Too Sinful to Deny (11 page)

Authors: Erica Ridley

Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Historical Fiction, #Smuggling, #Smugglers, #General, #Romance, #Historical, #Secrecy, #Fiction, #Love Stories

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny

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“Lord Beaune fell on his way down the cliff a few days later, leaving Lady Emeline the sole heir.” The witch’s eyes glittered. “But not for long. Ollie Hamilton married Lady Emeline before she was even fitted for mourning clothes. They’ve sequestered themselves up in Moonseed Manor ever since. If there’s still money left,
she
doesn’t come down to spend it.”

Susan swallowed. Poor Lady Emeline had a macabre explanation for her lack of shopping excursions.

“Are—aren’t you at all worried about her?” Susan asked hesitantly.

The witch scoffed. “Worried about what? She’s married, isn’t she? Her husband will provide anything she needs.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Susan insisted.

“He
owns
her.” The witch flicked her red hair over a bony shoulder. “That’s the point to every marriage contract. A bride becomes her husband’s property. I, for one, do not choose to get mixed up in other people’s personal lives. Particularly Ollie Hamilton’s.”

“Speaking of marriages,” broke in the porcelain doll, her voice brittle. Susan realized Miss Devonshire had never once forgotten to whom she was speaking, or the circumstances thereof. “I’ve decided not to mention the impropriety we glimpsed here today, Miss Stanton. I suggest you do the same.”

Susan nodded eagerly. There was no way she wished for rumors of her and Mr. Bothwick to circulate. The last thing she wanted was to find herself with a marriage contract tying her to Bournemouth. Particularly after
that
heartwarming tale. When Susan eventually staged a compromise for marriage, she’d do so on her own terms. And those terms were: Titled. London. Gentleman. Not mad-as-hatter country commoners.

The witch was staring at the porcelain doll as if she had grown yarn hair and button eyes. “You were never going to mention it, Dinah. A compromise between those two would’ve forced him to the altar with the wrong woman.”

The porcelain doll looked perfectly happy to rip off her own arm just to club Miss Grey with it. “We didn’t see precisely whom she was dallying with, did we?”

Susan started guiltily. “It wasn’t exactly dall—”

“What?” The witch rounded on the china doll, ignoring Susan. “You haven’t let him out of your sight in four years. I was right next to you all afternoon, remember? You watched every single step from the tavern to the apothecary through the back window!”

The porcelain doll’s bone-white hands curved into perfect fists at her sides. “Well, he’s not here to back that claim up, now, is he? In any case, I could easily say I caught Miss Stanton kissing some unknown gentleman. Anyone would take my word over hers. I’m the town angel, and she’s . . . Well.” Her little upturned nose gave a delicate sniff. “I can smell
tavern
on her from over here.”

Susan’s jaw dropped. Granted, during the few moments where she’d surely been possessed by the devil, she had in fact (eagerly) returned Mr. Bothwick’s kisses, but come now. This was too much.

“If you’re the town angel, I’m the Queen of England,” she said hotly.

The witch snorted. “Then what were you doing kissing a libertine like Evan in the apothecary, Your Majesty?”

Susan smiled. “Better than lifting my skirts in a chicken shed, don’t you think?”

The porcelain doll’s perfect mouth dropped open.

And in that moment, Susan knew the truce was over. Curse her tongue!

The witch’s umbrella clattered to the floor as she turned to stare at her friend, whose already-white face had blanched to an unhealthy hue.

“How do you know that, you little sneak?” she squeaked. “You were
spying
on us! That’s the only way you could’ve known!”

“Why, that’s a much better rumor to spread than ‘Miss Stanton kissed Evan Bothwick.’ After all, who hasn’t?” the witch put in helpfully. She put her hand to her mouth and stage-whispered to her friend, “I think ‘Miss Stanton spies through windows on people’s private lovemaking’ is far more damaging. That’s the sort of juicy rumor that can follow a girl right back home to London. As long as she can’t prove anything took place in any chicken sheds, it’s our word against hers.”

“Oh, I’ll have plenty of words,” the porcelain doll seethed, finding her voice at last. “Don’t even think about breathing a single syllable of what you saw, Miss Stanton. After I walk out this door, you’ll wish you had never laid eyes on me through those spectacles of yours. No one in this town will come within sight of you ever again.”

She spun on her well-turned heel and marched out of the apothecary.

The witch snatched up her umbrella. She paused on her way out the door to turn back with a chillingly calm smile to add, “And if that doesn’t do the trick . . . plenty of accidents happen to strangers here in Bournemouth, Miss Stanton. It’d be a shame if one happened to you.”

Chapter 9

What the devil had he been
thinking?

Evan hurled another rock into the ocean, not bothering to try and make it skip across the crashing waves, and faced the truth: He hadn’t been thinking. Not one single second. The only idea he’d had in his brain from the moment he’d laid eyes on Miss Stanton back in the tavern had been,
Kiss her. Now.
End of story.

Except it almost wasn’t the end of the story, now, was it? If he’d been caught like that, with her in his arms and their mouths locked together . . . A shiver deeper than the chill of the sea slithered between his shoulders. He’d be married, that’s what he’d be. Leg-shackled. Good as dead.

