Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  What ran through her mind as she stood there, statuesque and so beautiful it pained him, he could only guess. An eternity later, she turned and hoisted herself up on the bench. “All right. A few moments won’t hurt, I suppose.”

  He waited for her to speak further, but only the outside calls of whippoorwills and chickadees spoke their concerns. Apparently it was up to him to begin. “God knows I’m the least of men to counsel you, but I’ve a willing ear. What troubles you?”

  “Much.” Her chest rose and fell with a great sigh. “Family matters, mostly. Roland and …”

  Her chin sank, and she stared into her lap, silent. She toyed with the long tie of her apron, winding it around one finger, then unwrapping it again.

  Ethan longed to turn her face toward his, to read what emotions sparked in her amber eyes. Surely it would be a deep, deep well. He knew better than anyone how family matters could cut into the underbelly of a soul, leaving behind a long, slow bleed. “You have not told your brother about Will, then?”

  “No.” The quiver in her voice hinted at much. “I want to, but … I’m not sure how.”

  “How about the truth?” Ethan flinched. Immediately he pressed his lips into a tight line. He was a fine one to speak of truth when he kept his own secrets so cleverly hidden.

  She shook her head and pushed from the bench to stand. “Would that it were so easy. There are many things I should like to say to my brother, but he’s quite … If only I could …”

  Whirling about, she paced, following the same route he’d worn in the dirt. She hugged herself, tight, and slowly rubbed her arms. Either she took a chill or—

  Sudden understanding washed over him. “You fear him. Why?”

  She stopped and slowly pivoted, her gaze completely earnest. “Have you any idea what it is like to be at the mercy of one who sees you only as an impediment? A pawn to be discarded as early in the game as possible, giving no concern whatsoever to your own wants or desires?”

  Ethan’s heart raced. She could have no idea how intimately he knew that feeling. As second son, he was rarely noticed in the shadow of his older brother. Truth be told, the family butler had paid him more concern than his own father had.

  “As a matter of fact”—he lowered his feet to the floor and blocked her path—“I know exactly how you feel.”

  “Really?” She lifted her face and studied his. “Sometimes I wonder … are you for real, Mr. Goodwin?”

  Their eyes met and held, forming a bond that robbed him of breath. He took a step toward her, then planted his feet. Any closer would be a mistake he’d regret for a long time—a lifetime, no doubt. “How real do you wish me to be?”

  Ethan’s husky tone did strange things to her. Or maybe it was the simple fact that he’d cared enough to listen. Truly listen. A tremble ran through her, though neither chill nor draft could be blamed—especially not when she felt so warm. How could she even answer him when her tongue stuck in her mouth?

  She spun back to the table, confused. She must be overwrought. That was it. Disgust over the sham of a betrothal to Witherskim. Insufficient sleep. Self-loathing for her lack of courage to run away in the night as she’d intended. The gnawing sorrow over Will. All these things, when added together, made for frivolous imaginings. Ethan Goodwin could be no more interested in her than she should be in him.

  That settled, she pulled off the covering cloth from a bowl of porridge and folded it beside the tray. “Here is your breakfast, along with some soap. I thought maybe you—”

  “Are you saying I need to bathe, Miss Brayden?”

  She bit her lip, horrified that she’d implied such. “I did not mean—”

  “Because I couldn’t agree with you more. I can hardly stand the smell of me.”

  Was he mocking her? She whirled—and his warm smile completely disarmed her. What a strange fellow. “You are very forthright, sir.”

  “Blunt, more like it. Forthright sounds a little too holy for me.”

  His humility, genuine and unstilted, surprised her. “Most men would prefer to be thought of as such, particularly by a woman.”

  His grin deepened. “I am a far cry from ‘most’ men.”

  “That you are, sir.” The rogue tilt of his jaw and gleam in his eye—so much like her younger brother—filled part of the emptiness inside her. She couldn’t help but return a smile of her own. “And I suspect that is exactly why Will took to you.”

  A brief yet very real wave of pain washed over his face before he answered. “I shall take that as a compliment, Miss Brayden. Now, allow me to return the favor.”

