Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2

by Ridley, Erica

  Evan stayed quiet, more out of perplexity than any desire to be obedient. The woman made absolutely no sense.

  She turned back toward the blackness, dismissing him.

  He considered leaving as planned.

  Galling as it was, she seemed to have forgotten their aborted lovemaking in her obsession with—with what? She was neither descending the staircase nor returning fully to the hallway. She was doing precisely nothing.

  He was wasting his time. She wanted a husband; he wanted to run off screaming. Why he continued standing next to her instead of running, he wasn’t entirely sure. She was a marriage-minded woman. He was a bachelor-minded man. Expectations of commitment accompanied any relationship she entered. Consequence-free encounters were the only variety he ever had. So it wasn’t as if there was anything left to discuss.

  He had almost turned to leave when he remembered they still did have plenty left unsaid, once he dropped his sexual frustration and wounded pride from the picture. He hated the idea that this woman who’d fled from him seconds after finding release would eagerly bed some insipid ton fop, simply because he had something other than “Mister” before his name.

  With such an image in his head, no wonder he’d almost forgotten why he’d come here in the first place. It wasn’t because he’d missed her. Not at all. It was because he didn’t trust her.

  “Did you tell Harriet Grey her brother was dead?” he demanded.

  “Shhh!” She flapped a hand at him as if shushing a recalcitrant child and then whispered, “Not my finest moment, I admit. Do be quiet and let me listen.”

  He stared at the back of her blonde head.

  Not her finest moment? What the devil did that mean? He’d expected her to deny the accusation. She had not. Which meant it was true. How, he couldn’t begin to fathom. He had no guesses as to where she’d met an unsavory like Red in the first place—particularly since such a meeting would’ve had to occur prior to her arrival in Bournemouth—much less who would have informed her of his death.

  “How did you know he—”

  “Shhh.” She tugged him closer. “Help me listen.”

  Irritably realizing he wouldn’t get anywhere with her until he’d indulged whatever fantasy had gripped her nonsensical mind, he cocked his head to the side and listened. Hard. For several long moments. Then he gave up.

  “I hear nothing.”

  “Me neither.” She turned to him, her eyes almost as wide as the lenses of her spectacles. “I wonder what it means.”

  It meant she was utterly off her hooks, by the look of it. What kind of noises would come from a larder? Pheasants, rising from the dead?

  “I have to see,” she whispered. “Come with me. I don’t want to go by myself.”

  She took three or four steps into the darkness. She stopped, glanced up at him, and gestured for him to hurry.

  Evan sighed. If Ollie caught them spying on neat little rows of tins and jars, Evan would never hear the end of it. The crew had taunted Evan and Timothy for their alleged “fancy” tastes ever since they’d both balked at the slop they’d been served in dusty bowls their first night aboard ship. Evan felt no shame for liking good food. But he didn’t particularly want to set himself up for another round of ribbing when now more than ever it seemed wise to stay out of the captain’s eye. And out of Ollie’s house.

  Miss Stanton, however, had not stopped staring up at him and making furious “Come on!” motions with her hands.

  All right, fine. But she’d better hurry.

  He descended quickly, brushing past her and continuing on. He snagged a candle from the sole candelabrum halfway down the stairs and moved faster. The sooner he got to the bottom, the sooner he could head back to the top. It wasn’t as though there were any reason for her to act as if something frightening lurked just around the corner. It was a larder, for Christ’s—

  Evan stopped so suddenly, candle wax dripped on his ungloved fingers. He scarcely noticed. All he could see were the high stone walls, damp with age and mold. A thick iron chain led from a clamp in the wall to an ankle the width of a child’s. The terrified owner of said ankle rocked in the far corner with her hands wrapped tightly about her knees and a dirty handkerchief tied around her head in a gag.

  “Oh no,” Miss Stanton cried out, running past him to kneel before the emaciated young lady with long blonde plaits and pale skin. “Cousin Emeline, what have they done to you?”

  Evan almost dropped the candle.

  This was Lady Emeline?!

