A Heart Deceived (17 page)

“You what?” Roland ground his teeth, advancing further. Were she not standing with her back to the doorframe, no doubt he would have circled her.

Ethan crossed the room, drawing close enough to intervene should the need arise.

Roland raised his hand in warning. Behind him, Miri peered over her brother’s shoulder, pleading with her eyes for Ethan to retreat.

“Am I now to learn that you’ve conspired with Mr. Good as well?” Roland glanced back at him, the threat in his eyes razor sharp.

Ethan lifted his hands to show he was harmless, yet the stance would serve him well should this meeting come to fists. Why would any man hazard this amount of aggression toward a slip of a woman—his own sister, at that—and toward an unarmed, invited caller? He frowned. Something was not right.

Miri lowered her head.

Her movement attracted Roland’s attention, and he turned back to her. “Look at me!” He pinched her chin and forcibly lifted her head.

Civility be hanged.

“Sir!” Ethan grabbed Roland’s shoulder, fingers itching to spin the bully around and feel the satisfying smash of his fist against the man’s nose. The brigand deserved a comeuppance, but with fear shining in Miri’s eyes, now was not the time. He settled for squeezing instead, digging in his fingers.

Roland wheeled about, shrugging off the hold. His chest expanded, and he cocked his head, a calculated attempt at intimidation.

Ethan might almost smile if not for the seriousness of the situation. Coercion was a familiar friend—a commodity he could trade with the best of men … or worst, as the case may be.

He retreated a step and allowed half a smile—the comfortable mask of appeasement he’d mastered long ago. “The woman is faultless. I freely admit these garments are not my own, but I swear I had no idea they belonged to a vicar.”

Roland narrowed his eyes. “Then where did you get them?”

After the harsh conduct he’d already witnessed, to admit that Miri supplied him the clothing would likely not bode well for her. He lifted a brow, praying that Roland would be calmed with the offered bait—himself. “I do not answer to you.”

Roland stiffened.

Ethan continued. “Furthermore, the bishop did not stress a particular mode of dress, therefore your input is not necessary.”

A deep shade of red crept up the man’s neck.

“And unless these are your garments, it is hardly your concern.” Ethan folded his arms. “Now then, be a good man and summon Bishop Fothergill for me, would you?”

Veins bulged at Roland’s temples. His breaths came hard and fast. “You … will not … address me so vulgarly.”

Ethan smiled. “I believe I just have, sir.”

Miri gasped. Roland jerked as if slapped.

“Your days here,” Roland managed through clenched teeth, “are numbered, Mr. Good.”

“That remains to be seen.” Ethan kept a pleasant tenor to his voice. “I suggest you take it up with Bishop Fothergill, for I have nothing more to say to you on the matter.”

“Do not think that I am so easily dismissed. You should choose your enemies more wisely in the future. This is not finished.” Roland stalked from the room.

Ethan blew out a breath. Gaining the man’s dark side might prove a problem in the future, but for now, the wide-eyed beauty staring at him overshadowed any possible consequences. Hopefully this was the first of many victories in gaining Miri’s trust.

And love.

Miri couldn’t breathe.

In seconds, Ethan Goodwin had undone her efforts at calming Roland, and she wanted to scream with the stress of it. What kind of harm might her brother inflict upon himself this time? She dare not pursue him, lest she upset him further, but what to do? At wit’s end, she hastened across the room and didn’t stop until she reached the floor-length window. She pressed her burning brow against the cool glass and allowed her shoulders to sag.

Ethan’s footsteps followed behind, drawing closer than she would have liked. “Miri?”

She hugged herself, refusing to look at the man. Outside, tree branches waved with the breeze. Knobby buds lost their husks and littered the ground, as scattered and disordered as her emotions.

“Are you all right?”

No matter how hard she tried to ignore him, a part of her warmed to the note of concern in his voice. Still, even if it might have been for her protection, he never should have roused her brother. She shook her head. “Why did you provoke him so? You had no right.”

