Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2

by Ridley, Erica

  Susan had no time to waste with either of them. She grabbed the magistrate’s arm and tugged him toward the open door. “Come with me. Please.”

  With a shrug of apology at the two seamstresses, Mr. Forrester followed Susan over the threshold and down the steps. Miss Devonshire slammed the door behind them.

  Good. The fewer witnesses to their flight, the better.

  The rain picked up, soaking Susan to the bone without her pelisse. Gooseflesh rippled along her icy skin. No matter. Cousin Emeline needed the pelisse more. She deserved whatever comfort she could get. Susan strode faster, leading Mr. Forrester across the wet night to the foot of the path where a tiny bundle lay trembling.

  The magistrate gasped in shock. “Is that... Lady Emeline?”

  Susan could only nod, relief momentarily robbing her of her voice. They were saved. Thank God. They were saved.

  “You did the right thing, Miss Stanton.”

  Susan nodded again, smiling. Of course she did. She couldn’t let her helpless cousin fester in that godforsaken stone cage one moment longer. They were escaping, and they were escaping together. But—how did Mr. Forrester recognize Lady Emeline?

  “You knew my cousin needed help?” Susan asked, shocked.

  “Of course not.” Mr. Forrester shook his golden curls and hauled Lady Emeline to her feet. “I had no idea she’d wandered off again. Her husband must be so worried.”

  Susan’s mouth fell open. “What?”

  “You were right to come to me,” he continued, swinging Lady Emeline up and into his arms as though she weighed no more than a pile of feathers. If he noticed the broken chain swinging loose from beneath her skirts, he gave no mention. “She can be quite a handful, and I’m sure you didn’t want to attempt guiding her up this trail in the rain. Gets slippery.” He turned and met Susan’s eyes. Smiled. “Accidents sometimes happen.”

  “What?” She stared in horror as the magistrate began to march cousin Emeline right back up the very trail that the two women had just fled. Stabbing him with the ivory-handled knife in her pocket suddenly seemed a reasonable idea.

  Either the man had less brainpower than the little she’d given him credit for, or he realized quite clearly the atrocities that took place inside Moonseed Manor but was too frightened—or, more likely, too well paid—to act as he ought.

  “He keeps her locked up,” she blurted out, desperate to try her best while they were still outside the walls of Moonseed Manor. What were the odds she’d be able to free cousin Emeline twice? Or that the giant wouldn’t retaliate for having done so this once?

  Mr. Forrester’s brow creased, but his voice could only be described as kind. “He’s her husband, Miss Stanton. While I hope they are a happy couple, I simply do not have the power to dictate how a man should treat his wife. My personal belief is that women are to be cherished, but such beliefs are unenforceable in a court of law.” He smiled gently. “Come, now. You know that to be true.”

  Yes. Susan did know. She closed her eyes, unable to keep looking at the disappointment and hopelessness in her cousin’s face. What Mr. Forrester said was absolutely true. Even Miss Grey had pointed it out when she’d first told Susan the story. The marriage contract simply served to transfer ownership from father to husband. The magistrate’s hands were tied.

  The assembly in Bath the following weekend was looking more and more like her only possibility of escape—and therefore her only opportunity to return with an army, and free Lady Emeline. Because she would free her cousin. Laws be damned.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Forrester said over his shoulder, misreading Susan’s thoughts entirely. “It’s not your fault she got free. I’ll let Ollie know you were the one to find her and return her home.”

  Oh, lovely. Susan shivered. The giant was bound to believe that.

  Chapter 29

  The following afternoon, Moonseed Manor was still as a tomb. Susan hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her malicious host—a situation for which she was profoundly grateful. She knelt in the grave garden, wrapped in a thick pelisse despite the pale yellow sun overhead. Its weak rays provided little warmth for Susan, and none whatsoever for the owner of the unmarked grave before her.

  She reached out to touch the sparse brown grass tangled amongst the dirt and the stones. Most of the brittle blades crumbled at the brush of her fingertips, as if their weakened state could not withstand even that gentle touch.

