A Heart Deceived (24 page)

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but it didn’t block out the words he knew the reverend would nail him with right now. Either he must believe his part in Will’s death had been paid for on the cross, or his faith was a sham.

“God I trust,” he said at last. “It’s me I’m not so sure about.”

Blowing out a long breath, he gazed back at her. She stood entirely too close, so beautiful it tore his heart and mended his gaping loneliness in one swift stroke. Desire spread through his veins—and sickened him. How could he long to hold her when she didn’t even know the kind of monster he was? “Listen to me, Miri, I failed your brother. I failed him, do you hear? There is not one redeeming quality in me.”

“Well, then, we are kindred spirits. I’ve been told the same of myself time and again.” Pools glistened in her eyes a moment before spilling. “We all fail those we love.”

He lifted his hand and wiped away her tears with the pad of his thumb. Her skin was soft, warm—and it took every scrap of self-control to withdraw rather than pull her closer. “Indeed. I have no doubt I would fail you.”

She gasped, small but audible. “What are you saying?”

Crossroads were notoriously dangerous. Primal instinct urged him to run, leave as he’d warned her to, for if he spoke, there’d be no going back.

He searched her eyes, willing her to read the sincerity in his own. “I love you, Miri Brayden. I have since the day you slammed the kitchen door in my face.”

There. He’d said it. And he felt nearly as exposed as the hour he’d first knelt before God. He raked back his hair and retreated deeper into the shadows. “Sorry. I don’t suppose this conversation was what you had in mind—”

“Unexpected, yes.” Squaring her shoulders, she advanced. “But not unwelcome.”

He froze. Either she didn’t have a clue as to what her words could mean, or this was a leftover hallucination. The nearer she drew, the harder his heart pumped, creating the same edgy feeling as before a brawl—but this was unlike any fight he’d ever been in. “I am nothing, Miri. You could have so much more. You should have so much—”

“I
want
nothing more.”

The words, the whisper, the way her sweet breath landed on his face intoxicated as opium never had. His senses heightened, magnifying everything—her scent, her shape, the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.

“I’ll say it one last time.” His husky voice grated on his ears. “Go.”

“Where? To a brother who despises me? Who frightens me more than I can say?” She stepped forward, the fabric of her skirt brushing against his legs. “No. There is nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”

Time stopped as she stood there, so trusting and lovely that it hurt somewhere deep in his chest. He might never breathe again. Her gaze held his, steady, relentless, piercingly naked, until he almost cried out from the honest emotion shining there. Pulling her close, he hesitated, gauging her response. At the smallest hint of resistance, he’d open his arms and let her go.

She leaned into him, and all his willpower gave way. He groaned out the last of his restraint as her breath moved across his parted lips.

He lowered his mouth to hers. Heat shot through him, fierce as a summer sun, and roused the beast within. He cradled her head with both hands and deepened the kiss.

Miri’s fingers ran the length of his back, upward. The trail burned into his skin through the fabric of his shirt. She shivered against him, small but urgent, fanning to life a fiery need low in his belly.

His lips strayed, running along her jaw, nuzzling her neck. She arched against him, each breath matching his, and he felt the exact moment their hearts beat as one. He could consume her here—now.

“Ethan …”

Little more than a murmur, his name on her lips slapped his conscience. He sucked in a breath and pulled back, releasing her as he might an armful of hot coals.

A deep flush spread over her cheeks, and her head dipped. “I am sorry. You must think me a harlot.”

Crooking a finger, he lifted her chin, horrified to see a fat teardrop marring her cheek. “Please don’t cry, Miri. I cannot bear it. You are nothing short of angelic. I am the one out of control.”

She sniffed, several times, each one building on the last. “But … I should not have—”

“No.” He cut her off. “I should not have. Not yet. We will do this the right way or not at all.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand.”

He leaned in until their lips were almost touching, then rested his forehead against hers. “I have nothing to offer you but this—every moment of every day, from now till forever. Will you … would you have me?”

