Free The Prisoner by Karyn Monk

throbbing that had tormented him all night. A veil of exhaustion cloaked his mind, making his wakefulness come in lethargic stages. The clock was still tapping away at time in neat, precise intervals. Somewhere in the distance people were talking, but their voices were too muffled for him to hear what they were saying. It didn’t seem to matter. The sweet fragrance of baking bread drifted lazily around him, tangling with the spicy aroma of simmering meat and vegetables. He was reluctant to open his eyes, for fear that with one reckless lifting of his lids he would find himself back in the fetid squalor of his cell, with nothing to look forward to except his execution.
    The door opened and he heard the silky whisper of skirts crossing the room. A citrus scent wafted upon the air, a tantalizing mixture of orange and soap and some wonderfully exotic blossoms he couldn’t begin to name. He lay perfectly still, even though his mind had snapped to near crystalline clarity with the entrance of the lovely Miss MacPhail. Despite his weakness and injuries, his body began to stir. He longed to feel the softness of her cool palm pressing against his skin, the aching awareness of her lush breasts as she leaned over him to adjust his blankets, or perhaps even the agonizing swirl of her wet cloth as she drew slow circles across his hungry, burning flesh.
    She did not touch him. Instead she remained at a distance, silent and still. Sensing that something was amiss, he opened his eyes.
    And saw that everything between them had changed.
    â€œGood morning, Lord Redmond.”
    Her voice was cool. It was her expression, however, that disturbed him most. Gone was the sweet distress that had filled her eyes the first time he had gazed into them as he lay upon the prison floor. He could not accurately remember how she had looked upon him last night, but he felt reasonably certain it had not been with this tense animosity. How could she have tended to him with such quiet devotion all those long hours, and now be looking upon him with such inimical contempt and wariness?
    â€œWhat has happened?” he demanded hoarsely.
    â€œI am going to ask you a question, Lord Redmond,” she began, ignoring his query. “And I will have your word that you will answer me honestly, regardless of what the consequences may be. That is, I feel, the very least you can do for me, given the extreme risks I have taken to help you. Do I have your word?”
    Cold despair leaked over him. For a moment, somewhere within the hazy, treacherous veil of slumber, he had been lulled into thinking that he was almost safe. But he wasn’t. He was too weak to move, and if this lovely, agitated woman chose, he could be handed over to the authorities and executed before sundown. He was not a man accustomed to weakness or vulnerability, and the fact that his life now hung so precariously before him filled him with helpless rage.
    â€œYou have my word.” There was no point in lying to her, Haydon decided. It was clear that she already knew about his crime anyway.
    She hesitated. She seemed to be struggling with her question, as if she was afraid to ask it.
    â€œDid you kill that man?” she blurted out suddenly.
    â€œYes.”
    To her credit, she did not run screaming from the room, but remained rooted where she was. Even so, he could see by the wavering of her stance that he had affected her deeply, and he was profoundly sorry for that.
    â€œWhy?” Her voice betrayed her distress.
    â€œBecause he was trying to bury a knife in my chest and I didn’t much care for the idea.”
    She regarded him with skepticism. “Why did he want to kill you?”
    â€œIf I knew that, or who he and his three friends were, I might have had a more agreeable verdict at my trial. Unfortunately, the men who attacked me did not bother with the niceties of a formal introduction.” He winced as he shifted his position, trying to sit up.
    She made no