A Heart Deceived (2 page)

Then snatched her bag as they hurried past him.

Judging by the weight of the spangled pouch, the thing held a ransom’s worth of coin. Practicality shouted at him to pocket the booty and run, fast and far.

So why did the world blur to a stop?

His feet froze. The sound of his own breathing echoed in his head. He gaped at the treasure nestled in his hands, and the longer he stared, the stronger a foreign urge welled. Burning. Incessant. Slightly nauseating and—

Overwhelmingly compelling.

“Excuse me!” He broke into a dead run. “Madam!”

He didn’t stop until he tapped her on the shoulder.

“Didn’t I tell you to shove off?” The fellow turned, puffing out his chest. “I’ve a mind to call a constable—”

Ethan held out the reticule. “I believe this belongs to the lady.”

The woman’s eyes widened, her lips forming a large
O
. She seized the pouch and clutched it to her chest. “Oh my! I didn’t realize I’d dropped my bag. Thank you, sir. Thank you so very …”

Her voice faded into the street clamor as Ethan wheeled about and stalked off, angry at her gratitude. Angry at himself. That sweet bit of fortune would’ve paid off his debts. What was he thinking?

As he stormed by the church, an old gentleman, thin as the cane he white-knuckled, descended the final step. From the tip of his silk cravat tucked into a sateen-breasted waistcoat, down to his glossy leather shoes, the man smelled of money.

Ethan slowed his steps. Could he pull off the act without another appearance from his long-lost conscience? Did he even want to? He flexed his fingers, trying hard to conjure up some kind of zest for the task, and … nothing. Not one thing in him longed for the rush of a fruitful theft.

“You there!” A bulwark of a man, draped in a black cassock, stood at the church’s threshold, pointing a finger at him.

Ethan lifted one brow while slipping a glance to the left and right.

“Aye, I said you. Come here.”

Frowning, Ethan hesitated. Oh, it would make a right fine tale to laugh about with Will should he answer the reverend’s call, but he’d learned long ago that churches and jails were best avoided. He opened his mouth to cut the fellow off, then pressed his lips shut. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the reverend’s finger had nudged upward, aiming just beyond Ethan’s shoulder.

Glancing backward, Ethan followed the trajectory with his eyes. Seven—maybe eight—paces away, a constable folded his arms and widened his stance, gaze fixed on Ethan.

Bypassing the old fellow with the cane, Ethan took the stairs two at a time. “Ahh, yes, Reverend. So glad you asked me here today.” He embraced the man, clapping him on the back. That ought to give the constable something to think about.

“In truth, lad, I think you have God to thank for this appointment.” The reverend whopped him hard between the shoulder blades in return.

Coughing, Ethan didn’t protest as the man led him inside. He couldn’t. He could barely breathe. He followed the clergyman to the back pew, where the fellow stopped and held out his arm.

Ethan sank onto the oak, falling into memories he hadn’t known still existed. The smell of beeswax votives and linseed-oiled woodwork jarred loose fragments of verses and a lifetime of sermons.

“Scoot over, lad.” The reverend’s voice boomed, expanding to the farthest corners of the high ceiling.

Ethan nodded toward the closed front doors. “I appreciate what you did out there. But honestly, there’s no need to waste your breath on the likes of me. I’ll just sit here awhile and then be gone. Don’t worry. I won’t pilfer your candlesticks on my way out.”

A slow smile spread across the man’s face, tightening his weathered skin. He shook his head, grey hair shorn like an over-mown pasture. “I don’t care about lost candlesticks, lad. I care about lost souls. Now … move over.”

Blowing out a long breath, Ethan slid aside. The constable would have been better company than a clergyman. He gritted his teeth and waited, hoping the reverend’s lecture would be mercifully short.

The wood groaned as the fellow lowered himself next to Ethan. “The name’s Newton, lad. John Newton. And you are?”

“Ethan Goodwin,” he ground out.

“That vein in the side of your neck is going to pop if you don’t relax, lad.” Newton’s voice had a smile in it.

“Look, Reverend, allow me to be plain.” Ethan angled to face the man. Better to get this over with in a direct manner than beat around the burning bush. “I don’t believe in God. Not anymore.”

Newton laughed. Outright. Large and toothy and genuinely delighted. His shoulders shook, and he ended up wiping moisture from the corners of his eyes.

