A Heart Deceived (8 page)

Miri felt faint. There was no help for it. She shot to her feet and crossed to Witherskim, offering her hand before she could recant her action. “My brother speaks truth, sir. With our cook absent and hired man indisposed by a bout of the rheumatism, we are both weary. Perhaps you should call at a different time.” She placed her hand over his, looking at him through her lashes. “May I see you to the door?”

Standing, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and swept her from the room to the solitude of the foyer. As he reached for his cocked hat hanging on a peg, she took the opportunity to pull away.

Surprising how swift and strong the man could be. His woolen waistcoat chafed her forearms as he drew her into an embrace.

“I hope you don’t think me too forward, my dear. But I feel this is acceptable if we are to be wed.”

Feeling did not appear to be his problem. He felt way too much as his fingers inched down her spine. She planted her hands on his chest and pushed. “Sir, you forget yourself.”

Once free, she stood tall, facing him eye to eye. “You take entirely too much liberty.”

He smiled, each tooth as flat as a goat’s. “Ahh, yes, your brother warned me of your coquettish ways. Never fear, dearest. I shall not hold your coyness against you, but do hope to surmount it someday … and you.”

She bit her tongue, silently counting to ten. Lud! What a deviant. Swallowing the acrid taste his words produced, she reached for the door. “Good night, Master Witherskim.”

He wilted into a sloppy bow. “Adieu, Miss Brayden.”

His eyeballs were the last to leave, and she felt the effect of his perusal long after she shut and locked the entry. Still, ridding herself of the twisted little man brought a certain sense of accomplishment—short-lived, however.

Roland crossed the threshold of the sitting room and entered the hall, mumbling gibberish rhymes.

Nigel rested against the wrought-iron fence surrounding Shoreditch Church, the metal cold even through his coat. Were they locking God up or keeping people out? A bar poked into his spine, and he shifted, trying to settle between two bars instead of leaning on only one. Oh blighter! Now both his shoulder blades took the nip.

Ignoring the discomfort, he emptied the contents of a small pouch into his palm. Two, maybe three shillings at most. Pish! All that effort to extort money from Flem had not been worth it … unless Flem had been holding out on him. Nigel scrubbed his chin, itchy from two days’ worth of stubble. Perhaps he ought to revisit the ol’ pike.

He pocketed the coins and threw the bag to the ground, then shoved off into the foot traffic of Hackney Road. If he couldn’t find Flem, then he’d collar someone else.

Scuffing along at a good clip, he took care to sidestep pools of God-knew-what and other piles of nastiness. Twilight wove a fine mesh of darkness with the sooty air. All the better. Cutpurses and dodgers would soon be bringing their prizes home to Old Nichol, anxious for the chance to guzzle some rotgut. A slow smile stretched his mouth at the irony of pickpocketing the pickpockets. But would he gain enough? His smile fled. He’d have to, or there’d be more than hell to pay.

There’d be Buck.

Reaching Brick Lane, he swung around the corner and slammed into a pile of rags.

“Dash it!” The rags jostled about as knobby legs and arms emerged, pushing up a young boy.

“Ye little squeaker.” Nigel cuffed the bold lad on the head, almost tumbling him onto his backside once more. “Get on home to yer mother, if you ’ave one, that is.”

The lad glared at him, spewing curses that turned Nigel’s jaded ears red.

What a cur. Though truly he ought not be surprised at a slummer with spirit. If they didn’t learn at a young age, they’d ne’er survive.

Midvulgarity, the boy clamped shut his mouth. His eyes went wide, and beneath the grime, his face paled as if he looked upon Satan himself.

What the devil? Nigel glanced over his shoulder, just in case a horned demon loomed out of the darkness behind him.

In that instant, the boy darted sideways and tore down the street, weaving like a barmy titmouse. Nigel glanced up at the night sky. No full moon. Hmm. Well … not that he hadn’t seen crazier things.

And likely would again before this evening was through. Old Nichol was not to be traversed by the weak of heart.

9

Sitting cock-eyed on her brother’s bed, Miri shifted, loosening the knot in her lower back. The cushion behind her slipped to the floor, and Roland’s head jostled on her lap. If she wakened him now, all the long night would be for naught, and she’d have to start over. He didn’t stir, though dawn’s grey illumination grew brighter with each passing minute. His eyes remained shut, his breathing even, his muscles relaxed. Thank God. Sleep erased the frown lines and crow’s feet from his features, his boyish qualities reminding her how handsome he was without anger—or madness.

Yawning, Miri eased him off her lap and settled him onto a pillow. She snugged the covers up to his neck, then tiptoed from the room. Oh, that he might sleep through the day and know peace.

For perhaps then she would as well.
Please, God, allow just one day as none other. I am so tired.

She passed Mr. Eldon’s room, door open, bed still unwrinkled. Quiet as a vault. With Roland’s recent decline, mayhap the vicar’s absence was a blessing in disguise.

Descending the stairs, she paused at the landing of her chamber’s corridor. The desire to wrap herself in her counterpane and recline overwhelmed her for a few seconds. If she stretched out onto her own bedding for only a moment … ahhh. But no. The moment would turn into hours. She’d miss the opportunity to feed the beggar as she’d promised, and Lord knew how much longer he could survive without eating.

A fair amount of curiosity drove her as well. How did he know Will’s pet name for her? Could he tell her where Will was now?

She forced her cramped toes, still caged in yesterday’s shoes, to the next step, then the next. The speedier she finished this duty, the sooner she’d sink into a soft mattress.

