"No."
"While you're on the way down, the murderer reaches Buxton, turns him over and bashes him dead. Then he runs away. Could he have done that without being seen by you or the villagers?"
Martin hesitated. "It would have been dicey, but yes. The ground's so uneven near the base of the cliffs, he could have got out of sight of both me and the villagers without having to go far. Later… once the villagers found me, no one was watching for anyone else."
Amanda nodded. "So then you get to the body, and the villagers find you there. That's how it happened."
Martin eyed her calm, determined-stubborn-expresssion. "You seem remarkably sanguine about murder."
She met his eyes. "I'm remarkably unsanguine about you being wrongfully accused of murder." She held his gaze, then continued, "But you worked all that out years ago."
He didn't deny it. She let the moment stretch, then asked, "So… how do we go about proving the truth?"
"I don't know that it's possible. There wasn't a shred of evidence at the time. If there had been, even in shock, I would have waved it."
Amanda remembered Lady Osbaldestone's words. "Things happened very quickly. It's possible something was overlooked, or only came to light later." When he said nothing, she urged, "It can't hurt to ask."
It could, but it wouldn't be him, or her, who might be hurt. Martin didn't say the words; he knew the time had come. He had to choose-her, or that other he was protecting. She hadn't begged, but if he resisted, she would do even that; she was committed to his resurrection because the future she envisioned for them hinged on that.
It was a future he now coveted more than anything else in life. He looked into her cornflower blue eyes, then lifted his gaze, looking up the valley to Hathersage. His father's and grandfather's and great-grandfather's house. Now his.
Now theirs. If he would…
He drew in a breath, exhaled, and reached for her hand. "Let's see if we can find Conlan."
She jumped off the rock, looked her query.
"The blacksmith who thought he saw me pitch old Buxton over Froggatt Edge."
Chapter 20
"Da's in the cottage out back, m'lord." The blacksmith set aside his bellows; his demeanor was eager as he waved them in. "He'll be right pleased to see you. That old matter's weighed heavy on his mind these last years. If you don't mind going through? He's not too steady on his pins, these days."
"We'll do that, Dan. I remember the way. You won't want to leave that." With a nod, Martin indicated the glowing shoe Dan had been working.
"Aye-well, you've the right of it, there."
As they crossed the yard behind the forge, Martin looked up, slowed. Amanda followed his gaze to the escarpment. Froggatt Edge was clearly visible, yet could anyone be
sure who it was they saw at such a distance?
"Country eyes are notoriously sharp," Martin murmured.
"Hmm." Amanda matched his stride as they headed for the cottage flanking the cobbled yard.
Martin knocked on the door. A buxom young woman opened it. When he gave his name and asked to see Conlan, the woman's eyes grew round.
"Oh, heavens!" She bobbed a curtsy. "My lord, I-" She glanced back into the room behind her.
"Who is it, Betsy?"
Martin raised his brows. Flustered, wiping her hands on her apron, Betsy backed and waved them in.
"It's Dexter, Conlan."
An old man in the armchair by the hearth squinted, blinked, then his face cleared. "Yer lordship? Be it really you?"
"Indeed. It's me."