Her sharp intake gave him so much pause, he almost didn’t hear the breathless words that followed.

“Yes, oh … yes!” She threw her arms around his waist, nestling her head against his chest. A complete fit. A perfect fit.

But as much as her response thrilled him to the core, all it showed was her regard for the Ethan Goodwin she thought him to be—not the opium-eating murderer that he really was.

If he didn’t tell her now, he never would. He closed his eyes, summoning strength.
God, help me.
“Miri, there’s something you should know—”

The sharp crack of a riding whip sliced through the air.

Miri twisted. Her cry pierced him deeper than a dagger.

Roland’s black silhouette stood before them like a demon fresh from hell. “Whore!”

Fire sliced across Miri’s back, but that was nothing compared to the rage igniting in her soul. The taste of safety in Ethan’s arms, the hope, the passion—all of it shattered into fragments. If Roland said another word, she’d never be able to gather the bits and patch them together. “How dare—”

Roland dug his fingers into her upper arm and dragged her down the stable’s aisle, away from Ethan. Away from promise, from all that was good and right.

After two of her brother’s long-legged strides, she stumbled sideways and crashed into the wall, dazed. A shadow whizzed past. Or were there more? She pressed both hands to the sides of her head and thanked God that He pumped air into her lungs, for surely she could not.

Angry growls, primal, savage, were punctuated by fists meeting flesh, crunching against bone and rending cartilage. She had heard that noise before, weeks and weeks ago, maybe months. Hard to tell, when all of time had been balled up and thrown away somewhere in the recesses of the dark stable.

A grunt so deep, the rushing of air from the bellows of a man’s chest—and suddenly she knew exactly what had happened to Vicar Eldon.

“No!” She pushed off from the wood behind her and staggered into the lantern-lit work area.

Roland and Ethan faced off. Both crouched, bloodied and sweating—carnivores with a taste for fresh meat.

“Drunken son of a …” Ethan looked particularly wild-eyed as he circled her brother. “If you ever touch her again, I swear I’ll—”

“Stop it!” Her voice sounded small, helpless against the murder that hung heavy on the air. She ran into the middle of them and flung out her arms.

“Step aside, Miri … this is not … your fight.” Thick breaths broke Ethan’s words. He wiped his brow but did not lose his warrior stance.

“You don’t understand.” And she didn’t have the time to explain. She jerked her head to her brother. “Roland, please. Do not do this.”

Roland observed her as one might gaze upon a face that is underwater, horrified as understanding slowly seeps in that this is no stranger that has drowned, but a loved one. Rising carefully, he reached out. “Come.”

She stood firm.

“Come to me.” Despair and gut-wrenching loss clouded Roland’s eyes like a winter landscape. “Miri.”

She took a step, pulled by the endearment yet repulsed by the years of his cruelty.

“Miri, don’t,” Ethan warned from behind.

Of course he was right. She shouldn’t. So why did her feet move?

“No.” Ethan darted between them, blocking her from reaching her brother.

Roland moaned, a wailing sound, like a great animal felled by a surprise blow.

She sidestepped Ethan, but he held out his arm. “I will see to him. You have my word—”

“But—”

“As long as I know you are safe, I will not harm him further.”

Looking from Ethan, to Roland, then back again, she nodded, for truly what more could she do? “Be … be gentle. He’s all I have left.”

“Not true, love. You have me now.” Blood trickled from his nose, battered by Roland’s fist, and he swiped it away. “But for your sake, I will take care.”

She bit her lip. A single sob escaped Roland, and he dropped to his knees. After all the hurtful, hateful, beastly things he’d said to her throughout the years, why did her heart convulse? An urge to run back, gather him in her arms, sing his special lullaby, and rock him to sleep, gripped her so powerfully she hesitated.

“Do you trust me?” A pleading undercurrent flowed in Ethan’s voice.

