Too Sinful to Deny (19 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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But then they locked hands, palms-to-wrists, and he pulled her inside the boat. She sat in the center of the wooden cross-plank, feet tucked beneath her, hands twisting in her lap. Terrified. But determined.
Evan fell for her a little more.
The waves were calmer today. To someone unused to the sea, he supposed they would still be unnerving, but when were the waters ever truly motionless? Never. That’s why he liked it.
He rowed them away from shore. The ocean sighed, stilled, stretched out around them in a deep blue forever. The sun glittered in the ripples made by his oars. He let them rest, allowing the boat to float freely. Silence, except for the waves slapping against the side of the rocking boat and the occasional call of a bird.
He loved this. Loved the sun, warming his face and his neck and his hands. Loved the bite to the breeze, ruffling his hair and unknotting his cravat. Loved the salt-fresh scent of the sea, the little fish darting beneath its surface. Loved feeling
alive.
And Miss Stanton—
Seemed to have forgotten her terror entirely.
She wasn’t walking a tightrope above her seat, mind you, but she
was
gripping the side of the boat instead of ripping her skirt to shreds, and staring out at the sea in openmouthed wonder.
“Don’t lean too far,” he couldn’t help but tease. “You might tumble over.”
She whipped her head around to face him, eyes overlarge, then smiled despite herself when she saw that he was baiting her. He smiled back. She stuck her tongue out, laughed at his surprise, then returned her gaze to the endless horizon, as if they were but two carefree lovers set adrift for the day with nothing more on their minds than the promise of romance amidst the beauty of the sea.
If only that were true.
Content for a moment to just pretend, he watched her gasp in delight at the tiny fish she’d just discovered a hand’s reach from the surface. She stripped off her gloves and braved the icy coldness to try to touch one. They kept swimming, just out of reach.
“First time in the water?”
Her eyes darkened and she returned her shaking hands to her lap. “First time
on
it, anyway.” Before he could ask for clarification, she added, “Mother would never let me aboard anything so common as a
boat.
”
His back straightened defensively until he realized that her softly mocking laughter was directed at herself, not him.
“And why not?” she demanded. Her direct gaze pierced him as much as the wistfulness in her voice. “How grand would it be to sail to India, see the world, have a little adventure now and then?”
He’d never been to India, but he well understood the allure of adventure. Would die without it. She appeared of the same mind. He felt an odd connection to her deep within his chest.
Evan suddenly wished they weren’t in a rowboat after all. He’d very much like to kiss her. But though he’d been teasing earlier about leaning too close toward the fishes, they most likely
would
capsize if he did anything so foolish as join her on her tiny bench and pull her into his arms.
So he picked up the oars and rowed for shore. He would kiss her there, the moment they arrived. Well, he’d get her to dry land first. Maybe take care of his boat. But then he’d smile, hug her tight, and kiss her.
Unfortunately, a lone figure appeared in the distance and ambled ever closer to where Evan had planned to bank the rowboat. Not just any lone figure. That nettlesome magistrate. The man was a plague among plagues. Evan gripped the oars in frustration.
So much for kissing.
Miss Stanton twisted around in her seat to see what he’d been frowning at.
“Look, it’s Mr. Forrester!” Her surprised tone turned pensive. “I thought he left. What’s he doing out here?”
An excellent question, that.
“Before he’s upon us,” Evan said, “we need to discuss what happened in town.”
Miss Stanton’s unblinking gaze met his. “The part when you ruined my reputation beyond all hope and compromised yourself with me in the process?”
He inclined his head and tried not to feel ill. Put that way, what had seemed like the lesser evil at the time now sounded like total folly when phrased so starkly. He had not really been thinking of compounding the situation by kissing her again—had he?
“Luckily for me,” she said slowly, “no one here has the ear of anyone in London. The tainting of my reputation is, for now at least, confined to Bournemouth. Unluckily for me . . . so am I.”
“I suppose the gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer for you,” he somehow managed to say over the currents swirling in his stomach. The impromptu kiss now seemed a death knell.
Marriage.
