Michael carried Emme back to the ducal chamber, as Rhys’ wound would not allow him to do so, and deposited her on the bed. He ordered Rhys to bed as well. “You've been shot, you ass. When people have bullets rip through them, they generally rest."
Rhys didn't argue, but he didn't obey either. He simply tucked Emme into the bed and then followed Michael from the room to see to the removal of the body. Servants had risen and come to see what the commotion was. Thankfully, Phyllis slept on as did Larissa.
In the hallway, Michael met a bleary-eyed Spencer coming down the corridor. “Come along. We've another corpse to attend to."
Spencer glared. “So that's what all the commotion is about? Did you kill the bitch?"
Michael shook his head. “No, Elise did."
Rhys noted the questions in Spencer's eyes. But with a shake of his head, indicated that they could not and would not be answered.
They didn't call the magistrate, deciding to treat the whole thing as a tragic accident. There was little enough to be done except remove the body. After giving the servants their direction, Rhys nodded to Michael and returned to his bedchamber and his wife. He felt that they were free again. Elise was gone. Both of the individuals responsible for Melisande's death were facing their eternal judgment and at last they were free to move forward, to leave the ugliness of the past firmly behind.
Once the task was complete and Eleanor was laid out on her bed, Michael began to carefully comb through her belongings.
Spencer glared at him. “What are you doing?"
Michael glanced over his shoulder, “Making sure that she hasn't written something down that will make life more complicated for our friend. In case you haven't noticed, his wife is complication enough for any man."
Spencer was quiet for a moment then dutifully began to search with him. They collected Eleanor's journals, as well as packets of letters she'd kept from her liaison with the duke. They threw it all into the fire and watched it burn.
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Chapter Sixteen
The following afternoon Michael walked through the woods toward the spot where he and Melisande had liked to play, to the place where she had given him his first kiss. It had been chaste, but to him it had been the most thrilling moment of his young life. It was also the spot where he'd held her and watched her die and where Alistair had paid for his crimes against her. The body had been removed, and Michael was certain that was Spencer's doing. Spencer was nothing if not efficient and proper.
He walked past the blood-soaked ground and toward a gnarled oak tree. He brushed aside the moss and leaves until he found what he was looking for. He'd carved her name in that tree when he had been eleven years old. He traced the clumsy script with his fingers. He was not a religious man, but in that instance, he'd always wanted a biblical retribution—an eye for an eye. In the end, he was glad that Eleanor hadn't died at his hands or at Rhys'. He still couldn't quite grasp the events that had unfolded in the tower the evening before, but he didn't need to. Justice had been served and that was all that mattered.
He thought of her, the small girl with the bright green eyes. He'd buried her memory so deeply within himself for so long that it was difficult to recall the small details. She'd been gone for many more years than she'd lived. Her face might have faded a bit in his mind's eye but the feelings had not. He remembered the love he'd held for her when he'd been an innocent lad himself. He remembered the horror and the grief when he'd discovered her broken body. He remembered the guilt, the awful, cancerous guilt that had eaten at him for years because he had failed her. His throat burned and his eyes welled. He blinked furiously. He would not give in to tears. They served no purpose.
"You never cried. No matter how badly you were hurt, or how horribly they teased you about me. You never cried."
The voice was so soft he thought at first he was imagining it. He turned slowly and met the familiar green gaze. All the details were there, he realized, the tiny freckle at the corner of her eye, the sweep of her lashes, and the curve of her cheek. She had always been the most beautiful child. The light struck her pale cheek and it shimmered.
"Melisande,” he whispered.
She smiled at him. “Please don't be sad anymore I don't want you to be sad for me. Find yourself a wife, Michael and be happy."
"I'm already married,” he said, smiling. “I married you on your twelfth birthday, lest you forget."
She laughed, the childish giggle ringing through the forest. That laugh, in a place of such horror, did more to heal him than anything he'd experienced since her death. She walked toward him, and he crouched down so that they were eye-to-eye. She touched his cheek or would have if she'd been able to. He felt only the faintest whisper of wind and a slight chill.