“Don’t bother.” Miri ran a hand over her shorn head. “I hardly have any. Besides, why would you want to? What’s going on?”
“M’lord has returned, miss. And straight off, he’s asked after you!” Her freckles fairly danced across the bridge of her nose. “He should like to see you in the sitting room directly.”
Palms suddenly moist, Miri wiped them on the borrowed daydress she wore. Of course she’d known the time would come when she’d face the lord of the manor, and that the opportunity would answer many of her questions. But apprehension of the unknown rankled her all the same.
“And I don’t mind telling you, miss, he’s quite the gent. Spoke right to me, he did. To me! Imagine. I never heard of such a thing.” A deep blush chased away Anna’s dancing freckles.
Miri pursed her lips. What manner of man was this fellow? Rescuing half-dead nobodies from insane asylums and dialoguing with servant girls was rather unconventional—and downright scandalous.
Anna stepped closer, reaching to straighten Miri’s collar and puff up her sleeves. “He’s a real looker, too. Tall and dark-haired. He’s got the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“You”—Miri smiled at the girl—“are entirely smitten with the man.”
One hand of Anna’s hands flew to her chest, the other to her mouth. She retreated a few steps, eyes wide.
Miri laughed. “I promise I won’t tell a soul, don’t worry.”
Anna lowered her hands to her stomach. “Thank you, miss. If Mrs. Pandy knew, she’d let me go, she would.”
“If the master of this house is half as wonderful as you claim, I daresay he’d not allow her to dismiss you for mere admiration.”
As the logic of Miri’s words sank in, a grin grew on the girl’s face. “That’s right!” She skipped to the door and held it open. “Come along, then, miss. I fancy you’ll take to him just as I have.”
“Very well.” She spoke more for Anna’s sake than from belief. Crossing the chamber, she paused in front of the looking glass. A goose-necked waif stared back at her. The pale blue daydress added pallor to her skin and hung on her frame as if it had been clothes-pegged to her shoulders. Her hair, too curly to lay flat and too short to spiral downward, frizzed out like an ill-trimmed boxwood. She frowned, the expression even less attractive. Typhus had robbed her of the small cask of beauty she owned.
“Come, miss,” Anna called from the threshold. “You don’t want to keep m’lord waiting, do you?”
“Yes, actually.” She would not mind at all if he waited until her hair grew out and she put on some weight. But Anna’s gasp ended that thought. She stepped from the glass. “I’m only jesting. Lead on.”
Rich paneling and crystal wall sconces adorned the corridor they traveled. The stairway sported a curved balustrade that felt like glass to the touch, and her slippers sank into thick carpeting on each step. The lord of Westford Manor apparently appreciated exquisite décor. What could he possibly want with her?
On ground level, Anna turned right. Miri slowed, memorizing every detail. When she did leave here, as surely she must, she wanted to remember everything, revisit the place in her mind as one might an old friend.
Passing by a closed set of mahogany doors, she heard a voice boom from behind. Not angry or reprimanding, more like a rattle-your-chest kind of loud. Even so, she cringed, a leftover habit from dealing with Roland. Would the master of this home speak to her in such a fashion?
She scooted ahead and trailed Anna into a large room. Framed art dotted the walls, elegant sceneries of rolling hills and vast valleys. An enormous Persian rug anchored a plump sofa, matching chaise lounges, and two chairs in front of a hearth. This was no sitting room. The sheer size and opulence of the place could house the queen and her ladies-in-waiting for an afternoon tea.
“You’re to wait here, miss.” Anna dipped a small bow and disappeared out the door.
Miri opened her mouth to call her back, then slowly closed her lips. She couldn’t very well hide behind the apron of a servant, and a young one at that. Blowing out a long breath, she ran a finger aimlessly along the back of the settee. No doubt once this Lord Trenton saw her, he’d realize the mistake he’d made. He’d send her away, and she’d go … where?