“You can’t seriously be defending the man. I mean no disrespect to you, Miri, but your brother is quarrelsome and overbearing. He was looking for a fight. I merely accommodated.”

Unable to argue against that, she unfolded her arms and smoothed her skirts. The truth of his words released some of the rising irritation she felt toward him—but not all. Obliging Roland’s confrontational bent would only speed him to the asylum.

She clenched her hands, balling up her skirt fabric, then turned. “Please, do not incite him further. If for no other reason, refrain for the sake of your past friendship with Will.”

A rogue flash of teeth highlighted his dark beard. “Ah, but my actions were for your sake alone.”

She swallowed, nearly choking on this blunt statement. He was as forward as Witherskim.

So why didn’t she feel as reviled?

He took a step nearer, bringing with him the scent of outdoors and freshly washed skin. Apparently he’d made use of the soap she’d left on his tray. His hair gleamed a brighter shade of mahogany as it rested against his collar, and his face no longer bore the pallor of sickness. Truth be told, with the layers of grime removed, Ethan Goodwin was quite dashing.

His lips parted as if he might speak, but no words came out. That she’d noticed his lips in the first place heated her cheeks, and she averted her gaze. No good could come from admiring men.

Ethan drew back. “Forgive me. I have made you uncomfortable.”

She snapped her eyes back to his—then startled. He stared, unguarded, unabashed, and completely sincere. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. No wonder Will had made this man his friend. Suddenly she felt foolish and shy, repentant of the way she’d taken leave of him and for raising her voice. “No, it’s not you. It’s just that …” She glanced at the door, still open from when Roland stormed out. “Roland, such as he is, is all the family I have left.”

Hearing her pitiful state from her own mouth was cruel to her ear and abrasive to her heart. The pain of missing Will heightened, cresting with the knowledge that she’d never see him again. She swallowed, paving the way for words she wasn’t sure she wanted to speak. “Tell me, for I think I am ready to hear it …”

Was she? Her nails bit into her palms. “How did Will die?”

A shadow crossed Ethan’s face, and Miri held her breath.

“Will was …” His jaw worked as he looked past her, beyond the spring horizon outside, focusing on what? Some undefined point in time?

She folded her hands in front of her rather than worry the fabric of her skirt any further. That it took so long for him to reply could not be a good omen.

“He was murdered.” Ethan’s voice lessened to little more than a whisper. “Stabbed.”

The stays of her bodice pinched without mercy—or perhaps the pain came from the breaking of her heart afresh. She should have been there! Surely she could have prevented such a violent end, somehow. “But … why? Why would someone want to murder Will?”

He grimaced. “Reasons better left unsaid, leastwise in the presence of a lady. Would to God that you never know the ways of life on the streets.”

She sucked in a breath, for that was exactly the fate she fought to avoid.

Sorrow added years to Ethan’s face. Was he here in the sitting room with her, or back on the streets he warned against?

At last he shook his head and returned her gaze. The hard lines at the edges of his eyes softened as he studied her. “Will was the finest friend I’ve ever known. You’re a lot like him, you know.”

“It is kind of you to say so. Will was my friend too, years ago. I miss him … keenly.” Her voice broke, along with a renewed wrenching of her heart. After a shaky breath, she continued, “All there is for me now is Roland.”

“Do not fret about your brother. He will recover.”

“No, he will not.” She bit her lower lip, but too late to withdraw her words.

“Why would you say such a thing?”

His question hung like a snare. Though it would be freedom to share her load of worry about Roland, she knew too little about Ethan Goodwin to trust him with such a confidence.

She sighed, taking the route of vagueness. “My brother is not the man he appears to be.”

“Neither am I.” He spoke so low, she might have missed that statement if her senses had not been so intensely on edge.

“Who are you then, really?” She paused, cocking her head. “And what are you doing here? Why are you suddenly Mr. Good, the hired help?”

One brow rose, meeting the swath of dark hair sweeping across his forehead—roguish and unspeakably handsome.

