Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2

by Ridley, Erica

  Evan’s mouth fell open. “He’s a what?”

  “You can’t breathe a word,” she said quickly, her hand still preventing blood flow to his fingers. “There’s already been at least one death because of it. Two, I suppose, counting your brother.”

  Evan’s skin turned clammy. “Timothy told you Ollie was a pirate?”

  She nodded. “He was investigating them.”

  “Timothy was investigating... pirates?” He felt like a deuced fool repeating everything she said, but his brain was boiling in his skull.

  She nodded again. “I imagine they’re all going to prison. Then they’re going to hang.” She looked particularly pleased by the thought of Ollie dangling from a noose.

  Evan, however, was not as delighted by this news.

  At what point had Timothy decided to go turncoat and ferret information to the law? He would’ve had to realize that although he might save his own neck from the morning drop, there would be no pardoning the rest, Evan included. The entire crew would hang. Some of the jacks were conscienceless knaves, yes, but... to pretend to be complicit, solely to ensure a trip to the gallows, when to do so would condemn your own brother to go down with the ship?

  Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Miss Stanton began pulling on clothing. First her stays, then her gown. She turned and gave Evan her back. He did his best to button and lace her without snapping any strings. His hold on sanity seemed equally frayed.

  She knew about Ollie. She even knew things about Timothy that Evan himself hadn’t known. Which meant it was all true. There truly were spirits. Who spoke to her. One of which was the late Timothy Bothwick.

  Brother. Smuggler. Traitor.

  Chapter 37

  The giant wasn’t the only pirate in Bournemouth.

  Susan had turned her back toward Mr. Bothwick the moment his expression had changed from startled to furious. She’d left immediately after he’d slipped the last button into place and hadn’t looked back. She couldn’t face him without giving away what she’d seen darken his hazel eyes: betrayal.

  Mr. Bothwick was one of the soon-to-be-condemned pirates.

  And she’d lain with him.

  She pushed blindly through the trees, scarce able to keep her feet on the trail. Between the dark clouds and the thick branches converging overhead, it felt more like nightfall than late afternoon. A wet drop slipped through the sparse leaves and streaked across one of her lenses. The skies were about to open up, and she wasn’t 100 percent certain this was the footpath that led from Mr. Bothwick’s cliff back to Moonseed Manor.

  But the trampled dirt was a path leading somewhere. With the cold rain falling faster by the second—and the house she’d just escaped from home to a bloody pirate—she would seek whatever shelter she could find.

  She should continue to be safe from Mr. Bothwick as long as he didn’t realize she knew the truth. The giant appeared content to spare her life whilst her parents paid him. Or perhaps her murder wouldn’t be worth risking his own life. After all, the Stantons’ connections were considerable. Crossing the baron and his wife would be begging to visit the gallows.

  Nonetheless, the idea of immediately returning to Moonseed Manor held little pull.

  Her hands were freezing. She longed for the relative warmth of gloves. Perhaps she should wear her soiled ones, despite the blood staining the once-white silk. She reached numb fingers into her pocket, pulled out the dark crumple, and gave it a good shake.

  Now the cloth was brown and damp... and consisted of a single glove. Spectacular. Where had the other one flown off to? She hesitated, her clothes and hair and skin getting wetter by the moment, and debated just leaving the other glove where it lay. But no. She’d had sound reasons for not tossing them aside before, and those reasons still stood. With a sigh, she retraced her steps to the point where she thought she’d shaken out the wrinkled silk.

  Nothing but dirt, mud, and fallen leaves. Most of which clung to the remaining glove and her now-ruined gown. Perhaps she hadn’t retraced her steps correctly. Perhaps she’d wandered down a different footpath. Typical. Susan gave up on the missing glove—it had to be buried under a foot of mud anyway—and headed back down the trail. At least, she hoped she did. She would go mad if she broke through the trees only to discover herself once again at Mr. Bothwick’s door.

  A bloody pirate!

