One Week as Lovers (7 page)

“What do you know about it?” she snapped. “Rumor has it that you’ll marry an heiress and your problems will be solved.”

“Ha.” The smile he offered wasn’t as cold as the one she’d seen last night. It was bitter and rueful. Another revelation. “True. I will marry. And she
is
an heiress. And we’ll live happily ever after in a castle made of gold, so I may as well help you find your own pleasant ending.”

Cynthia had thought it shocking to wake up and find Nicholas leaning over her as she slept. But that was nothing compared to this. “You’re engaged? You…You’ll marry soon? We hadn’t heard.”

“I’m due back for the wedding in a few weeks. So let’s make this quick, shall we? Up for a fine bit of treasure hunting this morning?” His attempt at humor fell flat. He didn’t sound truly amused and Cynthia couldn’t have laughed if someone had offered her a thousand pounds.

Nick would be a husband soon. And some other woman would be his wife.

Cynthia’s foot looked narrow and delicate before she pulled a woolen sock over it and stuffed it into a thick-soled boot. Lancaster slid his gaze to her other foot, studying the feminine shape before she could hide it. She might be dressed in servants’ garb, but her toes looked pale and fine.

She wore no stockings today, as Mrs. Pell had whisked them away for mending.

“Are you listening to me?” Cynthia snapped.

“Yes…What?”

“I said you’d best find a sturdier pair of gloves.”

He glanced down at the gloves he held in his hands and shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure this is safe for a lady.”

She heaved a deep sigh and tugged the second boot on. “I’ve been climbing the cliffs for weeks now. I daresay it’s safer for me than it is for you.”

“Still, if you were to fall…No, I can’t allow it.”

Her eyes blazed fire and her lips thinned. Lancaster braced himself for a tirade.

“You…” she started.

He waited a few seconds. “Yes?”

“You…I can’t…Fine. I’ll split the treasure with you fifty-fifty. It’s only fair, I suppose. It’s your land.”

“Do you think that offering a share of the gold—which we likely will never find anyway—will induce me to risk your life?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Whatever control she’d had over her temper vanished in an instant. “My life has been at risk for months and what have you ever known or cared about it? Mind your own business, Viscount.”

The truth stung, but he shook it off. “I don’t think it needs to be said that this has very much become my business.” He gestured in a wide circle to encompass both his room and his bed. “Every bit of land and property involved in this fantasy of yours belongs to me. So
bother
your outrage, Miss Merrithorpe.”

Her eyes narrowed even further. Frankly, he’d be surprised if she could still see. Lancaster shifted his weight to provide better balance in case she felt inclined to fly at him, fists at the ready, as she’d done often in childhood.

But perhaps Cynthia
had
matured. She merely cocked her head. “You said you would help me, and I will hold you to that. ‘Help’ implies assistance, not tyranny.”

My, she actually had grown up. She’d even managed not to raise her voice. Lancaster felt she deserved a reward for that. “Very well, we’ll do this together.
But
,” he added when her tense mouth slipped up toward a smile. “I may change my mind if it proves too dangerous.”

“We’ll see.” Clearly dismissing his concerns, Cynthia stood, shook out her salt-stained gray skirts, and smiled.

Just like the night before, the force of that smile traveled through him like a thump of sound. His chest tightened.

“What’s wrong?” Cynthia asked.

“Nothing. Are you ready?”

She glanced toward his riding boots and shrugged. “I’m ready. Are you?”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Despite the puzzled look she gave him, Cynthia headed for the door. He followed.

She drew her hood over her head as they descended the stairs and led the way to the door. Mrs. Pell had sent her last set of helping hands out to work in the stables for the morning. The boy, Adam, had been thrilled with the opportunity to spend some time with Lancaster’s honest-to-goodness London driver. Still, Lancaster’s stomach tightened as Cynthia slipped out the wide front door and hurried down the steps. But whatever his nervousness was, Cyn clearly didn’t share it. She didn’t even look over her shoulder as she turned east toward the shore.

The wind gusted beneath his coat as he hurried to catch up. “Aren’t you nervous you’ll be seen?”

She shrugged. “If you look furtive, people notice.”

Ah, yes. He understood that. The key to blending in was looking as if you belonged. But…“How can you know that? Did you escape from Newgate earlier this year?”

The naughty look she sent him called to mind all the mischief she’d caused as a young girl. “I wasn’t actually supposed to spend every day of my childhood at Cantry Manor, you know. The more time I spent here, the more restrictions my stepfather set down. I learned that if I tried to sneak out, one of the maids would notice and inform my mother. But if I simply walked out as if it were expected…” She winked, startling Lancaster into a smile.