Her mouth twisted into a wry half smile, and she turned toward the door—just as Bishop Fothergill entered, flanked by a bevy of men.

The bishop planted his feet wide and placed his hands upon his hips. “What is this? A schoolyard brawl?”

“I can explain, sir,” Ethan said.

The confidence in his voice astonished her. How in the world could he explain this mess?

Gullaby shoved past the bishop, followed by the magistrate, Mr. Buckle.

“Save it for the inquisition, Mr. Good …” said the squire. “Or should I say Goodwin? You, sir, have some explaining to do.”

Gullaby paused and pinned Roland with a look that sucked the marrow from Miri’s bones.

“You too, Brayden. I can’t wait to hear what you’ll have to say.” Gullaby lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, and four of the largest men came forward, as did the magistrate.

Mr. Buckle’s voice boomed like cannon shot. “Arrest them.”

26

Two men advanced on Ethan, one carrying a length of rope in a hand the size of a beef brisket. Ethan edged backward. Did they seriously think he’d let them truss him up like a Christmas goose with no explanation?

From the corner of his eye, he saw two others drawing near Roland. Shifting a glance the other way, he caught a glint off the bottle of liniment he’d been using on Champ. With a lunge, he grabbed the glass and cracked it against the stool’s edge, then held it out as a jagged weapon. “What’s this about?”

“Murder,” said Mr. Buckle. “Now drop the bottle.”

“No!” Miri cried.

The panic in her voice beaded a cold sweat on Ethan’s brow. He should’ve told her long ago. Why had he been such a coward? What a laugh that he’d dared to think he could ever live as an honorable man. Regret closed in on him like the squire’s henchmen, as shockingly real and inescapable as his past sins.

He splayed his fingers, allowing the bottle to fall, then nodded toward Roland. “Let him go. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“To do with what? Ethan?” The question in Miri’s voice drained all the fight out of him. She’d know now. Know and never trust him again.

He grunted as his arms were wrenched behind his back. Slivers of hemp bit into his wrists. Better to focus on that pain and study the scuffed toes of his boots than answer her. If he looked, the betrayal in her eyes would kill him.

“Bishop Fothergill, please do something!” Miri’s tone was a nightmare he’d relive for weeks to come.

“There is naught to be done, Miss Brayden, other than a trial. I’ve had my suspicions all along, but today they have been borne out. The vicar’s dead body has been found. Deeds done in the dark can never remain unexposed, and—”

“Here! Here!” Gullaby interrupted what would have turned into rhetoric of epic proportion. “Now move ’em out. Step aside, miss.”

Ethan snuck a glance to where Miri stood, framed in the middle of the open doorway—a pixie of an avenging angel.

“There must be some mistake. Ethan”—her gaze met his and held—“tell them!”

“Saucy wench, that one, eh?” The man behind him lowered his voice to a lewd tone. “I wager she makes for a fine tussle in the hay, don’t she?”

The slander burned like a wildfire through Ethan’s veins. He jerked back his head and cracked his skull into the man’s nose. The feeling of cartilage giving way satisfied in a twisted fashion.

The blow that came wasn’t a surprise, but the kick that followed caught him off guard. Unable to catch himself, he crashed to his knees, then toppled onto the stable floor, face first. He gasped for breath, but his lungs forgot how to work. A boot ground into his back, compounding the pain.

Miri’s cry hurt worse. “Let me go!”

“Release her at once.” Roland’s voice carried an eerie calm.

Ethan rolled, losing the foot on his back and winning a boot stab to his ribs. Too bad curling into a fetal position wasn’t an option at the moment. He forced himself up to one knee and was as quickly knocked back down with a cuff to his head.

“Enough, Mr. Handy!”

The magistrate’s command sounded a bit warbly, or maybe that was simply the ringing in Ethan’s ears. He rose on shaky legs. His vision blurred, and it appeared he was surrounded by twice the amount of men—though once the stable stopped spinning, he saw only one of each person instead of two.