Much as he still longed to hold her, to possess her, to pleasure her—he had not envisioned a permanent situation.
But she was already shaking her head.
“Thank you for offering, but you needn’t bother. I’ve plans for my future and they don’t involve being trapped in this godforsaken town. I’d rather spend the rest of my life imprisoned in my parents’ town house than another minute on this beach. Er, no offense meant.”
“None taken,” he muttered. And couldn’t help but feel offended. “So . . . the story is, I asked for you, and you politely declined?”
She had no need to nod her head quite so emphatically.
“You’re in no danger of matrimony,” she assured him, then narrowed her eyes. “But there can be no more talk of being ‘lovers.’ And no more kissing. I cannot take the chance that rumor of my misconduct travel all the way into Town. At least, not before
I
get there.”
He gave a wry chuckle. “Don’t worry on that score. If I so much as look at you lasciviously before the public eye again, we’ll find ourselves before the altar no matter how politely we both decline. And I want that even less than you do.”
Probably.
“Good.” She looked relieved. Too relieved. He might not be a High Society fribble like the fops she apparently preferred, but sharing a future with him couldn’t be
that
repellant an idea. Not with the way they had stood together atop the cliff and gazed upon the sea. Or the way the rest of the world fell away every time they kissed.
Used to kiss, rather.
Evan leaped from the boat as soon as the bottom scraped sand, but the goody-goody magistrate had already materialized at the bow to lift Miss Stanton out. Biting back a growl, Evan had no choice but to drag the boat ashore while the magistrate carried Miss Stanton to dry ground. And kept walking. And still hadn’t put her down.
Evan abandoned ship and chased them. He snatched Miss Stanton from Forrester’s feather grip and hugged her to his chest for a moment before setting her down. On her own two feet. Like a
gentleman
should have done.
Forrester gave him a blank-eyed smile. “Why, good day to you, Bothwick.”
Evan fought the urge to knock out his teeth. As if the bounder hadn’t just seen Evan rowing the very boat ashore from which he’d plucked the beautiful Miss Stanton! Five gold coins said that her sharp blue eyes and soft little body were the precise reasons the magistrate kept “forgetting” to travel on to the next town.
Before Evan’s brain could come up with a viable way to fistfight a man of the law without borrowing too much trouble, Miss Stanton’s disingenuousness intervened.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, clapping gloveless hands together. The scraps of silk must be lying soiled and forgotten at the bottom of his boat. “I’ve solved your mystery.”
Forrester’s expression went from smug to uneasy as his gaze snapped between her and Evan.
“Have you now,” was all he said, despite the edge to his voice. “Already?”
She nudged up her spectacles and nodded. “Miss Devonshire’s French aunt sends her the silk. All the way from Burgundy. I imagine it’s still wrong, but . . . well, it’s family.”
“Is that so?” the magistrate drawled, eyebrows raised. He seemed to be on the verge of disagreeing with the ridiculousness of a French aunt, but in a blink appeared to have changed his mind. “Well, mystery solved, then, I suppose. Good work, Miss Stanton.” He gave a little bow. “I do thank you very much for your kind help.”
What?!
Evan stared at the little toad in disbelief. That was it?
Oh, sure, that explains everything. Guess I’ll be on my way?
Now he
knew
the request had been nothing more than a ploy to have ready-made conversation handy for Forrester’s next encounter with Miss Stanton.
Whose current expression was likewise lined with incredulity.
“You’re welcome, then, I suppose,” she said with a too-bright smile. Ha! Evan doubted the magistrate’s pea brain recognized that Miss Stanton was actually mocking him. “Delighted to be of assistance.”
The ensuing silence stretched out awkwardly.
“Well, good day to you, Miss Stanton.” Forrester tipped his beaver, which, in Evan’s opinion, was a bit anticlimactic after having just bowed. “It’s always a pleasure to see your beautiful smile.”
“Thank you, Mr. Forrester.” Miss Stanton did not curtsy. “You’re most kind.”
Another long, pregnant pause. Then:
“Good day, Bothwick.” Accompanied by an ingratiating smile.
“Good-
bye,
Forrester.” Accompanied by a flash of bared teeth.
