A Heart Deceived (21 page)

“’Ere you go, mate.”

Duffy’s voice boomed in his ear. He’d be lucky to make it to past noontide without going deaf around here. Turning, he recoiled from a yellowed handkerchief waving in his face.

“Gimme that!” He grabbed the cloth from Duffy’s hand. “You’re late.”

As Duffy recounted one useless detail after another, Nigel took the time to wipe his face properly, adding in a swipe to his neck and ears for good measure. He handed it back, more black now than yellowed. When Duffy pocketed the cloth, a flashy bit of lace floated to the ground.

“What’s this?” He smacked Duffy’s hand out of the way and held it up.

“That’s mine!” Red spread up Duffy’s neck and colored his whole face as he snatched it back. “Like I was sayin’, me own puddin’ pie come home last night. Ain’t seen the ol’ girl in o’er a fortnight. That last row we had was—”

“I don’t give a flyin’ fig about your
puddin’ pie
. Get on to what I paid you for, man.”

Duffy’s eyes glazed for a moment, and his tongue worked his lips. Good. Thinking position. The old hedgehog’s wheels were finally turning. At last, he spoke. “Right. Well, I scoured the Old Nichol, just like you said. Didn’t turn up much about Goodwin, I’m afraid.”

A string of curses unraveled out Nigel’s mouth. “Gimme back my money, Duffy!”

“Hold on, hold on.” Duffy’s teeth did the working this time. “Now then, like I said, nothing new on ol’ Ethan boy, but I did find out his friend Will has a sister.”

“What the flippity-flap do I care about some wench—”

“A sister that lives up Bedfordshire way.” Duffy leaned closer, the smell of sausage and headcheese rank on his breath. “In the country, that is. Just the place to hide out, I’m thinkin’.” He waggled his hedgehog eyebrows.

“Well, well.” Nigel chewed on that tasty nugget of information. Maybe, just maybe, fate’s perpetual frown was turning into a smile.

He nodded. “Good job, Duff. You can go on back home to yer puddin’ pie then, eh?”

Duffy grinned, his cheeks bunching so that it squinted his eyes nearly shut. “Righty-oh.”

“Think I’ll be takin’ me a little trip north o’ London.” Nigel scratched his chin. Yes siree, just the time to leave behind the blasted city, especially since Buck would come a’callin’ on the morrow.

Miri lifted her face to the warm breeze and breathed deeply, the smell of moist earth and worms a leftover reminder of an earlier rain shower. She’d have to scrub the bottom of her skirt after this walk about the grounds, but the added chore would be worth the moment spent soaking in the morning’s rays. Though hiding out in Joe’s room had provided much time to think, it was beginning to stifle.

It was apparent she would not be able to hide Roland’s madness much longer. Witherskim had voiced it, and now Ethan had witnessed it firsthand. She must make plans. But with no money or employment—she couldn’t seriously expect Mrs. Tattler to take on a madman’s sister—what was there to plan?

Chinnup, chinnup, chinnup
, a throaty sparrow admonished her as it sailed overhead, sounding for all the world as if it scolded her to face her situation with a good heart. The bird sailed across the garden and flew to a ball of twigs and fluff tucked beneath the rectory’s eaves. Sheltered from elements and enemies alike, the little bird likely didn’t give a care for its survival.

Miri frowned at the sky. “Where is my safe nesting place, God?”

No answer. Not that she expected one … or did she? “Chin up, indeed.” She sighed and cast her attention back to the path.

Nearing the cluster of rose bushes, she stopped. Some shrubs sent out reddish-brown shoots from their branches, others dark green, but the one she hadn’t finished pruning showed no growth whatsoever. She crouched for a better look. Not a nub of promise dotted its branches. At least she wasn’t the only one God was ignoring, then. The thought did not bring comfort.

“You look as if the weight of the world is on your shoulders.” Ethan’s deep voice cut into her ponderings as he squatted next to her. “Though I don’t suppose you got much sleep last night.”