Despite herself, she smiled. From rectory, to asylum, to manor house, would she never escape the same old problem of finding a home?
Footsteps sounded behind her. She forced herself to turn around when what she really wanted to do was run away. As her eyes landed on the man who entered, her breath caught in her throat.
The room shrank as Ethan’s presence filled it.
Three paces beyond the threshold, Ethan paused, drinking in the sight of Miri. Her eyes, overlarge in a gaunt face, gave the appearance of a lost little girl, but her skin tone was decidedly rosier than last he’d seen her. She was a living, breathing miracle, thank God. The longer he stared, the more gratitude both filled and crushed his heart.
Her lips parted, but she remained silent. Did she sense the tension that stretched his every muscle? No. Of course not. How could she possibly know that this would be the day she’d either walk out of his life or become a permanent part of it?
Releasing his clenched jaw, he forced a smile. “It is good to see you’re up and about.”
He closed the distance between them and took both her hands in his. Soft. Frail. Vulnerable. Desire hammered as strong as his pulse. Good thing he hadn’t pulled her into his arms. “How do you feel?”
She matched his grin. “Much better, thank you.”
“I am happy to hear it.” His voice came out huskier than intended. He released her fingers immediately and retreated a step. He’d never get the truth out standing so near her.
“Shall we sit?” He angled his head.
She looked past him to the door. “Do you think we should?”
“Why not?”
“Well … I …” She returned her gaze to his. Was that fear or longing that glistened in the depths of her eyes?
“I suppose,” she said, then crossed to the front of the settee and sat.
He joined her, near enough to read her face, but not too close. Temptation deviled him enough just being alone with her. “There is much to say.”
“I agree.”
The trust in her tone sliced through him, for she would likely recant of it soon enough.
Folding her hands in her lap, she leaned toward him, as she might a confidant. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been, why you’d gone. Or for that matter, how you came to be here in the first place. I asked about you, but Anna, the new maid, she did not …” She paused and cocked her head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like … I don’t know. Like I might suddenly disappear or something. It’s a little disconcerting.” She glanced over her shoulder.
Was she dismissing him already? Taking a deep breath, he steeled his resolve. “Miri, there is much I must tell you. Will you listen? To all of it, I mean?”
She snapped her face back to his. “That sounds a bit ominous.”
“It is.”
Biting her lip, she studied him. “Very well.”
She lifted her chin, an action she’d often employed when he’d seen her face Roland—and he hated that she looked upon him so.
He stood and paced the length of the settee. “I pray you’ll pardon my abruptness, for there’s no easy way to say this. You know my past is jaded, for I’ve hinted at such before—”
“There is no need to speak of it.”
“I must. I owe it to you. To us … if there is to be an us.” He stopped and turned toward her, drawn by her sudden silence.
She sat motionless, the picture of innocence and purity. Her hair, short and curly, crowned her head like a halo. “I don’t understand.”
“I know.” He dropped to his knees. She deserved the truth eye to eye. Where he’d draw the courage to speak it, he had no idea.
Please, God, help.
>
“I was …” He blew out a disgusted sigh as memories assailed him. All the wicked things he’d done paraded across his mind in a macabre kind of dance. How he hated to defile her like this. “I was the vilest sort of man, Miri. A user. An abuser. Women, drink, opium—”
“Ethan, no—”
“Yes!”
She gasped, wincing as if he’d slapped her.
His gut twisted, knowing he was the source. “I’m sorry, love.” He lifted his hand toward her cheek, stopping a breath away from contact. Should a canvas so pure become tarnished by his touch? He dropped his hand to his side.
Half a smile curved her lips. “There is much in my past I’m not proud of. But if God has forgiven you, who am I to do any less?”
Her willingness to absolve him so forthrightly stole his breath. Remarkable. No saint could be purer. Still, his shoulders sagged. How could he be fully forgiven for speaking only half the truth?
