Seven Wicked Nights

by Courtney Milan

  “Go ahead,” she said calmly, still gripping Portia’s leg. “Just do it.”

  Luke braced his boot and levered the branch with all his strength. Pain ripped through his forearm, and Portia released a bloodcurdling scream that surely belonged in one of her gothic novels. But Cecily held her friend’s leg stoically, using all her weight to keep it still.

  Within a few seconds, Luke had pried the jaws apart. “Now,” he commanded in a grunt, and Cecily understood him. She pulled her friend’s boot up and out of the trap, a half second before the branch splintered and the metal spikes snapped on air.

  “We’ll need to assess her wound,” Cecily said, unlacing her friend’s boot while Luke stood panting for breath. She had Portia’s boot and shredded stocking removed within seconds.

  Together they knelt over her wounded foot.

  “These don’t look deep,” Luke said, observing the two puncture wounds on Portia’s pale foot. “And only a scratch below.”

  “Thank heaven for sensible shoes.” Cecily flashed him a little smile.

  A sweet pang of affection caught him in the chest. She was handling this so well, soothing everyone—Luke included—with her serene competence and dry humor. Where had she learned how to cope with scenes like this? Certainly not in finishing school.

  Desperate to distract himself before he lost sight of any goal but kissing her, Luke returned his gaze to the wound. After studying it a few moments more, he said, “It’ll need to be cleansed thoroughly. But we’d best bind it for now, until we can get her back to the Manor. Cecy, give me your—”

  “Stocking?” A wide ribbon of ivory flannel dangled before his eyes.

  He looked up, startled. Her expression was all innocence.

  “I was going to say handkerchief,” he lied, taking the garment from her. “But this will do.”

  As Cecily jammed her bare foot back into her boot, Luke looped the stocking over Portia’s foot and ankle repeatedly, binding her wounds tight.

  Denny returned, two serviceable poles in hand. Luke stripped off his own coat and threaded a pole through either sleeve before buttoning it down the middle. He did the same with Brooke’s coat, coming from the poles’ opposite end. The result was a makeshift conveyance that would bear Portia’s weight easily.

  Brooke fussed over the wounded lady as they transferred her to the pallet, going so far as to plant a kiss on her brow to praise her bravery.

  “What a kiss,” Portia complained. “As if I were a child.”

  Brooke cupped her face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly. He released her only when Portia’s faint growl of protest melted to a pleased sigh. “There, was that better?”

  “Quite.” Portia’s cheeks pinked.

  “All right, then. Now be a good little girl, and lie still.”

  She swatted at him feebly as he and Denny lifted the pallet—Brooke carrying the end at Portia’s head, and Denny lifting her feet.

  Cecily went to Denny’s side. “I…I must rest a moment, but Portia needs a doctor’s attention. Please go ahead with her. Luke will see me home.” She popped up on her tiptoes to reward Denny’s nod of agreement with a light kiss to his cheek.

  As if he were a child, Luke thought pettily.

  And then somehow, they were alone.

  “Will you walk with me?” she asked, suddenly standing at his elbow.

  He silently offered his arm, but she shook her head, reaching for his hand instead.

  Fingers laced in that intimate, innocent clasp favored by children and lovers alike, they covered the short distance back to the path.

  “Not that way,” she said, when he turned to follow the others. “Let’s continue on to the cottage. We’ve come this far, and I may as well retrieve my stocking. I seem to find myself missing another.”

  “As you wish.”

  They walked on, their linked hands dangling and swinging between them. And it all felt so easy, so comfortable—as if they were on one of their leisurely strolls that summer four years past.

  Of course, they had conversed during those walks. Talked of everything and nothing, in the way courting couples do. When had he lost his ability to make simple conversation? Surely Luke could find it within himself to say something.

  “You are remarkable,” he blurted out, because it was the only thought in his head. “The way you responded to Portia’s injury, without fear or hesitation… I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “What, bravery? I didn’t always know I had it in me, either. But I do.” She gave him a pointed look. “I’d imagine we’ve each discovered new sides of ourselves in the past four years.”

  All too true. But the discoveries Luke had made, he would never share with her. Shrugging defensively, he deflected her silent question. “You used to bolt at the sight of a spider.”

  “Oh, I still hate spiders. But injuries do not frighten me. When a lady spends a year tending invalid soldiers, she sees sights far worse than Portia’s wound.”

