Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  So delicate, the flower. Yet it found a way to fight through the earth and strive for the sun.

  She closed the locket and wrapped her cold hand about it, clutching it close like a talisman. If a flower could find its way, she could too.

  …

  Cloves and heat and wet wool. Lulled by a gentle rocking motion, Mira burrowed deeper into the sudden warmth and breathed in the intoxicating scent of Nicholas.

  Nicholas.

  He was here.

  “Mira-mine, open your eyes.”

  It was difficult, so difficult, but Mira did as asked and looked up into Nicholas’s face, meeting his silvery gaze. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw hard, the force of his will rousing her from her stupor.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  “Where am I?”

  “On a horse.”

  “Mmmm.” She closed her eyes again and leaned into the shelter of his embrace.

  Without stirring, she muttered against his waistcoat, “A horse going where?”

  “Going to Dowerdu. It is closer than Blackwell.” She felt his voice as much as she heard it, rumbling beneath her cheek.

  “Mmmm. I was on a cliff.”

  “Yes, Mira, I know you were.” His words were clipped. He sounded angry.

  Details of the incident began to intrude on the muzzy warmth in Mira’s mind: the horse and rider, the fall, the rain pummeling her on the ledge, and then blackness. She had no recollection of her apparent rescue.

  She struggled to sit up again, to look Nicholas in the eye. “Where did you come from?” she asked. “I waited in the library for you, but you did not come.”

  Nicholas paused, and Mira thought she saw a hint of color tinge his cheeks. “Yes, I went for a ride late last night and ended up staying at Dowerdu. I thought to wait for you there. When the storm hit, I assumed you had changed your mind.” There was a catch in his voice, and he continued on in a gruff whisper. “I waited out the storm at the cottage.”

  She looked about, taking stock of her surroundings. There was a light mist in the air, but the rain had ceased. It was nearing dark, a wash of orange and red across the ocean heralding the last glimmer of daylight. She must have been on the ledge for hours. That would certainly explain the bone-biting cold she felt, the grinding ache in her limbs, and the stirring of hunger deep in her belly.

  “But how did you ever find me?” she whispered, marveling at her good fortune.

  “Your shawl. The green one.” A faint smile brushed his face. “The color suits you,” he added with a shrug. “It was caught on a bit of gorse by the edge of the pathway. You were not far below.”

  Mira remembered, now, the feel of the shawl sliding off as she fell. She glanced about vaguely. “Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “My shawl.”

  Nicholas glanced down at her, eyes wide with incredulity. “You might have died, Mira. You are battered and wet and freezing. But you are worried about the location of your shawl?”

  She shrugged.

  His expression turning hard, Nicholas said, “It is gone.”

  “But you said you saw it. How can it now be gone?”

  “I… When I saw you on the ledge…” He paused and returned his gaze to the pathway. Now there was no mistaking the flush that crept up his throat and suffused his face. “I could not reach you myself,” he ground out. “I had to leave you there and return to Blackwell for help.”

  Straightening as much as she could, Mira peered over Nicholas’s broad shoulder. Just behind them rode another man. He wore a hat pulled low to protect him from the lingering drizzle, but based on the man’s rangy build and the tawny curls that poked from beneath his drooping brim she recognized it was Pawly. He raised a hand in silent greeting, and Mira gave him a tiny wave in return.

  “When Pawly and I returned to fetch you, the shawl was gone,” Nicholas continued in a tight voice.

  “Oh.” Mira suddenly realized that she must sound ungrateful, fretting over the loss of her shawl when Nicholas and Pawly had surely risked their lives to pull her from the cliff ledge. “The shawl really does not matter,” she said, “I was just curious. And, um, thank you for saving me.”

  “I could hardly just leave you there,” Nicholas responded, the tension draining from his form and voice. “People would talk,” he added, giving her a teasing wink.

  “Still, thank you.”