At long last, the magistrate turned and headed down the beach. Thank God.
“What a strange man,” Miss Stanton muttered.
“Strange?” Evan shook his head. He turned to go rescue his abandoned rowboat. “Forrester’s a natural-born idiot.”
She snorted. “You don’t know the half of it.”
Evan paused, glanced back at her. “The half of what?”
“He wanted me to investigate the dress shop . . . by following
you.
” She shook her head and laughed. “Have you ever heard of anything so absurd?”
No, no, he hadn’t. Even from a simpleton like Forrester. Which meant something else was afoot. Something like: The magistrate finally suspected smuggling taking place in his territory and possibly had other,
trained
individuals keeping an eye on Evan.
As the penalty for treason was death, perhaps tomorrow’s trip was a suicide mission in more ways than one.
Chapter 15
All evening long, Susan thought about her cousin’s current situation, and what—if anything—she could do to improve it.
Mr. Forrester was a pathetic, nonsensical ninnyhammer, but he was magistrate, and more important,
still here
(she hoped), which meant she might have an opportunity to rescue Lady Emeline.
Well, provided the giant didn’t catch her disobeying his orders to stay away from the cellar. And provided the scarecrow didn’t catch her red-handed, in the act of spiriting away his helpless charge. And provided she
could
extricate Lady Emeline from her prison.
Susan snuck from her bedchamber and made her way through Moonseed Manor to the stairs that went down. She flattened her back against the corner where bone-white corridor met cold grey stone. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She just listened.
Nothing. No giant, no scarecrow, no maids bustling hither and yon. Thank God. Susan had never been so thrilled to be without servants at her beck and call. Being without keys to the manacle, however, was not such a happy circumstance. But Susan was not without hope. Nor without resources of her own.
After all, she now knew where Dead Mr. Bothwick kept his shovels.
She dashed into the dark stairwell, careful not to let the sharp metal base of the borrowed shovel scrape against the damp stone walls. She crept down each wide, uneven step as silently as possible, straining to hear noises from either direction.
There was no going back now, no explaining how she got “lost” in the cellar again whilst happening to carry about a knife and a shovel. (The ivory-handled knife had just been lying there next to the shovels, right out in the open. Well, “next” meaning inside the house tucked under a mattress, but it wasn’t as if the razor-sharp blade was of much use to Dead Mr. Bothwick in his current form.) If she
did
get caught trying to free Lady Emeline from her cage, Susan needed all the protection she could muster.
When she reached the last step, she paused to listen again, but only for a moment. The single candle flickering in the musty stairwell splattered more than enough shadows to have given away her approach.
Susan took a deep breath and rushed into the tiny cell, shovel aloft.
The (thankfully) still-living Lady Emeline shrieked her silent shriek and collapsed to the dirt floor, shuddering in terror.
“No, no, no—” Susan dropped to her knees beside the trembling woman and placed a hand on her bony shoulder. Her cousin recoiled, whimpering in earnest. “I’m here to help,” Susan whispered, horrified. “I promise to get you out of here.”
She reached for the hem of her cousin’s skirts. Susan lifted the soiled fabric high enough to expose a pale, unshod foot and the rusty iron band locked around the skeletal ankle. She tugged, knowing the effort would be useless. The manacle didn’t give. The clamp would never open without the key. The chain, however . . . The chain still held possibility. Susan straightened the slender metal rings, felt their weight.
Tears coursed down Lady Emeline’s dirty cheeks. She still trembled.
“I’m getting you out of here,” Susan informed her firmly. “Tonight.”
Her cousin seemed unconvinced.
An insidious thought wormed into Susan’s mind. “Do you remember when I came to visit you last time?”
Without looking up, Lady Emeline nodded.
Susan’s blood ran to ice. There. Proof. Lady Emeline was equally as
not
-deaf-mute as her mother. There was no mystical contagion infecting the women of Moonseed Manor on their wedding nights. There were only self-serving, fortune-hunting cretins, who were evil enough to steal their wives’ tongues. Perhaps literally.
Susan had no wish to check.