  Luke stopped in his tracks, pulling her to a halt as well. “You spent a year nursing invalid soldiers?”

  She nodded. “At the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.”

  “But…” He struggled to bend his mind around the idea. “But they don’t allow random gentlewomen to nurse invalid soldiers. Do they?”

  “Well…” She shrugged and resumed walking. “I never precisely asked permission. You see, over a year ago there was a tragic case. A wounded soldier was found wandering near Ardennes. Evidently he was the sole survivor of his regiment. But he’d sustained a severe blow to the head, and he had no memory of who he was, or his home or family or anything before the battle. The papers printed articles about the ‘Lost Hero of Montmirail’. He was the talk of London, and Portia was desperate to go visit him. She had this vain hope that he might be Yardley—she’d just received notice of his death in France, you see, and wanted to believe there’d been some mistake. And I…” Slowing, she looked up at Luke. “I wanted to be sure he wasn’t you.”

  A lump formed in his throat.

  “But of course he wasn’t you,” she went on, “nor Yardley. While we were waiting to see him, I found myself talking with another man. A naval officer, wounded in a Danish gunboat attack. He called me in from the corridor, then apologized when he saw my face. He’d mistaken me for his sister.”

  Cecily sniffed and continued, “Well, I felt terrible for disappointing him, so I stayed with him for an hour or so, just talking. Mostly listening. And then the next day, I came back, and sat with him again. He introduced me to a fellow patient, this one a lieutenant in the cavalry. I don’t recall deciding to make it a habit. Day after day, I just kept returning to the hospital. For the first month or so, I did no more than I had the first day—I would simply sit at a patient’s bedside and listen. Perhaps read aloud, if he liked. But then, sometimes it was impossible not to notice that their wounds needed tending, bandages needed replacing, and so forth. So I did those small things too.”

  Luke could only stare at her. Yes, it was true. Cecily had changed. Her youthful sweetness and generosity had not disappeared, but added to them now were a woman’s serenity and confidence. One could see it in the tilt of her chin, the efficient grace of her movements. And the way the light glowed through the curling wisps of hair at her brow… She’d always been a pretty girl, but he’d never thought her so beautiful as he did this very moment.

  “Remarkable,” he murmured. Clearing his throat, he added, “You didn’t find it tedious, listening to all those ragged soldiers rattle on? It didn’t repulse you, tending the wounds of complete strangers?”

  “Not at all,” she answered lightly, squeezing his hand. “I just pretended they were you.”

  God. She was killing him.

  “Well then,” he said in a tone of false nonchalance, “I’m certain every last one of them fell hopelessly in love with you. How many proposals have you rejected in the past four years? A hundred or more, I’m sure.”

  “Twenty-six.”
/>   Luke slowed as the cottage came into view—a tidy, thatched-roof dwelling hunched between two tall pine trees.

  “Twenty-six,” he repeated, coming to a stop.

  She turned to him, clutching his hand tight. “Yes. Twenty-six. Not counting the invalid soldiers.” The color of her eyes deepened to an intense cobalt blue. “You cannot know how I have fought for you, Luke. Not in the same way you have suffered, to be sure. But I have waged my own small battles here. I have fought the pressure to marry, fought the envy for my friends who did. I have struggled against my own desire for companionship and affection.” Her voice broke. “I am not a woman formed for solitude.”

  “I know it,” he whispered, raising his free hand to her cheek. “I know it. That’s why you need a husband who can—”

  “I have fought despair,” she interrupted, “when months, years passed with no word of you.”

  Guilt twisted in his gut. “I could not have written. We weren’t engaged.”

  “Yes, but you might have written Denny. Or any one of our mutual friends. You might have casually asked for word of me.”

  “I didn’t want word of you.”

  She recoiled, and he whipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

  “How can I explain? You know my parents died several years ago. I’ve no siblings, very few relations. And it didn’t take but one dusty skirmish in Portugal for me to realize—if I died on that battlefield, there would be no one to mourn me, but a handful of old school friends.” He touched her cheek. “No one but you. I did think of you. Constantly. I did remember that perfect, sweet kiss when I was bleeding and starving and pissing scared. It was the thought that kept me going: Cecily Hale cares whether I live or die. I couldn’t risk asking word of you, don’t you understand? I didn’t want to know. Surely I’d learn you’d married one of those twenty-six men queuing up for the pleasure of your hand, and I would have nothing left.”

  “But I didn’t marry any of them. I waited for you.”