Ethan’s jaw dropped. He’d seen a lot of queer sights on the London streets, but never a clergyman laughing as lustily as a sailor.

“Hah! None of that matters, lad. God believes in you. Your belief or lack of it doesn’t change His existence.”

Ethan scrubbed his face with both hands. Maybe he was beyond tired. Surely this conversation was a dream. Where was the reverend’s condemnation? His holier-than-thou judgment? “Look, Reverend, you saw what I was about to do out there. What I am.” He lifted his chin and locked gazes with the man. “I, sir, am a thief. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

The reverend didn’t flinch. “I’m not asking you to.”

A smile twitched Ethan’s lips. “Oh, I see. Of course. You ask nothing of me. Very clever. It’s what the Lord asks, eh, Reverend?”

“The Lord?” Newton’s brows rose like a swell in the sea. “What does the Lord require of you? Is it to make your own peace? He would as soon require you to make a new heaven and a new earth. Is it to keep your own soul? No more than He requires you to keep the sun in its course. His own arm has wrought salvation, lad, and He will secure it. None but this does He require … to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly. The methods of His grace will enable you to do so, not anything I have to say.”

Stunned, Ethan sank back, grateful the pew upheld him. Slowly, he shook his head. “You would not say such things if you knew fully the wretch that sits here before you, sir.”

“Nor would you remain in the same room with a sinner such as I.” Newton reached out his hand, placing a calloused palm on Ethan’s leg. “Which is neither here nor there, for God knows.”

God knows?

Ethan’s mouth dried, teeth tasting like bones. Sudden clarity struck him a powerful kidney punch, and he slipped forward, knees grinding onto the floor. He clutched the pew in front of him, holding tight to keep the world from tilting.

The awful truth of the man’s words was cold and unyielding, relentless as the stone floor and as hard. He grasped tighter, digging into the wood as it splintered into the virgin flesh between nail and finger. No hellfire, not one word of gnashing teeth or eternal pain cut into his soul as brutally as those two little words.

God.

Knows.

His blood rushed. Hairs prickled. Just like he’d felt earlier, something was not right.

Or maybe it was. Maybe this was what rightness felt like. For the first time in his life,
he knew
. Ethan Goodwin knew. Truly.

God help him.

“Take all the time you need, lad.” The reverend gripped his shoulder, then stood. “All the time you need.”

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut. Newton was right. He did have God to thank for this appointment.

2

If men’s heads were roses, she’d lop them all off. Gripping the shears in a stranglehold, Miri squeezed them until her arms shook. Clip. For Roland’s sharp words. Snip. His obsessive control. Slice. If only she could as easily be rid of the problems her brother was causing, but things had only worsened now that he’d imbibed a heady drink of power from the pulpit two days ago. Do this. Don’t do that. Chop. Chop. Chop! She’d like nothing better than to nick off Roland’s tongue.

One by one, dead branches collected in a thorny heap at her feet—spiked and tangled as her thoughts. Obviously working in the rectory’s garden would not be a diversion. Not this evening.

Spent, she sank to the ground and laid the shears in her lap. If she couldn’t keep herself composed, how would she ever succeed in keeping Roland calm? She breathed in deeply, savoring the early evening smell of dirt and worms and possibility. Like the possibility of running away to live with Will. Forget about Roland. Leave the bones of her past here in the rectory garden to bleach in the sun.

She exhaled, long and low, until nothing was left. Maybe she was the one slipping into insanity, for it was crazy to think she could find Will and more than madness to think he’d take responsibility for her. Responsibility wasn’t exactly a prodigal’s hallmark.

“Miss?”

Miri startled at the cook’s voice, shoving anger and hurt down into a dark cellar in her heart. No doubt they’d keep. Glancing over her shoulder, she forced a pleasant tone. “Yes?”

Mrs. Makin’s raisin eyes were set deep into her face. Mobcap askew, she looked like a shortbread taken too soon from the oven. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss. I hate to be interruptin’ ye, but Master Brayden, why he’s a mite … well, if you don’t mind me sayin’, I’d as soon ask you about the meals for the rest of the week rather than him. Master Brayden is …”

“Cantankerous?” Miri smiled. “Or surly?”

“Oh, miss!” The cook’s brows rose. “I never said—”

“Of course not. I did.” Brushing aside a stray curl with the back of her hand, Miri cocked her head. “Though I vow I won’t own up to it. Now then, what was it you wanted to ask?”

