by C. J. Archer
"I suppose so," he muttered and bit into the bread.
She said nothing, just let the silence stretch in the hope he would say more, but he didn't. Odder and odder. Did he not have friends other than his own brother? What sort of father would deny his son the friendship of other boys his own age?
"What else did you do when you were my age?" he asked.
She pressed her hand to her breast. "I am deeply wounded! I am quite a few years younger than you yet."
He laughed. "I mean when you were eighteen."
She smiled. "I studied two mornings and three afternoons a week with my tutors. I'd write letters, draw, and sometimes help the gardeners or the kitchen staff for a bit of company. I liked to make the bread. Kneading dough calms the mind."
"The staff here say you like to help them too." There was no derision in his tone, which she expected from a lord's son.
"You spoke to them about me?"
He nodded. "Just now in the kitchen. They couldn't say enough nice things about you."
"The previous mistress of Cowdrey Farm wasn't so kind, you see," she said, keeping her voice low lest Matilda wasn't really asleep. "Some of the maids told me how she used to beat them, and their master would… well, some of the things he did don't bear repeating. My brother and I are cut from different cloth."
"The previous owners were your cousins, is that right?"
"Yes."
"But you never met them?"
"No."
"The cook said they came to a tragic end at your neighbor's house."
"Stoneleigh. Susanna and Orlando Holt live there now."
"Orlando Holt?" He frowned and his mouth twisted to the side.
She sat forward. "Does the name mean something to you?"
He pressed his fingers to his forehead. "No. It's an unusual name, that's all." His fingers rubbed his temples in a slow circular motion.
Lucy rose and squatted beside him. "You have a headache?"
He nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to bother you."
"It's no bother. I want to know what hurts and where. I need to know." She clasped his arm. "Come on. Back to bed. You need to take a tonic and lie down."
He sighed and allowed himself to be led. "Do I have to?"
"Yes."
"I don't usually lie around in bed all day."
"You don't usually have your skull cracked open either. Matilda," she said as they passed the sleeping maid.
The maid's eyes flew open and she shot up off the chair as if it were as hot as coals. "Something wrong, mistress?"
"I'm taking Mr. Coleclough upstairs. Fetch the headache tonic for him."
The maid gave Nick a sympathetic look. "Poor pet. Let the mistress take care o' you, and you'll feel right again soon enough."
Nick followed Lucy upstairs. When she got to the second floor landing, she turned round to say something and caught him staring at her behind. His eyes widened, and she was sure he blushed, although it was difficult to tell.
She hurried into the guest bedchamber and tried to remember what she'd wanted to say but failed.
He removed his boots, the same ones he'd been wearing when she found him because he owned no others, and placed them neatly under the bed, then climbed in. He settled against the pillows and began unlacing his shirt.
"What are you doing?" She cringed at the hysterical pitch of her voice. Could her embarrassment be any more obvious? Apparently it could because her face heated. It must be the same color as the crimson valance.
Nick's mouth did that little quirk at the corners that she was beginning to realize meant he was trying not to show his amusement. It was rather adorable on an otherwise rough-looking man. "Removing my shirt," he said. "Aren't you going to rub more of that ointment on my bruises?"
"You do it."
"But I can't reach the ones on my back."
"Matilda will then."
"I'd wager your hands are smoother."
Lucy was quickly running out of excuses. "I'm not sure it would be appropriate."
"You did it yesterday, and your brother didn't think it inappropriate then."
True. Indeed, he was right on all counts. When he added "please" and peered up at her with those warm brown eyes and fluttered his long lashes, she surrendered completely. He was the sort of man who could easily talk a girl out of her skirts if he chose. If he was like this at eighteen, she could imagine what he must have been like when he'd learned a thing or two about women.
Lucy hadn't forgotten how he'd been when she'd first met him, but the more she thought about it, the more she suspected his gruff behavior that time had been unusual. He had come to her aid when he thought she needed it after all.
