He pressed his lips to my forehead tenderly, flooding me with warmth. “Be safe, Juliet.”

I slipped out of the barn, dodging every shadow for fear of the dark, and dashed back to my apartment. I pulled off my skirt and blouse and slipped into my nightdress. The last light faded over the sea as an overwhelming feeling of darkness grew in my heart. Whatever lay in that jungle, Montgomery and Edward were going to face it.

Alice knocked at my door. She looked terrified. “Miss? Have you heard?”

“Yes.” I wanted to crumble in the corner with my face in my hands. It would be so easy to give in to the fear. But fear was written on Alice’s face too. I took her hands, forcing back my own terror. “Don’t worry, Alice. We’ll be safe.”

“They’ve all gone. We’re alone.”

“I know.” I squeezed her hand, trying not to let my own worry show. “I know.”

Thirty

FORMALITIES DISAPPEARED IN THE face of fear. It didn’t matter that Alice was a servant and I the master’s daughter. We climbed onto my bed, huddling together like sisters frightened by a howling storm outside. Alice’s eyes were wide and haunted. Maybe she was worried for Montgomery’s safety. Or for the islanders’. Or for our own. Either way, there’d be no sleep for us that night.

I remembered that Montgomery had mentioned a needlepoint kit in my mother’s trunk. I got up and dug it out and untangled the colored threads. We needed something to keep our hands busy.

“What’s this, miss?”

I found a few tarnished needles. “You’ve never seen needlepoint?”

She shook her head.

“How I envy you.” I unfolded a worn pattern of a blue bunny rabbit. She knew the basics of sewing, so she picked it up quickly, though her hands trembled with each lightning crack outside. I plucked at my own pattern—a milk goat—though my thoughts rustled in the wind like the leaves outside. My lips still tasted Montgomery’s salty kisses. I could barely think of the murders or our escape or even feel a pang of guilt that I’d rebuffed Edward’s advance but kissed Montgomery so willingly.

I pricked my finger with the needle. My distracted stitches had made the goat look more like a horned devil. Alice’s needlepoint had drifted off course, too, as her eyes were fixed on the dark window.

“Pay attention,” I said, hiding my own botched stitching under my skirt. “You have to concentrate.” She looked at her work blankly. Her big eyes crinkled with worry. “It’s all right for a first try,” I added.

“I’m sure it isn’t nearly as fine as yours, miss.”

I tucked mine farther under my skirt. “Why were you never taught needlepoint? Every girl I know has calluses thick as pennies on her fingers.”

“I’ve no use for something so fine. Just the basics of sewing. Patches and hems.”

“Did your mother teach you to sew?”

Her face darkened. She turned her head, hiding the harelip. “No, miss. I never knew my mother.”

Her voice was barely audible. She suddenly concentrated raptly on the stitches. It wasn’t normal, a young girl alone on a godforsaken island, under the care of a madman. “Then who brought you to the island?”

“No one. I’ve lived here as long as I can remember.”

“But you must have parents. How did they come to be here?”

“They came with the doctor.” Her voice dissolved to a whisper. Lightning cracked outside. The needle trembled as she pushed it through the fabric. I was beginning to understand. Her parents had been the Anglican missionaries who came over on the same ship as my father. Meaning she was the sole survivor of whatever tragedy had destroyed them.

No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.

“So who taught you to sew?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. It wasn’t successful. The wind howled outside. Something fell against the roof—a branch maybe. We both jumped.

“Montgomery did, miss.”

The blood rushed to my cheeks at the thought of him. I cocked my head. “I’d hardly expect him to know his way around a needle and thread.”

“Oh, he’s quite knowledgeable about everything,” she gushed. Her face lit up, the danger outside forgotten. I’d found a topic to take her mind off the murders, at least. I just wished it wasn’t so close to my own pounding heart. “He does all the carpentry and metalwork, and he treats us when we’re ill—he’s an extraordinary physician—and he even taught me to cook. Cooking and sewing are woman’s work, but Montgomery isn’t too proud. Not when there’s work to be done.”