By God…Cynthia was
pretty.
How could he have thought her
not
pretty?

Her head tilted, and she watched him through her lashes as she stepped onto a well-worn path that sloped gently down. Was she flirting with him? His skin tingled when she licked her lips.

“Lancaster…” she started.

“Yes?”

“Where did you get that scar?”

The wind gusted, surely twisting her words. “Pardon me?”

“That scar.” She stopped abruptly and turned toward him with an exasperated smile. “Around your neck,” she huffed. “I saw it last night.”

When he started to shake his head, she reached up to trail a finger down the skin beneath his chin. Before her finger could reach the linen of his cravat, Lancaster snatched her hand away.

Cynthia gasped, and he tried very hard not to squeeze her hand too tightly in spite of the way his fingers spasmed. His skin tingled still, but not with pleasure. This tingling was a bright, hard wash of cold.

“Nick,” she gasped, and he let her go, murmuring, “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, I apologize. I had no idea it was something I was not to bring up.”

Here. Here was an excuse. He forced his mouth into a smile—not a hard task as he’d practiced this ruse so often. “I am self-conscious. A burn, you understand. A disfigurement. I hate for it to be noticed.”

“Oh.” Her shock twisted into impatience. “I see.”

“There is nothing wrong with a little vanity.”

Cynthia snorted and his panic began to fade.

“I thank you for reminding me of it, as a matter of fact. I mean to purchase a nightshirt with grand frills about the neck before my wedding.”

“Grand frills…?” she started, and then her words collapsed into laughter.

Relief shook his breath from his lungs. He was usually prepared for the question. He was usually on guard against an unexpected, intimate touch. After all, there were very specific circumstances when a woman might drag her finger down a gentleman’s neck. He hadn’t previously counted treasure hunting among them. He wanted to rub her touch away but smiled instead.

“Really, Lancaster.” She laughed. “Your vanity is misguided. If you care for this woman at all, you should skip the nightshirt and sleep in your usual attire.”

“Oh?” He shook off the last of his worry. Despite her strange approach, she really was flirting with him. “I’m not sure I should accept your advice. You do have a peculiar affinity for nudity, Cynthia. Some ladies might not share your appreciation for the male physique.”

“I…” Her cheeks flashed to red. “I don’t…Oh, shove off!”

True laughter escaped his throat as Cynthia spun around and flounced down the trail. The wind lifted the hood off her hair and twisted her skirts around her legs. She snapped the hood back into place, but her dress lifted higher, exposing the tops of her calves.

Lancaster watched her legs carefully for another peek as he picked his way down the rocky slope.

Miss Cynthia Merrithorpe should not be thinking of him naked. And as a betrothed man, he shouldn’t be so damned happy about it. But he most certainly was.

Cynthia couldn’t find her footing. Oh, she was steady enough on the trail. She’d scrambled up and down this path for days.

But with Nick…She was tripping over her thoughts and feelings, dizzy with confusion.

She’d loved him once. She’d loved him so much that she’d hurt inside whenever he was near. But that ache had been a warm and happy pain.

Without any doubt at all, she’d known that someday she would blossom into a woman and he’d see her as more than a childhood friend. Someone would hold a ball—she wasn’t sure who, as country dances were the rule with her neighbors. And Cynthia would arrive in a beautiful dress of white and silver tulle—paid for by some anonymous benefactor, perhaps?

Aglow with beauty, she’d float down a curving staircase. Nick would look up from chatting with his friends, and he would
see
her. He’d see her as a woman. The world would spin to a halt around them. They’d fall in love and marry too young and move to London, and the whole
ton
would marvel at the strength of their passion.

A great screeching invaded the hazy scene she’d conjured, and Cynthia looked up to see an enraged gull swoop toward her head. Waving it off with the anger she couldn’t direct elsewhere, Cyn hurried past the nest, too aware of Nick’s footsteps behind her.

She still couldn’t quite fathom that he was back. Almost harder than believing he’d gone in the first place.

It had only been meant as a monthlong tour of the Lake District with some lordly man named Mr. Trevington. Trapped in the schoolroom with her sister, Cynthia had missed his send-off on that sunny morning. But she’d reassured herself that he’d return soon enough and this horrid sorrow and separation would end.

A few days later, his family had packed up suddenly and gone to join him. And then…nothing. Nothing. A month came and went. No one returned.

