Page 58 of Too Sinful to Deny
“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 aboutsleep,” 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 particularlywell, 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 itwasnews. 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 oftongentlemen 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.”