  “I am sorry, cousin,” she whispered to the silent patch of earth marking Lady Beaune’s grave. “Your daughter will not join you here. I swear it.”

  Having thus sworn her fealty, she placed her hands atop trembling legs and struggled to her feet. It was difficult to have faith in her ability to make good on such a promise when there was no guarantee she herself would not soon lie at her cousin’s side.

  If only there was someone to confide in. But there was not. The dressmakers could not bear Susan’s presence. Despite his drugging kisses, Mr. Bothwick was a bosom friend of the monstrous master of the manor. And the magistrate... the magistrate... if even his hands were tied thanks to the letter of the law, she could hardly expect a less powerful citizen to hurry to her aid.

  She needed someone more powerful. Someone who believed him—or herself—above the law. She needed, Susan admitted reluctantly, her mother.

  One arch of her mother’s eyebrow accompanied by the barest breath of the Stanton name and a veritable army would rain upon Moonseed Manor in the blink of an eye. The moment Susan arrived in Bath, she’d rent—or outright steal—the first available carriage and hie directly to Stanton House. She would have to do a fair bit of explaining in order to win Mother to her point of view, but Susan would persevere until her voice cracked and died, if that was what it took.

  So resolved, she crossed the small enclosure and shoved open the cold iron gate on the far side. Although no sounds rent the still air save the faint whisper of wind scattering sand over rock, she paused with her hand on the gate and tilted her head toward the thicket of trees teeming in the shadows. She waited, not breathing, irrationally convinced she was better off shuttered inside the grave garden than stepping into the open where whatever animal prowling in the woods could attack and devour her.

  The rustle of fallen leaves crackling beneath the unseen beast’s great paws seemed overloud to Susan’s straining ears. Ominous. If it were not an animal in the strictest sense, it might very well be the villain of Moonseed Manor come home to punish his “guest” for her attempted interference.

  She almost turned and fled. Would have, in fact, had her hands not clenched in a palsied grip around the icy bars of iron. Had her booted feet not turned to stone, miring her in place like a sacrificial lamb. Had her heart not been beating so quickly that remembering to breathe became an impossible challenge.

  He stepped from the shadows.

  Her heart stalled, then exploded double time. Mr. Bothwick. He’d never confessed what he and the giant had uncovered amongst the graves. Or why he had kissed her senseless in front of the townsfolk just to save her. Unless saving her was the farthest objective from his mind. (The thought of danger, in that moment, had likewise vanished from Susan’s.) There was far more to Mr. Bothwick than his carefully maintained image of a care-for-naught rake. But while he seemed willing enough to dally with her, he obviously had no intention of sharing any of his secrets.

  Nor could she share hers. Last night’s crushing disappointment with Mr. Forrester had driven that point home.

  Besides, the only thing Mr. Bothwick had ever proven—besides his desire for her—was his utter untrustworthiness. Susan could not risk confiding her cousin’s plight to the man who was the best friend of Lady Emeline’s captor. Nor could she risk allowing him any more liberties than she already had.

  No matter how much her traitorous body might wish to.

  He appeared to be heading toward the main entrance. He paused, tilted his head, turned. Almost as if his legs began to carry him to her even before his mind was decided
on the matter. He was within arm’s reach in moments.

  In arm’s reach, but not touching her. Not even attempting to. He stood on the other side of the gate, close enough that if she unfurled her fingers from their death grip about the wrought iron, her fingertips would graze against his greatcoat. Even without touching, she could feel his heat. Her entire body warmed. Perhaps too much. She dared not allow her thoughts to show on her face.

  Would he never speak?

  Perhaps there were no words to be spoken. He had kissed her. She had liked it. That was dangerous enough. She had told him no more kissing. He had agreed. But her fingers gripped the gate because if they did not, they would be around his neck, in his hair, clutching him to her.

  Judging by the coiled tension in his stance and the unhidden passion in his eyes, she had only to give the merest indication for him to vault the gate and destroy her with the intoxicating pleasure of forbidden kisses.

