Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2

by Ridley, Erica

  Susan’s stomach dropped. There went the last of her hopes for escape.

  Chapter 44

  “What the deuce do you think you’re doing?”

  Susan jerked upright as the masculine voice invaded her restless dreams. She squinted in confusion as light streamed through the face of her visitor. She shook the bits of dried leaves and tree bark from her hair and fumbled for her spectacles.

  Dead Mr. Bothwick hovered between her sleep-creased face and the morning sun. He made a poor parasol, but was overall a welcome sight.

  “I fell asleep.”

  He stared at her dubiously. “Against a tree?”

  “So it would seem.” She pulled herself to her feet and wondered if it were safe to step outside the path.

  “I’ve been looking for you all night. You took the strongbox, I assume. Did you hide it already? Why didn’t you come back?”

  She shook her head. No box. And she didn’t want to admit that in her attempt to find her way back to Moonseed Manor, she’d somehow ended up outside the still-living Mr. Bothwick’s stables completely by accident. Mr. Bothwick’s extremely busy, bustling, overcrowded stables. There had been no chance of approaching unnoticed. She’d stayed hidden in the surrounding woods and sat with her back to a tree to wait.

  She might’ve overdone the waiting.

  “Your brother has the jewelry box,” she explained. She shook out her skirts, averting her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Dead Mr. Bothwick’s reaction to that bit of news. “I tried to detain him, but he had a pistol.”

  “My brother pointed a weapon at a woman?” the ghost asked doubtfully.

  “To be fair,” she admitted, “I threatened him with a knife.”

  She’d even been prepared to use it. Until he’d flashed a pistol. That’s when she’d realized some things could hurt worse than bullets. Like discovering the man she loved would rather end her life than help her to fix it. Susan forced the memory to the back of her mind.

  When she lifted her head, Dead Mr. Bothwick was staring at her as if she’d grown an extra eye.

  “I meant to steal the jewelry box back, but when I finally arrived at the stables, servants were everywhere. Loading carriages. Why does a country man need multiple carriages?” She tried to clean the lenses of her spectacles but only succeeded in smearing them further. “I think he’s going to leave. For good.”

  “Not with my evidence, he isn’t. Did you see what happened to the box?”

  “No. But I did see the magistrate discussing smuggled goods with Miss Devonshire as if extorting payment for illegally obtained fabric was an everyday occurrence.” She started walking in what she hoped was the direction of Mr. Bothwick’s house, then paused to glance at the ghost. “Er... is it this way?”

  He nodded absently and flashed ahead of her.

  She quashed her joy at having actually chosen the correct trail and hurried after him. “Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Forrester was involved?”

  “Because I didn’t know,” Dead Mr. Bothwick answered grimly. “Until last night when I heard him talking to Ollie. That’s why I had to watch and listen. Forrester wanted to see what Ollie had dug up from the gravesite. Ollie claimed it was nothing, a box of fripperies Lady Emeline had hidden. But Forrester didn’t believe him. He suspects the end of his game is nigh. He’s frightened, and there’s nothing deadlier than a man backed into a corner.”

  Susan shuddered. She’d overheard more than enough about the magistrate’s penchant for convenient “accidents.”

  Dead Mr. Bothwick floated down a fork in the path. “They went to the dining room to fetch the strongbox, but it was gone.” Dead Mr. Bothwick bobbed in place. “I’ve been looking for you ever since.”

  “How did the magistrate get involved in piracy?”

  “How would I know?” The ghost darted forward amongst the trees. “I can’t ask many questions these days. But since Ollie’s been with the captain longer than he’s been with Lady Emeline, I’d have to assume the smuggling crew has been together since long before Forrester weaseled his way into the plot. He’s always been one to manipulate others for his own profit. The sort who scored good marks at university by any means other than academic effort. Some people mistook him as stupid. I never made that mistake.”

  Susan hurried to catch up. “You knew him before he became magistrate?”

  “I’ve known him since Eton. My brother had already completed his levels but Forrester and I were of an age.”

  “You went to Eton?”

  “Head boy every year, I might add.”

  Susan narrowed her eyes at him. “Where exactly did you say you were from before you moved to Bournemouth?”

  “I didn’t.” He floated ahead. “But if you’re curious, London. Although I suspect Evan has always preferred his cottage in Bath.”

  “He has a cottage in—did you just say London?”

  “His cottage is in Bath, the town house is in London. He always kept a room for my use whenever I was in Town because I spent most of my time on Father’s estate in Surrey.”

  Mr. Bothwick’s current lodgings were finally in sight, but Susan couldn’t take another step. She stumbled against the closest tree.

  Vertigo assailed her from each of the ghost’s carelessly thrown words. No wonder Dead Mr. Bothwick had seemed offended and disdainful when she’d presumed superiority for being a member of Society. He had moved in those same circles.

  And no wonder the still-living Mr. Bothwick had so many times evoked the image of a Society gentleman as easily at home in Almack’s or Jackson’s as racing along Hyde Park or playing whist at a dinner soiree. He was such a gentleman, had likely done all those things and more when not taking holiday elsewhere. A cottage in Bath. An estate in Surrey. And she’d had no idea.

