A Heart Deceived (13 page)

Roland stalked forward, halting inches in front of the man. “And how might you know that?”

The apothecary rose, a challenging tilt to his chin. Dread inched along Miri’s spine.

“Your sister came into town yesterday and was good enough to collect some medicine for him.”

“Really.” Roland didn’t so much as deign to look at her. Nonetheless, she felt the intensity of his anger burn through her from head to toe.

“Tell me, was she alone, Mr. Knight?” His question flew like a cannonball.

“Yes. Is there a problem, Master Brayden?”

“Problem?” Roland’s chest heaved. “Quite.”

He wheeled about and crossed to her, lifting her by the upper arms. “Did I not tell you to stop acting the part of a strumpet? Honestly, Miriall. A betrothed woman ought not prance about unattended as a common prostitute.”

“I fear you overreact, Master Brayden. Her behavior was … agitated, not wanton.” Mr. Knight’s voice echoed in the sudden awkward silence.

Unshed tears burned her eyes, and she blinked. If she closed her lids, would the awful scene disappear? “Roland, you know as well as I that I am not betrothed. I merely—”

“You are. An offer was made. I accepted on your behalf. Now apologize for your behavior to Mr. Knight.” He dug his fingers into her arms, emphasizing his words.

“An offer?” Goose pricks dotted her flesh, running down her arms and each leg. Though she suspected the answer, surely it could not be true. “By whom?”

Roland eyed her as if she were a babbling idiot. “Master Witherskim, of course.”

“No!” Somewhere deep, sobs rose, humiliating yet unstoppable.

“Miss Brayden?”

Mr. Knight’s question sounded far away. Everything sounded far away, except for the ragged noise of her labored breathing and the horrid way Roland’s words played over and over in her mind.
I accepted on your behalf. I accepted on your—

She wrenched from his grasp and tore from the room. As she raced up the stairs, she tripped, stinging her hand when it slapped against the floorboards. It did not stop her, though. Nothing would.

Once she reached her chamber, she slammed the door. A childish reaction, churlish as well—yet she took great satisfaction with the crashing noise that reached to the rafters.

She threw herself atop the covers, seeking the comfort of her bed. Just this once she’d give in to a raging good cry, then retrieve her carpetbag from beneath the bed skirts. She would leave. Tonight. Leave and never come back. Roland could rot for all she cared, and Ethan would have to fend for himself.

Poverty and death were better choices than Witherskim.

14

Ethan paced ten steps to the shed wall, then ten back to the other. He hesitated at the door, longing to pull it open and stroll free in the dawning light. Under Miri’s care his strength increased—as did his guilt. He should tell her the full truth of his part in Will’s murder, that another man lay dead because of him. She should know what kind of monster she harbored. He owed her that. He owed Will that.

Running one hand through his hair, he made up his mind. First chance he got, he’d tell her and be done with it.

But when the door creaked open and she stood framed in the blush of sunrise, the intention tucked tail and ran away.

Something was wrong.

Errant curls drooped to her shoulders, as if she’d been distracted in the process of pinning them up. Shadows darkened half circles beneath her eyes, and her lids were puffy. He’d wager ten pounds she’d not slept at all last night.

“Good day.” Her voice was hardly a mumble.

“Is it?” He moved aside, allowing her to pass. “And how do you fare this morning?”

“Fine.” She set down the tray, then faced him, her skin a shade paler than he remembered. “And you?”

A skilled swordsman couldn’t have parried better. He shook his head. “That is no answer. Would you care to try again?”

Her nose crinkled, and she angled her chin. “I said I was fine. Did you not hear?”

He pushed shut the door, then leaned against it and folded his arms. Her words were a lid rattling atop some kind of simmering pot, one he intended to uncover.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Waiting.”

She cocked her head farther. “For what?”

“To hear how you fare.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re serious.”

“Sometimes, but generally it doesn’t last too long.”

Sunlight radiated stripes through the cracks in the wall. Several converged, casting a halo atop her head. Miri the angel—a more fitting name he couldn’t imagine.

She smoothed her hands on her apron, then clasped them together. “I am not sure what to say.”

“Has no one ever asked you how you are?”

“Of course, but a simple ‘fine’ from me is all they really want to hear.” She lowered her eyes and her voice. “Do you not notice that people are generally too busy speaking of themselves to care about others?”

Shoving off from the door, Ethan closed the distance between them. He pushed aside the tray on the bench, hopped up, and patted the empty space beside him. “Tell me.”

Her cheeks reddened. “Are my burdens that obvious?”

“Only to one who’s looking.”

The red turned to flame, and she looked away.

Ethan laughed. It was entirely too easy to make her blush, but he enjoyed the game just the same. “Come on. I’ll not bite you.”

She glanced at the door while nibbling her lip.

Did he honestly make her that nervous? “Miri, we’ve breached propriety time and again. No need to give decorum any thought. You should know by now that you’re safe with me.”

What ran through her mind as she stood there, statuesque and so beautiful it pained him, he could only guess. An eternity later, she turned and hoisted herself up on the bench. “All right. A few moments won’t hurt, I suppose.”

He waited for her to speak further, but only the outside calls of whippoorwills and chickadees spoke their concerns. Apparently it was up to him to begin. “God knows I’m the least of men to counsel you, but I’ve a willing ear. What troubles you?”

“Much.” Her chest rose and fell with a great sigh. “Family matters, mostly. Roland and …”

Her chin sank, and she stared into her lap, silent. She toyed with the long tie of her apron, winding it around one finger, then unwrapping it again.

