Too Sinful to Deny (31 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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“You’re right. Let’s have done.” She touched her fingertips to the crucifix hidden beneath her bodice.
Someone
had to fight for those who could not.
Shoulders squared, she marched away from the trees.
Chapter 24
Evan placed the ornate strongbox inside a secret, specially built enclosure behind his stables, engaged the locking mechanism, and covered the access point with dung-scented soil. Once his horses trampled atop the location a few times, the hay-strewn area would look no different from any other. The perfect hiding place. They could rip up every floorboard of his house, tear apart the very walls, and never find the jewelry box.
He’d considered taking the damn thing with him, but determined such a measure an unnecessary risk. If he were stopped at any point, it would be far too easy to discover something of that size in a mere carriage.
The real question, at this point, was: Where to now?
Although there was no more physical evidence linking him to any crimes against the Crown—save whatever was buried beneath the area where one of his mares currently relieved herself—remaining in Bournemouth was no longer wise. Though generally close-lipped, too many of the town’s inhabitants traded in smuggled French goods. Were they to be questioned by anyone intelligent as to the origin of such items, Evan’s name might be mentioned. He preferred not to be present should that come to pass. There might be suspicion forever, but without proof, he could at least
attempt
a normal life. Somewhere.
Perhaps Bath. The cottage there was far enough from the town center that he wouldn’t have to see or speak to anyone if he didn’t wish to.
And he definitely would not be attending the stupid assembly.
A wry quirk lifted the corner of Evan’s lips, then died. Now that he was no longer engaged in piratical pursuits, his weekend had become free of commitments. Had the situation unfolded differently, he could’ve escorted Miss Stanton to the festivities after all. Fetched her dry biscuits and warm punch to her heart’s content. Held her to him as they swayed and swirled with the music.
Disgusted with his inability to stop fantasizing over the impossible, he strode into the stable and hung his shovel on the wall. He might as well face the truth. He was in love.
He might reminisce about his escapades aboard the captain’s ship, but he wouldn’t feel as if he’d been robbed of an important part of his life.
Miss Stanton, however, would be missed something fierce.
He could be content enough, he supposed, without illegal adventures bringing drama and excitement to his life. But he would never be truly happy without Susan at his side.
This realization should have had him trembling in his boots. And, to be honest, it did. For the first time, however, his fear was not due to the heretofore heretical thought of a man needing a woman to be happy. The erratic beating in his heart was due to the terrifying thought of not being able to have her.
Evan quit the stables and headed toward his house. His problem, he realized clearly, was that he was hopelessly lovesick, and there was nothing to be done to cure it. He’d alienated her so thoroughly—at the point of a pistol, no less—that she would undoubtedly prefer to press her knife to his throat than grant him a moment’s audience.
He pushed open his front door and came to an abrupt halt to find the object of his desires trapped against the far wall by two footmen.
“Release her,” he said softly.
They did.
She yanked her hands up and lashed out at them with closed fists. They’d apparently anticipated this move, for they’d already hurried out of range. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Evan defiantly, her chin held high.
Such bravado might’ve had greater impact, were she not garbed in a much-mistreated version of yesterday’s costume, every fiber of which was frayed or spackled with sand and dirt. Her hair was a tangled blond mess of fallen curls and bits of leaf. What was hopefully just a bit of mud streaked across the dull lenses of her spectacles.
Yet she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Why are you here?” he asked, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. Perhaps he’d been wrong not to believe in Fate.
The look she cast him was withering at best.
Ah, right. The strongbox. Well, she couldn’t have it. She was just going to have to trust him.
He stepped forward and tried to take her hands.
She pulled away.
“I’m leaving,” he began, then paused when she let out what sounded suspiciously like a snort. He raised his brows in question.
“Really?” she asked sarcastically, gesturing at what he belatedly realized was his completely vacant anteroom.
All
the rooms were empty.
“I won’t be coming back,” he started again. He gazed at her earnestly, determined to make her understand. “And I want—”
What
did
he want? Did he dare verbalize his desires?
“Come with me,” he said in a rush. “I know I’m not as well-heeled or well-behaved as the upstanding Society gentlemen who pursue you back home, but their staid little hearts cannot possibly feel the passion for you that I do. I know I can’t offer the precise life you had in mind, but we would at least have each other. Perhaps someday, we could—”
She laughed.
Laughed.
With patent incredulity etched across her face.
The insidious sludge of defeat smothered his last strand of hope. He had expected her to refuse because she thought him beneath her, not because she didn’t believe his love was real.
“I mean it,” he said, no longer caring if she heard the bleak desperation in his voice. “Let me fetch the priest from the tavern, and I’ll swear upon his Bible that I want you by my side. And more. Can’t you tell that I—”
“Don’t say it,” she interrupted, placing a palm to his chest as if to stop him from speaking further. Just as his body warmed to the contact, she realized what she’d done and jerked her hand back to her side. “Even if I thought you capable of true emotion, what exactly are you offering? The life of a fugitive, forever consigned to backwater village after backwater village so you won’t have to bother with such things as morality and consequences and the law? I would resent you before the end of the first week. In fact, I’m already insulted you think me stupid enough to take such trope as truth. There is no ‘we,’ Mr. Bothwick. There never was. Now tell me what you’ve done with that box.”
She didn’t care about him. Not even enough to let him unburden his soul. All she wanted was the evidence necessary to destroy him. Little did she know her dismissal of his feelings had already destroyed him in a way the gallows never could.
Despite the cold seeping through his pores, Evan rallied what remained of his pride.
“No.”
