The Untamed MacKenzie

“Perhaps you didn’t mean to,” he suggested. “Perhaps you put something in the tea and didn’t realize what it was.”

“I gave him tea. I dropped in one lump of sugar and a dollop of cream. I’m very certain it was sugar and cream. I have served tea before.”

Fellows did not reach for his notebook. He’d had Pierce take the sugar bowl and pour off the cream as well.

“Or you thought to make him sick,” Fellows went on. “You didn’t realize what you gave him would kill him.”

Louisa stared in shock. “No. Inspector, you know me. I would never be so cruel. I am telling you, I did not poison the bishop’s tea, deliberately or accidentally. I would never do such a thing. You have to believe me.”

Her desperation sang of her innocence. But Fellows had heard the same tone from lying murderers—they were masters at it. If Sergeant Pierce were in the room, he’d say, “That’s what they all tell me, love,” and be on his way back to London to apply for an arrest warrant.

Facing a magistrate would be traumatic for Louisa. She needed to understand that. Fellows’ next words were what he knew a stern magistrate’s would be. “You were alone in the tent with him, no one else near. He died, and if we are right about what kind of poison it was, it acted swiftly. That fact will get out. Newspapers like a murder, especially in the upper classes. The bishop had given your father trouble over their financial dealings. No one else had time to put poison into his teacup. Only you. So you tell me what happened, exactly what you saw—who you saw. I will keep you out of jail and away from the courts at all costs, Louisa, but I’m going to have to work very hard to do it.”

Louisa listened to the speech in the same shock, but color returned to her face in a furious flush. “What are you saying? That you don’t believe me? I thought you knew me. Why are you . . . ? How dare you?”

Fellows was on his feet, his professional persona evaporating. “For God’s sake, Louisa, help me. My sergeant is even now listening to fifty accounts of you going into the tea tent alone with Hargate. Why did you?”

She blinked, dragging in a deep breath as she tried to calm herself. “I don’t remember . . . No, I do. Mrs. Leigh-Waters asked me to make sure the bishop was looked after.”

“And you do everything Mrs. Leigh-Waters says? You let yourself be alone with unmarried gentlemen to please Mrs. Leigh-Waters?”

“You are making this sound sordid. It wasn’t like that. You don’t understand.”

Fellows was over her, the scent of violets that clung to her floating to him. “Then tell me why.”

“Mrs. Leigh-Waters didn’t want him left by himself,” Louisa said stiffly. “And apparently he wanted to speak to me.”

“What about?”

Fellows stood too close to her, could feel the warmth of her body, see the smoothness of her skin as her pink flush deepened. “None of your business what about,” she said. “It was a private conversation.”

“Between friends?”

“Yes. Why are you talking to me like this? I’d thought we were friends. Why are you accusing me?”

Fellows curled his big hands. “Right now, I am the best friend you can have. But you have to tell me everything. What you were speaking about, why you decided to be alone with him. Why I should believe you didn’t deliberately poison him.”

Louisa’s breath tangled his for an instant before she stepped back. She put her hands to her temples, red curls snaking around her fingers. “This has to be madness. I didn’t kill him.”

“You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Yes, I do.” She glared up at him. “An Englishwoman’s word is as good as an Englishman’s.”

“Not in my world.” Fellows made his voice hard. “In my world, everybody lies. They might think it for a good reason, but they lie. And those lies hurt. They can even kill.”

“You come from a terrible world, then.”

“Oh, it’s bad, all right.” Fellows gave her a wolfish smile. “And I don’t want you to be part of it. So tell me, Louisa, why did you go off alone with the bishop?”

The tears that flooded Louisa’s eyes made his heart pound. But they weren’t tears of sorrow, they were tears of rage and embarrassment. “I don’t want to tell you,” she said. “It had nothing to do with his death.”

“You can’t know that. It might have everything to do with it.”

Louisa had opened her mouth to argue, but she stopped. She turned away again, still massaging her temples, moving to the window. The light silhouetted her, her gown gently swaying as she walked.

The vulnerability in her stance nearly undid him. Fellows wanted to go to her, slide his arms around her from behind, kiss her hair when she leaned back to him. He wanted to caress her, as though she belonged to him, and say, It’s all right, love. I’ll take care of everything. You don’t worry about any of it. I’m here.

If Fellows touched her, he wouldn’t let go. He’d draw her into his arms again, crush her up to him, let their mouths meet. He’d taste her, drink her, and let the rest of the world go to hell. He’d take her away with him, anywhere, to be safe, alone with him. Never letting go.

When Louisa turned back to him, her face was blotchy red, the tears wiped away, but one still damp on her cheek.

“You’re a policeman,” Louisa said. “From what Mac and the others have told me, you’re very good at it. A detective first, they’ve said. Like a bloodhound on the scent.”