One Week as Lovers (16 page)

She nodded, too weary to speak. When his arms eased her down to the bed, she nuzzled her face into the cool pillow with a brand new kind of pleasure. A weakness that made her sigh.

He was quiet behind her for a long time, but she couldn’t manage to lift her head to see his expression.

“I’ll just…” he finally said, then cleared his throat. “Don’t move.”

No chance of that. She thought she’d only just closed her eyes, but suddenly the bed dipped and a cold cloth touched her back.

“Sorry,” he said when she gasped out a little shriek. The towel caressed her lower back and then her buttocks and thighs. “I got you a bit, um…”

He finally lay down at her back with a deep sigh. When his arm snuck around her waist, she smiled. This was a better kind of happiness than she’d dreamed.

Lancaster was rather worried about the state of his heart. It had pounded like mad when they’d made love, of course. But it still beat so hard and fast that his chest began to ache. It wasn’t quite anxiety, though that was part of it. Mostly, it was an excess of pleasure. Physical pleasure, yes, but something emotional as well.

He’d never felt quite so…
connected
during sex. He’d never felt treasured or even valued, because he didn’t let women that close.

Over the years, he’d learned how to manipulate his sexual encounters. Unless he was paying a woman specifically to indulge his roughest desires, he made sure his partners weren’t aware of his need to control. But these machinations kept him distant. Always removed even in the friendliest of encounters.

He’d manipulated Cynthia in the same way, and that made his gut burn with shame, but somehow he’d felt her joy too. Her joy in
him.

No one had ever felt joy just to have him near. Desire, yes. And lust and satisfaction and maybe amusement if it was a rare encounter that didn’t involve coin. But not joy.

Pressing his forehead to Cynthia’s shoulder, he breathed in her skin. He felt almost…normal. Almost peaceful. Until Cynthia spoke.

“That wasn’t at all what I expected,” she sighed.

His heart finally slowed. Actually, it stopped entirely. He held his breath, but Cyn seemed happy to leave it at that. “Oh?” he croaked. “How so?”

“It wasn’t anything like my first time.”

He pressed his forehead a little more firmly to her back and squeezed his eyes shut. She’d realized. She’d known.

Her first lover had probably laid her down in a field of wildflowers. He’d probably kissed her all over and held her to his bosom and whispered of love and moonlight and stardust.

While Lancaster had taken her from behind like an animal. “I’m sorry,” he breathed into her skin.

Cyn laughed. “Sorry? You must be mad. My first time was horrid. This was…Well, this was rather spectacular.”

He opened his eyes and stared hard at the pale peach skin in his vision. “Really?”

She flipped to her back, forcing him to pull away. “Are you fishing for compliments, Nick? Come now. You’re the more experienced one here. Shouldn’t you be petting me and telling me I was lovely?”

He couldn’t quite believe she was smiling at him. His brain hadn’t made the transition from horror to relief yet. “You were lovely,” he answered stupidly.

“Thank you.” When she laughed, his brain finally caught up with the conversation.

“Why was your first time horrid?”

The smile faded a little. “It just was.”

He supposed he should feel glad that her first time had been with someone else. He hadn’t been the one to cause her pain. But he didn’t like the sadness in her eyes. Lancaster stroked a finger down her cheek. “Because it hurt?”

“Yes.” Her gaze flickered down to his chin.

“And?”

“And,” she sighed, “because it was a mistake. An awful mistake.”

When he laid his hand against her cheek, Cynthia closed her eyes and nuzzled closer.

“Well, I can’t disagree with that,” he said. “First, because you were with another man. And second, because it makes you look sad to speak of it. Will you tell me?”

Though she shook her head, she opened her eyes and began to speak. “He was an artist. While he was working on a commission in Scarborough, he engaged in a bit of gambling. When he lost to my stepfather, they agreed he’d pay his losses in trade. Not that my stepfather was happy about it, mind you, but what could he do?”

She shrugged, her shoulder rubbing against his chest. “So James painted my portrait. And we flirted. He kissed me a few times. It was very exciting. I was seventeen—”

“Seventeen,” Lancaster growled, but Cynthia ignored him.

“And he was very handsome and sophisticated. I’d already been offered up to Sir Reginald, and Harry was being discussed, and I decided to make myself unmarketable.”

“By losing your virginity.”

“Yes.”

“You were too young.”