True, fatigue did cloud her concentration, but how had she missed hearing his approach? If she didn’t pull herself together soon, she might easily be rooming with Roland at the asylum. Turning her head, she offered Ethan a wry smile. “Not the weight of the entire world, just this one rose bush. I’m afraid you ought not keep company with me. I’m a murderer.”

His eyes widened an instant before he leaned forward to focus on the shrub. No further words passed between them, yet she got the distinct impression that she’d somehow indicted him.

He loosened the dirt at the shrub’s base and poked around with one finger. After a “humph,” his prodding moved upward. Taking care of the thorns, he felt here and there until finally he snapped off the tip of one of the longest branches.

“My mother kept flowers.” He examined the broken edge, turning it over in his hand. Bringing it to eye level, he squinted, then tossed it aside and faced her. “Give it time. Rose bushes are hardier than you might think. With much patience and God’s care, this one could bloom again.”

Miri bit her lip, affected by his words more than she’d care to admit. His message brought good tidings for the shrub, but dare she hope it might signify future changes for her barren life as well? Not likely. She stood and smoothed her skirt.

“You scowl as well as your brother. This ought to lighten your mood, though.” Stepping close—near enough that her breath hitched—he reached out. With the lightest of touches, his palm brushed against the wisps of perpetually loose hair that refused to be captured in her chignon.

She froze, wondering what he intended.

“Look.” He drew back his hand and held it up for her to see. A small stone, round and speckled, sat like a jewel in his palm. “Lighter already.”

She stared, as mesmerized by the deed as by the man.

He reached again, and she fought to keep from leaning in to his touch—the same rebellious urge that had gripped her last night on the stairway. How could she be so drawn to a man she knew so little about?

Retrieving another stone from behind her other ear, he said, “Surely you must be feeling lighter by the moment.”

She swallowed. Oh, she felt all right, but not lighter. More like dizzy. “How did you do that?”

He cocked his head, half a rogue smile softening his face. She’d not noticed before that he’d trimmed his beard and tamed his unruly hair into a queue at the back. Cleaned up properly, his boyish good looks put Mr. Knight’s to shame. But as he reached again, the muscles rippling beneath his shirt reminded her that this was no boy.

He produced an additional rock and tossed them all into the air.

“Why—” Her astonishment turned into a smile as he snatched each one before they hit the dirt and juggled them. When he spun in a circle without losing any, she laughed.

“Now”—he pocketed the stones with a grin of his own—“that’s better.”

“And if that would not have made me laugh?”

“Well, then.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I should have tried all the harder.”

Perhaps his wink meant nothing. Nevertheless, a shiver tingled through her.

“Are … uh …” She scrambled for words as elusive as a handful of scattered marbles. “Are there no ends to your talents?”

A smirk lifted one side of his mouth. “I’ve been called many things in my day, but never talented.”

“Oh, but you are. You shod the bishop’s horse, fixed the pantry’s stuck door, stopped the wind from whistling through that crack in the sanctuary’s window, and I don’t even know what else. And besides the countless times you’ve made me smile, you stood up to Witherskim for me and helped me get Roland to his chamber last night. Then …” She stopped, hating the way she blabbered like a moonstruck schoolgirl. Not that she was, but it sure must sound as such.

He must have thought so as well, for his grin reached clear to his eyes. “I was not aware you were keeping tally.”

His husky undertone stole what little coherency she had left. “I wasn’t … or rather … I am not …”

All her words, all her thoughts, stalled beneath his gaze—one so intense her heartbeat faltered, then galloped out of control.

This was ridiculous. Of course she felt attracted to him. He’d been Will’s friend. Ethan was her last tangible connection to a brother she’d loved very much. The times she’d shared with this man felt as comforting and connected as if she’d been with Will himself. There was no pretension in their relationship, no awkwardness. Just heartfelt companionship. She smiled, relieved to finally categorize the odd feelings he created. “I am happy you are here. At the rectory, I mean, not necessarily standing in the garden with me, though I really don’t mind, and …”

One of his brows rose as her babbling slowed to a stop. The sparkle in his eyes cut through her own rationalizations, creating more than a brotherly feeling skittering along each nerve. She swallowed at the sudden realization.