  She had gone to him, made love to him, in large part because she’d believed that despite his many and varied flaws, she had fallen hard for the goodness he possessed deep inside. And now, to her utter humiliation, she discovered she’d as much as given herself to a ghost, for all the substance between them.

  “Enough tittle-tattle.” Dead Mr. Bothwick bobbed across the sandy soil, floating away from the footpath in the direction of his brother’s house. “Let’s fetch that strongbox.”

  Susan trudged along behind him. At least Mr. Bothwick had not patronized her with romantic lies. Had he spoken words of love, and had she foolishly permitted herself to believe such fancies... Susan doubted her broken heart would ever have healed. Particularly when she’d discovered he planned on leaving and hadn’t bothered with so much as a good-bye. Unless she counted the pistol he’d pointed at her chest.

  Dead Mr. Bothwick glanced back at her over his semitransparent shoulder, his ghostly face lined with impatience. This was a man who had died for his strong faith in right and wrong. She had been less than exemplary. This was her chance to prove her character and set things to rights.

  “Ready?” He motioned her forward. “If his carriages are full, we haven’t much time.”

  “You’re right. Let’s have done.” She touched her fingertips to the crucifix hidden beneath her bodice. Someone had to fight for those who could not.

  Shoulders squared, she marched away from the trees.

  Chapter 45

  Evan placed the ornate strongbox inside a secret, specially built enclosure behind his stables, engaged the locking mechanism, and covered the access point with dung-scented soil. Once his horses trampled atop the location a few times, the hay-strewn area would look no different from any other. The perfect hiding place. They could rip up every floorboard of his house, tear apart the very walls, and never find the jewelry box.

  He’d considered taking the damn thing with him, but determined such a measure an unnecessary risk. If he were stopped at any point, it would be far too easy to discover something of that size in a mere carriage.

  The real question, at this point, was: Where to now?

  Although there was no more physical evidence linking h
im to any crimes against the Crown—save whatever was buried beneath the area where one of his mares currently relieved herself—remaining in Bournemouth was no longer wise. Though generally close-lipped, too many of the town’s inhabitants traded in smuggled French goods. Were they to be questioned by anyone intelligent as to the origin of such items, Evan’s name might be mentioned. He preferred not to be present should that come to pass. There might be suspicion forever, but without proof, he could at least attempt a normal life. Somewhere.

  Perhaps Bath. The cottage there was far enough from the town center that he wouldn’t have to see or speak to anyone if he didn’t wish to.

  And he definitely would not be attending the stupid assembly.

  A wry quirk lifted the corner of Evan’s lips, then died. Now that he was no longer engaged in piratical pursuits, his weekend had become free of commitments. Had the situation unfolded differently, he could’ve escorted Miss Stanton to the festivities after all. Fetched her dry biscuits and warm punch to her heart’s content. Held her to him as they swayed and swirled with the music.

  Disgusted with his inability to stop fantasizing over the impossible, he strode into the stable and hung his shovel on the wall. He might as well face the truth. He was in love.

  He might reminisce about his escapades aboard the captain’s ship, but he wouldn’t feel as if he’d been robbed of an important part of his life.

  Miss Stanton, however, would be missed something fierce.

  He could be content enough, he supposed, without illegal adventures bringing drama and excitement to his life. But he would never be truly happy without Susan at his side.

  This realization should have had him trembling in his boots. And, to be honest, it did. For the first time, however, his fear was not due to the heretofore heretical thought of a man needing a woman to be happy. The erratic beating in his heart was due to the terrifying thought of not being able to have her.

  Evan quit the stables and headed toward his house. His problem, he realized clearly, was that he was hopelessly lovesick, and there was nothing to be done to cure it. He’d alienated her so thoroughly—at the point of a pistol, no less—that she would undoubtedly prefer to press her knife to his throat than grant him a moment’s audience.

  He pushed open his front door and came to an abrupt halt to find the object of his desires trapped against the far wall by two footmen.

  “Release her,” he said softly.

  They did.

  She yanked her hands up and lashed out at them with closed fists. They’d apparently anticipated this move, for they’d already hurried out of range. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Evan defiantly, her chin held high.

  Such bravado might’ve had greater impact, were she not garbed in a much-mistreated version of yesterday’s costume, every fiber of which was frayed or spackled with sand and dirt. Her hair was a tangled blonde mess of fallen curls and bits of leaf. What was hopefully just a bit of mud streaked across the dull lenses of her spectacles.

  Yet she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. Perhaps he’d been wrong not to believe in Fate.

  The look she cast him was withering at best.

  Ah, right. The strongbox. Well, she couldn’t have it. She was just going to have to trust him.

  He stepped forward and tried to take her hands.

  She pulled away.

  “I’m leaving,” he began, then paused when she let out what sounded suspiciously like a snort. He raised his brows in question.

  “Really?” she asked sarcastically, gesturing at what he belatedly realized was his completely vacant anteroom. All the rooms were empty.

  “I won’t be coming back,” he started again. He gazed at her earnestly, determined to make her understand. “And I want—”

  What did he want? Did he dare verbalize his desires?