  No wonder he had that aura of danger and arrogance, that unapologetic delight in doing whatever he wished. Such as threaten another pirate with pistols. What if he’d done more than threaten? Hadn’t she already wondered at the connection between Mr. Bothwick and the death of his brother? He’d apparently accepted the fact of Red’s death without any physical proof. Perhaps there was a reason for that, as well. And the Runner—oh, Lord, the Runner—mightn’t the poor man have gone to his informant’s brother for information and help? Hadn’t she found his corpse a mere shell’s toss from Mr. Bothwick’s rowboat?

  She stumbled, gripped the slippery bark of the closest tree, and dry heaved. She’d thought herself a better judge of character. She’d fancied the man lowbred but well-meaning, rakish but misunderstood, hot-tempered but overall harmless. Had she truly been that wrong?

  The rain let up a little, and she forged forward along the trail. The path was beginning to widen, the trees to disperse, the leaves scarcer. She stepped free at last—and there, up ahead, like a beacon of light, like a mirage on the desert, like the Holy Grail itself, were:

  Stables.

  Half-laughing, half-crying, she ran toward them. She slipped and fell in the mud, but picked herself up without stopping and flew to the structure as if her life depended on reaching the horses inside. It very likely did.

  A gaggle of unsavory-looking liverymen loitered by the open door. No matter. She would win them (and use of a horse, please, God) with charm and aplomb in a matter of seconds. She slowed to a walk, soaking wet and out of breath, but filled with hope for the first time in ages.

  “Good afternoon,” she called out.

  As one, their fingertips went to pistols strapped to their hips, then fell casually to their sides as they judged her no threat. Susan stumbled. The liverymen were armed? She started to have a very bad feeling about the grounds on which she trespassed.

  “Er... Whose stables are these?” she called out, deciding to stop where she was, rather than close the last couple yards between them.

  One of the men spat a bit of leaf onto the ground before replying, “Mr. Bothwick’s.”

  Spectacular. Susan briefly considered stabbing herself with the ivory-handled blade right then and there, thereby saving everyone else the hassle of killing her.

  “Timothy Bothwick’s?” she asked anyway, despite the sick feeling in her stomach indicating she already knew that not to be the case.

  The liveryman shook his head. “His brother.”

  Of course. She’d finally found the only stables in a twenty-mile radius and they belonged to Mr. Bothwick. The pirate. To whom she’d mistakenly given her virginity and her trust. She’d never again possess the former, but at least now she had the faculty to be more judicious in the latter. The man did not deserve trust. And, most likely, neither did his liverymen.

  “M-may I see the horses?” she asked, despite her better judgment.

  Once again, they all touched their fingertips to their hips. But this time, they kept their hands at the ready.

  “No,” came the flat reply.

  There was no room for argument.

  Bloody, bloody hell. Damn and triple damn. Susan cast her gaze up to the still-rumbling sky and blinked when a raindrop splattered against the lens of her spectacles. She simply did not know enough swear words to properly convey the level of frustration burning through her blood.

  The liverymen waited, silent, watching her.

  She wanted to cry. She stood before them, miserable, pathetic. A woman with matted hair clinging to her frozen face. Clad in a mud-splattered dress with torn sleeves and a battered hem. One bare hand clen
ched her soiled skirts for warmth, the other encased in ruined silk stained brown with a dead man’s blood. Not an inch of her body had escaped the onslaught of the rain. And, to top it all off, she was lost.

  “Could one of you please tell me how to get to Moonseed Manor?”’

  She hated how much her voice shook. She wasn’t sure whether her body trembled because of the cold, because she was afraid the liverymen would just as soon shoot her as help her, or because she was even more afraid they wouldn’t know how to get there either and she’d wander around this wet hellhole until she died of cold and starvation.

  But one of the liverymen began to gesture. Not the one who’d spit—a different one. A nicer one. Still armed, of course, but at least willing to tell her how to get out of there.

  “Not too far up that way,” he was saying, “you’ll see what’s another trail. Can’t miss it. Just keep straight on. There’s no forks and the like. You’ll come out by the gate with all the roses.”

  “You mean the rock garden?” she asked hopefully. “Just behind Moonseed Manor?”