Chinnup. Chinnup. Chinnup.

Stupid bird. She wanted nothing more than to hide her burning face from Ethan’s consuming gaze.

“There is no other place I would rather be”—his smile faded, and a serious flash ignited in the depths of his brown eyes—“than here at your side.” Slowly, his hand rose, the back of his knuckles barely a murmur sweeping across her cheek.

Propriety be hanged. She leaned into his touch. The warmth of his skin suggested virility, and the roughness, strength. This was the kind of hand that could protect.

Or entice.

At her movement, his lips parted, and he sucked in a breath. That she’d even noticed his mouth shamed her. But that didn’t stop her from wondering how it might feel to have those lips meet her own. A queer twinge jerked in her stomach—no … lower, and her face burned all the hotter.

His fingers—why had she thought them rough?—brushed along the length of her neck, from just behind her ear to where flesh met collar. Closing her eyes, she memorized their trail.

“Miri.” His voice caressed deeper than his touch.

When his breath mingled with hers, warm and heady, her eyes flew open. The passion she read on his face aroused in her a powerful desire—

One that instantly sobered her. She retreated a step, guilt washing over her as thoroughly as a basin of icy water. What possessed her? “Forgive me. I should not have—”

He shook his head. “It’s I who should be begging your forgiveness. Will spoke truth when he said you are a saint.” His smile returned. He pulled back his hand and motioned toward hers. “May I?”

Afraid of his touch, and equally terrified of what her own response might be, there was no good reason to comply. So why did she?

“Turn your hand over and open your palm.”

She shook her head. “No, really, I can’t juggle.”

“Open it.”

His hand was hardly an inch from her own. Still she wavered. “But—”

“Do I frighten you?”

The catch in his voice suggested that her answer held great power. Was he seeking her trust?

Should she give it?

“No, you do not,” she whispered. “Sometimes I get scared, but not with you. Never with you.”

His eyes widened at her admission. Surely he must think her a terrible strumpet.

But the genuine smile lighting his face said otherwise. “This is just a gift, Miri, nothing more, and a poor offering at that.”

Uncurling her fingers, she held her breath. She ought not trust this man, especially as his hand opened onto hers, hot and trembling … or was it her own that trembled? Her heart beat harder.

Perhaps she ought not trust herself.

He drew back, taking all his warmth and strength with him, until she realized something yet rested in her palm.

Lifting her hand, she looked closer. A rock—in the perfect shape of a heart. She shot her gaze to his. Everything such a gift implied shone in his eyes, naked and unashamed. Had any man ever truly looked at her so?

He turned and walked back toward the stables, whistling.

Chinnup. Chinnup. Chinnup.

“Yes, chin up!” She twirled around, again and again, giddy for reasons she’d later ponder. “Chin up, chin up, chin up!”

“Good heavens, Miss Brayden! Such a display.”

She stopped, suddenly queasy. Clenching her fingers tight around the heart stone for courage, she faced Bishop Fothergill.

He wasn’t smiling.

23

Miri eased shut the sanctuary door, pressing her back against the cool oak until her eyes adjusted to the indoor light.
Thank You, Lord, for greased hinges and heads still bowed in prayer.
She scooted down the aisle, aware that a few eyelids cracked open to see who dared enter so late. Surely peeking was as sinful as tardiness. The thought was salve to her bruised conscience. Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d missed the service entirely—as she had breakfast. Spending hours well into the evening at Joe’s bedside had finally taken a toll. La, who was she fooling? She wouldn’t have slept anyway for clutching the heart stone Ethan had given her yesterday.

Entering the box pew, she stood next to Roland’s rigid body and bowed her head. Slowly her heart rate leveled as Bishop Fothergill droned on. And on. Did God enjoy hearing the man’s voice as much as the bishop enjoyed using it? She clenched her hands together—tight enough to cramp—a nominal penance for such an evil notion. Why did it never fail that her most wicked thoughts crept out in the holiest of places?