Too Sinful to Deny (16 page)

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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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Chapter 12
Dead Mr. Bothwick materialized at Susan’s side. “No. Tell them
no.
”
Two large, solid (still-living) men continued staring down at her with something colder than curiosity glittering in their eyes.
“Er,” she said brightly.
“Where, exactly, is this third grave?” asked Mr. Forrester.
“When did you first notice it?” asked the still-living Mr. Bothwick.
“Do
not
tell them
anything,
” his dead brother hissed, his entire form rippling in agitation. “Don’t mention my death, don’t let on you can see me, and for God’s sake, take back everything you just said about a third grave in the rock garden!”
“Er,” Susan said again, and hesitated. She hadn’t been prepared for the
opposite
of Bring-a-Message-to-My-Family day. And she wasn’t convinced she should pay more credence to the dead than the living.
The still-living Mr. Bothwick cocked his head and regarded her with something that could only be described as suspicion. “What were you doing looking for new graves?”
“Did the plot appear to be old, or freshly dug?” Mr. Forrester asked, leaning too close. His breath smelled faintly of rosemary and ale. Strange.
“Don’t you see what’s happening?” Dead Mr. Bothwick cried, whirling around her. “If they find it first, all hope will be lost! I will have died for nothing.”
Susan considered the ghost’s anguished face. He would haunt her forever, since it would’ve been her big mouth’s fault she’d ruined his mission to find a box of missing jewelry by blabbing the secret location to the townsfolk. She made her decision.
“Three?” she repeated as if confused by the question. “There’s only two.”
The magistrate frowned, leaned back. “But you said—”
“No, no. There’s only two. But two graves are more than enough to discomfit a lady.” She pasted on an I-might-swoon-from-fright-at-any-moment expression, which under the circumstances, was not difficult to achieve. These days, she could only hope it differed from her normal appearance. “Might we turn the topic to lighter fare?”
“Oh!” Mr. Forrester appeared everything that was apologetic, the subject easily forgotten. “Of course.”
The still-living Mr. Bothwick, however, appeared unconvinced. He stood there, watching her. Silently.
Unaware his ghostly brother was doing the same to him.
“Shall we return?” The magistrate proffered his elbow. When she made no answering move, he reached for Susan’s hand.
Mr. Bothwick intercepted the polite gesture in one smooth sidestep, positioning his back to the magistrate and keeping his vigilant gaze on Susan.
“Go on,” he said, without bothering to so much as glance at Mr. Forrester—or to ask Susan if that was what she wanted. “Didn’t you say you had business to attend to? Far away?”
Mr. Forrester, clueless bumblepot of a magistrate though he might be, looked truly distressed at the thought of leaving Susan in the very-much-alive Mr. Bothwick’s lascivious hands.
Valid as the concern was (because even sprinkled lightly with sand, Mr. Bothwick cut a dangerously tempting figure), the magistrate had proven himself to be possessed of neither sense nor logic, and was therefore of little use until he came back with his carriage.
“Go,” she told him as kindly as she could, given she had to bend awkwardly around Mr. Bothwick’s frame in order to meet Mr. Forrester’s eyes. “I won’t keep you. I look forward to our trip to Bath.”
“Won’t I see you beforehand? You did say I could call on you next week.”
Even without glancing up, Susan could feel the displeasure emanating from Mr. Bothwick in waves of black heat. If she didn’t get Mr. Forrester on his way soon, Mr. Bothwick would launch himself backward and rip the well-meaning magistrate apart with his bare hands.
“Of course,” she assured him. “Call at any time.”
Mr. Forrester beamed happily. He bowed and took his leave, casting the occasional doubtful glance over his shoulders at Mr. Bothwick.
Who muttered an unsporting, “Good riddance,” and headed toward the cliffside trail without bothering to apologize for his presumptive behavior. Or to see if she followed.
Which she didn’t. She needed a moment alone with Dead Mr. Bothwick.
“Now what?” she whispered, turning to face the sea so that no onlookers would witness her apparent discussion with herself.
“Now we dig,” the ghost answered, his slender form not quite opaque enough to block a muted view of crashing waves. “Tonight. It’s more urgent than ever.”
“Where?” The chill rustling the nape of her neck proved she already knew the answer.
The look Dead Mr. Bothwick shot her indicated he knew she was less than eager to comply . . . and that he didn’t much care. “You’ll dig up the unmarked graves, of course. It
must
be beneath one of them.”
An image of the scarecrow flashed in her mind. “I’ve no access to a shovel.”
“There are several in my house.”
“What if someone sees me?” she tried again.
“It’s almost a new moon. We’ll go after midnight.”
“And if—”
“I will keep watch,” he interrupted, his voice hard. “Whether you believe it or not, I’ve even more interest in removing the box from the wrong clutches than you do in getting your beauty sleep.”
“I’m not worried about
sleep,
” Susan burst out, for a moment forgetting her surroundings. She lowered her voice. “For your information, I haven’t slept since I got here. In case you’ve forgotten,
I see ghosts.
” She dragged in a breath. “There are dead bodies in two of three graves. W-what if I dig up the wrong one?”
Rather than reply, Dead Mr. Bothwick’s gaze snapped to just over the top of her head.
“What are you doing?” came the still-breathing Mr. Bothwick’s voice from not far enough away.
Susan jumped guiltily, and in doing so accidentally brushed against the ghost. Dead Mr. Bothwick sputtered out of sight, leaving the ice-cold wetness seeping into her marrow as the only proof of his presence. Rot. Or rather, excellent. If he didn’t reappear until tomorrow, she’d at least have one night’s reprieve from digging in gravesites.
She turned away from the horizon.