He turned from the stormy waters and made his way to the narrow walkway winding up the steep cliff. He couldn’t lose sight of his mission: vengeance for his brother’s murder. The only intelligent thing to do was avoid Miss Stanton like the scurvy.

Naturally, when he hit the midpoint of the trail, there she was.

Evan cursed his damnable luck. Wasn’t this why he had intended to avoid any intimacy with her in the first place? Because he wouldn’t be able to help seeing her again . . . and again . . . and again? And if that wasn’t bad enough, she was a
lady.

He paused to watch her wander along the path. Granted, the actual sight of her wasn’t the problem. A backside that swayed that temptingly could never be a problem. Well, unless it was attached to a virgin, a lady, or a man-hunting debutante. Of which, she was likely all three.

Just then she turned, blinking in surprise. But didn’t flee. Or offer a greeting.

Resigned, he trudged closer. “We meet again.”

“Not on purpose.” She backed up a small step, as if afraid the kissing could recommence at any moment. His blood warmed. The idea was sound.

No. No, it wasn’t.
Evan reined in his wayward thoughts and offered his elbow. Although, to do so was surely folly. If she touched him again, even as innocently as fingertips on his forearm . . .

She did not. She jerked her hands to her sides and glared at him from beneath her lashes, although her cheeks were now flushed and her breathing suspiciously shallow. “Don’t touch me.”

He held out his hands in silent surrender and sidestepped her in order to continue up the path. Would she follow, perhaps fall into step beside him? No. He heard nothing. Not even retreat. And then:

“I do not wish to be caught alone with you, Mr. Bothwick.”

He stopped breathing. She didn’t wish to be
caught,
did she? Interesting. If they weren’t in plain view of pretty much every pair of eyes on the seashore, he’d have had half a mind to find out just what she didn’t want to be caught doing.

As it was, however, he called backward without slowing down, “As you can see, madam, our goals are the same.”

Problem was, he was a little worried that was true. The way she’d kissed him . . .

“Then do stop following me,” her voice rang out.

He did stop. Moving forward, that was. He turned and stared at her in disbelief. How could he be following her if he were the one ahead and she the one behind? Was she just provoking him to prolong the interaction?

“It may surprise you to know that not only am I assuredly not following you, I also haven’t the least desire to accompany you, wherever you might be going.”

“Oh, really?” One of her thin eyebrows arched over the tops of her spectacles. “As if you’re not headed to Moonseed Manor.”

“As it happens,” he informed her with complete honesty, “I am not.”

Her jaw clicked shut. She seemed to war with herself for a moment, then jogged up to meet him. “You’re . . . not? Why not? Where are you going?”

He shrugged a little to say
that’s my business, isn’t it,
and turned his attention back to the trail.

She hesitated again, perhaps debating whether it was too late to take the arm he no longer proffered, and then hurried to remain at his side.

“Then what are you doing on this path?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you visiting—”

“Because,” he interrupted, “I’m
busy.
”

“Busy?” she repeated doubtfully. Interest was replaced by skepticism. “How could you be busy?”

The question seemed innocent enough, but Evan couldn’t help but feel Miss Stanton had just insulted him. He walked faster. “Why wouldn’t I be busy?”

“For one, you’re independently wealthy. The rich are never busy. I should know.” She stumbled when a bit of sand gave way. He reached over and placed her palm on his arm. She let it rest there. “And for two”—she gestured with her free hand—“this is
Bournemouth.
”

Evan had to give her credit. Those were all valid points. Had he not started dabbling in high treason out of pure ennui? Even smugglers had to sail to another country in order to find some excitement. What kind of excitement did Miss Stanton seek?

He glanced down. Her eagerly upturned face appeared to be awaiting answers, not kisses. Pity.

“You’d normally be right.” He let his gaze linger on her lips for the briefest of moments. “But I find myself unusually distracted.”

She thought about that for a moment—and concluded the correct double entendre, given the deepening pink in her cheeks—then forged ahead, unswayed from her course. “So where are you going now?”

“To my brother’s house.” No harm in telling her that much.

“Your—” She gaped at him. “I didn’t know you had a brother!”

Darkness settled into his bones, along with the now-familiar clenching in his gut.

“I don’t . . . anymore.”

Her fingers clutched his arm a little tighter. “I—You—Is he the one?”

He frowned. “The one what?”

“The one you lost!” She looked up at him, blue eyes wide and unblinking.

Damn it. This was another reason not to have conversations with intelligent females. They had the most annoying ability to
reason.
To pay attention. And to remember.

“The entire town lost a good man,” he hedged carefully, “when we lost my brother.”

Miss Stanton looked exasperated enough to push him off the cliff.

She scowled. “I’m not dense, you know.”

He did know. That was the problem.

“It’s best you not concern yourself with me or my brother.”

