Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  “The name Brayden is on the dead list.”

  38

  Dead list. The dead list? How could he understand that? The phrase echoed over and over. The dead list. The dead list. Each time it circled, he tried to grasp it for meaning—and came up empty handed.

  “My lord, are you all right?”

  His heart still beat but only from habit—a custom his body didn’t know it should stop. Everything faded until all that was left was a pinpoint of light—and that not very bright. He tensed, muscles taut as bowstrings, then waited. Hold. Hold. Like a frontline infantryman anticipating the charge.

  Snap.

  Loss opened a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth and bit, swallowing him whole.

  He staggered backward until his body hit a wall. Snippets of things Miri had said floated in the air around him. He reached, pulling memories to his breast, trying to keep them all from flying away. He’d lose them in this space. God, don’t let me lose them.

  “Sometimes I get scared, but not with you. Never with you.”

  “Were you scared, Miri?” he whispered. “I wasn’t there, my love. I wasn’t there for you.”

  “We all fail those we love.”

  “I failed you most of all, my sweet, my love. I failed you!”

  “There is nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”

  “Then don’t go, Miri. Please—” His voice broke. “Don’t leave me.”

  If he tried hard enough, strained and pleaded and pretended, mayhap he’d sense the feel of her in his arms, her touch caressing the length of his face as she had that fateful eve in the barn. Please, God. Please. A ghostly tingle ran along his jaw, his neck, spanned his shoulders, and settled deep into his heart.

  Then it vanished.

  Completely.

  “Miri, come back! Come back to me. I never said good-bye.” He jerked his face heavenward. “God, I never said good-bye.”

  His legs gave way, and he sank. Gravity was a monster, pushing him down. Flattening him. Good. He’d sink and sink. Burrow under the earth. Find his beloved and lay with her. Forever.

  A sob rose like vomit, ripping out his throat, severing soul from body. “Nooo!”

  “Are you all right, my lord?”

  He felt his hand lift. Someone patted it. Maybe.

  “What’s going on here?”

  The words meant nothing to him. Words would never mean anything again. Nothing would.

  “He came asking about an inmate. He’s not taking it well at all, I’m afraid.”

  What kind of gibberish was that?

  “Move aside, Mr. Spyder. This is my line of work, after all.”

  Something nudged him.

  “Sir?”

  A stinging slap jerked his head. But it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

  Fingers pried open his eyelids. Hot breath fanned his face.

  “Hmm … appears normal. What did you say happened, Mr. Spyder?”

  “He came in here asking about a Miri Brayden. Insisted I look up her name, though our documents are far from complete, as you well know. I did find it, however. On the dead list.”

  Dead list. Dead list. There it was again. Circling. A vulture looking for a carcass to pick clean, gnaw on the bones, suck out the marrow—from Miri.

  Ethan started rocking. What else could he do? The sorrow welling inside would not sit still. It raged and ranted, prodding him to movement.

  A strong arm restrained him.

  “But that’s impossible, Mr. Spyder.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I just came from the woman’s bedside. She’s well on her way to making that list of yours, but she’s not there yet.”

  Slowly things came into focus, emerging as one swimming up from a great depth. Murky at first, then taking on form. Ethan sucked in a huge breath.

  “Well, well, an amazing recovery.” A skeleton with skin crouched next to him.

  “What did you say?” Ethan’s voice was rusty.

  The skeleton peered at him, assessing him from one end to the other. “Mr. Spyder tells me you are searching for a Miriall Brayden, yes?”

  She was here? Alive? His heart swung on a pendulum, the extremes making him queasy. He shoved the man away and bolted up. The room spun. He flung out a hand and balanced against the wall. “Where is she? Take me!”

  “Calm down, sir. I assure you she’s receiving the best care I can administer. There’s nothing you can do. Taking you to her would only endanger your health.”

  Grabbing handfuls of the man’s shirt, Ethan shoved him backward. “I don’t give a flying fat rat about my health. Bring me to her!”

  The skeleton’s thin eyelids stretched over bulging eyes as he blinked.