She rose to her feet, more determined than ever to free this poor creature before her devoted husband was forced to kill her out of “love.”
“This ends now,” she told the quivering woman. “Don’t move.”
Susan raised the shovel as high as she could, both hands wrapped around the wooden pole, the metal base pointing straight down, poised to bisect the cursed chain.
She let loose.
A clang much louder than she’d hoped for echoed in the dark chamber.
Susan staggered backward, shoulders aching from the impact of shovel against chain. Had she done it? Could they leave? She dropped to the ground, inspecting the chain. Still solid.
No! She’d broken half a ring! Not enough to slide the interlocking piece free, but the shovel
had
wreaked damage. Now she had to wreak the same amount of damage again—but to the other half of the ring. Bloody hell. What were the chances she’d hit the exact same ring twice in a row? Susan had never been one for sums, but her best guess on those odds was a whopping zero. The noise had been deafening.
“We have no time,” she said in response to her cousin’s questioning gaze.
The frail woman had stopped crying. As if she had hope, however small a glimmer. Susan could not fail her.
“We’re doing this. Don’t worry.” She scrambled to her feet with renewed determination. “We’re leaving here. Both of us. Tonight.”
She poised the shovel. Struck.
Another deafening clang.
She poised the shovel anew. Struck again. And again. And again. Her shoulders screamed with fire and agony, but Susan couldn’t stop, had to work faster, had to—Yes! She did it!
Susan dropped the shovel and left it where it lay, no longer worried about keeping silent. Servants in
London
had probably heard, given the racket she’d been making.
“Come. We have to hurry.”
She hauled Lady Emeline up by a fragile elbow and, almost as an afterthought, grabbed the fallen shovel as well. She had no experience with knife fights, but she now knew a thing or two about swinging a well-aimed shovel.
With the wooden pole tucked under one arm and the other arm wrapped around her cousin’s thin frame, Susan somehow managed to stagger both of them up the stairs, out the door, and into the rock garden.
They did it! They were free!
Elation zinged through Susan’s blood, warming her against the chill wind. She dropped the shovel against the vine-covered gate and hauled the sack-of-bones Lady Emeline up into her arms, ignoring her aching shoulders’ protest. If Mr. Bothwick could carry damsels in distress up and down this stupid path, so could Susan.
Turned out . . . she couldn’t. A mile of winding, twisting trail was much farther than it seemed. So they developed a pattern. Five minutes in Susan’s arms, walking as fast as her aching back—and the treacherous path—would allow. Then five more minutes where both of them did a fair bit of hobbling. And then back in Susan’s arms.
Eventually, they reached the bottom. Freedom. Bouncing in place, Susan wanted to clap and shout with glee. She settled for a quick hug to her newly freed cousin.
They still had to find Mr. Forrester. Was he still here? Where could he be?
The last rays of the dying sun withered behind the stormy horizon. The town was enveloped in darkness. Candles flickered in the windows of only two establishments: the tavern and the dress shop.
A drop of icy rain fell on the tip of Susan’s nose. Another followed, streaking across one of the lenses of her spectacles. Angry clouds swirled overhead. The sky would open up at any moment.
“Take this.” Susan shrugged out of her pelisse and draped it over Lady Emeline’s bent shoulders. “Stay here.” At her cousin’s startled expression, Susan’s face broke into her first real smile of the evening. “I’ll be back, I promise. This is almost over.”
As before, cousin Emeline appeared unconvinced. But she knelt on the sand, shrouded in Susan’s best pelisse, and seemed content to wait.
Susan tried the Shark’s Tooth first. The tavern had been the place they’d met, even if she’d been in too much shock at the time to register their meeting.
Empty. Mostly empty. Just the town drunks, the priest (who perhaps also fell into the previous category), and Sully.
“A round for everyone?” the barman asked hopefully.
Susan shook her head. “Perhaps another day.”
But there wouldn’t be another day. She was leaving here. Now. With her cousin at her side. She gave the barman a little wave before stepping back out the door. He was a good sort. She’d have her parents send double the tab.