  “Come with me,” he said in a rush. “I know I’m not as well-heeled or well-behaved as the upstanding Society gentlemen who pursue you back home, but their staid little hearts cannot possibly feel the passion for you that I do. I know I can’t offer the precise life you had in mind, but we would at least have each other. Perhaps someday, we could—”

  She laughed. Laughed. With patent incredulity etched across her face.

  The insidious sludge of defeat smothered his last strand of hope. He had expected her to refuse because she thought him beneath her, not because she didn’t believe his love was real.

  “I mean it,” he said, no longer caring if she heard the bleak desperation in his voice. “Let me fetch the priest from the tavern, and I’ll swear upon his Bible that I want you by my side. And more. Can’t you tell that I—”

  “Don’t say it,” she interrupted, placing a palm to his chest as if to stop him from speaking further. Just as his body warmed to the contact, she realized what she’d done and jerked her hand back to her side. “Even if I thought you capable of true emotion, what exactly are you offering? The life of a fugitive, forever consigned to backwater village after backwater village so you won’t have to bother with such things as morality and consequences and the law? I would resent you before the end of the first week. In fact, I’m already insulted you think me stupid enough to take such trope as truth. There is no ‘we,’ Mr. Bothwick. There never was. Now tell me what you’ve done with that box.”

  She didn’t care about him. Not even enough to let him unburden his soul. All she wanted was the evidence necessary to destroy him. Little did she know her dismissal of his feelings had already destroyed him in a way the gallows never could.

  Despite the cold seeping through his pores, Evan rallied what remained of his pride.

  “No.”

  She bristled. “Without that box—”

  “Why do you suppose I’m so determined no one else have it? Besides,” he threw out carelessly, “I destroyed it.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered heavenward. “I am aware that it’s indestructible.”

  “Nothing,” he said softly, “is indestructible.”

  Like the heart he hadn’t known he still possessed. The one he’d given up on when he’d taken to the sea in search of adventure. He’d had nothing to lose.

  Until now.

  And he’d already lost her. Which, as she’d pointed out so eloquently, was his own bloody fault. Never to be forgiven. And never to be reversed.

  “Balderdash.” She stared up at him in exasperation.

  Not because she saw the internal battle, the frustration, the despair of Evan the man who would prostrate himself before her if he thought it would make a difference. But because he stood in the way of her retrieving a jewelry box that could severely shorten his life. If there was love in the equation, it was only on his side.

  Her gaze unfocused somewhere over his left shoulder, then narrowed at nothing. Her left shoulder twitched. Someone who wasn’t watching might have thought it nothing, a twitch in the muscle. He knew it for what it was: a shrug. She was communicating with someone. And it wasn’t him.

  “Are you talking to my damn brother instead of listening to me?” he demanded.

  Her eyes refocused on his. “He’s the one doing the talking. He wants to know why I don’t shove my knife hilt-deep in your belly and have done with you already.”

  “Truly?” Evan frowned. That didn’t sound like Timothy.

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping against the wall. “No, he just said that arguing with you has never gotten anyone anywhere. I added the bit about the knife because it seemed as good a solution as any.”

  That much sounded like her. He remained convinced she’d make an excellent pirate. Much more so than Timothy.

  Timothy, who had either betrayed him from the start, or simply hadn’t thought to inform his brother after suffering a severe change of heart with regard to smuggling. Evan wasn’t certain which was worse. Nor was he sure how he felt about having an unexpected opportunity to find out.
/>
  “Can you... ask him something for me?”

  She raised a brow. “He’s invisible, not deaf. He can see and hear splendidly.”

  “Oh. All right.” He turned to face the direction she’d last looked, then realized Timothy may or may not still be there. He glanced at her for help.

  Compassion filled her eyes, and she reached out to touch him before remembering herself and letting her hand fall with the act uncompleted. “Don’t worry about trying to face him. He understands the impossibility. Just ask your question.”

  Evan nodded, feeling more awkward and uncomfortable by the second. He was about to converse with his dead brother. His invisible dead brother. Via the one woman with whom he’d wanted their failed romance to last... forever.

  “Timothy,” he said aloud, the back of his neck warming uncomfortably when he heard his voice crack. He cut his gaze to Susan’s to see if she noticed his discomfort. This time, she did brush the tips of her fingers against the back of his hand. With that simple touch came strength. “Why—” He cleared his throat. “Why did you take Red instead of me?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t had any questions prepared for a moment such as this, but he hoped it was as good a start as any. He opened his mouth to clarify what he meant, but Susan was already responding.

  “He says, ‘Because Red doesn’t ask questions.’”

  That did sound like Timothy.

  “Of course I ask questions,” Evan said, irritated at how quickly his brother could put him on the defensive, even after death. “I still have plenty more.” Susan’s steady fingers twined with his. Evan took a calming breath and started anew. “You went on a secret mission without breathing a single word. Why didn’t you confide in me?”

  She glanced somewhere above his head. “He says, ‘Because I had no way of knowing which side you’d take. I don’t even know where you stand now.’”