Matilda entered with the tonic and the jar of Solomon's Seal ointment. "Thought you might need this again today," she said, holding up the jar.
Nick lifted an eyebrow at Lucy, an impish smile on his lips.
"Thank you," she said, trying to ignore him. "We were just discussing whether to apply more or not."
"I think ye should, but you'd know best, mistress. Can I help?"
"Not here, but there's something you can do. Go find one of the lads from the barn and ask him to take the cart into the village. Tell him to speak to Milner at The Plough Inn and find out if anyone by the name of Nicholas Coleclough stayed there or passed through. If the name doesn't mean anything to Milner, the lad should give a description. With Mr. Coleclough's distinctive appearance, he would have been noticed if he'd been to Sutton Grange. Milner would know. That man is the Argus of the village," she said to Nick. "He sees everything. Oh and Matilda," Lucy said as the maid walked off, "one more thing. Tell the lad to fetch Widow Dawson. He's to offer her a goodly sum to make it worth her while."
"Yes, mistress. I'll send the Greene boy. He's the only one who could remember all that."
She left, and a heavy silence filled the room. Lucy felt Nick's gaze on her, but when she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, his lashes were half-lowered like a protective shield, and it was difficult to tell what he was looking at. The man was quite an expert at furtive glances.
She measured out a small amount of the headache tonic in a spoon then handed it to him. Once he'd swallowed, she picked up the ointment jar.
"Ready?"
"Are you sure?" he asked. "We're all alone in here. Your brother won't be happy."
"If you'd rather we waited for Matilda's return, then I'll—"
"No! If you want to start now, then so do I." He leaned forward off the pillows so that she could reach his back.
She sat beside him and dripped a few drops of ointment onto her palm then splayed her hand across his back just below his right shoulder. He drew in a breath, and let it out slowly as he arched into her. His skin was warm, smooth despite the markings, and she stroked gently, careful not to press too hard lest she hit a sore spot.
Her gaze followed the path of her hands, up to one shoulder then across to the other, down either side of his spine to where it disappeared into his breeches. The map of scars and bruises fascinated and appalled her at the same time. The pain he must have endured…
It was the old scars that bothered her more than the new bruises. They would always be with him. Someone had made sure to strike him hard enough to leave permanent marks.
She wanted to ask him questions, try to tap into his buried memories, but that just seemed unnecessarily cruel. Perhaps it was best if he never remembered—except in his nightmares. She wondered if the previous night's dream had given him more pieces to his puzzle. If it had, he didn't show it and didn't seem to want to discuss it.
He groaned and tipped his head forward, and she pulled back. "Am I hurting you?"
"No," he murmured. "Don't stop."
She rubbed the ointment into the ribs at his side then moved back up to his shoulders. The right seemed to have taken the brunt of whatever had hit him, but the left bore the most scars. She touched the longest one that s
tretched diagonally across half his back, circled the end of it with her thumb, and traced it back up to his shoulder.
He had magnificent shoulders. So wide and powerful, the gentle undulations of muscle, sinew, and bone a pleasure to explore. The sweet scent of the Solomon's Seal filled her nose and head, making her feel like she'd drunk too much strong wine. She had to taste it, taste those shoulders, press her lips to the soft skin there.
She leaned closer until her chest touched his back. He tensed against her but didn't move away, didn't tell her to stop. She couldn't stop, not now. It was like being in a fast-flowing river, and all she could do was keep her head above water and see where the current took her.
She rested her hands on each shoulder and pressed her lips to the end of that long, horrid scar. The spot deserved some kind attention, and she wished to God that her kiss really could make it vanish.
Nick's breathing quickened, and she felt his heart beating through him, drumming out a rhythm that matched her own erratic one. She slipped her arms around his waist, careful not to hold too tight, and lightly teased the hairs on his chest. He sucked in a breath and half turned so she could see his face and he hers. His eyes turned smoky as he studied the freckles across her nose.