“Old enough, I gather. Regardless, he finished the portrait, but there was some argument as he was leaving. The agreement hadn’t covered the cost of paint and canvas, only James’s commission, but my stepfather refused to pay for the supplies. I saw James storm out and followed him to the stables, knowing it would be my last chance. I asked him to take my virginity, and…he did.”

Lancaster waited for more, but she offered nothing else. “Well, that’s a fine way of saying nothing at all. What do you mean ‘he did’?”

“I mean that he did. I thought it would be romantic. He was an artist, after all, and I’d very much enjoyed our kisses. But it wasn’t romantic at all, and I’d been stupid to think it would be, I suppose. He kissed me a few times, and I was rather…interested. But then he began to chuckle, and he pulled me into a stall, leaned me over a barrel, and—”

“He did
what?
”

Cynthia jumped at his shouted question. “He was still angry, I think. Feeling foolish for being tricked out of his funds. And I’m sure he thought a girl willing to give herself so cheaply didn’t deserve kindness.”

“Cyn,” he gasped in horror. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? I asked for exactly what I got. I didn’t believe myself in love with him. I didn’t even try to couch it in feathery language. I simply said, ‘Will you have me?’ and so I was had. And when he finished, he buttoned his trousers, tucked in his shirt, and said, ‘Tell your father we’re squared away then.’ And he left. That was it.”

Lancaster couldn’t speak. Cynthia didn’t have tears in her eyes, but he felt like weeping for her. He smoothed the hair away from her forehead. “Tell me his name.”

“Why?”

“Because I shall hunt him down and beat him half to death.”

She laughed. How could she laugh when his heart was breaking? “He was only being a man, Nick. There’s no punishment for that.”

“Being a man?” he sputtered. “He acted like an animal!”

“He only took what—”

“Do you think
I
would ever do that to you? To
anyone?
”

She met his eyes easily. “No, not you.”

“What kind of man would hurt a woman that way? You must have been terrified.”

This time her eyes did fill with tears, and Lancaster felt so much rage fill his soul that it frightened him. He could kill this James, easily. “Don’t cry, Cyn.”

She turned her head into his neck. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Hush.”

“I wish it had been you. You were beautiful, Nick. It was beautiful.”

Beautiful? He wrapped her tight in his arms and tried to calm his raging heart. Beautiful. He should kill that bastard just for making her think sex with him was beautiful.

But despite his anger, he wanted to ask her to repeat that over and over again.
You were beautiful. It was beautiful.

Maybe with Cynthia it was.

“Nick?”

“Yes?”

She tipped her face up to look at him. “Why didn’t you want me to touch you?”

All the air in the room drew away from him, eluding his lungs. It belatedly occurred to him that there was a problem with this genuine connection. A friend would notice things a stranger would not.

Why didn’t you want me to touch you?
What could he say to that? He could only lie to her. Familiar as he was with falsehoods, the words still felt like cotton in his mouth.

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“I wanted to touch you the way you touched me.”

Lancaster swallowed hard to clear the truth from his throat. “Men do not care for that kind of attention.”

He’d hoped that her inexperience would prove to her disadvantage, but Cynthia pulled her chin in and gave a brief laugh. “Pardon? As far as I can tell, men enjoy every bit of attention they can get. And
you.
You used to sit at your mother’s foot and read while she stroked your hair like a cat.”

“I was a child,” he muttered, and that was the truth at least. “And men are not…Men are not conditioned to need that kind of touching.”

Her nose scrunched up in doubt. “Are you quite sure?”

“I think I would know.”

“Well,” she scoffed, “we may have to work on that. I’m keen to pet you a bit.”

Lancaster laughed in that way he’d perfected. A laugh that sounded real because he’d trotted it out for nearly ten years of deceit. “I’m flattered. But you’ll have to leave the petting to me.”

“We’ll see,” she answered ominously. She hesitated for a moment, and Lancaster braced himself for more poking and prodding, but she managed to surprise him. “So…what was your first time like? Very exciting I’d suppose.”

“Er…” Good God, the woman had some sort of awful gift for uncomfortable topics.

“I’ve listened to the village boys speak of their conquests for years. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“I…As your first lover was, at best, a miserable failure, I feel it’s my duty to explain that the warm glow of pleasure one feels after lovemaking is best sustained by quiet contemplation or perhaps even sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“Aren’t you sleepy at all?”

