Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  She gained the first step, so preoccupied that she probably would have been halfway to her chamber before noticing she’d left him behind.

  “Miri?”

  Her mouth pursed into a small O as she faced him. “My apologies. I fear I am not the best of company today. And … well, you’ve given me much to consider.”

  He grinned, happy to, for once, be on the thought-giving end instead of the receiving. “I don’t claim to be a scholar, but this much is true. God loves your scoundrel of a brother infinitely more than you do. And you, Miri, are more precious to Him than life itself—”

  Just as you are becoming to me. He swallowed back the words, but that did not stop the slow burn working its way up from his belly.

  “Would that I had a faith like yours.” She leaned toward him as if by nearness alone she could grasp belief from his pocket.

  “Ask.”

  “But—”

  He laid a finger on her lips. “Just ask. It’s that simple—and that hard. Sometimes faith is a moment-by-moment thing.”

  The feel of her soft mouth beneath his fingertips scorched hot as a coal, and he jerked his hand away.

  She frowned. “Is that a promise or a warning?”

  “Yes.” He turned and crunched down the walkway alone. Whether she knew it or not, she could lob her own powerful questions.

  24

  “Blast it!”

  Nigel stubbed his toe for the third time on a jutting bit of moss-camouflaged limestone. His worn boot provided precious little protection where the sharp edge had hit painfully close to his ingrown toenail. One more run-in with a rock, and he’d rethink this stealthy approach into Deverell Downs.

  Hopping on one foot, he lifted the other to examine the thin leather. His boot was scuffed and dirty, but the flash of his red sock didn’t peek through any gashes.

  He shook off the pain, then reoriented himself, aligning his route to keep the sun on his right shoulder—at least what could be seen of the sun through the forest canopy. He picked up his pace, taking care to also lift up his feet a little higher. The way the rocks increased and the woods thinned, he ought to make the village a hair past noontide. Smacking his lips, he could almost taste the slice of kidney pie that would soon be his. He might even indulge in a side of hasty pudding or some—

  He sniffed. Strong cheese. A mature cheddar? No, more like Blue Stilton. With the wind out of the southwest, he lifted his nose that direction and snuffled like Duffy. Make that rotted Blue Stilton, quite sickening—and unfortunately familiar.

  “Double blast.” He worked up a mouthful of spit and nailed the ground, debating how much he really wanted to know. Not wanted, perhaps, but needed. Who knew when a corpse card could be played to his advantage?

  Heading toward the stench, he scanned just above the forest floor, looking for a swarm of flies. Twenty paces off, he narrowed his eyes, then stopped and picked up a stick. It was surprising that some scavenger hadn’t spied the free bit of firewood—

  Or the body defiling a patch of spring growth.

  Nigel squatted, an arm-and-stick’s length away from a man’s carcass. In a stage of putrefaction, not much of the fellow’s waxy skin remained intact, and his human shape was deflated—almost like the poor soul was trying to sink into the ground for want of a decent burial.

  Breathing through his mouth, Nigel poked about. Not many maggots remained, replaced by shiny-backed beetles. The blighter must have been here for a month, more or less. A large notch in the skull screamed either foul play or a topple from a horse.

  After a few more prods, he uncovered a crucifix around the man’s neck, and then he stood and cast the stick aside. “Holy or not, we all end up the same, eh mate?”

  His stomach growled as he resumed his trek to Deverell Downs. He’d have plenty to chew over with the squire. Why, he might just ask the man to dine with him—pie and pudding, that is. He’d definitely skip the cheese.

  Passing by the kitchen door, Miri heard a sharp intake of breath, followed quickly by a low moan. She peeked in as a tray rattled against the counter. The cook hunched over it, kneading the small of her back with one hand. “Mrs. Makin?”

  Caught in the act, the woman spun. Her face, usually flushed from range heat and manhandling dough, whitened with a wince.

  Miri crossed to her side. “What is it?”

  The cook straightened, or tried to, her trunk bent like a crooked branch. “All those hours at Ol’ Joe’s bedside, I’m afraid. Oh, not that I regret a minute of it, mind you. Happy I am that he’s on the mend. A little liniment for me, and we’ll all be right as rain. Well, exceptin’ the bishop’s horse, that is.”

  “Not any better?”

  “No. It was a bad sprain, worse now that fever’s set in. The way that man treats his animal …” A fierce frown creased her face. “Mr. Good’s spent most o’ the day out there. Not a bite to eat, either. I was just bringing him this—”

  “Let me.” Miri reached for the cloth-covered tray.