"Beautiful," he murmured. He touched her cheek with his fingertips as if to see if the freckles would rub off, then stroked slowly, so achingly slowly, down to her chin. His thumb caressed her bottom lip from corner to corner, his hooded gaze following it as if he'd never seen anything so fascinating. "May I?"
"Yes," she managed to whisper, although goodness knows how he heard it above their pounding heartbeats. "Kiss me."
CHAPTER 6
Nick's lips were soft, the kiss tentative, teasing, yet more powerful than any kiss Lucy had ever had. It melted her insides, broke through her reservations and drove all thoughts from her head.
Except one. She wanted him. She wanted to taste this man, explore him, hold him and be held by him.
A deep, resounding throb pulsed through her, and her heart changed its beat to a rhythm that seemed to be drumming out this man, this man, this man over and over. Dear God, she was utterly drunk on him.
Without breaking the kiss, she got up on her knees and took his face in her hands. He circled one arm around her waist and laid the other on her ribs just beneath her breast. Too sweet, too hesitant. She placed her hand over his and guided it higher.
His breath hitched. He half moaned, half whimpered against her lips. "I shouldn't."
"Hush."
"But I've never—"
The door opened and Lucy sprang off the bed, fortunately landing on her feet.
"The Greene boy's on his way now," Matilda said, settling into her chair by the door. "He's a good lad and is pleased as pleased you trust him with this errand, mistress."
Lucy made a sound of acknowledgement that came out a strangled gurgle. Her knees felt weak. Her lips still tingled. They tasted of Nick.
"Don't mind me," Matilda said, closing her eyes. "I'll just do my finking in peace over here until you need me again."
Lucy's voice seemed to have fled. She tried to tell Matilda she should use the time to practice her reading or writing, but she did not.
She glanced at Nick. He rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged as if to apologize. She shook her head and gave him a reassuring smile. That kiss had been nobody's fault, and she didn't want his apology for something that had been so beautiful.
Beautiful yet wrong. It wasn't the fact that she was unwed that troubled her—she'd been guilty of more than kissing with Edmund before they were betrothed—it was that Nick might very well be married. A gentleman his age would surely have a wife.
She must not let it happen again. Not until she'd learned more about this mystery man. But when he gave her that quirk of a smile again, she knew avoiding him was going to be difficult.
"What about my chest?" he said, facing her fully.
Your chest is as magnificent as the rest of you. "I haven't forgotten." She tipped more ointment on her palm, rubbed her hands together, and positioned herself on the bed again. Much, much too close.
She kept her gaze focused on her hands, not on his skin or the muscles, and certainly not on his face. Nevertheless, she could feel him watching her, hear his breathing become more and more ragged.
It didn't take long for her to cover his entire chest in the ointment, but she repeated the process again. By the time she'd finished, Matilda's head had tipped back against the wall and her mouth flopped open, breathing the soft, even breaths of someone in deep sleep.
Nick cupped Lucy's cheek, but she drew away.
"You mustn't," she whispered, not looking at him. "We mustn't."
"I know." He sighed and slumped back into the pillows. "I can't help it. It's just that… "
She knew she'd regret asking but did anyway. "What?"
"I like you." He shook his head, rubbed his chin. "No, like isn't the right word. When I'm around you I feel a little light in the head."
"That could be your injury."
He chuckled. "My heart beats furiously too. That's not part of my injury." She shrugged, not sure what to say, not wanting to say that he made her feel that way too. Speaking it would be much too dangerous. "It's not just because you're so beautiful either."
She laughed. "Where did you learn to flatter like that? I'm sure it's not something you knew how to do as an isolated eighteen year-old."
"Actually I did have some interest from the girls from the village. That one time I snuck away, I didn't only meet lads, I met girls too. One of them even kissed me."
"Ah, so that's how you learned to be so good at it."
"I doubt it. I felt like a complete fool and when she stuck her tongue in I bit it accidentally."