  He met her eyes, and the passionate intensity of his gaze sent a wave of heat washing over her. “My pleasure,” he purred, shifting in the saddle and making her acutely aware of his hard thighs beneath her. Even battered, soaking wet, and freezing, her body responded to his proximity with a blissful melting sensation.

  “But, Mira,” he continued in his low, liquid voice, “please bear in mind how lucky we were today. If you had not caught that ledge, or if I had not happened to notice your shawl, things might have ended…badly. You must be more careful in the future to stay away from the ledge, especially in the rain.”

  Mira stiffened, the sultry pleasure of his embrace forgotten. He thought the fall was her fault, that she had been clumsy and careless.

  “I was careful, Nicholas. I am not a reckless, impulsive person. But I was run off the path by a horse and rider.”

  His arms tightened around her as he drew up the reins and brought the horse to an abrupt stop. He cupped her cheek with one hand so that she could not avoid his penetrating stare.

  “What horse? What rider? Mira you must tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I was walking toward Dowerdu, keeping quite well away from the cliff edge,” she said pointedly, “and keeping an eye on the approaching storm, when I suddenly realized that the noise I heard was not thunder but a horse. I turned to see who was approaching, but the rider was already upon me. He pulled on the reins, directing the horse closer to the cliff edge and crowding me off. I had no choice but to move closer to the precipice. It was that or be trampled. And then I lost my footing and fell.” Her voice caught on a lump of tears as she relived the terrifying incident.

  “Mira, who was on the horse? What did you see?” There was a frantic edge of panic in his voice.

  “Nothing. I mean, I do not know. The rider was wearing a long hooded cape, and I could not see his face. But there was something…” She trailed off, uncertain whether she really did remember the detail, or whether it was only a flight of fancy.

  “What?” Nicholas urged.

  “It is probably nothing. I may have imagined it. But there was a smell, something familiar. I am not certain what, exactly, but it sparked something in me, seemed important somehow.”

  “Mira, are you quite certain that the rider aimed the horse at you on purpose?”

  “Absolutely. He meant to run that horse at me, to push me over the cliff.”

  All the color drained from his face. “Bloody hell.” With a glance over his shoulder at Pawly, he pulled Mira tight against his chest, his strong arms stilling any protest she might have made. He shifted again, urging the horse forward along the path to Dowerdu.

  For the remainder of the short ride, Nicholas was silent. Mira relaxed against his solid form, absorbing as much of his generous heat as she could.

  She was beginning to doze again, when the horse stopped swaying beneath her. Mustering what energy she could, she looked around, eager for her first glimpse of Dowerdu.

  The cottage was small, but appeared sturdy enough, the roof made of slate rather than thatch and the windows actually glazed. It was set in a small clearing, the surrounding woods obscuring any view of the ocean, but the sound of the surf indicated that they were not far from the cliff. To the right of the cottage, a small stream emerged from the forest, its water gathering in a pool in the center of the clearing before continuing on toward the sea. She realized that the pool must be the sacred well, the black water for which Dowerdu was named.

  Nicholas gently handed Mira down to Pawly before dismounting himself. Before she could utter any protest, Nicholas swung
her up in his arms and carried her into the house.

  The drag in his step shook her gently. With the cold and the damp, not to mention the exertion of her rescue, his leg must have been throbbing. And bearing her weight could not help.

  “Nicholas,” she muttered against the warm column of his throat, “Nicholas, please put me down. I assure you I can walk under my own power.”

  “Hush.”

  They moved through the main room of the cottage without pausing, and he began to mount the narrow stairs to the upper level.

  “Nicholas, where are we going?”

  “There is a bed up here, a place where we can get you warm and dry and where you can rest through the night.”

  “But shouldn’t we return to Blackwell tonight? I will need dry clothes. And Nan must be beside herself with worry.”

  “No, I will send Pawly back to Blackwell to reassure Nan. But you need to rest. And I do not want to take you back until we have a better sense of what happened out there today. Someone, possibly my father, tried to kill you, perhaps because you are too close to the truth. I want answers before I return you to Blackwell Hall.” Nicholas’s tone brooked no argument, and Mira settled back into the cradle of his embrace.