For weeks afterward, Mrs. Pell had avoided Cynthia’s question until the truth had become unavoidable. The Cantrys’ possessions had gradually been sealed into crates and shipped off to London. The servants let go one by one until only Mrs. Pell remained. And Cynthia, of course. Cynthia had been left behind too.

She’d written letters she’d never sent, confessing her love; woven excuses from the cobwebs that formed in the places they’d once played; shed tears for him every night.

Despite all that, she’d healed. And now he was back.

Cynthia kicked a shell out of her path and headed straight for the little four-foot cliff that put an abrupt end to the easy part of the trek.

The wind shaped her skirt into a bell when she jumped, hiding her view of the sand, but she landed steady and paused to watch the waves roll toward her.

“Cynthia!” His voice fell toward her just as Nick landed with a thump at her side. “Are you hurt?”

“What?”

He ducked down and reached for her skirts.

“What are you doing?” she cried as his hands delved beneath her thread-worn petticoat and stroked from her knees to her boot tops.

“Your ankles. You likely turned one with a fall like that.”

“I jumped!”

He tugged off his gloves and patted at her skin as if he might discover a shard of bone sticking out.

“Stop that.”

His warm hands continued roaming.

“Nick.” His hand touched the back of her knee and she jumped clear of him. “Nick!” Legs burning with the memory of his pressing fingers, Cynthia stepped a safer distance away. “I didn’t fall, my ankles are fine, and we’ve another half-mile in this sand,” she said before whirling around to walk quickly away.

Gentlemen did not touch ladies in that way. It wasn’t proper. Unless, of course, said gentlemen considered that lady a child.

Unfortunately, regardless of what Nick might think of her maturity, her body was very clear on the matter. She was a woman, and Nick was a fine, handsome man with strong, warm hands that she’d dreamed of for years.

James had been a mistake. But Nick…Nick could be something better. Nick had already set her limbs shaking with a few simple touches. It was more than James had done for her.

She imagined kissing Nick, imagined him backing her up against a wall….

A little dip in the sand buckled her knee, and Nick’s hand closed around her elbow, startling her. She hadn’t known he was so close, but now her skin tingled at his nearness.

“Where are we going?” Nick asked, his deep voice nearly swallowed by the surf.

“Just past the cliffs I canvassed yesterday.”

“You’ve only made it a half-mile up the shore?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And…what exactly does the diary say about the location of this treasure?”

She glanced at him, then quickly away. The diary was her trump card, her only leverage in this struggle with Nick. If she told him the exact wording, he’d likely take over the search himself. And this was her search, damn it. Some small piece of her mess of a life that she could own.

So she muttered, “It’s vague,” and picked up her pace. The sand sucked at her feet until her muscles burned.

Nick seemed unimpeded. “Well, my God, Cyn. I’ve miles of coastline. This could take forever.”

“Mm.”

“There’s nothing more specific?”

“Not really.” Much to her relief, a distraction appeared ahead in the form of a thirty-foot wall of rock in her path. Cynthia smiled.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should take a look at this diary and…What are you doing?”

As she was very obviously tucking her skirts up into the leather cord around her waist, Cyn ignored the question. Nick stared at her knees. He was still staring when she took off at a run for the jagged wall of rock.

“Cyn? What—?”

She leapt up two piles of rock that made halfway decent steps, then made the final four-foot leap across a crevice filled with roiling sea foam. Her feet skidded on the narrow ledge as she leaned in to hug the rock. A strangled yell followed her, then wheezed into silence.

“Don’t hesitate,” she called over her shoulder, “or you’ll end up very wet.”

“I…Holy…Don’t move.”

“It’s the only way around. Come on.” She scooted along the ledge until her heels hung over the sea. An occasional wave sent flecks of foam straight up the rock to speckle her legs and bunched skirts.

“This is sheer madness!” Nick shouted. “Damn it, Cyn. Stop right there!”

“If you can’t keep up, I understand. There’s no shame in that. You’ve been in the city for a long time. Stay here. I’ll be back in a few hours.” She didn’t have to look back to know that his face had gone red. She’d always been good at goading him.

“Mrs. Pell will have my scalp if you break an arm,” he’d said each time she’d proposed a race to the top of the great oak tree next to the churchyard. Cynthia would nod and assure him that the village boys would likely not consider his forfeit a genuine loss to a girl. They were too fair-minded for that, surely. And Nick would scowl and kick at dead leaves and refuse her challenge. Until she started up the branches.