Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  He reached up and, with one long finger, began tracing her features. His touch was reverent, the soft skin of his fingertips just barely brushing against her, and she shuddered at the unbearable lightness of his caress.

  Slowly his hand drifted down, lingering on every curve and hollow, until he was feathering across her collarbone, along the arc of her flesh, following the edge of the shirt she wore as it dipped to a vee between her breasts. Then, so gently, his finger strayed beneath the edge of the fabric, brushing the sensitive skin there, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

  Deep in her throat, she made a small sound, a sound that was alien to her, a sound of primitive animal yearning, voicing a need she could not define.

  Her cry seemed to break something in Nicholas, some fragile barrier, and he suddenly wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him, and brought his mouth down on hers with a passionate ferocity. He consumed her with his heat, his mouth moving hungrily against hers, her curves melting into his solid contours.

  And she responded. Instinctively, wildly she responded. Her hands wrapped around the wide expanse of his shoulders, clasping him closer, reveling in the exotic feel of his muscles bunching and shifting beneath her touch. The raw power of his physical form was intoxicating, and she gave herself over to the delirium of the moment.

  Nicholas groaned low in his chest and fell back into the mattress, pulling Mira down on top of him.

  For a moment, they lay still like that. She was transfixed by his stare, unable to do any more than search the silver depths of his eyes for the answer to an age-old question, a question that defied language, defied thought. And she found her answer there, a primitive cry of “yes” that reverberated through every sinew and fiber of her being.

  With another soft groan, Nicholas reached up and pulled her down to him, hands tangling in her hair as he met her mouth in a wanton kiss. She tasted the essence of him on her tongue, drew his breath into her lungs, felt his heat seeping into her bones, turning them to molten wax.

  Then, with an elegant economy of movement, he rolled them both over so that his weight bore her back onto the mattress. His mouth continued to move over hers, alternately hungry and teasing, nipping and caressing, as his hands began to explore every swell and hollow of her body.

  His large warm hand cupped the curve of her belly, stroking the delicate skin there before gliding down to slip between her legs. Intoxicated by the night and the unreality of it all, Mira did not even think to be startled. She gasped as his long artist’s fingers touched her in astonishing places, the delicate strokes sending shivers through her limbs, but then she relaxed into the hypnotic rhythm he created.

  Possessed of a hunger all their own, her hands began to explore his body, grasping for his heat and the solidity of his flesh. She ran trembling fingers over the broad width of his shoulders, as his head slid down and he buried his lips in the curve of her neck.

  Her hands drifted across the firm slope of his chest, pausing to toy with the tight flat discs of his nipples. He growled, deep in his throat, and gently grazed his teeth over the delicate skin of her neck.

  Suddenly, his head slipped lower still, the raw silk of his hair spilling over her chest as he began to nuzzle her breast. Slowly he drew a nipple into the heat of his mouth. And when his firm lips closed around that sensitive flesh, the moist heat of his tongue lashing it with tender fury, a bolt of desire shot through clear to her toes. She cried out, and her hands flew to his hair, tangling there in a blind frenzy of wanting.

  His hand between her legs stilled in its gentle caress, and he carefully nudged her thighs apart. Desperate for his touch, she followed his lead, shifting her legs to accommodate the long length of his body.

  His hand returned to its tender ministrations, his finger slipping between the petals of her womanhood to pet and tease. His mouth drew hard again on her breast, and she gasped in pleasure as the solid, hot length of him pulsed between her legs.

  With his own hand, he guided his shaft to the heat at her core, nestling the broad blunt tip of his manhood in the hollow of her body. His fingers dipped inside her, easing his passage.

  Despite a moment’s panic, she opened to him, her body expanding to draw him into her, an emptiness growing inside of her so that she would not be complete without him. His magical fingers continued to tantalize her, brushing gently against the inside of her thigh even as his hardness teased in and out of her, whetting the aching hunger he had created.

  He moved his head next to hers, and his tongue snaked out to lap at the soft skin just behind her ear. Then, exhaling sharply, he surged forward, burying himself in her, filling her with his power.