  “Now!” Ethan’s voice rumbled, the harbinger of a black storm about to unleash.

  “As you wish,” said the skeleton.

  “Dr. Pembernip, I am not at all certain that’s wise.”

  Ethan let go of the man and growled at Spyder, stomping toward him.

  Spyder held up both hands, retreating.

  “Wise or not”—the doctor straightened his shirt—“there’s no reasoning with a man in a state such as this. Believe me, I’ve seen it many times. Were we not closing down this asylum, you can be sure I’d admit him for observation. As it is …” He glanced at Ethan, then turned. “Come along.”

  Ethan followed close behind. He’d run ahead if he knew the way. The place bore an eerie resemblance to Newgate. Dark. Dank. Foul smelling. No wonder disease roamed these halls.

  A million things ran through his mind as they went. How near death she might be. How much she’d suffered already. How he’d ever be able to forgive Witherskim for putting her through all this.

  Led into a large room with pallets on the floor, he recoiled from the stench.

  The doctor glanced over his shoulder at him. “She’s right over … You look a bit green, my lord. Are you sure you want to—”

  “Lead on.” It was hard to let words flow out past the vomit welling at the back of his mouth.

  “Over here.” The doctor lifted an arm, allowing Ethan to pass.

  His gait hitched, much the same as when he’d visited his mother’s deathbed as a small boy. No! He threw back his shoulders. This was not the same. It couldn’t be.

  In front of him sat a girl. Her waxen face looked as if it had been placed too near a candle flame and melted. Part of it, anyway. Disfigurement and beauty mixed in such a grotesque combination, it pulled at him. He stared, mesmerized, wanting to look away but unable to.

  The girl turned from his open stare.

  What kind of horrid joke was this? Ethan shot a glance at Pembernip. “That is not my Miri.”

  “Of course not.” The doctor looked past him. “Lil, run along now. This gentleman is here to see Miriall.”

  The girl rose, leaving a clear view of the entire pallet. No wonder he’d missed her. A mud-colored blanket clung to the shape of a cadaver curled into the fetal position.

  This was Miri?

  He peered closer. No beautiful curls adorned that shaved head. Amber eyes did not shine out of those shrunken sockets. The Brayden high cheekbones looked as if they’d climbed higher to escape the hollowed cheeks beneath.

  Miri. Dear God.

  Ethan dropped to her side and gathered her in his arms. A bundle of kindling could not have been lighter. Holding her close, he gasped. Urine and sweat violated her trademark violet scent. Oh, what she must have suffered.

  He stood, clutching her to his chest, and faced Pembernip. “Lead me out.”

  The doctor rested his hands on his hips. “You can’t be serious. Moving her now is much too risky. She’s close to delirium, and once that sets in—”

  “Lead me.” Ethan measured his words, each one a threat ready to strike. “Or I assure you, you’ll wish you had.”

  Pembernip lowered his hands and lifted his palms in a shrug. “I see. There … is a certain procedure, sir, that—”

  “Hang your procedures!
And hang you as well.” He stomped toward the door they’d come through earlier. He’d find his own way out or be damned in the trying.

  Miri moaned. Her perspiration soaked into his shirt. If he didn’t get her some real help soon, the grief pooling just under his skin would flood over him again. He’d lived through that once.

  Never again.

  39

  Ethan cradled Miri as the coach’s wheels jolted out of a huge rut. Several inches cleared between his bottom and the seat, and he smacked his skull on the roof before landing. Silently, he cursed the beastly roads and worse carriage. A rubber ball caught between two paddles would be less bruised.

  Pushing against him, Miri rose. Her face twisted as she darted a glassy gaze from one wall to the other.

  Ethan shot his head out the window and yelled, “Faster!”

  A low-hanging tree limb rushed toward him, and he jerked back his head just as the branch raked the coach’s side.

  “Roland?” Miri’s voice was a thin piece of glass rattled by the wind, on the sharp edge of breaking.

  The first time she’d done this, hope made him giddy, thinking her fever had subsided. But then Pembernip’s warning of delirium barreled back, grinding that hope to a fine dust. Now he merely allowed her to look one way and another before drawing her against him.