  He’d thought—he’d thought—well, he wasn’t sure his brain had been firing fast enough to think much of anything, but he certainly hadn’t thought this poor creature was Ollie’s wife. He ran his fingers in the cracks between the stones, searching for a key to unlock her.

  “Don’t bother.” With her eyes focused on the trembling young lady before her, Miss Stanton began to carefully untie the soiled handkerchief. “The scarecrow keeps the keys with him.”

  He blinked. “Scarecrow?”

  “I’m forced to keep hold of the keys with you nosing about,” scratched a voice from the stairwell.

  Although he’d recognized the speaker immediately, Evan had half-expected an actual scarecrow to appear in the doorway. Why not? His evening had lost all sense of reality hours ago.

  But no, it was the butler standing between them and the stairwell.

  And Ollie.

  “Why do you have your wife chained to a wall in the cellar?” Evan challenged, unable to hide the shock in his tone.

  Ollie made no response.

  The lapdog, however, grinned. “You know a better place to chain her?”

  Evan’s hands clenched. His fists ached to plant themselves right in the center of the servant’s smug face. He warred with temptation. But this was Ollie’s lackey. And Ollie’s house. So Evan kept his focus on the master.

  “Unlock her.”

  “No.”

  As before, the response was swift, monosyllabic, and final.

  Worse than anything, there was nothing Evan could do about it. Well, short of breaking the captive free and abducting her from her home. Then he’d be the one in violation of the law. With him in gaol, the woman would be returned right back to her husband.

  Miss Stanton rose to her feet, handkerchief clenched in her fist.

  “Why did you gag her?” she demanded, eyes flashing with fear and outrage.

  Evan couldn’t help but admire her in that moment. She was clearly terrified, yet willing to stand up to an oversize brute despite being powerless to stop him from doing whatever he fancied. With a backbone like that, she wouldn’t make a half-bad pirate.

  “Why did you gag her?” Evan repeated, when it seemed the twosome would ignore Miss Stanton’s question indefinitely.

  Ollie raised his brows and said nothing. He didn’t have to answer to anyone. He owned Lady Emeline. No matter what Evan or Miss Stanton thought about his conduct. Ollie was reminding them of that fact without saying a word.

  “Why?” Miss Stanton choked out again. “She already—she doesn’t have—”

  “Turns out,” the servant said with a malicious glance at his mistress, “milady’s a screamer.”

  Evan’s blood froze.

  “Doesn’t like her punishments much.” The servant smirked at the cowering woman. “Do you, milady?”

  “She—She—” Miss Stanton gasped, clutching the handkerchief to her chest. “It wasn’t her fault! I made her go! I’m the one who—the one who—”

  Ollie crossed the room and plucked the dirty cloth from her fingers. He turned to his wife. “You weren’t making noises again, were you, love?”

  Lady Emeline shook her head and shrank farther into the corner.

  “No? In that case...” He straightened and turned toward Miss Stanton.

  Almost as a reflex, Evan reached out and latched on to her wrist, tugging her close. He released his grip once he realized what he’d done. But she remained at his side, pale and trembling.
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  Ollie seemed to double in size. “If you didn’t hear anything that required investigation, Miss Stanton, I have to assume you came down here entirely on your own. In direct violation of my... suggestion... to the contrary. Have you changed your mind as to where you preferred to have your own living quarters?”

  It was Miss Stanton’s turn to shake her head frantically.

  Evan’s jaw dropped.

  “In that case,” Ollie continued as if nothing were amiss, “I suggest you retake your quarters immediately. Or I will provide you with alternate accommodation.”

  She swayed, and for a second Evan thought she would slump against him in a dead faint. But then she gasped for air, gave a final anguished glance at the woman in the corner, and fled up the stairs.

  “And now Bothwick,” Ollie drawled. The blackness of his full beard couldn’t hide the fury of his expression. “Shouldn’t you be on your way, too?”

  Yes, yes, of course he should. He had no pistols handy, no legal recourse, and no way of winning no matter which moment he chose to fight this battle. Yet the thought of inaction nauseated him.

