A Heart Deceived (37 page)

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.”

“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?”

Hugging herself, Miri padded along, feet sinking into plush carpeting. Someone must’ve paid a small fortune for that. Funny how she could feel her feet but not her head. It was probably somewhere nearby, floating about like a giant soap bubble. If it popped, would she disappear?

That’s right … Roland had disappeared. He floated somewhere too. She had to find him, tether him to her wrist on a very long string, and then all would be right with the world. Or … maybe not. He might yank her around. Take that great string and spin, orbiting her in an endless circle. Round and round and—

Her stomach seized, and she doubled over, moaning.

Then she floated again. Her whole body, not only her head. She landed somewhere warm, and strength embraced her.

“Dobbins, go now!”

The words rumbled beneath her ear, an earthquake of sorts. Too loud for worms. Too deep for crickets. It didn’t smell like dirt, more like … sandalwood. She pressed her face against this soft ground and felt … nothing. Her soap bubble had caught on a gust of wind, taking her on a wild ride. She held on tight—

But bubbles were notoriously slippery. It would be easier to just let go.

Should she?

40

A scritching noise, like metal drapery rings forced along a rod, jarred into the abyss where Miri huddled in a ball. She startled, tightening further, then slowly uncurled, loosening one joint at a time. After being cold and cramped for so long, stretching felt wonderful.

“Awake then, are ye?”

Miri’s eyes popped open. Bright sunshine assaulted her, and she squinted.

The silhouette of a woman grew in size, taking on features as she bent over the bed. Judging from the crinkles at her eyes and pucker marks near her lips, she had many years tucked beneath her mobcap. Hair the color of a bleached mainsail framed her pinked cheeks, and her mouth pulled into an agreeable line. All in all, a safe-to-share-your-secrets-with kind of face—but one completely unfamiliar.

“Quite the scare you’ve given me, dear.”

Did she know this woman well enough for such an endearment? The woman’s voice, while sweet, did not ring any former-acquaintance bells. Miri searched her memory. Did she know the woman at all?

“And you fairly frightened the life out of m’lord.”

Miri nibbled her lower lip. Who was “m’lord,” and why would a chit of a woman like herself frighten him? The woman must be mad. That’s it. Just one more lunatic in the asylum.

“Now then, shall I plump you up and get you some broth?”

Plumping brought to mind a fattened goose before the slaughter, or beating the lumps out of a cushion. But the mention of broth rippled a hunger pang through her tummy. “Yes …” Her voice came out like water through a seldom-used pipe. “Yes, please.”

The woman’s smile widened. “That’s the spirit!”

She thrust a strong arm beneath Miri’s shoulders and lifted. With her other hand, she scooched up the pillows and settled Miri against them. If that was plumping, Miri rather liked it. She sank against the soft backdrop.

“There. Comfortable?”

“Yes, but …” Miri’s brow tightened. The woman’s question confused on more levels than one. Why she’d care about her comfort was anyone’s guess. Bare necessity topped the list at Sheltering Arms—not comfort.

Unless she wasn’t at the asylum anymore.

Shifting, she gazed past the woman’s concerned face. Sunlight bounced off a crystal chandelier, polka-dotting the walls with bits of rainbows. Miri blinked. Hopefully that explained it and she wasn’t in for a doozy of a headache.

Two overstuffed chairs and an upholstered settee lounged in front of a bay window. Against one wall stood an enormous wardrobe, and near it, a full-length looking glass on a frame. Gracing the other wall were a glossy writing desk and a washstand. In stolen moments, she’d read of such fine places in novels. Was this some kind of fantasy, then? A snippet of something she’d gotten lodged in her mind? Then again, mayhap she’d died and gone to heaven. Or—

Perhaps she’d gone as skippity-nippy loony as Roland. She stiffened. “Where am I?”

“There, now. Don’t fret.” The woman smoothed her fingertips along Miri’s brow. “You’re safe at Westford Manor.”

“Westford Manor.” Repeating the name didn’t help. It sounded pleasant enough but was completely foreign on her tongue. How had she gotten here? And why? Miri drew up the blankets to her chin. “Whose house is this?”

“M’lord Trenton’s, of course.” The woman’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re looking a bit pale, dear. Perhaps you ought to lay back down.”

“No.” Miri drew a big breath, suddenly light-headed. Heaven, madness, or fantasy, she wanted to remain bolstered up in this fine, faery-tale room.

The woman angled her head. “You are certain?”

“Yes …” Her strength drained, swirling down into the mattress, the pull of it irresistible. “I’ll just … rest …”

“I thought as much.” The woman’s voice faded.

As did the room.

When it came back into view, blue-grey light filtered through the windows. Shadows stretched into odd shapes, none resembling a mobcapped woman—at least not on the wardrobe side of the room. Fighting with a tangled sheet, Miri kicked it back and rolled over.

Then gasped.

In a chair at her bedside sat a man, head tipped back, eyes closed. Stubble darkened his jaw, the skin beneath pallid, as if he’d wallowed in an ashbin. Color deepened in half circles beneath his closed lashes. Either the dusky light granted him no favors, or he’d not slept in a very long time. His white shirt was unfastened at the collar, his loose hair brushing its edge. Dark hair, rumpled from an endless amount of being raked back, over and over, just like Ethan used to—

Her breath caught, trapped in a net of recognition and longing. Impossible. Sudden empathy for Roland welled, for she could not deny the madness that must be skewing her perception. What a bittersweet way to lose the last of her sanity. She sighed, giving in to the horridly wonderful vision.

The man’s head snapped forward, then turned. When their gazes met, something quivered in a deep part of her—a place she’d been saving all her life.

“Miri?” His voice had aged a thousand years since she’d last heard it. “Are you …”—his throat bobbed—“well?”

She reached, desiring to wipe away the lines that troubled his brow. That, and to see if she dreamed. “Are you real?”

He captured her hand in both of his and squeezed. “Very real, my love.”

A warm smile spread across his face, and he eased from chair to bed. He sat so close, she rolled nearer to him from the sag in the mattress. Her fever must be back. She was burning up.

His hand trembled as he brought her fingers to his lips. As he kissed the top of each one, a hot trail burned along her arm, running straight to her heart. This was real. And if not, she’d choose to live here anyway.

Closing his eyes, he whispered against her fingertips. “Thank You, God.”

Miri swallowed, shaken by the depth of emotion radiating out from him. “Indeed.”

He lowered her hand and pressed her palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. A steady beat pumped hard beneath his shirt. The connection brought tears to her eyes, and she soaked in his strength, his presence. She could bathe in this moment. Dive into that brown-eyed gaze and never surface again.