  He stepped toward her and didn’t stop until he stood a breath away. “You are unlike any woman I’ve ever met. Generous, compassionate … beautiful.”

  Heat blazed across her cheeks, and she bowed her head. Those words, wrapped in such an intimate tone, could not possibly be for her. Such a package of endearments surely belonged to another woman, never for—

  A crooked finger beneath her chin drew her face back to his. He stared at her with such intensity, she swallowed.

  Then broke free and ran to the door.

  “Miri, wait.”

  A tremor ran through her at the sound of his voice, and she paused, hand on door. “I …”

  She what? What was happening to her? She couldn’t put two thoughts together if it were royally decreed. She pushed open the worn bit of boards and called over her shoulder. “I must leave. I have a pressing engagement. Good day.”

  Before he could object, she burst outside, pressing her palms to her cheeks. Hard to tell which made her face burn more—her outright lie or the strange feelings Ethan stirred.

  Four paces from the shed, she froze. Her stomach twisted, and all heat fled as she lowered her hands.

  “Tell me, Miss Brayden …” Bishop Fothergill flicked his hand toward the shed. “Are you often given to bidding such fond farewells to garden tools?”

  “Blazing bandycock!” Nigel’s curses multiplied like maggots on a dead alley cat. Pain burned a trail from his toe up his shin. He hopped about on one foot, babying the ingrown nail that he’d angered against the table leg. Stumbling backward, he sank onto his mattress and rubbed his foot.

  After a long swig from a bottle next to his bed, the throbbing eased to a bearable drumbeat.

  “Slow down, Thorne,” he whispered to himself as he stood. “Yer luck’s about to change.”

  Just to make sure, he hobbled over to a chipped ceramic elephant and patted it three times. He’d won it years ago—that and a wad of bills—off a drunken sailor. He liked to think it a lucky charm, though it’d done the sailor no good.

  He tugged at his frockcoat, straightening away the wrinkles. As soon as he released the fabric, the creases returned. A bit shabby for Chancery. Still, he owned nothing finer, even to be buried in.

  He locked the door behind him and descended the first set of stairs. At the second, he leaned heavy to the right, brushing up against the wall. The risers didn’t creak nearly so loud on this side, a stealthy path he’d learned to take when wanting to avoid old Mrs. Spankum. The landlady was a shark, and no doubt circling the waters for his overdue rent.

  For good measure, he held his breath. Squalling babies behind Fanny Bridges’s door masked any further noise from his footsteps. At the last set, he blew out a big sigh and trotted down the rest. Good thing he’d patted the elephant’s—

  “Stop right there, Mr. Thorne.” Mrs. Spankum’s voice was as pleasant as a hack-noted harpsichord.

  Nigel gritted his teeth. The old girl blocked the door. There’d be no escaping.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Spankum,” he said. “My, you look so lovely today.”

  She frowned, and her chin protruded. White whiskers stood out in defiance. Nigel almost flipped her one of the few coins in his pocket to either find a good barber or buy her own straightedge.

  “It’ll be good when you pay up, Thorne.” She held out a hand gnarled by years of work. “Where’s last month’s ren
t?”

  “I—”

  “And don’t make up another sob story.”

  “Well, I—”

  Her fingers closed into a fist. “You’re a leech, Mr. Thorne. A freeloader. A no-good bedbug that sucks the lifeblood from big-hearted people like me. Furthermore—”

  Thorne leaned against the wall and waited. Once her insults began, nothing more could be done. The smartest move when caught in a cloudburst was to hunker down and ride out the storm.

  She advanced, fist raised. This was new. Did she seriously think he’d let her pop him a good one? “Now, now, Mrs. Spankum, you can’t—”

  “Oh, yes, I can, Thorne.” She veered left and pounded on a door. “Sonny!”

  Behind it, monster footsteps vibrated the floorboards, way out into the hallway.

  The door swung open, the resulting whoosh of air so severe it nearly sucked him in. Buck was a flea in comparison to the horker who filled the doorframe.

  “Mr. Thorne, meet my son. He’s come home to help his old mum, ain’t ye, Sonny?”

  Sonny’s thick lips smiled at his mother, then flattened at him.