  “Shh, love. Soon. We’ll be there soon.” He doubted his words meant anything to her. Neither did his presence. And that cut deep.

  “Rest now.” He caressed her hair as the coach jostled along. Stubbly patches scraped against his fingertips, and he grieved afresh that her curls adorned a rubbish pile somewhere.

  She sank to his lap, poured out like water from an urn. Since leaving the asylum, the day and a half of travel had taken more than she had to give. How much she had left, only God knew.

  Please, God. That prayer, his breath.

  With Miri quieted, he gazed out the window. Afternoon sun dappled through a thick hedgerow. Each shrub stood at attention, shoulder to shoulder. A living fence, marking one field from another. Darby’s wheat. Jonesey’s rye. Trenton farmers. Trenton lands … home.

  A home he’d not seen nigh on fifteen years.

  He sat back, leaving the curtain swinging, and aimlessly ran a finger along Miri’s arm. So many threads of emotion twisted inside, the sorting might unravel him. Sorrow over his father’s and brother’s deaths tangled with regret that he’d never reconciled with them. Years of anger and hurt. All this balled together in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of his new position as lord of an estate. Many would depend upon him. How would he manage without fouling things up?

  Please, God. That prayer, his breath.

  At last the coach lurched to a stop. The door opened, but he sat as still as Miri. Once he set foot on Westford Manor’s drive, a bridge would span from past to present. Could he cross it without falling off?

  “My lord?” The driver poked his head through the door, nodding toward Miri. “If ye’ll hand me yer lady, I’ll hold her right proper till yer out on yer feet.”

  Ethan lifted Miri into the man’s arms, then sucked in a breath as he peered outside. Westford Manor, brick-faced, lace-curtained, overhung with scrolled soffits and slate tiles, looked exactly as he remembered. The ivy thicker, the yews taller, but the house … the same. Many a woman would pay a king’s ransom to age half as well as this. He jumped down, both feet tamping onto Trenton soil and the demons of his past.

  Retrieving Miri from the driver’s arms, he rested his cheek against the top of her head. “We’re home, love,” he whispered.

  Gravel crunched beneath his boots, memories swelling with each step. Above, third window to the right, was the escape he’d used on many a night to sneak out from his chamber. Off to the left, a hedgerow where he’d stashed cheroots stolen from his father’s study. And if he bypassed the main entryway and followed the drive behind to the carriage house … no. Better to not even think of the wicked acts he’d committed in those shadows.

  Shoving down each memory, he climbed the stairs and paused in front of the door. Should he ring the bell, knock, or just walk in? With Miri in his arms, knocking and ringing were out of the question, and he couldn’t very well open a locked door.

  So he kicked against the paneled mahogany. Unconventional but effective.

  A ruddy-faced servant, cheeks splotched as if recently slapped, opened the door. Before Ethan could introduce himself and explain the situation, the man spoke. “The charity hospital is two towns over. In Middleton. Good day.”

  The door swung shut. Just like that. Without so much as a “who are you?” or “how are you?” Ethan scowled. He’d like to slap those cheeks himself.

  This time, he kicked harder.

  When the servant appeared again, his neck matched his face. “This is a private home. Go away—”

  “This is my home, if you please.”

  Miri stiffened in his arms, and he lowered his voice. “I am—”

  “You are lost. I know the members of this household, and you are not one of them. And especially not her.” The servant curled his upper lip as he glanced at Miri. “Now go away.”

  The door slammed. The knocker rattled—and Ethan’s boot thrusts kept it rattling. “Open up!”

  Miri moaned. He recanted of his volume, but not his intent.

  A great sucking noise filled the air as the door flew open. Red-eyed, the servant yelled, “Do not force me to—”

  “I am Ethan Goodwin, you—” Ethan bit back a few coarse names. “I am the Earl of Trenton, lord of this manor.”

  “And I am the queen mother. Good day.”

