Seven Wicked Nights (34 page)

“He was unarmed,” said Cecily. “He had no hounds.”

“Still. There must be some rational explanation. If he was a stag transformed into a man, where did he get clothes? Does he keep them stashed under a bush somewhere?”

Portia asked, “Are you calling Cecily a liar?”

“Not at all,” Brooke replied evenly. “But after a traumatic event like that, it would be perfectly understandable if she were confused, overwrought…”

“I am not mad,” Cecily insisted, letting her butter knife clatter to her plate. “I know what I saw. I am not the sort of hysterical female who imagines things.”

“Are you sure?” Luke sipped his coffee. “Are you certain you’re not exactly that sort of female? The type to harbor romantic illusions and cling to them for years, hoping they’ll one day become the truth?”

Ah, if looks could fillet a man, Luke would have been breakfast. But he would rather have Cecily’s anger than her indifference, and for the first time in nine days, that was what he was sensing from her. Whatever, or whoever, she had encountered in the forest—be it man, animal, or something in-between—it had captured her imagination, and her loyalty as well. Those treasures that had so recently, if undeservedly, belonged to him.

Not anymore. The way she defended her tale so stridently, the lively spark in her eyes, the fetching blush staining her throat… Luke felt these subtle signals like jabs to his gut.

She was falling out of love with him. And fast.

“I’ve known Cecily all my life,” Denny said from the head of the table. “She’s an intelligent woman, both sensible and resourceful. She’s also my guest, and I won’t have her truthfulness or sanity questioned over breakfast.” He propped one forearm on the table and leaned forward, fixing Luke with what was, for ever-affable Denny, a surprisingly stern glare.

Luke acknowledged it with a slight nod. If he must surrender her to this man, it was some solace to see Denny was capable of protecting her. In a breakfast room, at least, if not a cursed forest.

Denny turned to Cecily and laid a hand on her wrist. “If you say you encountered a werestag last night, I believe you. Implicitly.”

“Thank you, Denny.” She gave him a warm smile.

How sweet. Truly, it made Luke’s stomach churn.

Ignoring Brooke’s grumbling objection, Luke swiped a roll from his neighbor’s plate and chewed it moodily. He ought to be rejoicing, he supposed, or at least feeling relieved. She
should
forget him, she
should
marry Denny, the two of them
should
be disgustingly happy.

But Luke could not be so charitable. For four years, she’d held on to that memory of their first, innocent kiss—and he had too. And he liked believing that no matter what occurred in the future—even if she married Denny, even if an ocean divided them—his and Cecily’s thoughts would always wander back to the same place: that graying bench tucked beneath the arbor in Swinford Manor’s side garden. He didn’t want to believe that she could forget that night. But even now, as she buttered another point of toast, he could sense her mind straying…and she wasn’t kissing him on a garden bench. She was deep in the forest with a blasted white stag.

Damn it, it wasn’t right. When she lay abed at night, she shouldn’t see charging boars and violent tussles. She should dream of the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the texture of organdy and the distant strains of an orchestra playing a stately sarabande. As he had, all those freezing, damp nights. As he would, in all the bitter years to come.

What had she called him, last night? An insufferable, arrogant cad. Yes, he was. He wanted Cecily pining for him forever, dreaming she could tame him, yearning for the tender love he could never, ever give. He wanted her to remember the old Luke, not fantasize about some uncivilized beast. And if this “werestag” had eclipsed the memory of their kiss with his gory midnight rescue…

Luke just would have to do it one better, and give Cecily a new memory to occupy her thoughts. An experience she could never forget.

D
ENNY DID NOT PLAY THE PIANOFORTE
. No one in his household did. Yet when Cecily sat down to the instrument that afternoon, she found it recently polished and tuned to a crisp perfection. He must have had that done for her, in anticipation of her visit. Always so thoughtful, Denny.

Her fingers lingered over the keys, coaxing a somber melody from the instrument.

“Is that my funeral march?” Luke’s deep drawl, from somewhere behind her.

She froze to her fingertips.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said. “Melancholy does become you so.”

She closed her eyes and drew a deep, slow breath. If he wished to taunt her…two could play at that game. Her fingers launched into a jaunty folksong, one she knew he would recognize instantly. They’d sung it that summer, practiced it over and over in preparation for that farce of a musicale at Lady Westfall’s estate. She played the introduction effortlessly, from memory—not caring that she would betray the fact that she’d practiced it often over the years, out of sentimental folly. And here came the cue for his entrance, that gay little trill that ushered in his bass. She drew the notes out, extending him a musical dare. Would he sing his part? He’d always had the most beautiful voice, before.

“Enough,” he said. “I preferred the mournful dirge.”

Cecily dropped her hands to her lap. “So it would seem. You are as devoted to low spirits as bottled ones, these days.”

“Quite. I think I’ve developed an aversion to levity. When you marry Denny, together you will be so revoltingly happy, I shall have to remove myself to another county.” He came to stand at her shoulder. “Perhaps another continent.”

He would leave England again? The thought gutted her. She knew what it was, to fret endlessly about his whereabouts, not even knowing whether he still lived. It was a miserable way to spend one’s time.

“I’m not going to marry Denny.”

He paused. “You have told him this?”

“Not yet. I will tell him soon.”

“When did you decide?”

