One Week as Lovers (9 page)

And his nights…his nights would have been so different. Hours of pleasure and companionship. Laughter and warmth. Tangles of limbs and stroking hands and kisses.

He’d give anything—
anything
—to simply lie with a woman and
feel
. Be kissed and caressed. Stroked. Held.

Lancaster closed his eyes and tried to ignore the tight band squeezing his chest. It didn’t matter what might have been. He was not a caring and careful lover. He was a man who needed something darker than that.

He’d thought he could control it with Imogene. Grit his teeth and ignore his needs. But with Cynthia…My God, with Cynthia he’d lost control over a simple kiss.

He couldn’t want her like that. He couldn’t. And yet his body was hardening at the very thought of her beneath him, her arms stretched high above her head. He wanted her like that again, skirts rucked up, arms pinned down. He wanted to have her there in the sand, like a doxy.

But she was his Cyn, and even if he weren’t betrothed, he couldn’t do that.

Hating himself, Lancaster slid his hand slowly down his body and took his arousal in hand. The thought of what he wanted made him ill, but that did not stop the wanting. It never did.

Face pressed to the cliff, Lancaster flinched and tried to tug his fingers out of their rocky vise. “Pardon me, but would you mind removing your foot from my hand?”

“What?” Cynthia shouted down.

“Your foot!” he yelled.

She frowned past her shoulder as if she didn’t understand, but her boot finally lifted. Lancaster could only hope that the howling wind stole his groan away.

“Come along. We’re almost there.”

“I don’t like this,” he muttered with a glance down to the sand ten feet below him. He didn’t like this, but his guilt overrode all his objections. Guilt and Cynthia’s ornery nature. So now here they were, perched far too high on this blasted cliff while the wind tried its best to set them flying.

“Cyn!” he called. “Stop! This is far higher than we thought.”

“I’ve reached it!” she screamed back, hoisting herself up and disappearing into the rock.

“Damn it.” Lancaster very carefully placed his foot on the next niche and pushed higher. If she was going to kill him, very well. His blasted brother could marry Imogene Brandiss and save the family. The surge of anger helped carry him up the last few feet. Pebbles slid and bounced to their doom as he boosted himself onto the ledge.

The cave wasn’t as big as it had seemed from the imperfect vantage point below. Cynthia couldn’t stand up straight, and it would be a tight squeeze for both of them to crouch in there together. He briefly considered the benefits of joining her, but Cyn interrupted his unwise thoughts.

“There’s something here!”

“Really?” Despite that they were hunting for treasure, he’d be damned surprised if they actually found it.

“Just a moment,” she breathed. “I think…it’s…”

He was twisting toward her when she screamed. Lancaster lurched to his feet while his stomach tumbled right off the edge of the cliff. “Cynthia!”

He’d almost reached her when she backed into him with a strangled squeal.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I just…I pulled that out of a hole…” Her whole body shuddered as she pointed at a dull white object about the size of his fist.

Lancaster leaned closer. “What is that? A cat’s skull?”

She edged past him. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s still little bits of…
stuffing
inside it.”

“Stuffing, hm?”

She rubbed her hand furiously against her skirt.

“Why don’t you wait out in the sun while I check the rest of this cave.”

It didn’t take long. A few more bones lay scattered about. An ancient bird’s nest and some mouse droppings.

“There’s nothing here, I’m afraid.”

She nodded, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes. “Best to move on then. Maybe we should split up. We’d make better time.”

“Not a chance.” When he joined her and dared to look toward the ground, Lancaster regretted it. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that the trip down would be more harrowing than the journey up. And the rope wound around his waist proved a complete waste without a tree to anchor it to. None of the rocks here looked sturdy enough to support a child, much less two adults.

“I’ll go first,” he said. “You follow.”

When she nodded, he took a deep breath, turned his back to the ocean, and eased down to his knees. Four feet later, he finally exhaled. It couldn’t be more than another three yards, after all. “All right, Cyn. Slow and careful now.”

She dropped a leg over the edge, far too casually in his opinion, then searched around for a toehold for a good thirty seconds. His arms ached with the urge to reach up and help, but there was nothing he could do but hope that if she fell, he would cushion her landing.

Finally, she found a steady perch and eased her body out into open air.

Her hiked skirts dragged even higher. The tops of her mended stockings showed now, then her bare thighs, trembling with strain. Thank God Mrs. Pell had come through with the stockings. Those naked legs had played a significant role in his fantasy last night. Of course, he could see beyond the stockings now.