  Mira was overwhelmed by sensation, pleasure and pain and wonder and fear all tangled together. She squeezed her eyes closed and pressed her head to his sweat-slicked chest.

  “Look at me, Mira-mine.” His voice was tight with raw emotion. “Look at me.”

  She could not help but do as he bade, pulling back to meet his gaze. Ardor rendered the angles of his face even more starkly, and her effect on him gave Mira a subtle twinge of pride, of power. And when she looked into his eyes, saw the tender heat burning there mingled with the animal passion, her fear melted away. She was left with a warm ache that was strangely pleasurable and a building tension deep in her belly.

  He moved above her, meeting her over and over in an elemental rhythm, his body strong and rugged like the Cornish cliffs, her need like the pull of the sea. The feel of his hot flesh pulsing within her, his life moving within her, took her breath away. With every movement the sense of urgency built, and the fire in his eyes burned hotter. She lost herself there, staring in wonder, transformed, reflected not just through his eyes but in them.

  Then, like the waves on the shore, the tension broke, and a delicious languor flooded her body. Above her, Nicholas tensed, uttered a short guttural cry, and collapsed atop her.

  His breath was ragged with exertion, but he lifted himself up, propped himself on his elbows, so that he could look down into her face. He fixed her with an intense stare, as though he were trying to read some message encrypted in her features.

  She smiled shyly, and he seemed to relax a bit. With one hand, he brushed her hair back from her brow, and then he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss there.

  “Thank you for that gift,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Please do not regret giving it to me.”

  Never, she thought. But sleep enveloped her before she could utter the word aloud.

  Mira awoke again to find herself pressed against Nicholas’s side, the delicious heat radiating from his skin warming her own. As she slowly came to her senses, his breathing stirred her hair, the rhythmic swell of his chest against her breast like the surf teasing the shore. Every now and again, there was a pause in the tempo, and he uttered a small snore.

  She sat up, careful to keep the quilts pulled close around their bodies and not allow a draft to disturb his slumber. Pushing a tangle of hair from her eyes, she studied him as he slept. His arms were thrown wide in abandon, and a web of night-black hair obscured his features. He looked softer asleep, younger, and a strong urge to protect him overcame her. She ached to reach out and touch him, but, at the same time, the intensity of her urge to be close to him was nearly too much, and a perverse desire to flee began to build in the pit of her stomach. Instead of either reaching out or pulling away, Mira sat frozen, watching him sleep.

  A noise downstairs, a faint scratching followed by a muffled click, finally drew her attention away. She quietly crept from the bed and tip-toed across the room. As she felt her way down the stairs, the diffused pre-dawn light offering very little guidance, she tried to keep her head low so that she would gain a good view of the first-floor room before any lurker might gain a good view of her.

  The main room of the cottage was brighter, its several windows letting in light from all sides.

  No one was there.

  She took the last few steps more quickly and da
rted across the room to glance out the window by the door. At first, she thought she saw a ripple of movement in the shadows outside, but then there was only stillness. It must have been her imagination, she decided, the noise she heard only the timbers settling in the damp and shifting temperature.

  Mira shivered, suddenly aware of her state of undress and the chill in the air. She shook off the sense of foreboding and looked about the cottage. The night before she had seen little—only a vague glimpse of rough-hewn furniture and a massive fireplace. Now she noticed that the plank table and benches, though rustic, were straight and clean. A kettle hung in the fireplace, its brass gleaming even in the weak light. The floor was wooden rather than dirt, and it, too, appeared clean. The cottage might not be used often, but it was certainly well tended.

  She saw a swath of fabric draped over one of the benches by the table. Nicholas’s cloak, she thought. She took a step toward it, thinking to use it to ward off the chill. But as she approached, and the weak light picked out the green of the fabric, she realized that she had been wrong. It was not Nicholas’s cloak at all.

  It was her own.

  Her green Kashmir shawl. The one Nicholas had said he had seen by the site of her fall. The one that had supposedly been gone when he returned with Pawly.