“Last night.” She lifted her face to his and read pure male arrogance in the set of his brow, the little quirk at the corner of his lips. How like him, to think that disastrous kiss had changed everything. “No, not in the drawing room. I knew it later, in the forest.”

He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Cecy. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the werestag? I fear he will make you a prickly husband.”

“Don’t be absurd. And stop deriding me for my honesty, while you hide behind that ironic smirk.”

His eyes hardened, and he set his jaw. Curse him, he still wouldn’t let her in.

Exasperated, she pushed back the piano bench and stood. “Of course I do not mean to wed a werestag,” she said, crossing to the window. “But that encounter showed me what I truly desire. I want the man who will be there when I need him. The man who will protect me, fight for me.”

“I have fought for you, Cecily.” His voice was low, and resonant with emotion. “I have fought for you, protected you. I have suffered and bled for you.” He approached her, covering the Aubusson carpet with a lithe grace that made her weak in the knees. For a moment, she was reminded of the majestic white stag: the innate pride that forbade him to heed her commands; the sheer, wild beauty of his form. They were so alike, he and Luke.

Cecily’s breath caught. What did he mean, he had fought for her, bled for her? Was he referring to last—

“I have fought for you,” he repeated, thumping a fist to his chest. “Risked my life on battlefields—for you, and for Denny, and for Brooke and Portia and every last soul who calls England home. Is that not enough?”

Mere inches separated them now. She swayed forward, carving the distance in half. Her heart drummed in her breast as she whispered, “No.”

His eyes flared. “Cecy…”

“It’s not enough.” She lifted one hand to his neck, curling her fingers into the velvety hair at his nape. Yes, every bit as soft as it looked. “I want more.”

If their game was taunting, victory was hers. Grasping her by the hips, he crushed her to the wall and kissed her with abandon. And unlike a typical kiss, which started with superficial contact and then deepened by degrees, this kiss began at the end. He devoured her in those first desperate seconds, prying her jaw wide, stroking deep with his tongue; but then he soon retreated to gently explore her mouth. And then he was worshipping just her lips—reverently tracing their shape with his tongue, blessing them with feather-soft kisses as she stroked his hair.

Oh. Oh, sweet heaven.

His hands slid up to cup her breasts. She arched against him, pressing her breasts into his palms, thrilling when he thumbed the hardened tips. He bent and kissed her throat, her collarbone, the tender border of her décolletage. His tongue dipped between her breasts, and she clutched him tight.

“Yes,” she said aloud, afraid he might stop. This was what she needed. Yes,
yes
.

This was paradise.

H
E WOULD MOST CERTAINLY
go to hell for this.

Luke knew it, and he didn’t bloody well care. It was all he could do not to drag her down to the carpet, toss her skirts up around her ears and claim her in the most primitive way possible—what remained of his soul be damned.

He wanted to possess her mouth, her body, her mind and heart. To touch every deep, soft and secret part of her: the tender arch of her palate, the vulnerable curve beneath each breast, the snug corner of her heart where his memory lived.

The mindless wanting surged in his blood, stiffened in his groin, twisted in his chest. It hurt. He ground his hips against hers to soothe the ache, and she shuddered, as though she could glimpse the lewd images cavorting in his mind.

He drew back immediately.

Rein it in.

This wasn’t about unleashing his base desires. This was about giving Cecily a new memory of him, to surpass all others. He’d been her first kiss, all those years ago. For the rest of her life, she would have compared every kiss from every man to that one perfect moment—until he lost control and mauled her last night, erasing that legacy completely.

But there were other firsts he could give her. Other experiences she would remember, measure every other man against. He had to restrain his animal urges, excavate whatever remnants of patience and tenderness still remained to him.

He had to make this very, very good.

She trembled as he eased her neckline downward, freeing the luscious swell of one breast.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

“I’m not,” she said. Then, pleading: “Just touch me.”

Now it was Luke’s knees that quivered as he stroked her breast, caressing her with the backs of his fingers before taking the plump weight into his palm. So pale and perfect. So smooth and cool against his tongue. He bent to draw her taut nipple into his mouth, suckling her until he pulled a deep moan from her throat.

With his other hand, he hitched up her skirts. A bit of impatient fumbling—he was out of practice, after all—and he found her sex, warm and dewy with excitement. It nearly undid him, to feel how much she wanted this. Wanted
him
.

Gently, tenderly, he caressed her most sensitive flesh. Learning the shape of her with his fingers, circling her swollen pearl with his thumb. Cecily’s breathing quickened, and her eyes fluttered shut.

“Open your eyes,” he said. “I want you to know it’s me.”

She obeyed, looking up at him. “As if it could be anyone else.”

God, the unabashed affection in her gaze… It punctured all the defenses he’d built around his heart. A flood of emotions swamped him: anger, confusion, fear. And beneath it all, a foolish, sentimental sort of yearning. He hadn’t known he still was capable of yearning, for anything.

She made him feel almost human again.

He sank to his knees, pressing his cheek to the cool silk of her inner thigh. “Cecy, my darling. I could kiss you for that.”

And he did.

Spreading his fingers to frame the slit of her drawers, he pressed his mouth to her core. She bucked against him, and he clutched her hips tight, pinning her to the wall as he teased and tasted her flesh. Her gasp of delight made his pulse stutter.