“No.” But she quieted down, nuzzling her nose into his chest and relaxing with a deep sigh.

He was a fraud. He knew nothing about the proper way to behave after making love as he always simply pulled on his clothes and left. There had been no sweet whispers or warm embraces after his first time, nor had there been any in the years since. Until now.

Breathing in the scent of her hair, Lancaster let himself feel the way her naked skin pressed his. How hot their bodies were together. She shifted her knee, sliding it a few inches up his thigh.

He could smell her skin and her sex. He could feel her from her toes all the way to the top of her head. Her breath tickled his chest. Her heart beat close enough to hear.

Lancaster closed his eyes.

“It was awkward,” he said softly, and she went still beside him. “Exciting and frightening at the same time. And I wish…I wish it had been you.”

“’E’s a right odd fellow,” the old boat maker said. His tongue poked through his teeth as he considered his own words. “Strange.”

“Strange how?” Lancaster did his best to hide his frustration. Everyone seemed to agree that Bram was an odd man, but no one could explain why.

“Ain’t got a soul, far as I can tell,” the man offered with a shrug, as if that were a perfectly normal observation.

“No soul,” Lancaster repeated tonelessly.

The boat maker nodded. “Nothing there.”

“And you say he’s been here?” The tiny inn was cloudy with peat smoke and packed to the rafters with fishing net. It hardly seemed a likely stopping place for an earl’s man.

“Every so often, yup. Come in to wet his whistle three days ago.”

“What’s he looking for?” Lancaster asked, though he already knew the answer would be vague.

“Don’t know. Never says a word.”

“All right then.” Lancaster slapped his hat against his knee. “Thank you for your kind attention.”

“Honored, yer lordship.”

Lancaster slipped his hat on and glanced around to be sure there were no newcomers in the inn, but the same five men stared back at him. He raised his hand in farewell before stepping out into the rain.

If he remembered correctly, and he wasn’t sure he did, Richmond’s land started a good five-hour carriage ride to the west. Less than that on horseback then. It was possible Bram made the trip from Richmond’s every few days and then returned immediately home. If he was staying somewhere nearby, no one in the village suspected.

Despite the rain, Lancaster ignored the carriage and crossed to the lane where Adam’s family lived. The boy’s mother had been taken by surprise yesterday, caught between the excitement of a viscount visiting her tiny cottage and the fear of letting her boy go live in a house beset by spirits. She hadn’t wanted to say yes but had been unable to say no. Feeling guilty for her worry, Lancaster braved the short walk in the rain to offer a good day and assure the woman her youngest boy was settling in well.

After that, he crossed to the Painter home to check on Mrs. Pell, but she’d set out for home during a brief lull in the storm. Hopefully, she was already home, dry and safe, and working hard at a meaty stew for tonight’s dinner.

Lancaster, feeling a bit lost, glanced down the road before stepping up into the carriage. He hadn’t accomplished much aside from giving himself time to think about Cynthia.

Her arguments for making love had made perfect sense in the confines of that small room. It had all been very logical with the sight of her naked skin gleaming in the firelight. Of course they should make love. What a grand idea.

But now he was reeling. What had he done? He couldn’t marry her, but he couldn’t
not
marry her now. She might be pregnant this very moment, despite his attempt to prevent it.

She’d been so lovely and tempting and warm. And so familiar despite the newness of this physical desire.

Lancaster rubbed his knuckles against his forehead. He shouldn’t have made love to her. And yet the thought of taking it back twisted a knife into his gut.

Even more painful was the thought of sending her on her way when this adventure was done.

He couldn’t marry her, and he couldn’t not marry her.

His head began to throb. They’d roll up to Cantry Manor soon. He should have some idea of what he would say to her. “We can’t do that again,” seemed like a good opening. And then what?

The knife in his gut turned another revolution.

“Jackson,” he called, slamming his fist against the ceiling. A small panel slid open. “Take me to Oak Hall.”

Jackson’s reply was lost in the wind, but the panel slid closed.

Instead of going home, Lancaster would question Mr. Cambertson. Find out more about this debt and Bram’s mysterious appearances. If he stalled long enough he just might have an inkling of what to do with Cynthia Merrithorpe. Right now all he could think to do was help to solve her problems.

Bram was a mystery. His identity, his whereabouts, his intention. Perhaps Lancaster should just kill him and ignore the mystery altogether. Cynthia said he hadn’t hurt her, but he’d
allowed
her to be hurt. He’d stood by and watched her attacked by a monster.