  Bracing for the pain, Ethan shot out his foot and wedged his boot between door and jamb. When it hit, he bit down. White hot hurt cut into his ankle and spread up his leg, and he gasped.

  The servant flung open the door. Were it not attached to the hinges, it would’ve been a deadly projectile. “Are you mad?”

  “Just about.” He ground out the words between the throbs in his foot. “Think, man. The earl had an heir, one that Mr. Spindle sought. He found me in London, and now I am here. Do you really want to chance angering me if I am who I say I am?”

  The man narrowed his eyes. At least he didn’t slam the door.

  “If you let me in, I vow I’ll go no farther than the sitting room. You can call on Dobbins to confirm my identity.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “What would you know of Dobbins?”

  “Listen, you baldy-cocked—” He forced out a breath, along with a few other choice names. This fellow ought to be protecting the crown jewels in the Tower—or better yet, residing as one of its prisoners. “Dobbins is the butler, Mrs. Pandy, the housekeeper. Should you like me to continue?”

  The man merely sniffed. “Anyone could know that.”

  If his hands weren’t full of Miri, he’d throttle the oaf. “Yes, but anyone could not tell you to look three floorboards over from where you’re standing, to the left. There’s a gap between slat and baseboard. Wiggle it and lift. You’ll find a child’s handful of shiny pebbles. It’s where I kept them as a boy.”

  Though the man’s mouth dropped, he didn’t budge.

  But Miri wriggled against him.

  “Do it!” Ethan ordered.

  The fellow sprang into action, darting sideways and bending low.

  Miri burrowed her face into his shirt. This delay could not be comfortable for her.

  “Sorry, love,” he whispered.

  When the servant finally straightened to full height in the doorway, his cheeks were purple stains on a white canvas. Not simply a sheepish look, but an entire flock of contriteness settled over his face. “My apologies, my lord. I am so very sorry to have doubted—”

  Ethan shook his head. “Just let me in.”

  “Of course,” the man mumbled as he stepped aside. If he had a tail, it would be tucked tight between his legs.

  Favoring his tender foot, Ethan brushed past him, calling as he went. “Send for Dobbins.�
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  “Anything you say, my lord. Anything at all, sir.” Other hangdog comments followed him toward the sitting room. Ethan cringed, unsure which annoyed him more—pompous disdain or this new bootlicking tactic.

  Miri struggled against him, and he increased his pace. The scent of lemon oil greeted him as he crossed the threshold. Memories haunted this room. Too many heated words echoed in his heart. He’d have to face these ghosts, but not now. Not with Miri limp in his arms.

  He settled her onto the chaise lounge, a ragdoll in need of care. Pressing his lips against her forehead, he soothed. “Back soon, my sweet. Rest easy.”

  He strode from the room, ignoring the leftover pain in his foot. “Dobbins!”

  A man rounded the corner farther down the hallway. Dobbins’s height, Dobbins’s size, but oh … was it really Dobbins hiding behind that faded skin, wrinkled tight in some spots and hanging in others? His chest tightened as it suddenly hit him just how much he’d missed this man.

  “Master Ethan, good to see you, sir!” Dobbins dipped his head in respect.

  Ethan smiled. “And you.” The truth of those words dredged up pleasant recollections tied to the butler, countering the bitter. Good ol’ Dobbins. He patted the man on the shoulder. “There is much to say, but for now, I would have you send for a doctor.”

  The old butler assessed him, a practiced flick of the eyes that might catch a scraped knee or flush of sickness. “I hope all is well, sir. I have an urgent matter I wish to discuss.”

  “Your urgent matter will have to wait.” He stepped aside, sweeping his arm toward the sitting room. “I am fine, but the new mistress of Westford Manor is not.”

  Dobbins looked past him, then craned his neck farther. “Sir?”

  Ethan followed the butler’s line of sight with his own eyes, and his heart stopped. With long-legged steps, he strode to the center of the sitting room. The bolster from the chaise lounge lay on the floor, the chair completely empty. He spun. No Miri.

  Alarm spread a fire in his veins.

  Please, God. That prayer, his breath.

  “Roland?”