  “’Tis not your place—”

  “Truly, I don’t mind. Now off with you. Go put your feet up and care for your back.”

  Mrs. Makin clucked her tongue. “You’re a dear, that’s what.”

  Miri smiled, masking her guilt. This noble gesture was more for herself than the cook. She’d wanted to speak to Ethan since their conversation on Sunday morning, but during the past few days there’d been no discreet moment to harvest.

  Stepping out the back door, she paused and inhaled the sweet scent of blossoming daphnes. Their pale pink flowers stood out as stark little lights in the gathering dusk, cheery and hopeful. But as she walked farther down the path, nothing so merry showed on the rose bush. She sighed, yet pressed on.

  Light spilled out the stable door, and she followed the glow inside. “Ethan?”

  The smell of horseflesh, leather, and fresh straw greeted her, but nothing more.

  “Hello?” she said, louder this time.

  Ethan emerged from the shadowy end of the line of stalls. He stood, blinking, as one who couldn’t quite fathom her figure in the meager light.

  But oh, how aware she was of his form. Shirt loosened at the collar, his chest peeked out, solid and inviting. If he held her, her cheek could rest against him, right there, warm and sheltered and protected from—what was she thinking?

  She jerked her gaze back to his face, angry at herself and even more at him. “Why do you not have a lantern at the other end of the stable?”

  He lifted a finger to his lips.

  Miri squinted into the dark behind him. “What’s going on?”

  Half a smile lifted his mouth, and he shook his head as he drew closer. “Nothing so clandestine as what might be running through your head at the moment. I have simply found that Champ rests easier in a dark and quiet stall.”

  “You’re acting like a nursemaid, you know.”

  His smile deepened. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Yes, I suppose you have.”

  “Did you come out here to ridicule me, Miss Brayden?” He folded his arms. With his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the muscles of his forearms swelled, and she traced those lean lines with her eyes, over and over and—

  “Are you all right?”

  She swallowed and pulled her gaze back to his. “Of course. I … uh … I have brought you something to eat.”

  “Just like old times then, eh? Allow me.” He stepped past her and shoved aside currycombs and hoof picks from the workbench.

  She set the tray on the cleared bit of space, then hesitated. Palms moist and tingly, she ran her hands along her skirt. This was ridiculous. Why feel so jittery? All she wanted to do was talk to the man. Inhaling for courage, she turned.

  But Ethan hadn’t moved, and she practically bumped flat against him. She edged backward, until the workbench bit the small of her back.

  “You are more skittish than Champ this evening.” He raised one brow in his trademark fashion.

  And breathi
ng suddenly required a lot of effort. She looked past him, for if she focused on his inquisitive gaze, her words would lie in an unspoken heap. “I’ve … uh … well, I’ve been meaning to thank you. For our discussion, on Sunday morning, that is. I’ve been thinking, that is to say, I have thought, seriously, about all you said. You were right, you know. Very right. Almost too right, actually …”

  Gads! She sounded like an empty-headed ninny who couldn’t put together two pence’s worth of words if paid up front. She inched to the left. If she made a run for it now, she might be able to save face, or at least cool off her burning cheeks in the night air outside.

  Ethan stepped sideways, blocking her escape. “Don’t go yet. I should like to know what I was right about.”

  Not fair. The tilt of his head, the gleam in his eye, both rooted her to the stable floor. She could stand here forever and not tire of studying his expressions.

  “Miri? Are you certain you’re all right?”

  “Right? Oh! Yes, of course. As I was saying, it was you who were right when you said it wouldn’t be faith if I could see and know the every movement of God. I wrestled with that. I mean truly wrestled. It’s a hard truth, leastwise for me. But I honestly believe that, yes, I can trust Him. Furthermore, I will trust Him.”

  He tilted his head the other way. “Even if things don’t work out the way you hope?”

  “Especially if things don’t work out the way I hope, otherwise it wouldn’t very well be trust, would it?”

  He smiled. “Then I daresay your faith will be larger than mine.”

  “About that …” She dared a step closer. “I am curious how you came to such a faith in the first place. You admit to being Will’s friend, yet I know he did not lead the most … pious lifestyle.”

  A shadow descended, dimming the gleam in his eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he remained silent.

  Miri sighed. She’d probed too deep, as usual. Roland might be crazy, but he’d always been right about her—ignorant and completely oblivious. She forced a light tone to her voice. “There’s no need to answer.”