Then again, Lancaster already planned to kill Richmond. And then there was that animal, James. Three murders might be beyond the pale. Probably Cynthia wouldn’t appreciate his collecting corpses for her like a macabre bouquet.

Perhaps this Bram fellow did not deserve murdering per se. Perhaps just a good thrashing. Well, that took him down to two killings. Was two a reasonable number? The beast deep inside him seemed to think so.

Five minutes later he was about to knock on the door of Oak Hall when it opened quickly enough to create its own breeze.

“You got my message?”

Lancaster stared in shock at Cambertson, whose hand still clutched the door handle. Where in the world was the decrepit old butler? Had he finally keeled over?

“Come on, come on,” Cambertson muttered, waving him in.

“What message?”

“I sent a message ’round with the idiot maid. Didn’t you get it? Good God, how many trials can one man go through?”

Lancaster didn’t like the odd implication that Cynthia’s death might somehow be equated with trouble with the help, but he bit his tongue and followed her stepfather down the hall and back to his shabby study. The butler sat, sound asleep, in a chair outside the door.

“Bram paid another visit,” Cambertson barked as he rounded his desk and collapsed into his seat.

“Today?”

“No, yesterday noon. Reminded me that Lord Richmond only wanted to know when my Mary would be back. Nothing more. I told him it didn’t matter. The girl is only thirteen!”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re the only man around who can understand.”

“Me?” Lancaster shook his head in disgust. “Understand what?”

“What it’s like to live with this pressure. The life of a gentleman and all the debt that goes along with it.”

He wanted to spit in this man’s face and scream that they were nothing alike. But he only shot his cuffs and stared at a smear in the dust atop the desk.

“I know you think I did wrong by Cynthia, but I meant her to have a good marriage. Her father was a knight, after all. She wasn’t meant to marry low. I tried my best to honor his name.”

“How much do you owe Richmond?”

“Thirteen hundred,” Cambertson muttered.

Thirteen hundred pounds. It wasn’t so much. It wasn’t worth the life of a young girl. It certainly wasn’t worth the life of two. But it was probably five years’ income on this land, assuming he hadn’t already sold off great swaths of it.

“So what will you do?” Lancaster asked.

“What can I do? He’s threatened to see me hauled into court once already. It was either give him Cynthia or sell the land. Without the land, we’d have nothing.”

“But without Cynthia, you’d be fine.”

“Of course we’d be fine,” Cambertson snapped. “She would’ve married someday regardless. And we will be fine without Mary as well, if only I can make my wife see that.”

Amazingly, there appeared to be a sheen of tears in the man’s eyes. But it was just as likely grief for his debt as it was for the fate of his daughters. Lancaster could understand how untenable it would be for the man to sell his land, but if he sold off his whole family, whom would he pass the land to?

On the other hand, if Lancaster simply removed Richmond from the equation, the whole situation might be solved. Except that the debt would then be held by whomever inherited.

“Do you think Bram is Richmond’s heir?” he asked.

Cambertson shrugged. “It’s possible. Richmond’s been married three times.”

“And widowed.”

The man ignored Lancaster’s pointed tone. “I never heard anything about an heir, but it’s clear he’s related.”

“Can you find out?” He didn’t want the fate of Cynthia and her sister falling into the hands of a man who supposedly had no soul.

Cambertson shrugged again. “He asked about you, you know.”

“Who?”

“Bram.”

Well, that was disturbing. Bram had little reason to be looking in the direction of Cantry Manor. “What did he ask?”

“Asked who you were and why you’d returned.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him you were the viscount and I expected you could visit your estates anytime you liked. And I figured you were hiding from your creditors.”

“Ah. There you have it, then.” A perfectly logical reason for him to remain on this lonely coast. Certainly more logical than keeping company with a dead girl who wasn’t actually dead.

Cyn’s stepfather cleared his throat so loudly that Lancaster jumped in surprise. “So,” Cambertson drawled. “Did you tell her?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you tell the ghost what I said?”

Lancaster watched him rub his hands together in nervousness. He felt utterly ridiculous even answering the question, but Cambertson was all serious attention. “I shouted it out at midnight in a darkened room, but I can’t confirm the absence or presence of any spirits.”

“Hm,” he grunted. “She didn’t respond?”