Mrs. Makin clucked her tongue, a censure belied by the sparkle in her eye. “I’m wantin’ to know if the vicar will be back soon. For all his skin and bones, Mr. Eldon is a hearty eater. I’ve been wastin’ a fair amount of time and food, cooking and serving as though he might come to table.” The cook took a step closer and lowered her voice. “But it’s been four days now, miss. You know I tend to my own affairs and all, but I was wondering if you knew … what I mean to say is … that were some scuffle I heard the other morn.”

Miri’s smile faded. So it hadn’t been a nightmare, not if Mrs. Makin had heard the same ungodly sounds in the predawn gloom last week. Angry voices, hushed and low. Crashing furniture. A cry. Then silence, smothering and weighty.

Her own careful search of the rectory had yielded nothing amiss, except for her own shredded nerves—which Mrs. Makin now deftly minced yet more.

The cook glanced over her shoulder, then, with another guarded step, drew nearer. She bent, her words clearly meant only for Miri. “I’ve been meaning to ask if mayhap you knew something about the vicar’s disappearance.”

Hah. As if Mr. Eldon, her brother, or any man for that matter, would confide in her. Men hoarded their secrets like casks of wealth. Miri shook her head. “Sorry. I know as much about Mr. Eldon’s situation as you.”

“Well then, I suppose there’s naught to be done about it.” Mrs. Makin straightened and patted the flour-coated apron stretched across her wide midsection. “My girlish figure has suffered enough. If it’s all the same to you, I shall stop cooking as if the vicar were here. Leastwise till he returns, eh?”

“By all means, Mrs. Makin. Do as you see fit.”

“Thank you kindly, miss.” The cook tucked her chin and turned, her skirt billowing up dust swirls on the walkway.

Miri watched her go. Just past Mrs. Makin’s shoulder, a dark cloud hung low on the horizon. Frogs ribbited, their sound bass and throaty, swelling with the coming night and promising a rainstorm. But peeking over the edge of the thunderhead, the last of the sun’s rays reached out. Miri pushed off her bonnet and lifted her face. Orange light soaked into her skin, dappling a spotted pattern on her closed lids. The evening breeze, while damp, hinted that summer was not far away. If God could change the seasons, why not her life?

Please, Lord, would You?

Working out a kink in her neck from her strained position, she opened her eyes and caught sight of a thick sucker near the base of the shrub rose. She lifted the shears, tilting them first one way, then another. Such an angle would make this difficult. Must even her chosen pastime present nothing but trouble?

The stray curl fell forward again, and she blew it back. Gearing up for a quick, powerful slash, she leaned forward, spread the wooden handles wide, then slammed them together.

“Miriall!”

The blades slipped, gouging into the branch’s flesh. A jagged gash cut deep enough to wound but not to sever, opening the door to disease. Miri stared at it, sickened for a moment, then shot to her feet. The shears clattered onto the gravel. She tugged on her bonnet, brushed bits of soil from her dress, then inched both hands behind her back, hiding the dirt beneath her nails. “Yes?”

The spasm in her brother’s clean-shaven jaw did not bode well. His grimace deepened while his gaze swept her from head to toe. “Return to the house.”

“I shall, shortly.”

“Now.” He turned, the tails of his greatcoat flapping.

Miri glanced at the barren rose bush. There would be few blooms if she did not finish pruning before buds appeared, especially since she’d butchered the poor thing. “Pray, give me leave to—”

“No.” He neither looked back nor paused in his trek toward the rectory.

“But …”

He stopped and pivoted. The waning daylight threw sharp shadows across his face, and she flinched at his resemblance to their father.

He stared her down. “There is naught more to say, child. You will cease squandering your time on this garden of vanity.”

Child? Of all the arrogance. At nine and twenty, he was only five years her senior. Miri lifted her chin and flashed a prim smile. “I fail to understand how caring for the Creator’s handiwork can be construed as vanity.”

“Consider whom you address. I do not recall your face among the dons beneath me at Pembroke.”

A vein protruded on his temple. For one wicked moment, she entertained the crass thought of it bursting.

Remorse forced her to break the deadlock of stares, and she studied the crushed leaves at her feet. “Forgive me. I did not think.”

“One of your many shortcomings. No wonder Father never found you a husband.” He exhaled his disgust, the chirrups of roosting martins the only sound bold enough to reply. “I shall, however, overlook this incident.”