Mr. Bothwick was two yards away. Then one. Then none.
“Were you speaking to yourself again?”
His tone was curious, not condescending. Nonetheless, she cast about for an excuse less crazy-sounding.
“I . . .” Her imagination failed her. She blurted, “I was talking to the gods of the sea.”
To her surprise, his eyes unfocused and his entire body relaxed.
“I do that, too,” he confessed, stepping past her so there was nothing between his outstretched arms and the endless span of water and sky. “It makes me feel connected to all this . . . beauty. Savagery. Mother Nature.”
Susan’s jaw dropped. Mr. Bothwick had regular chats with the gods of the sea? If that were true, he was perhaps the one person on the planet in whom she might confide her own otherworldly peccadillo. In fact, didn’t he deserve to know his brother was—well, not alive, of course, and not particularly
well
, either, but at least—
The ghost’s dark warning resounded in her ears.
Don’t tell.
She clutched her pelisse tighter as the sun sank into the horizon. Red had been desperate for her to bring the news to his sister. But that was because it
was
news. Miss Grey hadn’t known the truth. Mr. Bothwick, on the other glove, was well aware of his brother’s passing. Although, come to think of it, no one else seemed to be. If he were the only soul possessed of that knowledge, one might start to wonder . . .
Mr. Bothwick lowered his arms. He turned to face her instead of the sea.
“Childish nonsense,” he said, his half-smile self-deprecating. “It’s not as if I could really talk to the gods, even if they existed. There’s this world . . . and then there’s nothing. I just do my best to enjoy it while I’m here.”
No. Susan hugged herself, decision made. He was the last person to confide in.
“You’re shivering.” He stepped closer, put a warm arm about her shoulders, and pulled her to him. “The ocean air does have a bite to it. Are you ready to head back?”
She nodded, torn between jerking free from the man she now suspected to have a bit too much inside knowledge of his late brother’s demise, and the wanton desire to hold him closer and let his welcoming arms envelop her in their heat and strength.
Fratricidal tendencies and danger of compromise aside, however, touching him would be tantamount to suicide, what with Miss Devonshire but a stone’s throw away in her dress shop.
Mr. Bothwick might not be overly concerned with antiquated notions of monogamy and fidelity—and, really, what percentage of
ton
gentlemen spent their nights with their wives?—but Miss Devonshire had expressed a clear view to the contrary. Mr. Bothwick was hers, she’d told Susan. Almost married, Mr. Forrester had said. An unapologetic rake, by Mr. Bothwick’s own admission.
She snuck a glance up at his profile, even more handsome backlit by the disappearing sun. She tried to imagine him married. Or even almost married.
She failed.
Or perhaps she just didn’t wish to think about him spending the rest of his nights with someone else. With china-perfect Miss Devonshire.
Susan shuddered.
Mr. Bothwick snuggled her closer. Looked down at her. His eyes crinkled.
“My arms are nice and warm,” he teased, as if they shared a secret joke. As if they were much more than friends. “Shall I carry you home?”
“It’s not my home,” she told him fiercely. “And it’s the last place I wish to be.”
If he were taken aback by this outburst, he didn’t show it. “Where to, then, my lady? Might I offer my house?” His slow, sensual smile gave voice to wicked promises he had no need to speak aloud.
Her traitorous body thrilled at the thought of surrender.
“No,” Susan gasped, more out of self-preservation than desire. She was still in control of herself. For now.
“Name the place,” he said gallantly, by all appearances just as satisfied to stroll about as to—well, all right, perhaps not
just
as satisfied. “I am yours to command.”
Susan’s skin erupted in gooseflesh that had absolutely nothing to do with the chill night air.
Where could they go that wasn’t his lodgings? Or hers? Someplace without a bedchamber of any kind. Better yet, someplace wholly unromantic, so she could tamp down the impossible fantasies galloping rampant through her mind.
She glanced around Bournemouth proper. Cliffs. Sand. A smattering of dilapidated structures. Then she realized what it was she
didn’t
see.
“Where’s the chicken shed?” she murmured, staring hard at the sparse town.
There was no chicken shed. She’d have noticed a chicken shed.
“What chicken shed?” Mr. Bothwick’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“I—” Susan stopped. She what? Had overheard a ghost mention Mr. Bothwick’s fiancée had indulged in a midnight rendezvous amongst the poultry? No doubt the shameless rakehell was the very man with whom she had done so. Yet now Susan had to explain her bizarre statement. “I heard Miss Devonshire’s cousin raised chickens.”
“Yes.” His face gave nothing away. “That’s true.”
He seemed to be waiting for some further explanation. She had none.
“I just . . . wondered where the farm was,” she finished lamely. And wished she’d never brought it up.
“Then, come on.” He changed course, headed away from town, toward a different trail. A darker one, hidden amongst the shadows. “I’ll take you.”
You should not be alone with him. You should not be alone with him,
the voice in Susan’s head chanted. The voice of reason.
If he made love to one woman within those walls, he’ll think he can do so with you, too.
Yet she followed him.
And realized, long before they actually reached the splotch of grass upon which stood a few cows, a pheasant, and yes, a chicken shed: There was no possible way doll-perfect Dinah Devonshire had lifted her skirts in
anything
so messy and rancid and disgusting.
Aside from there scarce being enough room for one person to stand upright, the stench alone kept Susan—and, she was certain, any sane woman—from venturing inside.
But why would Red have lied about what he’d seen? Or
had
he?
Miss Devonshire had threatened Susan’s life if she’d dared to breathe so much as a syllable about witnessing her alleged liaison amongst the chickens. The idea now seemed preposterous. But the terror in the porcelain doll’s eyes had been real. Which begged the question . . .

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