  “Do not terrorize Miss Stanton.”

  “Terrorize?” Ollie repeated mildly, toying with the chain that led down to his wife’s ankle. “I merely suggested she not spend her time so far below stairs, that’s all.”

  Evan cast another frustrated glance at the trembling young lady in the corner.

  “Repugnant as it is, I can’t prevent you from treating your wife as you wish,” he bit out at last. “But no matter what incomprehensible motives drive you to cage your wife in the cellar, surely the occasional visit from a friendly face cannot hurt.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me.” Ollie’s black eyes glittered in the candlelight. “I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I informed Miss Stanton I’d be more than happy to let her stay with Emeline. Indefinitely.”

  The pointed arch to Ollie’s thick black brows left no doubt as to what, precisely, he was threatening. Both women were in danger. From a man who could do whatever he damn well pleased with either one.

  Lady Emeline let out a whimper, then clapped both hands over her mouth as if to trap the tiny noise from escaping. A twitch of Ollie’s brow indicated the sound had not gone unnoticed. Nor would the infraction go unpunished. His lapdog’s self-satisfied grin hinted he got just as much pleasure from the power to bedevil his mistress as he did from Evan’s powerlessness to stop him.

  Damn it all. There was absolutely nothing Evan could do to protect Lady Emeline or Miss Stanton.

  Nothing.

  Chapter 33

  Even with Timothy’s ivory-handled knife in her pocket, Susan was afraid to unlock the bedchamber door the next morning.

  She glared at her self-imposed cage and swore beneath her breath. For a sociable young lady who’d been (unfairly) confined to her room for the better part of a year as punishment for spreading a devastating piece of (verifiably true) gossip, one might think the last thing she would voluntarily do was remain locked in her bedroom.

  Particularly in a place like Moonseed Manor.

  However, she had no wish to step out into the corridor, only to find herself shackled next to cousin Emeline in the cellar. Poor cousin Emeline. Susan dropped her face into her hands and tried not to imagine what she’d suffered as a result of Susan’s unsuccessful attempt to free them both from the monster of the Manor.

  Heartsick, she dallied in the relative safety of her bedchamber. Breakfast came and went. Janey came and went as well. Bearing no tidings—or money—from home.

  Again.

  Leaving Susan with the disheartening realization that no one was coming to her rescue. If her family had received her pleas in the first place. Whether her letters ever got posted remained a matter of speculation. It would be just like her guardian to have his servants toss her missives directly into the closest fire.

  She eyed the locked door. Could the giant knock it from its hinges by brute force? Possibly. She cleaned her spectacles and peered closer at said hinges. Make that probably. The latch was old. He was big. And she was an unarmed Town miss with no one to turn to.

  Her cheeks heated at this lie.

  But she didn’t know what to think about Mr. Bothwick. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot perhaps, what with him trying to shoot his pistols at the master of the house (which turned out to be an excellent character assessment on Mr. Bothwick’s part) and her erasing the footpath with her derrière (which turned out to be yet another directional misstep on her part). Then there was last night.

  She hadn’t meant to kiss him. Well, yes, she’d hoped he’d steal a kiss. Or two. But she certainly hadn’t intended for things to escalate any further. His mouth and his fingers made an excellent case for giving up on “purity.” Unfortunately, she didn’t have that luxury.

  Mr. Bothwick, however, had been nothing short of offended when she’d deemed him not the sort of man one married, no matter how much one’s heart might leap at the idea of being his for more than one night. A smuggler was not husband material. A smuggler was the sort of shameless rakehell who lifted women’s skirts in strange bedchambers. (She’d consider her own complicity in the matter at another time.)

  She wished she could have the best of both worlds but recognized the impossibility. One of them had to keep a clear head. She put her eye to the keyhole of her bedchamber door to ensure the corridor was empty before stepping out.

  The irony of the situation, Susan decided as she carefully crept through the Manor and out the front door, was that the man she’d thought would be her ally was not. She’d been certain Mr. Forrester would be shocked and horrified and wish to rescue both women immediately. Yet he’d patted her on the head and immediately returned Lady Emeline to her prison.

