One Week as Lovers (4 page)

“No, but…” Of course, he could not have known that Cynthia Merrithorpe might be forced into marriage, but he should’ve been keeping watch on the earl. Lancaster was responsible for that wretched life, surely. And by extension, for Cynthia’s death.

“I should like to visit her grave,” he said.

Mrs. Pell flushed and shook her head. “There is no grave. A suicide can never…and besides that, her body was not found.”

He raised his head in a sharp jerk. “No body? Then how can we know she is dead? Perhaps she’s only run off. That seems more in keeping with the Cynthia I knew.”

“I saw her.” The woman’s words descended in a hoarse rush. “I saw her jump myself, so there’s no doubt she’s dead. Milord. I mean to say…It’s just not possible. If…I…”

Despite his own shocked pain, Lancaster saw the stiffness in Mrs. Pell’s face and knew that he’d asked too much of her. She was in mourning and suffering more than he’d known. How horrible to watch a loved one throw herself into the ocean.

“I regret the question, Mrs. Pell,” he said softly. “I apologize for the pain I caused at broaching the subject so callously.”

“Nonsense, sir,” she answered, though she stood and shook out her skirts all the same. “No apology necessary. Let me refill your drink.”

Lancaster watched the amber slide of the liquid as it slipped from the decanter to the glass. He was still watching the play of rusts and golds as the firelight danced against the glass in his hand when he realized he was alone.

Thank God. He needed privacy right now, needed to calm his shaking thoughts. But despite the solitude, he did not reach up to rub the ache at his throat, the prickling heat that spread in both directions before the ends met at his spine. He’d trained himself long ago never to draw attention to the rough scar that ringed his neck, never to touch it…even if it did feel tight as a noose today.

He dreamt of her that night. She stood at the edge of a cliff, winds whipping her skirt to her legs and tangling her hair into writhing Medusa strands. When she turned to look at him, her eyes flooded with dark judgment.

Cynthia knew what he knew, was aware of his absolute failure. But he could save her now, reach out and tug her back from the gaping maw of the gray waters.

But something held him back, something rough and tight and strangling him. Lancaster reached up to claw at the tightness, tried to work his fingers beneath it. His eyes rolled as he looked around for help, but no one arrived. In the end, all he saw was Cynthia, as she took one step back and her body slowly tilted away. The pressure tightened around his neck….

Sheer force of will allowed Lancaster to pull himself from the dream. He’d worked hard at the skill, as there were certain parts of his past that he never wished to know again. But it had been years since he’d suffered that kind of nightmare, and so his mind moved with resistance, rusty with disuse.

He forced his eyelids open, though they sunk closed again before he could focus. Only an impression of something white moving in the moonlight floated to his brain. He breathed, feeling his closed throat expand, and tried again. This time there was only blackness, nothing white at all. Lancaster unwound his clenched muscles and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. The sweat covering his body cooled to an instant chill, a relief after the feverish fear of the dream.

The crisp air was a relief too, and he breathed deeply to calm his hammering pulse.
Just a dream, just a dream.

The image of a length of white moving across his room flashed behind his eyes again, clearer this time. The shape of a gown, the blur of a face. But that had been nothing. Just a remnant of terror, nothing else. Lancaster scrubbed his hands through his hair, then reached for the mug of water next to the bed. And froze.

The water was there, and the lamp next to it, but something else was there as well. Something small and pale and giving off a faint sheen in the moon’s rays. Whatever it was hadn’t been there before.

He glanced around the room, toward the door, and saw nothing. Perhaps Mrs. Pell had entered, bringing him…What? Lancaster squinted at the unknown object and reached for the lamp. The wick caught with a crackle and revealed a tiny heap of harmless fabric.

The flame grew brighter as he reached forward, adding pink to the paleness. As he lifted the material, Lancaster saw that it was a ribbon. A silk hair ribbon, stiff and discolored, stained with white…just as if it had been plunged into the ocean and left to dry on the sun-swept rocks below.

Richmond would have to die.

Lancaster stared into the low flames of his bedchamber’s hearth and nodded at the sparks that floated up. Richmond must die.