  The upstairs of the cottage was a single, spartan room, dominated by a large bed covered with an array of colorful quilts.

  Nicholas carried Mira to the bed and set her down carefully on the edge. Pawly appeared with a lantern, but left after setting it on a low table.

  Kneeling at Mira’s feet, Nicholas began removing her walking boots with brisk efficiency.

  She sat in stunned silence, watching the top of his head as he worked.

  With a sigh of impatience, he glanced up at her. “Mira, you need to get out of these wet clothes. Do you need assistance?”

  Hot and fast, the blush overcame her. “Um, no. No, I am certainly capable of, uh, un…well, yes. I do not need assistance, I need…” She paused, mortification turning her tongue to lead in her mouth. He continued to stare at her expectantly, until she was finally forced to explain. “I need privacy,” she choked.

  For a brief moment, he looked utterly taken aback, as though she had just told him she needed a coal scuttle and a periwig. Then a sultry smile spread across his face, his eyes turning to molten silver. “Mira,” he murmured, raising a hand to stroke the curve of her cheek, “your days of privacy are numbered. But I suppose I shall honor your maidenly sensibilities for the moment.”

  With brisk, sure movements, he finished removing her sodden boots, then stood and fetched her some toweling and a long linen shirt from a chest set against the wall. “Until Pawly returns tomorrow, this will have to suffice,” he explained with an apologetic shrug.

  Nicholas ducked down the stairway. Mira heard the low rumble of quiet male voices then the slam of the door. Pawly was gone. She was alone with Nicholas in a remote cottage for the entire night. She sat frozen in wonder at the enormity of the situation.

  “Mira, I do not hear you disrobing,” Nicholas called up the stairs. “If you do not do so posthaste, I shall be forced to renege on my agreement and come handle the chore myself.” His silky tone left no doubt that he did not consider the prospect a chore in the least.

  As quickly as her aching body would allow, she stood, scrambled out of her clothes, chafed her frigid skin with the toweling, and pulled the linen shirt on over her head.

  She held her arms out straight in front of her, and the sleeves of the shirt slipped over her small hands to hang several inches below her fingertips. Such fine fabric it was, sliding over her skin like a whisper.

  Such fine fabric. Mira suddenly glanced down and saw how very fine the fabric was. Without a shift or any stays, the lamplight penetrated the delicate linen revealing the clear outline of her breasts, the large dark circles that tipped them, and even the tangle of fiery curls at the juncture of her thighs. She might as well be naked.

  She looked around frantically. The sudden movement of her head made her feel faint, but she had to find something more substantial to wear. On the edge of the bed lay a throw of some sort. On feet still stinging with cold, she moved around the foot of the bed and snatched up the soft woolen lap-rug.

  But as she swung her arms around to wrap the makeshift shawl about her shoulders, a wave of darkness swept over her, crowding out the light, and she dropped like a stone to the floor.

  …

  Nicholas bounded up the stairs as quickly as his bad leg would allow. He saw Mira immediately, lying in a heap upon the floor, the nearly transparent linen of her shirt tangled about her body.

  “Bloody hell.” He lifted her gently, careful to hold her head steady. She was so soft, the flesh of her backside rounded and full like ripe fruit. Yet her curves were offset by the trim length of her legs, the lithe arc of her waist, and she was rather short, so even the lax weight of her body was slight.

  He rested her on the edge of the bed, continuing to cradle her against his body while he pulled back the blankets. With shaking hands, he managed to settle her into the bed, tucking the covers up to her chin. As he moved her, though, the chain around her neck shifted and the pendant he had given her slipped free from the neck of her shirt.

  Nicholas stood over her, staring fiercely at her still form. She was deathly pale, her skin cold and waxy, and her breathing was shallow.

  And she was wearing his gift.