  She hoped he could not read her internal battle in her eyes.

  “I was coming to see you,” he said at last, softly, his eyes hooded.

  Somehow, her fingers tightened around the gate. Her breath tangled in her throat before she managed, “Why? I thought we agreed we could not...”

  He stepped closer, closed that final inch, such that her curved fingers were now trapped between the unyielding cold of the wrought iron and the simmering hardness of his body. Perhaps, like her, even that small distance between them had been impossible to bear.

  He took a breath. “I’m leaving.”

  She did not gasp or cry out or any other such ninnyhammered thing. Mostly because she could not process his meaning.

  She blinked. Twice. “What?”

  “Just for the weekend,” he corrected quickly. He stepped back and pulled open the gate.

  The unexpected movement sent her pitching forward, right into his arms. Or perhaps the unexpected movement gave her the perfect excuse for allowing her body to tumble straight into his arms. Either way, Susan found his arms about her waist, hugging her close, while her own twined about his neck. At last.

  He dipped his head. She turned away, and at the last second his kiss landed against the side of her face. Rather than recoil from this rebuff, he kept his mouth millimeters from her skin, his warm breath searing into her as he dragged his soft lips down to the line of her jaw, to the sensitive hollow beneath her ear.

  “I said...” she breathed, then gave up. Even she could hear she didn’t mean it. “When will you be back?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He kept his mouth against her throat, intermingling his responses with kisses. “Can’t say.”

  “May I ride in the carriage?”

  “No carriage. Boat.” He bit the lobe of her ear. “And no. You can’t come.”

  Boat? Surely he didn’t intend to take his little death trap for an extended trip in the ocean. “It’s not safe. If you—”

  “Shhh.” He swallowed her concerns with a kiss.

  And for a long, delicious, unguarded moment... she let him. She loved the feel of her body against his, of his arms holding her tight, of his mouth hard against hers, then teasing, playing.

  Just as she was about to open up for him, to allow the kiss to become as wild and reckless as they both wanted, her rational mind gave its last plea for sense. She had goals. He was not part of them. If she kissed him, touched him, allowed this passion to burn any brighter, she would give lie not only to the words she spoke to him on the boat, but also to the promises she had made to herself.

  She untwisted her arms from about his neck, pushed her flattened palms against his chest... and warred with her own desires during every second.

  Confusion flashed in his eyes, then disappointment, then something more, something else, something she had no wish to analyze. Because he was loosening his embrace. Moving backward. Allowing her to go.

  Had she thought breaking the kiss was the hardest thing she could do? More fool, her. Even without his arms around her, stepping away from his warmth, of his need—of her own need—was almost impossible.

  But somehow, she did it. And managed to walk away.

  She did not look behind her, to see if he watched, to see if passion still darkened his eyes, to see if perhaps he’d made a step forward as if to stop her. If she’d done so and seen any of those things, she might not have been able to continue her lonesome path back to her bedchamber. She told herself it was better not to know... yet made her way directly to the closest window to spy upon the rock garden.

  But by then, he was gone.

  Chapter 30

  Although he now knew tonight’s destination wasn’t his dead brother’s final port of call after all, Evan couldn’t wait to step foot on the ship. He brushed past the deckhands who were milling about telling jokes and climbed aboard.

  Usually he loved the excitement. The adventure. The danger. Tonight, he appreciated the ability to forget his “real” life, if only for a short time. Whenever Miss Stanton was within sight, he lost his ability to focus on anything else. But such an all-consuming fancy was as dangerous to his neck as to his heart.

  Because now Forrester was here. Not here here, of course. Evan glanced down the length of the beloved ship and smirked. That little prig would wet his nappies if he ever came in contact with real pirates. Which could happen, if Forrester was nosing about town in the manner Evan suspected. However, the magistrate didn’t have to be the one to single-handedly bring down the crew in order to ruin—well, end—all their lives. He simply had to get the right information to the right superiors and the government would take care of the rest in a heartbeat.

