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 t
he 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.
Miri stood near the door, wringing her hands, as if somehow she might wash the night clean of this chaos. The magistrate tipped his head toward Roland and his handlers. Roland stalked out unaided, pausing only long enough to say to his sister, “Carry on, Miriall, as you always do.”
Before Ethan could make his thick tongue move, Mr. Handy and his equally helpful partner yanked him from the stable and halfway across the backyard. He’d had no time to say good-bye to Miri and likely never would. Remorse hammered as painfully as the pounding in his head.
“Up you go, maggot. I hope they tie the rope ’specially tight ’round your neck.” Mr. Handy put some muscle into heaving him upward, above and beyond what was necessary.
Ethan plunged forward, smacking his chin on the wooden planks of the cart. Behind him, a door clanged shut, followed by a rough “Haw!”
The cart lurched, and Ethan used the momentum to swing into a sitting position. Either it was exceptionally dark in there, or he was about to pass out—possibly both, and either a good thing.
“Did you commit murder?”
The question shot out from nowhere and everywhere. Was God in the cart too?
“Well, Mr. Goodwin?”
Ethan lifted his head, then winced at the shooting pain in his jaw. Across from him, blacker than darkness, Roland hunched like a creature of the night.
The stunning realization hit him that Roland’s words were not slurred, nor did the stench of spirits foul the close air. “You’re not drunk.”
Roland laughed, the rusty sound of a tool not often used. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Why else would you …” Ethan’s brain worked faster than his mouth, shuffling a deck full of Roland’s freakish behaviors into some kind of hand to deal out. But a few cards were missing. “What have they got on you? There’s no way they can link you to Thorne. Are you the reason the vicar is—”
“You are a strange mix of character, Mr. Goodwin. You smell of indulgence and privilege and the gutters. You’re a gallant con, a gentleman clothed in degradation. Contradiction is in your blood.”
Ethan’s heart beat faster. The man had no idea how right he was. “And what are you?”
“Why … a protector, of course. A protector of divine virtue and holy standard. I am a jealous lover of the church, sir.”
“Jealous enough to kill?”
A snort traveled through the dark. Hard to tell if it came from Roland or one of the horses.
“That’s the question I daresay everyone will be asking.”
Ethan measured his words. Too many and the height might topple this entire conversation. “How will you answer?”
The groan of the wagon grinding over the uneven roadway was the only answer he received. Ethan leaned back, then thought the better of it when his skull bumped in time to the ruts. The wagon wheels mumbled a low-tone rant.
Ethan tilted his head—those weren’t wheels.
“Threw it away, he threw it away. I warned him, yes, yes, I did. Lusting after a woman is one thing, but … oh, the shame. The shame! Better to run away. Better to die. He knew my secrets. Shh. Shh! Yes, but how much worse are yours.”
Roland’s voice gained in intensity. “No! I will not speak it. No say. No say. I will not tell of your demons, and do not speak of mine. Leave, Eldon. I shall have to execute God’s judgment. If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out. Your hand, cut it off. Your manhood, sever it. Sever it, you hear? Or I will. Now … leave!”
Acid burned a trail up Ethan’s throat. Thank God Roland’s hands were tied.
“Why are you still here?” Roland leaned forward. “You said. You said!”
Ethan swallowed the vinegar taste at the back of his mouth, then forced out calm words. “I am not Eldon.”
“SHUT UP!”
Ethan closed his mouth. The cart swayed in silence once Roland’s voice quit reverberating—
Until the night breathed a whisper. Many whispers. All of them one with Roland’s breaths. “Vos es fatum. Ego sum fatum. Fatum, fatum, fatum.”
Reaching back to boyhood, just beyond his fingertips, Ethan strained to remember those dull Latin lessons. A dream? A dome? No.
As their bones rattled on the dark road to the inevitable, Roland chanted—doomed, doomed, doomed.
Miri clutched her shawl with one hand and a lantern in the other. Night air waged a brisk assault against her cheeks, and cold crawled up her stockings, fanned further by her swishing skirts. She hardly felt either. Feelings belonged to the living.
Pleading with the bishop had gotten her nothing more than a sore throat. She was done with him. Done with Mrs. Makin’s clutterings and flutterings as well. Accompanied or not, she would find help from somewhere or perish in the trying. If she were gored while taking the bull by the horns, then so be it.
Off to the side of the road, a glowing pair of yellow eyes reflected her lantern light, then scurried back into the brush. An eerie appearance, but it failed to raise any gooseflesh along her arms. Her own safety mattered not a whit. Not anymore.
Deverell Downs was tucked in slumber as she crossed the stone bridge. Though she couldn’t see the water in the dark, the shushing river below scorned her. Only highwaymen and women of ill repute went about at this owlish hour.
She quickened her steps. By the time she pounded on the apothecary’s door, her breathing sounded as ragged as her knocking. “Mr. Knight!”
Pausing, she peeked into the window at the door’s side. No light.
She set down her lantern and us
ed both fists. “Open up! Do you hear me? Open this—”
The door yanked wide, and she stumbled forward.
Mr. Knight’s arm righted her. “Good heavens. Is someone that ill?”
“No … I … my …” As much as she wanted to ask for his help, breathing took priority.
He retrieved her lantern and led her inside, then pulled his stool from behind the counter. “Sit.”
The order might have been nothing more than a command to a dog, so empty did his voice sound. He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. His usual impeccable appearance was askew, with a woolen wrapper thrown hastily about his shoulders, covering an ankle-length nightshirt. His feet were bare. His hair loose.
“This is highly irregular, Miss Brayden.”
She wondered if he had any potions or salve that might ease his frown.
“I have nowhere else to turn, sir. I thought that you might—”
“Why don’t you turn to your hired man, miss? I am sure Mr. Good would be more than happy to help you.” Mr. Knight’s face—why had she ever thought it handsome?—tightened into a stern mask.
Miri massaged her temples. Jealousy wasn’t something she had time to deal with right now. “He’s been taken, along with my brother, and I don’t know where. Please, Mr. Knight. Would you speak to the magistrate? A mistake has been made, but he will not listen to me. Neither will Mr. Buckle.”
He cocked his head. “On what matter?”
Miri averted her eyes. “Murder.”
If he sucked in a breath any harder, she’d be caught in a swirling vortex.
“Murder! Really, Miss Brayden.” He stalked to the door and opened it. “I cannot help you with this matter. I am an apothecary, not a lawyer. I suggest you speak with the magistrate yourself. Now, good night.”
Tears pressured her eyes to release them. Pride dammed them in. She stood so quickly, the stool tipped over and crashed to the wooden planks. By the time the noise stilled, she’d crossed the room and grabbed fistfuls of his nightshirt. “If there is any honor in you, Mr. Knight, you will help me see that justice is carried out.”
Michelle Griep Page 18