  Slowly, Mira reached out and picked up the shawl. As she did so, something slipped from its folds and fell to the floor. A delicate gold chain, and, on one end of the chain, a gold disk.

  A locket.

  She bent low and, with a trembling hand, lifted the locket by the chain, the heavy weight of the ornament swinging down and twisting slowly, catching the morning light. It seemed to wink at her, including her in some sly jest.

  She held up the locket so that she could examine it, but she was strangely reluctant to touch it, to hold it by anything other than the two fingers that gingerly grasped the chain. The locket itself was quite plain, adorned only with an etched design of a leafy vine and flowers. By the faintness of the marks, she guessed the piece was old. A family heirloom of some sort.

  Dread filled Mira’s mouth with a bitter taste and slowed her movements as she carefully took hold of the locket itself and pressed the tiny clasp on its side. The locket swung open and revealed the image of a woman.

  A woman who looked remarkably like Sarah Linworth.

  True, the face in the miniature was more mature, a little heavier around the jaw, but it could easily be how Sarah Linworth would look in just a few years. It could easily be how Sarah Linworth’s mother—Olivia Linworth’s mother—looked before she died.

  Olivia Linworth’s locket…here with her own shawl. Her shawl that Nicholas had said was missing, but which was now in the cottage where, by his own admission, he had spent the past day. Alone.

  In a heartbeat, Mira was overcome with self-doubt. Nan’s warning to think with her head not her heart rang in her ears. Could she have been so wrong about Nicholas? Could her judgment have been that clouded? She thought of Jeremy’s mocking taunt at the dinner table. Poor benighted little girl, reason obliterated by a few sweet words.

  She felt sick, every bruise and scrape suddenly screaming to life, and a wave of nausea roiling in the pit of her stomach. She thought of the way she had given herself to Nicholas the night before, the tenderness and heat in his eyes. Could that have been a lie?

  She wanted to run, to yell, to rail against the world and hide from it all at once. Yet, all she could do was stare at the image of Olivia Linworth’s mother, smiling so serenely, never imagining the horrible fate that awaited her daughter or the part her own likeness would play in the ensuing drama.

  The creak of the cottage door and a sudden gust of cool air startled Mira. She leapt to her feet, frantically wrapping the shawl around her shoulders and hiding the locket in her tightly closed fist. She spun around to discover Pawly Hart standing in the doorway, face split by an enormous grin.

  He pounded into the cottage, apparently full of vitality and good spirits, and heaved a satchel onto a bench by the door. Relieved of his burden, he executed several odd dance steps. As he spun around on his heel, he caught sight of Mira and threw up his hands in mock alarm.

  “Whoa! Miss Fitzhenry! A good morning to you.” If anything, his smile widened further, and a devilish glint lit his eye.

  Mira became acutely aware of her alarming state of undress. She pulled the shawl tighter about her shoulders and raised her chin a notch, determined to brazen out the situation even though her face was burning with mortification.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hart. Are you just come from Blackwell Hall?”

  “Just, miss. It is a glorious day out there. Blue sky, birds singing, woodland creatures frolicking…all is right with the world.”

  He could not be further from the truth, Mira marveled. “Mr. Hart, I thought I heard someone moving about a bit ago. Is that,” she nodded toward the satchel, “is that by chance your second load?”

  “No, miss,” Pawly replied, face crumpling into a frown of deep concern.

  “Oh. Did you see anyone else on your way in?”

  “No, miss.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure it was nothing. Probably just the wind in the trees or a mouse scurrying across the floor.”

  “Yes, miss,” he replied, sounding skeptical. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but the satchel is from Nan Collins. Some, uh, items for you,” he added with a meaningful glance at the shirt and shawl Mira wore.

  “Oh. Thank you.” The words were like sawdust in her mouth.

  Without further hesitation, she scuttled across the floor, cutting a wide berth around Pawly, to grab the satchel from the bench. She looked around for someplace private to dress. With Olivia Linworth’s locket burning her palm, she did not want to go upstairs, where Nicholas still slept, but the cottage was small and simple and there were no other rooms. There was not even a screen or curtain behind which she could duck.