  Nigel loosened his collar and slunk for the safety of Mrs. Spankum’s side. He patted her wiry grey hair—what was left of it, anyway. Three pats.

  “Dear Mrs. Spankum,” he said. “Happy to meet your, uh … little boy. I shall have that rent to you in no time at all. No time, whatsoever, as a matter of fact.”

  “See that you do, Mr. Thorne, or Sonny here”—she reared back and hitched her thumb toward the man—“will help you move out.”

  Her gesture opened up just enough space for him to scoot out the front door. Once outside, he drew in a gulp of fresh air and released a shudder. He’d been right about his luck changing.

  But not about the direction.

  15

  Ethan paused just past the break where rectory grounds ambled into scrub brush. He lifted one hand and shielded his eyes, gauging the time. This morning, when he’d crawled out of the stream from his bath, the sun lay low on the opposite horizon. Now it hung well past its zenith. Had he really slept that long?

  A leftover yawn stretched his jaw before he tousled his hair, shaking out the remaining bits of leaves he’d lain on. His stomach grumbled, and though he’d likely missed a visit from Miri, perhaps she’d left a plate of food.

  But with the thunder of approaching hoofbeats, his hunger pangs faded. He looked up in time to see a black mane and tail streaming as a monstrous bay barreled around the corner of the sanctuary, straight at him.

  He jumped aside moments before the riderless horse raced past. Clods of earth flew in the animal’s wake, one nicking him in the shin. At such an insane pace, the beast would run himself to death. A shame, for the raw power in his muscular hindquarters and his leggy gait smacked of thoroughbred ancestry.

  Ethan broke into a run and trailed him. If he could keep the horse within sight, mayhap the animal would eventually tire, and he could snag a rein.

  Right before forest swallowed field, the horse slowed enough to circle back and swing ’round again. After a few revolutions, the beast stopped. The animal looked to be sixteen or so hands tall and quite fearsome with his nostrils flaring. After a final snort, he dipped his long neck to nip at a patch of newborn shoots.

  “Hey now. Easy fella.” Ethan held out his hands as he approached. The horse jerked up his head, twitching his ears but not flattening them. Mayhap this wasn’t such a wild monster after all.

  Keeping his movements fluid, Ethan edged closer. He reached to stroke the animal’s neck, hot and slick from the jaunt. “There, now. You’re a fine beauty.”

  The horse shied away, and Ethan continued his calm murmurings until he could grab the dangling rein. “Let’s find your master then, eh?”

  He grasped the cheek piece of the headstall and led him off. The horse danced and snorted, dampening his shirt with a fine spray. Once past the church, Ethan tugged a little harder and increased his pace.

  On the road, not far ahead, a man-sized lump lay like an overturned beetle. Ethan frowned. It would be folly indeed to turn his back on this horse. But neither could he ignore the fellow lying in the dirt. What to do?

  He closed the distance and ended up trading headstall for rein in one hand, then extended the other, bracing himself to bear the man up. “You all right?”

  After an excessive amount of grunting and gasping, the man stood, gripping Ethan’s arm until his own legs held him. “Many … many thanks … good … man.”

  It was a wonder he spoke at all with such wheezing breaths. Ethan retreated to the animal’s side and patted the beast’s neck, allowing the fellow to regain his dignity and his hat. The horse leaned into him, zealous as a woman driven by passion, and he smirked at the sudden affection. “It’s a fine mount, you are.”

  “Well …” It was more of a wheeze than a word. The man paused to catch his breath. “I see you’ve a grand touch with horseflesh.”

  “Treat them all like ladies, and you’ll ne’er go wrong.” He flashed the man a smile.

  “Hah! Truth indeed.” The man brushed dust and dirt from his breeches, then offered his hand. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Ethan complied, surprised at the softness of the fellow’s grip. No wonder he’d lost his mount. “Think naught of it.”

  “No, no, I should have been in a sorry mess had you not come along. I am Bishop Fothergill, and you are?”

  “Ethan Good—” Should he take the chance of giving his full name?

  “Happy to meet you, Mr. Good. You live hereabouts?”

  Name dilemma solved, this new question would require a careful answer. He glanced across the field to the shed and back. “I am staying in the area.”