His death wouldn’t remove the guilt eating at Lancaster’s heart, but it was the only thing he could think to offer the ghost of Cynthia Merrithorpe.

She’d entered his room for three nights now, always after he slept, always leaving some token of her presence. A ribbon. A surf-smoothed stone. And last night, worst of all, a cold, wet strand of seaweed on the floor near his bed, as if it had clung to her dead foot on her journey from the cliffs.

Likely, she wouldn’t follow him to London if he left; he’d never heard of ghosts traveling. But he didn’t think he could live with the knowledge that she was stranded here, wandering these lonely rooms for all eternity. Mrs. Pell might not appreciate it either.

Wondering if he was going mad, Lancaster folded his clothes and eased wearily beneath the icy sheets of his bed. Tired as he was, he didn’t think he’d sleep. His thoughts were tumbling over themselves, getting caught up on wisps of bad dreams and hateful memories.

He’d been just fifteen when his father had sent him on that trip to the Lake District. At the time, his family had only recently become sure that the current viscount, a distant cousin, would not pass his title to his rightful heir. The young boy had begun to suffer fits on his sixth birthday and, according to rumor, had only deteriorated as time passed. There had been speculation that he was close to death for years, but the viscount hadn’t wanted to admit, to himself or anyone else, that his son would not live to adulthood.

So despite the fact that Nicholas’s father would one day ascend to the title, no one could acknowledge it. The family had no social connections and no means of developing them. They were left poor and waiting on the barren Yorkshire moors, like crows anticipating the death of a young boy.

Isolated from society, his family had been thrilled when an opportunity had presented itself. A tour of the Lake District. A chance for Nick to make connections with good families.

Lancaster felt nauseous at the memory. My God, what country fools they’d been. Fish in a barrel, unaware of danger looming overhead.

But it no longer mattered. None of it. Cynthia was dead, and it was Lancaster’s fault as much as it was Richmond’s. Even the spirit world recognized that.

So Richmond would die. It was the only solution to this mess that Lancaster could conjure up, and it would serve two purposes. First, Cynthia would hopefully be hastened on to heaven…or whatever place avenged ghosts went. Second, it would keep Richmond from ever harming anyone again. Plus there was one added advantage: the thought of shooting that man between the eyes satisfied the dark need that lurked deep inside Lancaster’s soul.

That primal thing had shaken with joy at the first thought of murder. Lancaster might end up damned for killing, but he would go to hell with a clearer conscience than he had now. He’d neglected this responsibility for far too long. Cynthia certainly believed so, or she wouldn’t bother with haunting his house.

A board creaked somewhere nearby, and he raised his head, wondering if this would be the night he’d see her without the veil of sleep to cloud his eyes. But no wraith lurked at the foot of his bed. Just the spirit of the old manor settling around him, or perhaps the new maids readying for bed.

Weariness tugged at him despite his restlessness. Perhaps he would sleep after all, tossing and turning, fighting ghosts and memory. Lancaster lay his head to the pillow and closed his eyes.

Cynthia eased into the narrow space of the old servants’ stairs. Her thick stockings were too slippery on the risers, but they were silent. And warm. The rough wooden walls tugged at her nightdress each time she brushed against them, reminding her how narrow the space was. The smallness helped to guide her in the pitch black though. She could only move straight down until she reached the floor below.

It seemed that Nicholas had forgotten more than just his friends when he’d left. He’d been almost too large to fit into the passageways even in his youth, but Cynthia had loved darting in and out of the hidden panels, careful not to be caught by Mrs. Cantry, who would not have appreciated a neighbor child using her home as a personal labyrinth.

But however little time he’d spent in the mysterious passages, Nicholas should have remembered there was a secret entrance to this bedchamber. But he didn’t. He’d left his old life too thoroughly behind when he’d gone to London. Cynthia was in no danger of discovery.

Knowing she was close to the bottom step, she ran her hand carefully along the wall until she felt the corner. She could turn left or right here. Left to go toward the other bedrooms and the stairway down to the main floor, right to go to Nicholas’s bedchamber. She turned right, careful not to brush the wall that ran just behind his bed.