Perched on the side of a cliff, hanging by his fingertips, Lancaster forgot to dwell on the height and began to dwell on Cynthia’s thighs. One of her boots pointed as she lowered a leg. The other knee bent.

The hem of her chemise tightened to a band at an awkward angle, then gave up and inched higher.

Lancaster narrowed his eyes, studying the sunlight glow off the silk of her inner thighs. The muscles flexed, pointing a line upward. His eyes followed….

“All right!” Cynthia called, startling him from his disrespectful reverie. “You can move lower now.”

In the end, his guilt proved his undoing. Mind swirling, he stepped blindly down and found nothing but air beneath. His other foot slipped. His hands, sweat-slick for some reason, lost their grip on the rock. He was falling.

The sound of the wind rushing by his ears diminished Cyn’s scream to the cry of a startled bird. Her face grew smaller. The waves roared louder.

And then everything stopped.

The world stopped, and he went on, still alive despite the complete cessation of sound and light and air.

Air.
He couldn’t breathe.

His mind exploded in a melee of fear. He couldn’t
breathe
.

Suddenly he could feel it, the rope tightening around his neck. He wanted to claw at it, but there was no air left to power his arms. His lungs burned until the ache rose up to meet the fire at his neck. He was dying. Again.

“
Nick.
” The ringing bell sounded strangely like his name.

“Nick!” Now a chorus of voices shouted, each one barely overlapping the other, drawing his name out for miles.

Something landed hard on his chest. Light flared back to existence. Cold air rushed into his lungs.

“Nick. Oh, God, Nick.”

The dark blob hovering over him sharpened into the shadowed oval of Cynthia’s worried face.

“Are you hurt?”

He thought of nodding, and her head wobbled, so perhaps he managed it.

“Where?” She moved, looking over his torso. She was touching him. He could see that she was touching him, but since he couldn’t feel much of anything, he could let it happen. Just to know that her hands rested on his chest, slid down his arms, measured his legs.

Lancaster smiled at the sky.

“Where are you hurt?” Cyn cried.

“Just…Just knocked the wind out,” he managed.

“Oh, Lord above, are you sure?”

“Aye.” Either that or his spine had cracked like kindling, but they’d find out soon enough.

She hovered for a moment, quiet and calm, then collapsed right onto him, as if she were a puppet whose strings had broken. Her head rested on his chest, her hands held his shoulders. He waited for the panic, but long seconds passed and none came. Lancaster willed his arms to curl around her and they did.

“Thank God,” she breathed into his shirt.

Yes.
Thank God.
He held her to his chest and let her weight soak into him, shocked to realize he could feel her now. His hand cupped her head. Her hair slid against his fingers. Then her hands shifted, sliding over his shoulders in a tender caress.

Lancaster closed his eyes against the tears.

“You were right,” she murmured. “We shouldn’t have dared that. I’m so sorry.”

“You managed just fine.”

“But we are a team,” she answered simply, drawing a smile to his face.

Until she jerked up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be squashing you like that!” She pushed off him.

“No,” he gasped. “Please don’t.” But she was already twisting away to lie on the sand beside him.

“Is that better?”

No. No, it was as lonely and cold as it ever was. His fingers gripped the beach instead of Cynthia. And a great glob of sand seemed to have settled in his throat as well. He could neither speak nor swallow it away.

Minutes passed in silence. Real life seeped back into his body, but he didn’t move.

“You keep your hair so short now,” Cynthia murmured.

The ghost of a cruel grip twisted in his hair. “One must keep up with fashion, of course,” he lied, forcing a jaunty smile.

“Of course.” Her voice shimmered with amusement. It swelled over him and washed away the last of his inertia.

“All right.” Muscles screamed when he pushed to his elbows, but his body seemed in working order. “Back to the hunt.”

Cyn sprang up beside him. “Don’t be an idiot. We’re going home.”

Lancaster opened his mouth to protest. He was a man after all, and eager to show off his amazing fortitude. Nothing short of death could stop an animal as virile as he.

But then she said it again. “Let’s go home, Nick.”

And that sounded like a fantasy. Like an invitation to go
back
where he wanted to be. “Yes, then,” he agreed. “Yes, let’s go home.” When he pushed to his feet, he was glad he’d agreed. Virility aside, his legs hadn’t appreciated those moments without air. But he could make them work if it meant going home with Cyn.

The warmth of the kitchen was such a change to her chilled body that Cynthia felt as if she were cocooned in wool blankets. Or as if Nick had teased her into joining him in a glass of whisky.