“You look as if the weight of the world is your mantle.” Her smile faded. “Ethan, did you not hear me say I forgive—”
He held up his palm, halting her. “There is more.”
Rising, he resumed his back-and-forth path in front of her. He should have told her this long ago, before he cared. Before he loved.
She stood and blocked his path. “What’s done is done. I don’t need to know—”
“It’s about Will.”
She cringed, looking at him as if he might strike her at any moment.
And what a blow his words would be. Would she strike him back? Faint? Run? Gripping her upper arms, he held her in place. “I owed money. Lots of it. Money I’d gambled away. When the man came to collect, I didn’t have it. Your brother, my dearest friend—” His voice broke, and he sucked in a breath. “Will died taking a knife blade meant for me, Miri. It’s my fault he’s dead.”
She shrank beneath his touch. Horror rippled across her face, followed by grief and hurt. Pain he’d caused. He’d do anything, say anything, to remove it.
But all he could do was stand before her, powerless. Weak. Impotent. Abhorring the hurt he’d caused.
He released his grasp and wheeled about. “Now you know. I won’t blame you if you walk away.”
But if she did, his heart and his future would leave along with her.
42
The truth of Will’s death, of Ethan’s part in it, opened a fresh wound in Miri’s heart. That her younger brother had died through no fault of his own brought tears to her eyes—tears that spilled over as she watched Ethan retreat to the hearth.
He stood, back toward her, one hand gripping the marble mantle as if he laid hold of Calvary’s cross. She reached for him, then slowly let her arm fall. Whatever kind of black guilt weighted those broad shoulders could not be soothed by a mere touch. Not from her.
Please, God, give me the right words.
Setting aside her own sorrow, she took a deep breath. “Whatever you once were, Ethan, you are not now.”
The muscles beneath his surcoat flexed, yet he did not turn.
Emboldened, she stepped forward. “I meant it when I said if God has forgiven you, I can do no less.”
He spun, chest heaving. Hope and terror flickered in his eyes. “This is your chance, Miri. Now that you know what I am, what I’ve done, you’re free to go. But if you stay …” He closed his eyes, his voice barely audible. “God, if only she could stay …”
Unbridled emotion moved across his face, so pure it shivered through her. “Oh, Ethan … I could never leave you willingly. Part of me would die. Do you not know you own my heart?”
His eyes shot open, red-rimmed and intense.
“Besides …” She swallowed, worrying the fabric of her sleeves with restless fingers. “Where would I go? I’m not even sure where I am, exactly.”
A slow grin spread across his face. In three great strides, he pulled her close. “You are home, love. Home.”
All the warmth and safety she’d ever longed for wrapped around her with that one word. She leaned against him, letting his warmth and strength soak into every frightened, lonely fracture in her soul. A tingle ran the length of her back—right along the scar from the whip Roland had wielded the last time Ethan held her. What would happen if Lord Trenton discovered them so entwined?
She pushed away.
Ethan’s grin faded. “Second thoughts already?”
“Not at all, it’s just that …” She glanced over her shoulder. No imposing earl filled the doorway—yet. “What if the master of Westford walks in?”
“The … who?” He cocked his head and studied her, much the way she’d eyed Roland many a time.
“Pray do not look at me so. I speak of Lord Trenton, of course. And you, sir, have yet to tell me how you came to be—”
His laughter cut her short and likely could be heard clear into the corridor.
“Shh!” She folded her arms, all business. “He might hear. I fail to see what is so humorous.”
“Miri”—he smiled— “I am Lord Trenton.”
She frowned, irritated that he’d pick such a time for shenanigans. He should know as well as she, if not better, that a capricious noble could ascribe any manner of punishment for those below his station. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are Ethan Goodwin.”
“Exactly.” Reaching for her, he rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. A rogue twinkle lit his eyes—one that increased her pulse.
“My father, Robert Goodwin, was the Earl of Trenton. He has recently passed on, leaving me sole heir. I offer you not only my heart, Miri, but all I now own as well.” He nodded at the grand room about them.