“A strange feeling of warmth did come over me.”

His eyebrows flew up. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

“A friendly feeling?”

“Decidedly so.”

Cambertson nodded sagely. “A good sign. Perhaps she’ll be at peace if she knows I won’t hate her.”

“She did seem happier.” Tired of toying with the man, Lancaster shifted toward the edge of his seat. “Do you know if Bram is still about?”

“He said he would explain my position to Richmond, so I gather he meant to return home.”

“Send a note if he shows up again, will you? I’ll see myself out.” He paused in the doorway to glance down at the old butler. “Is your man quite well? Looks a bit pale.”

Cambertson snorted and waved him on, so Lancaster left the old man to his nap, hoping it wasn’t a permanent rest.

As he started around the corner of the hall, Lancaster stopped in his tracks and pivoted toward the closed door of the music room. He pushed with the flat of his hand and the door swung in to reveal the bright square of the portrait of Cynthia. He’d thought it would look different now, knowing who the artist was, but it only seemed more beautiful. This time, looking at that stubborn jaw and those slanted eyes, he felt a warm swell of comfort.

He leaned forward to peer at the signature. Munro, it said. James Munro.

Bastard he might have been, but the artist had captured that elusive shimmer of beauty about her. Something that glowed from her eyes. Something not born of perfect features, but of spirit. She was stubborn, yes, but grounded in peace all the same.

Staring at that portrait, Lancaster felt a certainty snap into place inside him. He would marry her, family and fortune be damned. He’d find a way.

Bram was gone, at least temporarily, so they could spend the whole day tomorrow searching the cliffs. They’d find that bloody treasure or he’d die trying. And if it truly was a fortune…Well, the gold that would purchase Cyn’s freedom could purchase his as well.

“Scoundrel,” Cynthia growled as Nick raised a glass of wine triumphantly in her direction. “Beast.”

He pursed his lips in mock sympathy. “Poor dear. Taken advantage of by a worldly gentleman.”

While Cyn glared, Mrs. Pell shook her head and tapped the tabletop. “You two act as if you’re playing for coin instead of beans.” She slid one card toward Nick and then laid her hand down, face up. “And it’s a good thing you’re not or you’d both be beggared. That’s in, then.”

She and Nick both looked down in time to watch the housekeeper sweep the last few dried beans into her pile.

“Damn me,” Nick muttered, which prompted another warning about language from Mrs. Pell.

“Really, milord. You’d think you’d never been around a decent young woman. I’m off to bed then.” She untied her apron and folded it over a chair. “I’m too old to stay up past ten. Sleep well.”

When the door to her room closed, Nick arched an eyebrow. “Decent, eh?”

Cynthia blushed at the gleam in his eye and tried to keep her laughter quiet. “You
are
a scoundrel.”

“A very happy one.”

Happy,
he’d said. She grinned down at her last few cards and pushed them around the table. She was happy too.

Worry had overtaken her in the hours he was gone. He’d left solemn and frowning, not the type of man to take such a thing lightly. But he’d returned as the charming Nick he’d been so many years before. Not polished and perfect, but
easy.
Happy.

“We’ve another early day tomorrow,” he said, and Cynthia’s heart raced ahead to the night to come. Lust twined around her limbs and tightened.

“Best to retire then,” she murmured, stealing a glance at him through her lashes.

Nick’s smile gentled. He reached across the table to take her hand. “We can’t do that again, love.”

Love,
he called her, as if she really were his love. That was all she heard for a moment. She sat straighter and gave up looking coy. “Can’t do what again?”

“What we so thoroughly did earlier. I can’t…have you like that again.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and leaned closer. “How can you have me then?”

“Cyn…” His helpless look offered only apologies.

“I’m sorry, Nick, but you’ve…you’ve introduced me to the pleasures of the flesh. You can’t cry off now.”

“I didn’t
intend
to introduce anything!”

“Well, you did, and that’s that. Perhaps you’d like another glass of wine?”

He pulled his hand from hers and crossed his arms. “Cynthia Merrithorpe, you listen to me. We are not going to make love again. Not until after we’re married.”

“We—” His words flashed through the room like lightning.
“What did you say?”

“Marry me, Cyn.”

“No!”

He smiled and reached for her, lacing his fingers through hers. “Please do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

“I will not!” Sweat sprang up along her hairline and she shivered at the sudden chill. “And you are already engaged, you fool.”