Their hike home had coincided with the rising tide, and a sudden wave had slapped right into her skirts. It had receded before she’d even had time to shriek at the cold, but the damage had been done.

When she shivered at the memory, Nick poured another serving and pushed the glass toward her, his movement drawing her eyes to his bare forearms. The formality of a coat was hardly called for in the midst of what could only be described as a bathing party.

“I insist you go first,” Nick said, tilting his glass in her direction.

“Nonsense. You need to soothe your back.”

“My back is good as ever, thank you very much. And I shan’t soak at all if you don’t go first. I am nothing if not chivalrous. You’re cold. And your hair needs washing.”

Her hand flew to her hair only to find the braid stiff with dried salt spray. Her face flared to a blush. “Chivalry, my arse.”

“Cynthia Merrithorpe!” Mrs. Pell appeared like a genie from the hall, her arms filled with linens. “Could you please cease shouting out every improper word that jumps into your head?”

Nick nodded solemnly. “Quite shocking.”

She kicked his shin and was disappointed when he only smiled angelically at his housekeeper. “Mrs. Pell, won’t you take a turn as well? No point wasting all this hot water.”

She glanced scornfully at the steaming tub. “I prefer a brace of cold water myself. Toughens the hide.”

“Mm, well. We London gentlemen prefer skin with the sheen and texture of a baby’s bottom.”

Cyn raised an eyebrow. “I would’ve guessed a horse’s arse.”

Playing to the singular audience of Mrs. Pell, Nick clapped a hand over his heart and pretended to succumb to an agonizing death.

“You’re both impossible,” Mrs. Pell complained as she leaned over the fire to check the temperature of the pot of water. When she reached for the hook, Nick jumped up and took it from her, snagging the rag that hung from her apron as well.

“I think that should be enough,” he murmured as he poured the water out in a great cloud of steam. His neckcloth gave up any pretense of stiffness in the dampness. Nick tugged impatiently at the knot, then used the cloth to wipe his brow. Sweat and steam dampened his shirt, pressing it to his skin and turning the scene into an exposition of male beauty.

My, oh my.

Cyn glanced toward Mrs. Pell and found that she was staring too, though her eyes looked shocked instead of satisfied. Had she forgotten he’d grown into a man? Cynthia certainly hadn’t.

He worked the pump to refill the giant black pot, and the shirt revealed his back to be just as lovely as his front. From the dip of his spine, the muscles of his back curved out to strong shoulders. His arms tightened under the weight of the water.

“Well then.” He hung the pot back over the fire and dusted his hands. “I suppose Mrs. Pell won’t allow me to stay even if I promise to do no more than peek.”

“Cheeky.” Cynthia laughed. And he had a right to be. She’d have been happy to let him wash her back.

“But Mrs. Pell,” he continued, “I beg you. Keep an eye on her for me. I seem to recall a panel hidden in that wall, and Miss Merrithorpe is not above a peek herself.”

Cynthia snorted. “I prefer a strapping country lad myself.”

He raised a knowing eyebrow. “Yes, I know that about you.”

Though she looked about for a stale roll to toss at his back, there were none at hand, and Nick escaped the room unscathed.

“The nerve.” Cynthia stood and shook out her sodden skirts, then started to turn her back to Mrs. Pell, but the woman still stood near the hearth, forehead crumpled in thought.

“Mrs. Pell?”

She startled and shook her head, muttering, “Yes, of course,” before starting on the hooks of Cynthia’s dress.

Cyn lost herself in thoughts of how lovely whisky was until Mrs. Pell cleared her throat.

“I think you should be a bit gentler with him,” Mrs. Pell said softly as she pulled the dress down and started on the corset.

“Who?”

“Lord Lancaster. He’s not the boy he once was.”

“Clearly. He’s a London gentleman now. I’d say he needs a bit of shaking up.”

Stripped of her corset, Cynthia shrugged off her chemise and rushed to the tub. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had a proper bath?” She slipped one foot into the water and groaned. “Sweet mercy.”

The water rose up in heavenly inches as she lowered her body. The heat seemed to soak right through her skin and deep into her bones, releasing so much of the anxiety she’d carried for weeks and months. But when she looked up to Mrs. Pell, her smile froze in place.

She leaned forward so fast that a little wave sloshed over the end of the tub. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

Cyn shook her head. “Don’t tell me nothing. You look as if you may cry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What is wrong?”

The housekeeper dipped a cloth into the water and worked the ball of soap into it. “London must have been hard on him. That’s all.”