  He felt completely helpless.

  His first thought when he had peered over the cliff’s edge and had seen her on the ledge below was that she had leapt just like his mother, another woman choosing to fly away rather than limp along at his side. The truth was only slightly less painful. She had almost died, and it was his fault, yet another sin to add to his conscience.

  If he had not gotten drunk the night before, not hared off after his father, not passed out at Dowerdu in a gin-soaked fog, not slept away the morning—if he had not been so irresponsible—he would have met Mira in the library and escorted her to Dowerdu himself. Or he would have been keeping an eye on his father. Either way, he should have protected her from the hooded rider. He should have kept her safe.

  But instead, she had faced that nightmare alone. While he had been tucked away in the cottage, a roaring fire keeping the chill at bay as he lost himself in sketching, Mira had been clinging to the face of the cliff, battered by the storm, thinking she would likely die.

  Guilt devoured him from the inside out, paralyzing him with its icy venom.

  Mira suddenly drew in a wheezing breath and began to cough, a thick, wet sound that started deep in her chest and convulsed her body with its force.

  She was cold and shaking and he did not know what to do.

  Muttering a jumbled mix of curses and prayers, Nicholas sat on the edge of the bed and threw off his clothes, stripping off every barrier between Mira and his own body heat. He crawled beneath the covers and gently rolled her onto her side, pressing the length of his body against her back, tucking his legs into the bend of hers, burying his face in the frigid curve of her neck and letting his hot breath warm her.

  His arm snaked around her middle, and when another fit of coughing seized her body, he held her tight against him, absorbing as much of the power of the spasm as he could.

  He tucked the blankets around their bodies as tightly as possible without relinquishing his hold on her, and soon their shared heat began to warm her skin. Her breathing deepened into that of true sleep, and the coughing subsided.

  He pulled her closer still, and allowed the steady cadence of her breathing, the slow rhythm of her heart beneath his hand, to lull him to sleep. And as oblivion claimed him, he vowed that he would do whatever it took to protect his Mira.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mira came awake slowly, aware of a delicious heat surrounding her. She wanted to revel in it a bit longer, but other details began to intrude on her slumber. The heavy weight of an arm around her waist, the hot pulse of breath on her neck, the tickle of hairy legs against her own.<
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  She was in bed with Nicholas, and there were very few clothes between them. The realization prodded her awake.

  With a tiny yip, she sat up in the bed, and the covers dropped away allowing a draft of cold air to strike them both.

  First she looked down at herself, at the thin, rumpled linen of the shirt she was wearing, at the way in which the neck of the shirt drifted over the curve of her breast, accentuating the fullness of its shape.

  Then she looked at Nicholas. Who was quite naked. With a growing sense of hunger, her eyes swept over the spare lines of his body, marveling at the tight muscles that defined the shape of each limb. The combination of his leanness and his power reminded her of a wolf she had seen once at Astley’s, a creature of brutal beauty, every sinew sculpted with a purpose.

  Her gaze drifted back to the narrow angles of his face. The breath froze in her chest when she met the silver fire of his eyes. He was wide awake, staring squarely at her, his eyes narrowed in predatory ferocity as he took in every curve and shadow beneath the veil of linen.

  Mira had seen Mr. Penrose look at Bella that way. A look of hunger and possession and worship, but magnified a hundredfold in the prism of Nicholas’s eyes.

  She drew in a breath, and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead she slid her teeth over her lower lip. Nicholas’s eyes followed the movement, darkening visibly.

  Without a word, he sat up and leaned forward, angling his body so close that the straining tips of her breasts brushed his chest. His sin-black hair fell around his face, skimming his shoulders, framing his features with savage beauty.

  The midnight silence had yet to be broken, and she felt as though she were moving through a dream. They were alone in this world, the two of them, and all of the rules and worries and limits of the daylight were meaningless here…here, where Mira bathed in the sultry benediction of Nicholas’s gaze and was transformed by his fire.