  “No … no, I want to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you for some time.” Running a hand through his loose hair, he retreated a step. His eyes darted like a caged animal’s.

  “Then speak it. I am able to bear the truth now. Please, don’t fear on my account.”

  He studied the low-beamed ceiling. Was he praying or stalling? His chest rose and fell several times before he finally fixed his gaze back on her. “It is not you that I fear for.”

  The slight pounding of a headache began in her temples. Men and their pride often gave her a pain. “I will not think ill of you, Ethan. You have been nothing but kind to me, more of a gentleman than most. Whatever you might have been, you are not now.”

  A grunt escaped him.

  She waited.

  His jaw worked, though no words came out.

  Whatever he had to say could not be good, not if it took this much effort to speak it. Her heart thumped faster, ramping up the pounding in her head. She ought to leave, but her feet would not move.

  “When I first met Will …”

  He spoke so quietly, she had to step closer to catch what he said.

  “… looking for a good time. Oh, I knew how to have a good time, all right. Three years his senior, I had the jump on knowing where to find women, drink, opium. My pockets had been well lined, but when that ran out, well … we learned to steal, to cheat, and God knows we were already liars. Even so, debt mounted. Maybe because Will was younger, I don’t know … I guess I felt somewhat responsible for him, so I always took charge in any of our dealings.”

  “Dealings?”

  He nodded. The ferocity of his stare sent a shiver through her.

  “Let us keep it at that,” he said.

  Thousands of questions rose like dandelions on a field of green, but she bit her lower lip, and they withered.

  “You cannot begin to understand the depths to which Will and I sank. Nor should you.” Ethan shook his head, a faraway look in his eye. “I owed a fat sum of money to a crooked bailiff, and with no way to pay him off, I feared I’d rot in Newgate. Desperate, I roamed the streets to a better part of town and pinched the first purse I saw—or tried to. For the first time in my life, I felt remorse. No, not exactly …”

  A flash of a smile, the familiar Ethan, broke through as he rubbed his chin absently. “It was more like repentance, I suppose. I not only gave the woman back her purse but vowed I’d never pickpocket again. I didn’t gain any money that day, but I became richer than I’d ever dreamed. How could I not share with Will the new hope God had given me? I ran back to Old Nichol, intent on changing my ways, but … funny how strong old habits can be.”

  Shame scoured the hope from his face, and he grimaced. “I thought, well, one last fling then, and Will and I would leave behind—”

  His voice broke.

  Tears welled in Miri’s eyes, making her vision blurry. She should not have started this conversation.

  “We never had the chance.” The pain in his tone was raw. “Will never had the chance, and it’s all my fault.”

  “Oh …” Her voice sounded thin, especially inside her head. Empathy choked her. She knew exactly how horrid he felt. How many times had she blamed herself for her father’s death? She closed the short distance between them and laid a light touch on his forearm.

  He shrugged her off. “Don’t.”

  “Ethan, I am sure you are not to blame—”

  “Do not deny me this guilt, Miri.” His chest heaved, and the grief etched on his face stole her breath.

  He spun and stomped toward the darkened part of the stable.

  Miri stared at his retreating form, paralyzed by conflicting emotions. How exactly did one comfort a man who harbored such guilt—guilt that apparently had something to do with the death of her brother?

  25

  Ethan stalked into the shadows, willing the darkness to open its jaws and swallow him. He slammed his fist into the stall next to Champ’s, again and again, eliciting a weak whinny from the horse. The impromptu boxing match against guilt, rage, and helplessness left him broken and spent. He staggered backward and leaned against the wall. Warm blood wetted his fingers. His split knuckles stung. A welcome pain. Too bad it didn’t hurt worse.

  Breathing hard, he closed his eyes. The stable disappeared, but not the ache inside.

  Straw rustled, though not from within the stall. It grew louder, then stopped—next to him. The scent of violets floated above the baser smell of horseflesh.

  His eyes flew open.

  Miri stood two paces away. Even in the dark he could see the questions in her eyes—and worse, the fear.

  Silently, she held out a rag. The way her fingers trembled made his every muscle scream to gather her in his arms.

  Snatching the cloth, he wrapped his hand, then looked away. “You should leave now.”

  He should too. He never should have come to Deverell Downs.

  “You encouraged me to trust in God, so allow me to return the favor. Will you trust Him? With your guilt, I mean.” Her voice was small yet unwavering, her question holding all the power of a musket ball, piercing and possibly fatal.

  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.