When he said nothing, she continued, "And that someone is still alive, and doesn't want you looking into the old murder, because if you do…"
After a moment, Martin spoke, his eyes on hers. "That someone was hoping, because I'd let the matter rest for so long, when I returned to London and made no move to immediately proclaim my innocence and search for the real murderer, that the matter was closed and they were safe. Now, however, my interest in you has become public, and the murderer has learned I've formally offered for you, and no one who knew the Cynsters would imagine I could have gained the family's approval without giving an undertaking to resolve the old scandal, so, suddenly, unexpectedly, the murderer finds himself under threat."
She nodded, her eyes locked on his. "And so he struck back-it was you he was trying to kill when he shot Reggie."
"Yes."
"Do you think he's realized? That it was Reggie and not you he shot?"
"Possibly. But even if he had, he had to lea
ve, let us go, and he can't risk coming after me here."
Amanda frowned. "Why not? He presumably knows the place-"
"And, very likely, everyone here knows him." When she didn't look convinced, Martin continued, "If he was seen and recognized… killing me would accomplish nothing if he was caught. If he could kill me and get away with it-it was worth a try. Now, however, he'll most likely reason that there's still a good chance I won't be able to clear my name, or even if I do, that, after all these years, there'll be no evidence to link him with Buxton's death."
Martin grimaced. "As, indeed, will very likely be the case." He took her arm, twined it with his and turned her along the gallery.
She let him steer her while she juggled facts, slotted more pieces into her mental jigsaw. "But," she eventually stated, "the best and surest way to clear your name socially, especially after all this time, will be to prove that someone else was the murderer."
He hesitated, then nodded. "The most effective way but not, perhaps, the only way."
She looked into his face. "Did you give any undertaking? About resolving the scandal?"
"Not in words, but it was understood."
"Well, then!" She closed her fingers on his arm, let her determination ring clearly; she wasn't about to let anyone or anything come between them now, certainly not a murderer. "I suggest we start looking for one of your maternal relatives who fits the bill-one who was here, who knew Sarah, and so on."
He halted in a wide swath of sunshine. "There might be other options."
She studied his face, then raised both brows. "You aren't, by any chance, imagining I'll agree to you letting the matter rest, opting instead to live your life in the shadows?"
His gaze remained somber. "Whoever it is, they've a family depending on them-innocent people will be harmed by their fall." He held her silent with his gaze, drew breath, then went on, "Sarah's dead-nothing can bring her back. As for Buxton, righting the injustice there worries me less, but-"
"Wait!" She waved her hands. "Go back. You're worried about harming the murderer's family by exposing him?"
When he merely raised a brow-a sign she could interpret perfectly well-she suddenly saw the problem Lady Osbaldestone in her wisdom had foreseen. Saw the hole-the pit a surfeit of protective commitment could bury a man in-and knew she had to address it, overcome it, here and now.
She locked her gaze with his. "Your family disowned you wrongfully. I know you will not, could not bring yourself to ever turn your back on any other as they did you. You'll make whatever sacrifice is asked to protect your family, all of its members. Am I right?"
He frowned, shifted.
"However," she pressed on, "no matter the situation, no matter what arguments you propound, nothing can ever change the fact that your principal goal must be to protect the future of your house. You've been reared and trained to put that above all else"-she dragged in a breath-"and the future of your house lies with you"-she jabbed his chest-"and me, and our children."
His eyes abruptly narrowed; she blushed, waved dismissively. "That's not the issue here."
The hardening of his expression suggested that their potential offspring was very much an issue with him; she realized, changed tack. Gestured. "Just think-this murderer has already shot Reggie mistakenly. What if he decides he needs the certainty of your death and again tries to kill you, but kills me, or one of our children-or both!-instead?"
His expression told her she'd overplayed her hand, that he knew precisely which string she was pulling. She kept her eyes wide, hands splayed, palms up, and held his gaze; whatever else, that string was an extremely strong one.
He exhaled. Glanced away.
She caught his hands, twined their fingers, felt his tighten, lock. Held his gaze when he looked back, her expression open, without guile. "The future of your house is you and me and our children. Sacrificing your own future to protect others of your family is one thing. Sacrificing us is another.
"No one would ever expect it of you. It's not something anyone can ask. Some may be hurt, but we'll be there-you and me and the others who'll help us-we can help them through whatever comes. But you can no longer shield the murderer." She looked into his eyes, then quietly added, "Aside from all else, he isn't worthy of your care."
They stood there, handfasted, gazes locked. The sun washed over them, warming, bringing the promise of growth and abundance, of future happiness. About them, the house seemed to stretch, as if waking from a long sleep. From somewhere downstairs came Allie's voice and a clattering jangle of cutlery.