From the sudden glint in her eye, those were the exact wrong words one spoke to Miss Susan Stanton. He began to think
he
should’ve been the one to run screaming when he’d first noticed her traversing the same trail. “I’ll come with you,” she announced, the avid intrigue in her expression nothing short of dangerous.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Yes,” she carried on, by all appearances attempting to drag him along even faster. “We’ll just have to go together. You can explain everything on the way.”

“I’ll do no such thing!”

“Which house belongs to your brother? Is it quite a far walk from here?”

“Miss Stanton.” They were nearing the end of the path, and if she didn’t disappear immediately into the walls of Moonseed Manor, she’d be able to see precisely where he was headed. “Have you forgotten something? For example, that your most fervent wish is to
not
be alone with me?”

Her free hand fluttered as if shooing away a fly. “What could possibly happen?”

He almost laughed at the naïveté of that question.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said slowly, softly, his voice deepening as he let the delicious images tumble forth from the dark corners of his dreams. “Once I have you alone, unprotected, you might find yourself in my arms once again. This time, I won’t stop with a simple kiss. I will divest you of your pelisse, your gown, your shift . . . and
then
I will start the sort of kissing I’ve been desperate to do all along. The sort of kiss that begins at your mouth, and travels down your throat to your shoulders, all the way to your breasts. The sort of kiss where your nipple is caught between my teeth, where your back arches in pleasure, and—”

A choking gasp escaped her. She shoved herself away from him and up onto solid ground.

Had his ploy worked?

“You’d do no such thing,” she whispered. Or possibly panted. Both her palms were pressed to her chest as if preventing her bodice from tumbling open of its own accord.

“I wouldn’t?” he asked, not bothering to hide the amusement—and arousal—from his voice. He had half a mind to start right here at the edge of the cliff. “How can you be certain?”

“B-because you’re
busy.
With something important.” Her eyes were huge. But determined. “Remember?”

A more effective bucket of ice had never been thrown on his ardor.

“That’s right. I’m busy.”

He turned and stalked off, leaving her behind. Though truth be told, he was far angrier with himself than at her.

Even when he heard her little booted feet hurrying to catch up with him.

“Wait!”

He didn’t wait. He imagined she’d follow him anyway.

He was right.

When they reached the porch leading to Timothy’s door, he turned and put a finger to her soft mouth before she could start asking a barrage of unanswerable questions.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “No matter what.”

She nodded quickly. Too quickly.

“I mean it.”

“All right.” Her lips opened and closed against the pressure of his finger. “I won’t move.”

He paused to be sure, then leapt up the steps two at a time.

The door was unlocked. Technically, it was still off its hinges. He moved it aside and slid into the darkened entryway.

The cargo was missing.
The cargo was missing
. He turned around in a slow circle, half-expecting it to magically reappear.

It did not.

Timothy had—somewhat stupidly, as it turned out—deposited the first mission’s spoils inside his entryway before heading out on his secret mission, and then . . . Somebody had stolen the stolen goods? Who the devil could’ve done such a corkbrained thing? This was Bournemouth! Evan was the one who did the stealing, and he did it from other people. He did not steal from people he knew, and he particularly avoided stealing from
pirates.

Besides, who would bother risking their neck to steal stolen tea sets, anyway? The captain’s secret buyer? To protect his anonymity—and to obfuscate the trail leading back to treason—the man had never stepped foot in Bournemouth. But
somebody
had carted the goods away. Someone with a large carriage.

“No wonder you look so shocked,” came a soft female voice from just outside the doorway. Miss Stanton slipped inside, glancing around in awe. “What hit this place, a hurricane ?”

His hands twitched. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

“I did. At first. And then I came in to see what you were doing.”

Evan stared at her. Such insubordinate behavior was precisely how a person found himself tied to the mast while at sea.

She stood in front of a portrait of a small boy. “Who’s this? Your brother?”

“No.” It was Evan at eight years old. Right around when Timothy, then six, had decided his older brother could do no wrong and should be emulated in all things. That had turned out to be one of the worst decisions Timothy had ever made. Whether holding on to such a portrait indicated blind faith or just plain blindness, Evan couldn’t say. Yet a stabbing sense of loss throbbed beneath his ribs at the realization that he wished more than anything that he owned a painting of his innocent, impressionable brother at that young age. Or any likeness of Timothy. Something to gaze upon in those moments when he wanted nothing more than to talk to his brother one more time. “Wait for me outside.
Go.
”

Something in his tone startled her enough to check her from continuing her trajectory into Timothy’s sitting room. She turned around, bit her lip, nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

But she hadn’t taken more than a few steps toward the door before dropping to her knees and sliding two slender fingers into a crack in the floorboard.

“Ooh,” she exclaimed. “What’s this?”

Evan ground his teeth. In this house, it could be anything—biscuit, bullet, chamber pot cleaning schedule. He almost didn’t want to know.

“What’s what?” he asked anyway, despite his better judgment.

“This.” Miss Stanton rose to her feet and came toward him, her prize enclosed in her fist.

He held out his hand.

She placed the back of hers inside his larger palm and uncurled her fingers.

A skull-and-crossbones winked up from the center of a large gold coin.

“That’s a Jolly Roger, isn’t it?” she breathed, awestruck. “But why? What could it mean?”