  He nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  She gave him a smile—no need to make more enemies—and headed in the direction he’d pointed. Eventually, she did come across another footpath. A wider one. With fewer branches. She made her way down the very center, so as to ensure she didn’t accidentally wander to the left or to the right. After what seemed like weeks to her exhausted legs and blistered feet, she clapped eyes on the gate behind Moonseed Manor.

  Who knew the day would come when she’d be relieved to step foot in the grave garden?

  She wasn’t thrilled to be anywhere near the giant and his henchman, but at least she was reasonably assured of survival until Mr. Forrester came to spirit her away to the assembly. So long as she kept her big mouth shut and did her best to stay out of sight. Perhaps the best plan was to lock her chamber door until the magistrate arrived.

  She went straight upstairs, where she immediately rang for a bath. If only she’d been able to leave Mr. Bothwick’s house with the same warm glow of happiness and optimism she’d had while in his arms. But she could no longer suppress the horror she’d been trying to deny. Although the Runner’s blood was gone from her fingertips, the sensation of bone-deep uncleanliness had returned. She shoved the knife into a drawer before throwing her clothes and soiled glove into the fire.

  While waiting for the hot water to arrive, she collapsed onto the antique chair before the escritoire. She had been doubtful when Janey had admitted she could frank mail without her master’s knowledge, and ensure clandestine missives would be taken by foot to the nearest town with capabilities of posting mail. Susan had certainly hoped such a feat were possible, but hadn’t allowed herself to believe it true until she’d laid eyes on the corpse at the beach. But Janey was a godsend. Fully convinced of the maid’s resourcefulness and secrecy, Susan penned a new letter. This time, to the headquarters of the Bow Street Runners.

  She said there were pirates in town, one of whom was master of Moonseed Manor. She said they had started to turn on each other, leaving at least two dead. She informed them the emissary they’d sent had suffered a fatal knife wound for his troubles. She begged them to send an army.

  At last the bath arrived, and Susan was able to sink into a tub of scented soap and hot water. A few moments later, a faint but recognizable sound came from outside. Horses! She jerked up so quickly froth and bathwater splashed over the sides of the tub, and then she realized to whom the horses must belong.

  Mr. Bothwick. Here to share the details of a shocking turn of events with his best mate and fellow pirate. And to forbid her from ever stepping foot near his stables again. No doubt that was why he arrived on horseback instead of on foot.

  She sank back into the tub, but the warm water had ceased to relax her tense muscles. Nonetheless, she stayed buried in jasmine-scented bubbles until the horses outside whinnied their impatience. Ten minutes. Fifteen, at most, had passed. Well, she supposed it didn’t take that long to say, “Miss Stanton knows we’re pirates,” and “Are you certain her parents will notice if we kill her?”

  After the last of the bubbles died, she called for the lady’s maid.

  Janey eased into the room with a wooden box clutched in her too-thin fingers. She set the small object atop a dresser as if it were a miracle straight from God.

  “What is that?” Susan stammered, barely resisting the urge to leap from the lukewarm tub and fetch the box dripping wet.

  “For you. From your parents.”

  “My what?” She grabbed at the closest towel.

  The maid helped Susan to dry, then took what felt like an impossible amount of time layering her in shift and stays and a fresh gown. When Janey went to fetch dry boots, Susan half-ran, half-slid across the slick wooden floor in her bare stockings and grabbed up the box, which bore a very familiar crest. She opened the lid and blinked. Money. Heaps of it. Coins, bills, signed bank notes. And a small scrap of parchment reading only, You’ll feel better after shopping.

  “M-my parents sent this?” she asked stupidly. “In a... in a mail coach?”

  Janey shook her head. “In their carriage.”

  Susan’s heart stopped for a second too long, then exploded into double time. “My parents came for me!”

  Again, the maid shook her head. “Servants. I got this from a groomsman while my master was talking to the driver. Don’t suppose he’d be too happy to know you had it.”

  Susan returned her gaze to the pile of coin and nodded slowly. No, she didn’t suppose they’d be too happy to know she’d just been handed the very means to escape from Bath in a legally hired hack. But with the carriage here—she wouldn’t have to. It could take her and Emeline right back to Town! She forced a small handful of coin into Janey’s spidery hands for all her efforts.