  Whereas the man she’d labeled a villain from the first, who carried pistols and lost his brother’s corpse and never let a second pass without an attempt at divesting her from her (thus far continuing) virginity—that man had stared the giant down, demanded Lady Emeline’s prompt release, been so furious at the giant’s refusal Susan had been certain only one of them would leave the cellar alive.

  All of which boiled down to one surprising truth: There was the law, and then there was the law unto oneself. And sometimes the latter was more effective.

  She pondered this conclusion as she headed down the sandy path toward town. True, they hadn’t managed to rescue Lady Emeline last night. But Mr. Bothwick had been so outraged on cousin Emeline’s behalf, Susan was certain his aid could be enlisted in the future. Perhaps he could rescue them both.

  That still didn’t make him husband material, of course. In fact, his very usefulness lay in the fact that he was the opposite of eligible. She’d seen what an honorable, proper, law-abiding gentleman would accomplish: absolutely nothing. Mr. Bothwick, on the other glove, was the sort who made things happen.

  Before she could ruminate more on the topic, his dead brother chose that moment to materialize at her side.

  “I don’t know what happened to the box,” she announced preemptively. If she was a bit defensive about the topic, it was because she’d barely left her bedchamber all weekend. She presumed the ghost’s absence indicated he’d been watching over his brother.

  “I found it,” Dead Mr. Bothwick said, keeping an arm’s length between them as he accompanied her by floating backward down the trail. “It’s in Ollie’s dining room.”

  She pushed up her spectacles. After last night, no way was she stepping foot in the giant’s domain. “And?”

  “And now,” he replied, “you steal it.”

  Susan stumbled on the rocky path. “Are you bamming me? You have no idea how displeased with me that monster is at the moment. If he catches me trying to steal that jewelry box, he’ll cut off my arms.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Or my tongue.”

  Dead Mr. Bothwick winced. “Perhaps.”

  She stopped walking. Even the wind seemed to cease for a moment. “What do you m
ean, ‘perhaps’?”

  He flickered. “Nothing. I meant nothing. Go steal the box.”

  “I think you did mean something. I think you meant, ‘Perhaps he will, Miss Stanton. Oh well.’ Which means you have reason to believe it could happen.”

  “Can we please talk about the box?”

  “No.” Susan narrowed her eyes at the shimmering ghost. Not for the first time, she felt Dead Mr. Bothwick was not telling the whole truth. Nor was he overly concerned about her mortality. In short, she didn’t trust him. The odd thing was, he didn’t seem to trust her either. And the black cloud for them both? They were stuck with each other.

  “Please pay attention.” His ghostly form rippled. “It is of utmost urgency that you hide that box somewhere neither Ollie nor his servants will ever find it.”

  “Why? What’s in it?”

  He flashed her a look of pure exasperation. “It doesn’t matter what’s in it!”

  “Why should I risk my life for something that doesn’t matter?” she asked in her most reasonable tone, knowing the logic would drive him mad. He deserved some consternation. His half-truths and dangerous missions were more than she could handle right now. She stormed forward.

  All Red had wanted was for her to pass a simple message, and look where that had gotten her. That business in the rock garden? She was lucky the still-living Mr. Bothwick had intercepted her. If the giant and the scarecrow had found her trespassing...

  Susan shivered. She didn’t want to imagine the lengths to which they might have retaliated. She didn’t want to go back to Moonseed Manor at all.

  Ignoring Dead Mr. Bothwick, she stood at the base of the path and glanced around the town. Nobody had come out to stone her today. Nor were there balloons and a parade. Instead, she was studiously ignored, as she had been the last time she dared show her face. A stupid woman, for not accepting Mr. Bothwick’s supposed proposal. A fallen woman, for having kissed him passionately.

  A madwoman, for talking to ghosts. But at least she’d kept that much to herself.

  “What do you think?” Dead Mr. Bothwick had apparently concluded his monologue. “Will you do it?”