He shrugged. “The bishop is rather persuasive.”

A small smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “He does have a way of dominating a conversation toward his own desires.”

Ethan laughed outright, filling the sitting room with a lightness she’d not felt since her arrival at the rectory—not for years, for that matter. She closed her eyes, relishing the sound.

“It is good to hear you laugh.” The reckless thought escaped her lips before she realized she’d spoken aloud. Wide-eyed, she clamped her mouth shut.

Ethan’s laughter faded, replaced with a curious tilt of his chin. “I am happy you approve.”

“I meant laughter in general, of course.” The excuse sounded hollow in her own ears.

“I see.” But his knowing nod contradicted his assurance.

The ensuing silence stretched, long and thin. She ought to say something, or maybe do something, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of what. Was she losing her mind as well?

At last a deep rumble in Ethan’s belly broke into the quiet. A sheepish grin flashed across his face. “Sorry.”

“Oh, dear!” Miri pressed a hand against her own stomach as it sank. She hadn’t brought him a meal since yesterday, she’d been so caught up with her own life’s drama. “You’ve had nothing to eat, and it’s all my fault. Please accept my apology.”

His smile deepened. “It’s not like I haven’t missed a meal before.”

As if invoked by the mere mention of food, Mrs. Makin crossed the sitting room’s threshold. “Miss?”

“Perfect timing, Mrs. Makin. Mr. Good here is in need of a plate of …” But the sight of the cook twisting a dish towel in her hands overrode the grumbling of Ethan’s belly. Fear for Roland crept a chill down Miri’s back. “What is wrong?”

19

As the color drained from Miri’s face, Ethan stepped to her side. Clearly the cook’s words had upset Miri in a way he was hard pressed to understand. What trifling kitchen incident could possibly evoke such apparent distress—burned biscuits? Soured milk?

“Speak, Mrs. Makin.” The rise and fall of Miri’s chest increased. “What has happened?”

Though he already stood closer to Miri than modesty allowed, he inched nearer still. Her voice contained a curious tension, like a child, knowing punishment is required and compelled to ask what manner it might take, yet fearing to hear the answer.

The cook fiddled all the more with her dishcloth. “It’s Old Joe, miss. He’s taken a turn for the worse. A terrible cough rattles him so that he can hardly breathe. I hate to be askin’, but what with my visit to my sister and all, I’m behind enough as is. Could you go to the village this morn and drop by Mr. Harper’s?”

Miri exhaled visibly. “Of course. I shall go straightaway.”

“Thank you, miss. You’re a gem, you are.” But the woman did not leave. She stood there, wringing the towel. If it were a chicken, it would have been long dead. “There is one other thing …” Her dark little eyes slid his way.

“You may speak freely, Mrs. Makin,” Miri said. “The bishop has hired Mr. Good here to fill in for Old Joe.”

Mrs. Makin nodded but did not pull her gaze from him. He’d seen that look before—the slight curl of the upper lip and lifting of the chin translated into suspicion based upon his appearance. It used to give him a perverse thrill, knowing he could cause such a reaction. Now, his belly tightened with shame.

“Well”—he broke the awkward moment—“I’ll go acquaint myself with the grounds. There’s likely much to be done.”

“Aye, that there is.” The cook finally let her hands fall to her sides, the towel misshapen beyond recognition.

“Excuse me, then.” He dipped his head before he exited. His departure greased the cook’s tongue, for it slipped loose before he’d gone five paces beyond the door.

“Humph, have you ever seen the like of that? Charming as a gent …”

Behind him, the woman’s voice lowered. Ethan paused.

“ … somethin’ ain’t right, I tell ye. I know what I see, and what I see on that fellow is the vicar’s clothing. What do you make of that, miss? What have you to say about what manner of man he might be?”

Ethan cocked his head, straining to catch Miri’s soft tones. The hounds of hell wouldn’t keep him from hearing how she’d answer.