Too Sinful to Deny by Erica Ridley Page A

rubbed his chin, looking at her as if he couldn’t decide whether accompanying her would be a good idea or a ghastly one. Why? Was he afraid he would find her in his arms once again? Or that he wouldn’t?
    “All right,” he said at last. “But I won’t stay. I have to find a missing person.”
    “A missing person?” Susan leaned forward. How romantic! This explained his mercurial moods. And why he was equally averse to being sighted along with Susan. “Who is she? Where do you think she went? Why do you think she left?”
    “Not a she.” He drained his brandy. “And I doubt he had much choice in the matter. He’s dead.”
    “You lost a dead person?” she echoed, fingers gripping her knees in horror.
    His face hardened and his eyes sparked with simmering fury. “To be honest, I rather suspect somebody stole him from me.”
    “You . . .” Whatever she was going to say died on her tongue.
    Susan leapt to her feet. What the bloody hell had she been thinking, whiling away the morning with this madman as if he’d invited her over for biscuits and tea? He carried a pistol. And misplaced dead people. (Of which she was seeing entirely too many as of late.) She fled from the elegant drawing room as if it had caught fire around her. How many times had gossip-seeking gotten her into trouble? How many times had she promised herself “never again”?
    When did she plan to start keeping those promises—once she was dead?

Chapter 4

    The dress shop was the last of the rotten wooden cubes jutting up along the bone-white shore. A long-ago fire had charred the lilting roof, adding the impression of a festering cavity to the illusion of giant’s teeth. The faint smell of smoke still whispered beneath the salt of the frothing ocean. When the crooked door listed open on rusted hinges, Susan half-expected a nursery-tale witch to emerge from within, broomstick in hand.
    She was not disappointed.
    A pale young woman swung a spindly black parasol in place of a broom, its broken spines no doubt the cause of her tattered grey skirts’ shredded appearance. Strands of flyaway red hair snaked across her face and neck. Wild eyes swept their gaze up and down the empty shoreline. Then she paused, ear to the cliff, as if anticipating an unwanted arrival. After a moment, she spun around, crimson pelisse rippling in the breeze, and closed the door behind her.
    Susan shivered. Whatever sort of cabal gathered beneath the scorched rafters of the dress shop, Susan was certain she’d best not interrupt. Even if that meant spending the next eight hours trying to discover a usable path back to Moonseed Manor on her own.
    She had just decided to brave the cliff ’s face alone when she caught sight of someone skulking in the shadows behind one of the shuttered shops.
    The scarecrow.
    Were it not for his shock of straw hair catching the occasional ray of morning sun from the overcast sky, she might not have noticed his presence. As it was, she definitely did not wish for him to notice her. Although he undoubtedly knew how to return to Moonseed Manor, he did not appear to be en route to that locale. He appeared to be digging beneath the sand.
    His jagged slash of a smile flashed grotesquely across his uneven face each time his shovel struck the earth. His eyes slid side to side in their sockets as he shot furtive glances over his shoulder as if expecting to see a Jolly Roger fluttering above the watery horizon. He raked his gaze around the entire perimeter of the village.
    And saw her.
    When his eyes locked with hers, Susan couldn’t prevent a gasp from strangling in her throat.
    The scarecrow’s ragged-tooth smile disappeared into a thin line. His fingers flexed, then tightened around the shovel. Without bothering to refill the hole—no matter why he’d dug one to start with—he swung the sharp metal base over one bony shoulder like a deadly infantryman poising his bayonet. Then he stepped toward her.
    She could run. But not fast and not far,