“Please...” she tried, the plea weak.
Her throat was dry and sore, and her head still pounded from the strike. The only minor blessing she supposed was she had been knocked senseless for the journey and had awoken to find Marshall’s hands about her throat. The man had to have known every inch of the house to sneak his way in.
Cillian thrust the man up against the stair banister and Ivy winced when she heard a creak of wood.
“She was going to marry me,” Marshall raged. “We were to be wed. I was to take her to the coast to get better and—”
Cillian thrust his arm up against the man’s neck, making his face turn red.
He clawed at Cillian’s arm. “You killed her.”
“Cillian,” Ivy pleaded. “Please—”
He looked at her briefly and Marshall wriggled from his hold, swinging up with a fist that connected with Cillian’s jaw so hard it made tears spring into Ivy’s eyes.
“That portrait was to be a wedding gift.” Marshall bent double as Cillian took a few steps back and gulped down breaths. “I gave her the dress as a gift. And she—” He thrust a finger toward Ivy “—had no right to even look upon it.”
Ivy pictured the young woman, so full of hope, a smile that did indeed hint she knew something they did not. That she was to be married and she was wearing her fiancé’s gift—a beautiful vibrant green silk dress.
How had it come to this?
“I’ve repeated it every day since Mary’s disappearance.” Cillian swiped the back of his hand across his bloodied face. “I never touched her. You know that. And you made sure everyone believed it.” He shook his head. “You’re mad, Marshall. You’ve convinced yourself it was me.”
“Itwasyou!” he bellowed and ran at Cillian again.
Servants had begun to gather in the hallway downstairs, and she spotted Muriel, a hand to the stair banister. Ivy shook her head at her maid who grappled with a wriggling dog. If Charlie or anyone else got involved, she feared it would mean more blood, more pain.
Cillian shoved Marshall back. He staggered a few steps, roared, and came at him again. This time Cillian responded with a punch to his face and blood gushed from the man’s nose.
Ivy watched with horror as the man went again. Cillian would kill him if he did not stop.
That was it. She was done with letting things happen. Done with hiding from the ugliness of life. The next time Cillian repelled an attack, Ivy stepped into the breach.
“What are you doing?” Cillian hissed and lunged for her. She dodged his outstretched arms and twisted to face Marshall.
The man stilled, fist raised. “I’ll kill you too.”
She met his gaze and recalled the same expression as she’d awoken to find his hands wrapped around her throat, cutting off any chance of breath. It reminded her of when she had visited Lady Ava’s house and found a caged kangaroo there. The animal butted itself against the cage day and night, injuring itself but not caring. It had gone entirely mad and even Ivy had not been able to save it.
“Cillian did not kill Mary,” she said softly at the same time as straightening her shoulders and meeting his gaze head on. “But I know who did.”
“Lies,” Marshall snapped. “He’ll kill you next.”
“Ivy,” Cillian warned. “Get out of the way.”
“No!” She planted her feet firmly. “You said Mary sickened?”
Marshall’s brow furrowed. “She was in delicate health. I intended to take her on a honeymoon to Dorset to get some fresh air. She would have been fine once I had been able to look after her.” His gaze flicked to Cillian and narrowed. “If your husband had not been so consumed with jealously and taken her from me.” He tried to sidestep her, but she mirrored his steps.
“And you gave her that dress.”
Marshall stilled, his jaw tightening. “Yes, as I said.”
“A green dress.”
He stepped closer, almost toe-to-toe with her. Her pulse thudded fiercely in her ears, and she clamped down on a shiver that speared through her.
“Get out of the way before I hurt you.”