Her legs began to weaken with nervousness as she neared the panel, but she ignored her own anxiety and pushed ahead. She’d been subtle in her haunting so far, and was having no effect on Nicholas as far as she could tell. Oh, he believed he was being haunted—he’d said as much to Mrs. Pell—but he didn’t seem frightened
or
inclined to leave. Strange man. Perhaps he was one of those mystics who thought it exciting to make contact with the dead. She half expected to stumble upon him wearing a turban and chanting over a brace of candles, eager to chat with her spirit.

More drastic action had to be taken. She couldn’t possibly scramble around on his cliffs knowing he could decide to enjoy the sea view at any given moment.

She clutched the stick in her left hand and held her breath to listen. He didn’t snore, damn him, and it took all her concentration to pick up the faint rhythm of his breathing. It was slow and steady—no chanting—and the unbroken darkness confirmed that his lamp was out. Cynthia eased open the panel.

The relative warmth of the room swept over her, carrying the faint tang of soap. She thought wistfully of a bath, a steaming tub of clean water she could lower her whole body into…but there was naught but hurried, cold washing in her immediate future, no matter how much her body shivered at the thought.

His bed lay to the right of the panel, and she could not see him without moving fully into the room, by far the most nerve-wracking point of her expedition. She eased her head beyond the open panel and peeked around it, confirming that he lay in his bed, asleep.

Even the faint moonlight seemed bright after emerging from absolute darkness, and she could see him. As always, he lay on his back, covers pulled high on his chest, one hand wrapped in the sheets. He seemed always to frown in his sleep, which tugged at Cynthia’s curiosity. Why was his sleep so troubled? He’d never had a care in the world during his younger years. Perhaps the haunting was working better than she’d expected.

Other than his frown and the lines of his eyebrows, there wasn’t much she could make out, though she’d tried hard over the past few nights. She itched to fire the lamp and truly look him over, but that would’ve been foolish and unnecessary. Completely uncalled for. Still, she glanced toward the lamp before she turned away and tiptoed toward the wall farthest from his bed.

She raised the charcoal and put the end to the faded wallpaper. The first scratch echoed through the room with startling sharpness, nearly pulling a gasp from her throat. As she bit it back, she whipped toward the bed, muscles tensed for flight.

He hadn’t moved. His frown didn’t deepen, there was no gleam of opening eyes. If his breath had changed, she couldn’t hear it over the crazed thumping of her heart.

Just a scratch against the wall. It couldn’t have been as loud as it seemed. She steeled her nerves—or tried to—and turned back to her work. The second line of the “L” seemed even louder, but she kept going with only one glance backward. Cringing, she moved on to the “E,” then the “A.” She was shaking by the time she finished the last letter and finally let herself breathe.

Leave here
. Simple, yet hopefully effective. She’d thought the seaweed would do it, but perhaps he was a dullard and needed blatant prodding to get out the door.

She was sliding toward the open panel when it reached her ears…silence. No rhythmic shush of air. Cynthia froze. She should have run, but her body locked itself with a nearly audible snap. The hair on her nape stood on end, then gooseflesh spread down her arms.

Don’t look. Don’t move and he won’t be awake.

“It’s you,” a hoarse voice whispered, and her heart plummeted a frightening distance. Just like jumping off a cliff.

“It’s you,” he repeated. “Why are you here?”

Oh, God. Oh, God. She’d been caught, found out. He’d send her back to her family and then she’d go to that man—

You are a ghost,
something inside her said, scolding. Cynthia blinked and forced down her panic. A ghost. Of course. He still thought her a spirit.

She turned slowly, replacing her terror with a stern look. No need to talk, really, so Cynthia just glared at him.

The man should have been frightened, terrified, but his head tilted as if he were puzzled. Perhaps he really was a dullard. All those London nights of drinking and whoring had taken their toll.

“I
am
sorry,” he said softly. “Truly.”

She wished she’d brought a length of chain. A rattle would be the perfect sound to leave him with as she slipped away. Lacking that, there wasn’t much she could do, so she pointed toward the words she’d scratched and tried to glide toward the door…and promptly slipped on the polished wood.