  Pawly must have realized her predicament, because he began backing toward the front door.

  “There’s a bit of cheese and bread in the satchel as well, miss, if you wish to break your fast. If you will excuse me, I should really go and check on the horses.”

  As soon as the door swung shut behind Pawly, Mira dumped the contents of the satchel on the table and drew off the linen shirt, letting the shawl fall to the floor where she stood. Shivering in the morning air, she rushed to dress. Every brush of fabric against skin conjured a fevered memory of Nicholas’s caresses, but she forced her trembling fingers to complete their task.

  Unsure what else to do with it, she slipped Olivia’s necklace over her head and tucked the gold locket into the bodice of her gown, where it rested right next to the pendant Nicholas had given her.

  Leaving the shirt on the table alongside the satchel, the cheese, and the loaf of bread, she took up her shawl again, hurried over to the door, and ducked out. She wasn’t sure what it meant that the locket and shawl were here at Dowerdu. Perhaps nothing. But it looked bad.

  Very bad indeed.

  Head bent and legs flying, she headed toward the sound of the waves, confident that the pathway disappearing into the trees would lead her to the cliff-side path back to Blackwell. She had almost reached the tree line when Pawly’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “Miss Fitzhenry? Where are you going?”

  She turned around slowly, using the time to form her answer. “I am feeling a bit restless, Pawly, and I know Nan and my family are probably worried about me. I thought I would just start back to Blackwell Hall.”

  “But Miss Fitzhenry, after what happened yesterday, do you really think it is a good idea to walk back alone?” Pawly’s words were deferential, but there was a hint of steel to his tone.

  “I am certain I shall be just fine, Pawly. I promise.” Mira cringed at the note of pleading in her voice.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Fitzhenry, but Lord Ashfield would have my hide if I let you go back alone. If you don’t want to wait for his lordship to rise, at least le
t me accompany you.”

  If Nicholas had something to hide, and Pawly was his trusted companion, Mira was not certain she could trust Pawly either. “No, no, Pawly. I must insist. I will be perfectly fine. You should stay here and tend to his lordship’s needs.” She was backing away from the cottage before she finished speaking.

  “Miss Fitzhenry,” Pawly snapped, his temper clearly worn through, “Lord Ashfield does not need any tending. Please wait right there. Let me just tell Lord Ashfield we are leaving, and I will be with you straightaway.”

  Mira nodded reluctant acquiescence, and a satisfied smile bloomed on Pawly’s face.

  But as soon as he disappeared inside the cottage, Mira darted through the trees, gained the cliff path, and began hurrying along toward Blackwell.

  She managed to get quite far, past the point at which the rider had run her off the cliff, before she heard Pawly’s angry cries behind her. Hoping that her haste would not cost him his position, she ignored the calls and continued on to Blackwell Hall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When she returned to Blackwell, she headed immediately to her bedchamber where she had to soothe the nerves of a terrified Nan. Reassuring the maid that she was perfectly fine, she requested Nan draw her a bath.

  As soon as Nan left to fetch the hip bath and hot water, Mira sat at her dressing table. Holding her own solemn gaze in the looking glass, she slowly removed Olivia’s locket from around her neck. She opened the locket and looked again at the image inside, a miniature of a woman who was a slightly older version of Sarah Linworth. Yes, there was no question that the locket belonged to Olivia, that it was the locket someone had stolen from her the day before she died.

  And it had been at Dowerdu, tucked into the folds of Mira’s own shawl, where only Nicholas could have put it.

  In the quiet of her bedroom, facing herself in the mirror, Mira realized the facts now pointed toward Nicholas’s guilt.

  Only Nicholas had known of the depths of Mira’s investigation. Only Nicholas had known that she would be on the path to Dowerdu and when she would be there. Nicholas claimed to have found her because he had seen her shawl, that he had gone to Blackwell for help and the shawl was gone when he returned. But then the shawl was at Dowerdu. Logic suggested he had known Mira was on the ledge because he had been the one to put her there. He had ridden on to Dowerdu with her shawl before doubling back to Blackwell for Pawly.