  Evan crossed to the helm and ran his fingers over the wheel. The idea of visiting the gallows for ladies’ daywear was preposterous. Of all the goods Evan and his crew had smuggled in over the past six months, the odd thing was—French fashion wasn’t one of them. So if Miss Devonshire was truly spinning illegal silk in her web... where did it come from?

  He moved into the shadows as a cacophony of footfalls indicated the rest of the crew starting to board. The sight of their ruddy, laughing faces sparked an idea. The other crew might’ve smuggled the silk. He’d always suspected Poseidon’s men—who had once been true pirates—of dealing in something a bit more dastardly than mere cloth. At the least, they’d no doubt taken it by force. Spilled blood over stolen fabric.

  Smoking supplies and strong alcohol were more the style of Evan’s crew. Snuff boxes, brandy, apparently the occasional hand-painted tea set... that sort of thing. They didn’t kill, they didn’t steal. The majority were more like illegal businessmen than true pirates. Just a few gents out to help the economy. Evan grinned at this notion. His crew didn’t give a fig about the economy. They drank and smoked their half of the spoils. The other half—the nonconsumable half—went to the captain, whose onshore contact made quick work of subtly dispersing the goods along the entire coast, thereby leaving the actual smugglers’ hands clean of the merchandising portion of the process.

  Could Miss Devonshire have innocently gotten the silk through some such salesman? Was she the last in a series of transactions that could be traced back to the ship—and Evan himself?

  Christ, he hoped not. Evan splayed his fingers against the worn wooden column of the main mast. If that henwit Forrester brought down the entire smuggling operation because he’d followed the breadcrumbs of illegally imported French fabric, Evan was going to be furious.

  If that turn of events was remotely possible, he was running out of time.

  No, he was already running out of time. The coin in Timothy’s house had proved that. The crew knew better than to steal the captain’s gold. One thoughtless jack had lost his hand just for picking a piece up from the captain’s table. It was simply not done, much like stealing pages from any of the logbooks. The wardroom was Evan’s next stop. Quick, before the captain came aboard, or the crew got restless enough to seek out Evan.

  He opened the door to th
e wardroom. The current ledger lay open, with the last page still missing. He hadn’t imagined it.

  Evan paged backward in time, smiling at a few of the memories and scowling at others. His fingers froze in the act of page-turning. A month had disappeared. How had a month disappeared? He looked closer, seeing the subtle proof in the slight gap between the pages. Another missing sheet. He began to turn the pages more slowly. Ten in all, seemingly at random. But you didn’t just happen to accidentally rip out ten nonsequential sheets from the captain’s log in careful, perfect strokes that only someone looking for such a thing would have noticed.

  What about previous logs? Evan jerked his gaze to the shelf containing the old, dated logbooks.

  Empty. Even the dust was missing.

  He slammed the current logbook closed and strode for the door before the captain showed up and thought Evan responsible for the thievery. He tried to think of a logical explanation. Without the threat of retribution, the crew wouldn’t have stolen any log sheets, simply because they didn’t care. What was a jack to do, frame a favorite itinerary in his bedchamber?

  Evan headed back to the main deck, his steps as slow and plodding as his brain. He had to be missing something. Well, obviously he was missing something. Many somethings, going back well before Evan ever joined the fun. If he could just read what was written on the pages, maybe he’d finally understand what was happening. Of course, he’d have to find them first. Given he hadn’t had any luck finding one missing sheet, chances were low he’d happen across all the rest.

  Frustrated and discouraged, he rejoined the crew. Their ribald jokes were sure to raise his spirits, if only for the duration of the journey. The sheer joy of smuggling goods across international borders would take over from there.

  But the crew was neither ribald nor joking. They were unsettled. Worried.

  Evan approached with caution, keeping a fair bit of distance as he remembered Ollie’s nervous comment that this voyage would be cursed. Ha, ha, ha. Sailors were always a suspicious lot. And setting sail with the worst of them when they were of a mood—particularly with the sea in high dudgeon, as it was tonight—might not be the wisest of choices.