Ethan longed to turn her face toward his, to read what emotions sparked in her amber eyes. Surely it would be a deep, deep well. He knew better than anyone how family matters could cut into the underbelly of a soul, leaving behind a long, slow bleed. “You have not told your brother about Will, then?”

“No.” The quiver in her voice hinted at much. “I want to, but … I’m not sure how.”

“How about the truth?” Ethan flinched. Immediately he pressed his lips into a tight line. He was a fine one to speak of truth when he kept his own secrets so cleverly hidden.

She shook her head and pushed from the bench to stand. “Would that it were so easy. There are many things I should like to say to my brother, but he’s quite … If only I could …”

Whirling about, she paced, following the same route he’d worn in the dirt. She hugged herself, tight, and slowly rubbed her arms. Either she took a chill or—

Sudden understanding washed over him. “You fear him. Why?”

She stopped and slowly pivoted, her gaze completely earnest. “Have you any idea what it is like to be at the mercy of one who sees you only as an impediment? A pawn to be discarded as early in the game as possible, giving no concern whatsoever to your own wants or desires?”

Ethan’s heart raced. She could have no idea how intimately he knew that feeling. As second son, he was rarely noticed in the shadow of his older brother. Truth be told, the family butler had paid him more concern than his own father had.

“As a matter of fact”—he lowered his feet to the floor and blocked her path—“I know exactly how you feel.”

“Really?” She lifted her face and studied his. “Sometimes I wonder … are you for real, Mr. Goodwin?”

Their eyes met and held, forming a bond that robbed him of breath. He took a step toward her, then planted his feet. Any closer would be a mistake he’d regret for a long time—a lifetime, no doubt. “How real do you wish me to be?”

Ethan’s husky tone did strange things to her. Or maybe it was the simple fact that he’d cared enough to listen. Truly listen. A tremble ran through her, though neither chill nor draft could be blamed—especially not when she felt so warm. How could she even answer him when her tongue stuck in her mouth?

She spun back to the table, confused. She must be overwrought. That was it. Disgust over the sham of a betrothal to Witherskim. Insufficient sleep. Self-loathing for her lack of courage to run away in the night as she’d intended. The gnawing sorrow over Will. All these things, when added together, made for frivolous imaginings. Ethan Goodwin could be no more interested in her than she should be in him.

That settled, she pulled off the covering cloth from a bowl of porridge and folded it beside the tray. “Here is your breakfast, along with some soap. I thought maybe you—”

“Are you saying I need to bathe, Miss Brayden?”

She bit her lip, horrified that she’d implied such. “I did not mean—”

“Because I couldn’t agree with you more. I can hardly stand the smell of me.”

Was he mocking her? She whirled—and his warm smile completely disarmed her. What a strange fellow. “You are very forthright, sir.”

“Blunt, more like it. Forthright sounds a little too holy for me.”

His humility, genuine and unstilted, surprised her. “Most men would prefer to be thought of as such, particularly by a woman.”

His grin deepened. “I am a far cry from ‘most’ men.”

“That you are, sir.” The rogue tilt of his jaw and gleam in his eye—so much like her younger brother—filled part of the emptiness inside her. She couldn’t help but return a smile of her own. “And I suspect that is exactly why Will took to you.”

A brief yet very real wave of pain washed over his face before he answered. “I shall take that as a compliment, Miss Brayden. Now, allow me to return the favor.”

He stepped toward her and didn’t stop until he stood a breath away. “You are unlike any woman I’ve ever met. Generous, compassionate … beautiful.”

Heat blazed across her cheeks, and she bowed her head. Those words, wrapped in such an intimate tone, could not possibly be for her. Such a package of endearments surely belonged to another woman, never for—

A crooked finger beneath her chin drew her face back to his. He stared at her with such intensity, she swallowed.

Then broke free and ran to the door.

“Miri, wait.”

A tremor ran through her at the sound of his voice, and she paused, hand on door. “I …”

She what? What was happening to her? She couldn’t put two thoughts together if it were royally decreed. She pushed open the worn bit of boards and called over her shoulder. “I must leave. I have a pressing engagement. Good day.”

Before he could object, she burst outside, pressing her palms to her cheeks. Hard to tell which made her face burn more—her outright lie or the strange feelings Ethan stirred.

Four paces from the shed, she froze. Her stomach twisted, and all heat fled as she lowered her hands.

“Tell me, Miss Brayden …” Bishop Fothergill flicked his hand toward the shed. “Are you often given to bidding such fond farewells to garden tools?”

“Blazing bandycock!” Nigel’s curses multiplied like maggots on a dead alley cat. Pain burned a trail from his toe up his shin. He hopped about on one foot, babying the ingrown nail that he’d angered against the table leg. Stumbling backward, he sank onto his mattress and rubbed his foot.

After a long swig from a bottle next to his bed, the throbbing eased to a bearable drumbeat.

“Slow down, Thorne,” he whispered to himself as he stood. “Yer luck’s about to change.”

Just to make sure, he hobbled over to a chipped ceramic elephant and patted it three times. He’d won it years ago—that and a wad of bills—off a drunken sailor. He liked to think it a lucky charm, though it’d done the sailor no good.

He tugged at his frockcoat, straightening away the wrinkles. As soon as he released the fabric, the creases returned. A bit shabby for Chancery. Still, he owned nothing finer, even to be buried in.