“Your … father?” Ethan’s face faded, or maybe the room was fading. Even her voice sounded far away. “I had no idea … but …”
She spun, needing air, or a seat, or something to hold onto. Catching sight of her reflection in a windowpane, she shuddered at the ugly scarecrow. How unfair. How unjust.
“This changes nothing between us, Miri.”
He couldn’t be serious. She whirled to face him. “It changes everything!”
He flinched as if her words slapped him. “Why?”
“Look at this.” She flung out her arms. “Look at me. I don’t belong here. I am a ruin. You can’t possibly want me—”
“I can.” He stepped toward her. “And I do.”
Her eyes welled, and the closer he drew, the blurrier he looked.
“Remember the day we met?” His voice was low, caressing. He stood so near now that when he breathed, the edges of his shirt brushed against her bodice. “You looked beyond the grime, the stench, the ruin that was me, and saw the man inside. What you are on the inside, Miri Brayden, is more beautiful than a simple man such as I can ever express. Believe me when I tell you …”
He cupped her face, forcing her gaze to meld with his. “I want nothing more than you.”
His eyes burned into hers, and she bit her lip, the pain a testament to reality. Did he really mean it? Dare she believe him?
One of his brows rose, the handsome, endearing gesture she’d come to love more than anything. “Do not question my sincerity, for I mean every word.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “How well you read me.”
“Like none other.”
His tone raced a thrill up her spine. The words were entirely too intimate.
Loosening his hold on her face, he ran a knuckle along the length of her jawline and back again, never varying his gaze from hers. “So will you have me, even if I am not the penniless jack-of-all-trades you thought me to be?”
Who could think beneath such a touch, let alone speak?
“Yes,” she whispered.
He bent, the warmth of his mouth heating her forehead. “You are altogether too tempting.”
His lips moved against her brow as he spoke, and she lifted her face.
A groan sounded from deep in his chest, and he stepped back. “No more …” He drew in a shaky breath and squared his shoulders. “No more kisses until we c
an finish what we start, love, for I would have all of you.”
The respect she held for his integrity and honor dimmed only slightly with a shadow of disappointment. “And when might that be?”
He grinned, the light of which warmed her through. “Now.”
Her brow crinkled. “What?”
“Come along.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the corridor.
She held on tight. His long strides tugged her forward at a fast pace. She’d tumble face-first if she let go.
“I believe you asked me where I’ve been. While you were on the mend, I was off to London.” He slanted a glance at her but did not slow. “And I brought back a friend.”
At last he stopped in front of the closed door she’d passed earlier, then winked at her. “Someone I’d like you to meet.”
He pushed open the door and swept his arm. “After you.”
Winded and confused, she took a few tentative steps, then paused. The paneled room smelled of tobacco and leather. Books lined two of the walls with a hearth on the third. Floor-to-ceiling windows adorned the fourth, silhouetting a stout old man dressed in a black cassock who turned at her entrance.
“Well, well … you must be Miri,” his voice boomed.
The same voice she’d mistaken as Lord Trenton’s. So … who was this fellow, and how did he know her? “Forgive me, but—”
Ethan’s arms wrapped around her from behind, a possessive embrace—and entirely welcome. “Miri, meet the man who’s helped save many a soul, mine included: the Reverend John Newton.”
“Reverend?”
“Aye, that I am, lass.” The fellow shrugged, his grizzled eyebrows raising. “Among other things.”
Miri turned in Ethan’s arms, and the fire in his stare settled low in her stomach. For the first time, she felt just one of her brows lift in perfect imitation of his.
Ethan pulled her against him, resting his chin atop her head. “I wasn’t jesting when I said I would have you now.”
Her cheeks heated at the implication.
Behind her, the reverend cleared his throat. “You always were in a hurry, Ethan lad, always in a hurry. But in this case, I understand why. Shall we be about it, then?”
Michelle Griep Page 29