Filling a tankard with cider and grabbing the leftover loaf from dinner, she juggled the meal in one arm and unlatched the back door. Cool morning air blasted a fine spray of mist over her, and she shivered. Drat. She should have grabbed her shawl.

Wet grass soaked through her thin kidskin shoes, the chill working its way up past ankle and calf. If it was going to rain, why didn’t the sky simply burst and get it over with—and drown her in the process?

Blowing a stray curl off her face, she trudged toward the church’s stone walls, stalwart and choked with ivy, a contradiction of sanctuary and judgment. Stopping at the threshold, she shifted the tankard and bread into one hand, grasped the iron door handle with the other, then shoved open the heavy slab.

Gloom and silence greeted her. If she left the door open, drizzle would darken a puddle on the floor. So be it. The measure of light it added removed some of the shadows.

“Good day?” Her voice echoed. “Sir?”

Silence.

No head popped up from the rows of box pews, so she headed toward the screened section of the chancel and peeked over the railing. “Sir?”

Again no answer. The man had probably left, tired of waiting for a meal that had not come. She’d check the vestry on the way out, but it would be surprising indeed if he’d curled up in that small cubicle.

Passing the raised pulpit, she hesitated, tempted to stand behind it. A wicked thought, to be sure. She bit her lip before stretching her neck to view the rectory through the window. Well, why not? What with her brother asleep and the vicar absent, no one would know.

She set down the mug and bread, then climbed the steps and entered the carved-oak platform. What a position. Exalted over the nave and closer to God, one could feel powerful beyond bounds. An alluring feeling—and very, very dangerous, especially if lorded over the people. Did Roland look out, consumed with the supremacy of such an apex, and feel holier than everyone?

She shifted her gaze to the box she usually sat in, second row, and—

Her mouth dropped. No wonder the beggar hadn’t answered. He was as still as the stone floor where he lay.

Dead.

Maybe he was. At any rate, this must be what it felt like to die—trapped in a black world of hot pain, more suffocating than that stint in Barbados. If his chest tightened one notch more, Ethan would cease breathing.

So be it. Truly … anything but this torture.

From somewhere far away, a hint of relief beckoned. Cool. Gentle. Caressing his fevered brow, wiping away the heat, the grime. Sweet Jesus—could be. He forced open his eyes and met the amber gaze of a friend.

So then, he was dead.

“Will?” Ethan’s ragged voice grated on his ears as he shifted to take in the high cheekbones and sculpted nose on a sprite of a woman—definitely not Will, but oh so much like him. He opened his mouth to speak more, but only a groan emerged, which elicited a sharp gasp from the angel that held him. His friend had often spoken endearments of his sister, but never once had he told of her ethereal beauty.

Miri’s fine brows drew together on skin as pristine as a white rose petal. Would it feel as soft? Her lips, full though pulled into a line, were set in a face framed by ringlets of hair banded with copper strands, mostly caught up but a few loose and sweeping. She smelled sweet, the fragrance of violets fresh from a rain. Life began to seep into him, especially when he realized the cushion cradling his head was her lap.

“What did you say?” Miri’s voice, while resonant and pleasing, carried an odd mixture of expectation and despair. She frowned, a thumbnail curve highlighting her chin.

The same indentation Will sported whenever he’d been agitated.

Grief welled anew, punching Ethan in the gut. How he missed his friend’s banter, the camaraderie … he swallowed, trying to work up some moisture in his dry mouth. He’d have to tell her. “Will …”

Miri’s muscles tensed, her forearm rigid as she ceased mopping his brow. Her eyes shimmered, large and luminous. How big the tears would be, how deep the hurt would cut.

No, he could not do this. Not yet, anyway. “Will … you help me?”

Her shoulders sank, and the grim line of her mouth softened. “I believe that I am, sir.” She set down the rag she’d used to mop his brow and reached for a tankard on the pew behind her. “Can you sit?”

He must look as bad as he felt for her to ask such a question. In truth, though, could he? Forcing first one arm, then the other, he pushed himself up and propped his back against the pew edge. The effort stole his breath and began a wave of coughing.

“Here.” She cupped the back of his head and held the mug to his mouth. “Drink.”

Indeed, she was an angel. Cool liquid passed over his cracked lips, some leaking down his beard, but most soothing his throat and filling his empty belly. He did not stop until he drained the tankard. When she pulled away, he swiped his face with his sleeve. “Thank you.”

She smiled, the light of which satisfied more than the drink. “It is a trifle.”

Once again she twisted around, resettling the mug and retrieving a cloth-bound bundle. She unwrapped a half loaf of bread, releasing a yeasty, almost nutty aroma. “Are you hungry?”

His stomach constricted, and it took all his restraint to reach for the bread without shaking. He intended to savor each bite, but after the first, he lost all reserve. Within moments, nothing but crumbs remained in his hands, and he licked those off as well.

Shame set in, a slow burn beginning in the gut he’d filled like an animal. And he could smell no better. What a beast this woman must think him. His chin sank to his chest. He should leave now and never come—

Her soft laugh breached his wall of humiliation.

“I guess you were.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “What?”

“I guess you were hungry.” She stood, brushing wrinkles and a few of his crumbs from her dress, then collected the mug along with the cloth. Her smile faded. “But I am afraid you must leave now.”

Oh no, not this soon, not when she stood there looking so appealing. “Miri, I—”

“Why do you call me that?” She stepped nearer, the fabric of her skirt brushing against his shoulder. Her head cocked like a robin about to devour a worm. “How do you know my name?”