  Still in her stocking feet, Susan shoved the box into the drawer with the knife and dashed for the bedchamber door. It was the height of impropriety to appear in public without proper footwear, but the most important objective at this moment was ensuring the servants waited for her before departing. She jerked open the bedchamber door and bit back a scream.

  The scarecrow stood on the other side. Grinning his terrible grin.

  “There you are,” he rasped, his tiny black eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Your family sent round a carriage.”

  “Thank you.” She shouldered past him. “I’m going to speak with the driver immediately.”

  “Are you, now? Well, that’s going to be a mite tricky.” His scratchy voice clawed at her through the oppressive air. “Since they’re gone.”

  No.

  Muscles twitching in fury, she turned on him. “Why didn’t you send for me?”

  His face split into his awful smile and he gestured at her stockinged feet with a jaundiced hand. “You were busy.”

  Chapter 38

  Punching the wall—twice—did not improve Evan’s disposition. The strong surface remained as stubbornly unyielding as his dead brother’s thick head. He’d known from the first Timothy would make a terrible smuggler. The ridiculous lists. The cleaning schedules. The pathological aversion to breaking laws. But Timothy had said yes, damn it. Yes meant yes.

  “Yes” did not mean “I will feign complicity temporarily whilst plotting to bring about my brother’s imprisonment and subsequent public hanging.”

  Evan punched the wall again, this time with the other hand, and swore. Now he had two sets of bruised knuckles, a perfectly solid wall, and the same maddening lot of problems as before.

  Damn it.

  He had to compose himself. To think. To plan. He crossed his arms against the temptation to keep throwing punches, and propped his bare shoulders against the irritatingly immobile wall.

  Calm down. Think of something pleasant. Think of... Susan.

  No matter how gobsmacked he felt about his brother, Evan shouldn’t have let her run off. She’d come to him out of
fear and worry and he’d likely only added to both, rather than bring her the comfort she’d needed. He couldn’t blame her for being upset over Lady Emeline. His own muscles had jumped with fury when he’d seen the tiny woman treated like an animal. There had to be something he could do, short of killing Ollie. Although that didn’t seem a half-bad plan.

  If Timothy had his way, Ollie would swing soon enough. They all would.

  Stop thinking like that.

  Evan couldn’t believe that his little brother was still managing to complicate life from the grave. Or that he was able to talk to Susan about it. And that she hadn’t breathed a word. No, that wasn’t fair. If Evan saw spirits, he doubted he’d write a column about it for the Tatler. It must be lonely to have an ability like that and be unable to mention it. He supposed he could have schooled his own reaction a bit better.

  He pushed away from the wall, crossed to a small drawer, and pulled out the pearl-encrusted hair comb that had tumbled from her hair before she’d fled from his arms in Moonseed Manor. Sometimes it seemed as if she was always running from him. Or perhaps it was he who kept chasing her away.

  He pocketed the comb and gazed unblinking at his rumpled bed. Today marked the first time he’d made love in it. Amazing. During the four years he’d lived at Bournemouth most of his interaction with women had taken place in other locales. Happenstance. Convenience. He’d cherished the ability to ride or sail back home with the knowledge no complications would ensue from the liaison because he’d never lay eyes on the woman again.

  And now look at him. Standing alone in his room, a stolen memento in his pocket, the smell of lovemaking still rich in the air. Thinking of Susan.

  Longing to see her again.

  He gritted his teeth at the irony. The one time in his life he found himself interested in a woman as more than a means to pleasure, and he could do nothing about it, thanks to his Janus-faced brother. Or could he?

  Evan paused halfway to the bed, beside which his shirt and waistcoat still lay crumpled on the floor. What, precisely, had Susan said? Timothy had been investigating pirates, yes. But for whom? Perhaps he’d been doing so on his own, for whatever incomprehensible reason. Perhaps he fancied himself a novelist. Timothy had always preferred the company of his mind to that of living people.