She bristled. “Without that box—”
“Why do you suppose I’m so determined no one else have it? Besides,” he threw out carelessly, “I destroyed it.”
Her eyelashes fluttered heavenward. “I
am
aware that it’s indestructible.”
“Nothing,” he said softly, “is indestructible.”
Like the heart he hadn’t known he still possessed. The one he’d given up on when he’d taken to the sea in search of adventure. He’d had nothing to lose.
Until now.
And he’d already lost her. Which, as she’d pointed out so eloquently, was his own bloody fault. Never to be forgiven. And never to be reversed.
“Balderdash.” She stared up at him in exasperation.
Not because she saw the internal battle, the frustration, the despair of Evan the man who would prostrate himself before her if he thought it would make a difference. But because he stood in the way of her retrieving a jewelry box that could severely shorten his life. If there was love in the equation, it was only on his side.
Her gaze unfocused somewhere over his left shoulder, then narrowed at nothing. Her left shoulder twitched. Someone who wasn’t watching might have thought it nothing, a twitch in the muscle. He knew it for what it was: a shrug. She was communicating with someone. And it wasn’t him.
“Are you talking to my damn brother instead of listening to me?” he demanded.
Her eyes refocused on his. “He’s the one doing the talking. He wants to know why I don’t shove my knife hilt-deep in your belly and have done with you already.”
“Truly?” Evan frowned. That didn’t sound like Timothy.
She sighed, her shoulders slumping against the wall. “No, he just said that arguing with you has never gotten anyone anywhere. I added the bit about the knife because it seemed as good a solution as any.”
That much sounded like
her.
He remained convinced she’d make an excellent pirate. Much more so than Timothy.
Timothy, who had either betrayed him from the start, or simply hadn’t thought to inform his brother after suffering a severe change of heart with regard to smuggling. Evan wasn’t certain which was worse. Nor was he sure how he felt about having an unexpected opportunity to find out.
“Can you . . . ask him something for me?”
She raised a brow. “He’s invisible, not deaf. He can see and hear splendidly.”
“Oh. All right.” He turned to face the direction she’d last looked, then realized Timothy may or may not still be there. He glanced at her for help.
Compassion filled her eyes, and she reached out to touch him before remembering herself and letting her hand fall with the act uncompleted. “Don’t worry about trying to face him. He understands the impossibility. Just ask your question.”
Evan nodded, feeling more awkward and uncomfortable by the second. He was about to converse with his dead brother. His
invisible
dead brother. Via the one woman with whom he’d wanted their failed romance to last . . . forever.
“Timothy,” he said aloud, the back of his neck warming uncomfortably when he heard his voice crack. He cut his gaze to Susan’s to see if she noticed his discomfort. This time, she did brush the tips of her fingers against the back of his hand. With that simple touch came strength. “Why—” He cleared his throat. “Why did you take Red instead of me?”
He shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t had any questions prepared for a moment such as this, but he hoped it was as good a start as any. He opened his mouth to clarify what he meant, but Susan was already responding.
“He says, ‘Because Red doesn’t ask questions.’”
That
did
sound like Timothy.
“Of course I ask questions,” Evan said, irritated at how quickly his brother could put him on the defensive, even after death. “I still have plenty more.” Susan’s steady fingers twined with his. Evan took a calming breath and started anew. “You went on a secret mission without breathing a single word. Why didn’t you confide in me?”
She glanced somewhere above his head. “He says, ‘Because I had no way of knowing which side you’d take. I don’t even know where you stand now.’”
Evan’s heart twisted. “But you’re my brother!”
Her grip on his hand loosened. “He says, ‘And you’re an excellent actor. I’m not sure I’ve ever known what you were thinking, or if you meant the words you were saying.’ Harrumph. That’s certainly true enough.
What?
” She frowned at the air. “Fine, no personal asides.” She paused, as if listening intently. Her fingers tightened around his again. “Right now he’s saying, ‘Sometimes you stood aboard ship with the wind in your face and an expression of such pure pleasure, it was as if you were born to the seas. Other times, when you thought no one was looking, I could swear you wished you’d never stepped off dry land.’” Her head angled slightly, and her gaze met Evan’s curiously. “‘You loved it . . . and yet you didn’t. I had no reason to believe you didn’t feel the same about me.’” She lifted a brow with a wry smile. “You have no idea how much I long to voice my opinion on
that
statement. Respond quickly, or I won’t be able to help myself.”
But he couldn’t respond quickly. He couldn’t respond at all. Timothy had seen what Evan had never admitted even to himself. He
hadn’t
been happy with his choices. Although every risk he took brought a rush of adventure, the losses he suffered invariably outweighed the gains. To acknowledge that, however, was to admit being wrong. Since he’d burned every bridge he’d passed, there was no going back—and no point indulging maudlin hypothesizing over what might have been.
“I doubt it,” she whispered sotto voce to an area just to the left of her shoulder. “All right, I’ll ask.” She straightened and turned her gaze to Evan as if he hadn’t just overheard her speaking to thin air. She kept her hand in his, as if willing him to have strength for the next question. The sensation of being supported was starting to seem . . . normal. “Your brother would like to know,” she said, her expression carefully blank, “what role you played in his death.”
“What?” he sputtered, his skin turning cold. “None at all! I didn’t know he was
on
a secret mission. How could I have murdered him while it was in progress? I swore to kill the villain myself the moment I discovered his identity, and I still plan to put a bullet or two between the blackguard’s eyes.”
Evan cut himself off as he realized a simple “no” might have been better than openly admitting to premeditated homicide to a woman whose faith in him was tentative at best.

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