Next stop—the dress shop. The only choice left. If Mr. Forrester wasn’t within those walls . . . No. She wouldn’t think like that. This nightmare would end tonight.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Miss Grey. Miss Devonshire.
And—
thank you, thank you, thank you
—Mr. Forrester.
“I need your help,” she blurted. “Please.”
The ginger-haired witch didn’t bother to glance up from her sewing, much less rise and ask what the trouble was.
The porcelain doll, however, stalked forward from where she’d been murmuring with the magistrate (who was no doubt investigating whether there really was a French aunt making dresses in Burgundy) and all but spat on Susan in her fury.
“You’ve got some nerve coming in here, don’t you? And asking for
help.
I wouldn’t help you if you were drowning in a well and I happened to have a rope in my arms. I’d jump in the water myself, just to strangle you with it. Then I’d—”
“Not from you,” Susan cut in, shouldering past her. “From Mr. Forrester.”
The magistrate glanced up, eyes shining, clearly pleased to be needed. “Anything at all, Miss Stanton. Name it. I am now, and always, at your service.”
The witch’s needle paused. The porcelain doll looked about to pop.
Susan had no time to waste with either of them. She grabbed the magistrate’s arm and tugged him toward the open door. “Come with me. Please.”
With a shrug of apology at the two seamstresses, Mr. Forrester followed Susan over the threshold and down the steps. Miss Devonshire slammed the door behind them.
Good. The fewer witnesses to their flight, the better.
The rain picked up, soaking Susan to the bone without her pelisse. Gooseflesh rippled along her icy skin. No matter. Cousin Emeline needed the pelisse more. She deserved whatever comfort she could get. Susan strode faster, leading Mr. Forrester across the wet night to the foot of the path where a tiny bundle lay trembling.
The magistrate gasped in shock. “Is that . . . Lady Emeline?”
Susan could only nod, relief momentarily robbing her of her voice. They were saved. Thank God.
They were saved.
“You did the right thing, Miss Stanton.”
Susan nodded again, smiling. Of course she did. She couldn’t let her helpless cousin fester in that godforsaken stone cage one moment longer. They were escaping, and they were escaping together. But—how did Mr. Forrester recognize Lady Emeline?
“You knew my cousin needed help?” Susan asked, shocked.
“Of course not.” Mr. Forrester shook his golden curls and hauled Lady Emeline to her feet. “I had no idea she’d wandered off again. Her husband must be so worried.”
Susan’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“You were right to come to me,” he continued, swinging Lady Emeline up and into his arms as though she weighed no more than a pile of feathers. If he noticed the broken chain swinging loose from beneath her skirts, he gave no mention. “She can be quite a handful, and I’m sure you didn’t want to attempt guiding her up this trail in the rain. Gets slippery.” He turned and met Susan’s eyes. Smiled. “Accidents sometimes happen.”
“
What?
” She stared in horror as the magistrate began to march cousin Emeline right back up the very trail that the two women had just fled. Stabbing him with the ivory-handled knife in her pocket suddenly seemed a reasonable idea.
Either the man had less brainpower than the little she’d given him credit for, or he realized quite clearly the atrocities that took place inside Moonseed Manor but was too frightened—or, more likely, too well paid—to act as he ought.
“He keeps her locked up,” she blurted out, desperate to try her best while they were still outside the walls of Moonseed Manor. What were the odds she’d be able to free cousin Emeline twice? Or that the giant wouldn’t retaliate for having done so this once?
Mr. Forrester’s brow creased, but his voice could only be described as kind. “He’s her husband, Miss Stanton. While I hope they are a happy couple, I simply do not have the power to dictate how a man should treat his wife. My personal belief is that women are to be cherished, but such beliefs are unenforceable in a court of law.” He smiled gently. “Come, now. You know that to be true.”
Yes. Susan did know. She closed her eyes, unable to keep looking at the disappointment and hopelessness in her cousin’s face. What Mr. Forrester said was absolutely true. Even Miss Grey had pointed it out when she’d first told Susan the story. The marriage contract simply served to transfer ownership from father to husband. The magistrate’s hands were tied.

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