Though she caught herself, the slight stumble seemed to jolt Nick from his daze. He sat up a little more as tension entered the silhouette of his shoulders. She glided faster.

Her movement must have drawn his eye toward the open panel. His head turned toward it, then back to her. She saw the moment he was about to rise, could feel a wave of awareness as his mind fell free of sleep. Cynthia bolted.

Her fingers managed to catch the edge of the panel when she ran past, but it banged on her heel and bounced back open…right into Nicholas if his gasp was any indication.

A burst of triumph flooded her veins as she sprinted toward the stairway. He didn’t know these passageways and he couldn’t see in the dark. Her escape seemed even more sure when a sharp crack sounded behind her. Nicholas cursed loudly and thoroughly, and she imagined him rubbing his elbow while she slipped away into the black maze.

She was planning her next move, mentally gathering up the few belongings she’d stashed in the attic, thinking where she could go…and then her foot slipped. A small scream escaped her as the world tilted. Her legs floated in the air for a moment before they crashed down to the hard steps and pulled her back toward the floor she’d just escaped.

The
man
she’d just escaped was waiting at the bottom. His hands closed over her shoulders in an impossibly strong grip.

“Bloody hell,” he growled, not sounding like Nick at all. “Who the hell are you?” Every shred of terror she’d managed to tamp down burst free to course through her body.

She pushed her feet against his legs and tried to pull away. Dull pain throbbed through her shins, but she ignored it and pushed harder. Foolish, apparently, as he simply plucked her up and carried her toward the faint silver rectangle that marked the open panel.

“You must be mad, pretending to be a dead girl,” he muttered. His fingers dug into her arm and hip. “Completely insane, not to mention heartless and cruel. I actually thought you a bloody ghost.” Bitterness had crept into the anger, and now he really sounded like a stranger. She never could have imagined such coldness in Nicholas’s voice. He didn’t sound the least bit soft or slow now, and nothing close to charming.

“Please,” she gasped, as he ducked through the opening.

“Please, what? Ghosts don’t feel fright or pain, do they? I can do with you what I like.”

What did he mean? The words pushed Cynthia to struggle in earnest, but it was too late. He only laughed and tossed her on the bed. Before she could catch her breath he had one hand wrapped tight around her ankle. She screamed and twisted, but only succeeded in hurting her own leg. Glass clattered, a match flared, and Nicholas managed to light the lamp with one hand.

Desperate, Cynthia kicked out with her free foot, meaning to knock the lamp to the floor, but she didn’t make contact with anything but Nicholas’s arm. He grabbed that ankle as well, as Cynthia pressed her face to the blankets and reached out to pull herself toward the other side of the bed.

“Well,” he scoffed as the lamplight grew brighter around them. “Your thighs certainly look pink enough. I don’t think you’re dead at all.”

Alarm stiffened her spine when she realized that the coolness against the back of her legs was air. His grip stopped her from snapping her legs together or even shifting her position. A different kind of fear was just sizzling over her nerves when he tugged her closer. He moved her ankles together, offering more modesty, but now he was turning her toward him. What to be most concerned with, her virtue or her identity?

Identity,
her brain screamed. She had little to no virtue left anyway.

Cynthia made very sure her face was still hidden in the blankets. When his weight dipped the bed and his hold loosened, she shifted fully to her stomach and scooted down toward him, knowing it would push her nightdress higher. Cool air swept under her skirt and Nicholas froze. Her little distraction was working. Now if she could only reach something heavy…

The thief—what else could she be?—clearly had no idea what was happening with her gown. Every attempt to struggle pushed the skirt higher…and higher. In fact, Lancaster was just beginning to get a glimpse of the soft, generous rise of her bottom where it curved up from pale thighs. Jesus.

Anger was already pushing his blood hard, screaming through his nerves. He briefly considered that, whoever she was, she was at least in need of a good spanking. But that was ridiculous, of course. He was no rutting hound, and for all he knew she could be somebody’s grandmother. But she didn’t look like a grandmama from this vantage point. Not at all.