  “Oh? A traveler of sorts, then, eh? Lucky for you, your accent speaks well enough of your breeding, though your taste in clothing is …” The bishop stroked his chin, leastwise the fleshy bit that might have been a chin. His eyes skimmed from Ethan’s too-short sleeves to equally shortened breeches. “Unconventional.”

  Ethan shrugged as he glanced at his attire. Though ill-fitting, the fabric was in better condition than his own set of clothes. “These are not my garments.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Pausing, the bishop cocked his head. “You offer no explanation?”

  “No. None.” Ethan stared him down, a trait he’d perfected as a youth when confronted by his father.

  The bishop coughed as if candor was a hair ball to be expelled. “My word, Mr. Good, you are a singular fellow.”

  Ethan laughed. “I suppose I’ve been called worse.”

  The bishop scratched his shorn head before finally reapplying his hat. “Might I ask if you have a permanent situation? Any commitments?”

  Ethan shot him a wary glance. The man asked entirely too many questions. “Not currently.” He handed off the leather rein, deflecting the bishop with a question of his own. “Think you can manage?”

  “Actually … no. This rectory is in sore need of management, and so …” Fothergill eyed him. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Good. If you are as useful with your hands as you are with Champion here—”

  The horse whickered at the mention of his name, and Fothergill mimicked the way Ethan had patted him. “I would that you consider filling in for the rectory’s hired man, who is down with the rheum. I shall see to your room and board plus a stipend. What say you?”

  Ethan’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. Exchange the garden shed for living beneath the same roof as Miri? He glanced at the cloudless sky and gave silent thanks for such an unexpected boon. God was more gracious than he deserved.

  “I say yes.”

  Miri awoke with a start, remnants of a horrible dream suffocating her. Witherskim. Wedding night. Pale flesh with blue veins. Skinny and cold and touching her in places that ought not be touched—at least by him. A shudder shook her. Breathing heavily, she focused on the pillowcase, which was wrinkled from thrashing about. She must have doze
d off a good while ago, judging from the shadows that darkened her chamber. Rubbing her eyes, she calmed her breathing.

  But the gasping sound did not stop.

  She bolted upright.

  Roland stood at the end of her bed, panting. No waistcoat. Shirt ripped. A dark stain spreading from the center of his chest. He held out his hands, fingers glistening in the dusky light—

  Blood.

  Miri recoiled. Fear, the locked-in-a-dirt-cellar kind, closed in on her, and she sucked in a breath. She reached behind her, feeling for the candlestick on the bedstand, and wrapped her fingers around the cold pewter. Who knew what madness whispered in her brother’s ear?

  He sank, and even with the cushioning of a rug, his knees cracked hard against the floor. “Miri.”

  Her grip loosened, undone by the use of her pet name. She’d not heard that tone since before the dark days. “Roland?”

  He looked at her like a wounded animal. “Help … me.”

  All sense of danger fled as her heart broke for the boy-man in front of her. She rushed to him, a flicker of hope gaining intensity that perhaps for once her prayers had been answered. “What happened?”

  He opened his mouth, cavernous as if a scream from the pit of hell might emerge, but no sound surfaced.

  Grasping his arm, she urged him up. Thankfully he submitted, though his stiff movement suggested rote compliance. She led him to the vanity and poured fresh water from a pitcher into the basin, then thrust in a cloth and wrung it out.

  When she spread apart what was left of his shirt, her jaw dropped. Long scratches crisscrossed, layer upon layer, converging in the middle where not much flesh remained—only blood and muscle, raggedy, pooling, like a carcass picked apart by ravens.

  Dizzying horror, unlike any she’d experienced, mixed with pity. Despite herself, she felt tears forming in her eyes. “Oh, Roland,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

  He whimpered when she set the cloth to his skin, and she recanted of ever wishing him harm. The lump in her throat choked out the comforting trifles she wanted to speak. It was impossible to reconcile the pitiful man in front of her with the phantom recollections that yet haunted her memory. Was this the same man who’d shown off his vestures with such pride to their mother? Or, as a young boy, sat up late with their grandfather, passionately discussing verses?