Lucy smothered a giggle. "You didn't."
He nodded. "It took me by surprise."
"You've obviously kissed a few more women since then because you knew what you were doing just now." She felt the familiar heat creep up her throat, her face, to the roots of her hair.
"Just my luck I can't remember." Nick pressed his knuckles to her cheek as if to cool it. "Or maybe it's the best of luck. Your kisses are the only ones I want to remember." He looped his hand behind the back of her head, entwined his fingers in her hair and gently tugged her closer.
"No," she whispered, pulling away. "Not until your memory returns." And she could be sure there was no other woman. She didn't want to be any man's plaything, someone to fill in the time and amuse him until he returned to his other life, or in the case of Edmund Mallam, a better wife. "We should get to know each other more anyway."
He frowned. "Oh." He glanced down at her breasts then away.
Her hand fluttered to the large collar at her throat. The breast he'd briefly cupped tingled. "Yes, well, that's before I was thinking clearly. As I recall, you were the one who suggested we shouldn't."
"A moment of stupidity on my part," he said and smiled.
But I've never— The words he'd spoken just before Matilda entered didn't seem like a protest but an excuse, or a warning perhaps—he'd never lain with a woman. At least, not that he could remember.
He sighed again, his smile gone. "You're right, of course. I know it." He tapped his temple. "At least, I know it up here."
But not down there?
She climbed off the bed and rinsed her hands in the basin. "I think Matilda should rub the ointment into your back from now on. Either her or Henry."
"I'll take Matilda."
She wiped her hands on the dry strip of linen, her heart in her throat, her mouth parched. "How do you feel?"
"Frustrated."
Despite everything, a bubble of laughter escaped. She stifled it with a hand over her mouth. Nick suddenly grinned, and she could almost see the eighteen year-old beneath that hard, stubbly jaw and strong cheekbones.
She picked up the jars and slung the linen over her shoulder. "We'll leave you so you can sleep. That headache tonic won't work ot
herwise."
"I'm not tired."
"Rest then."
"I can rest with you here."
"I have chores to do. Wake up, Matilda," she said loudly and before Nick could convince her to stay. It wouldn't take much. Just a flutter of his eyelashes and a heartfelt "please" would have done it.
"Ready already, mistress?" Matilda asked, stretching.
"Nick needs to rest." She followed the maid out but turned in the doorway because she couldn't resist one last look.
He blew her a kiss then bestowed one of his maddeningly beautiful smiles on her. She raced off before she could change her mind.
***
Lucy didn't want to venture far from the house in case Nick needed her. Widow Dawson wouldn't arrive for some time, so she walked through the garden, if the weed-infested scraggly collection of bushes could be called that. Brutus kept apace beside her, nudging her hand whenever he wanted a pat. She deadheaded the roses and mentally plotted out garden beds. Susanna Holt was also in the process of restoring the formal garden at Stoneleigh, and it might be timely to share ideas and cuttings.
Brutus brought her a stick, and they played a game of throw and fetch until her arm grew sore and the sun too hot. She'd not worn her hat, and she didn't want any more freckles. She touched her cheek the way Nick had done, but it didn't feel the same. His touch had been so gentle for such a big man, and tentative too. She supposed that was the innocent youth coming to the fore. For all his bravado, he had led a sheltered life before the age of eighteen. Imagine being denied the opportunity to make friends… What parent would do that to his child, particularly a young man as amiable as Nick?
She knelt to rub Brutus behind the ears, but he ran off in the direction of the house. Lucy looked up to see the hound bounding up to Nick as he approached. Brutus turned circles of excitement in front of him until Nick stopped to pat him with his free hand. He held Lucy's hat in his other.
"Matilda said you'd want this." He handed her the hat. "She said you'd hate to get more freckles. I don't know why."
"Spoken like someone who's never had a blemish in his life."
"Freckles aren't blemishes." He lifted a hand but she stepped back out of his reach.