  “Then you were a fool.” He gripped her chin. “Because that man you waited for…he isn’t coming back. I’ve changed, too much. Some men lose a leg in war; others, a few fingers. I surrendered part of my humanity. Just like the ridiculous werestag you’re out here chasing.”

  “I’m out here chasing you, you idiot!” She buffeted his shoulder with her fist. “You’re the one I love.”

  He kissed her, hard and fast. Just for a moment. Just until her mouth stopped forming dangerous words and melted to a soft, generous invitation, and her fisted hand uncurled against his chest.

  Then he pulled away.

  “Listen to me. I admire you. Adore you. Hell, I’ve spent four years constructing some twisted, blasphemous religion around you. And you must know how badly I want you.” He slid a hand to the small of her back and crushed her belly against his aching groin, then kissed her again, to stifle his unwilling groan. “But I can’t love you, Cecily, not the way you deserve.”

  “Who are you, to judge what I deserve?” She wrestled away from him and stalked to the cottage door, taking hold of the door handle and giving it a full-force tug. “And what do you mean, you can’t love me? Love isn’t a matter of can or can’t.” She pulled again, but the door would not budge. “It’s a matter of do or don’t. Either you do love me, and damn the consequences”—she tugged again, to no avail—“or you don’t, and we go our separate ways.”

  She let go the door handle and released an exasperated huff.

  Slowly, he walked to her side. “There’s a little latch,” he said, pulling on the string above her head. “Just here.”

  The door swung open with a rusty creak. Together they stood on the threshold, peering into the cottage’s dimly lit interior.

  “After you,” Cecily said wryly. “By all means.”

  “The light’s fading. We should return to the manor.”

  “Not yet,” she said, pushing him forward into the dirt-floored gloom. “Strip off your shirt.”

  Chapter Six

  “WHAT?” Luke crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes darted from the cottage’s single window to the straw-tick bed huddled under the sloping corner of the roof. “You can’t be serious.”

  Cecily found his panic vastly amusing. “Certainly I can.”

  “Cecy, this is hardly the time and place for—”

  “A tryst?” She laughed. “You think I mean to trap you in this secluded cottage and have my wicked way with you? You should be so lucky. No, remove your shirt. I want a look at your arm.”

  “My arm?” His eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

  “Which one do you think?” She crossed to him and began unknotting the cravat at his neck. “The one you injured while wrestling the boar last night.”

  Oh, the look on his face…

  Cecily wanted to kiss him. He was so adorably befuddled. At last, he’d let slip that hard mask of indifference he’d been wearing since his arrival at Swinford Manor. And in its place—there was Luke. Engaging green eyes, touchable dark brown hair, those lips so perfectly formed for roguish smiles and tender kisses alike.

  This was the man she’d fallen in love with. The man she still loved now. Yes, he’d changed, but she had too. She was older, wiser, stronger than the girl she’d been. This time, she wouldn’t let him go.

  “You knew?”

  She smiled. “I knew.”

  His breath hitched as she slipped the cravat from his neck. Attempting to ignore the wedge of bare chest it revealed, and the mad pounding of her blood that view inspired, Cecily set to work on his waistcoat buttons.

  “How?” he asked, obeying her silent urgings to shed the garment. “How did you know?”

  “It’s a fortunate thing you weren’t assigned to espionage. You’ve no talent for disguise whatsoever. If I hadn’t suspected already, I would have figured it out this afternoon. My stocking was found in this remote cottage, and you just happen to know the secrets of the door latch? Then there’s the fact that you’ve been favoring your arm since breakfast.” She undid the small closure of his shirtfront before turning her attention to his cuffs. “But I knew you last night. I’d know your voice anywhere, not to mention your touch.” She gave a shaky sigh, unable to meet his questioning gaze. “It’s like you said, Luke. You still make me tremble, even after all these years.”

  His voice was soft. “I don’t even know why I followed you. The way we’d parted so angrily…I just couldn’t let you go, not like that.”

  “And I’m glad of it. You saved my life.” With a brisk snap, she jerked the shirt’s hem from the waistband of his trousers, gathering the fine linen in both hands. “Arms up, head down.”

  She made a move to lift the shirt over his head, but he stopped her.

  “I caught a bayonet at Vitoria. I’ve scars. They’re not pretty.”

  “I’ve been tending wounded soldiers for a year. I’m certain I’ve seen worse.”

  And she had seen worse, Cecily reminded herself as she surveyed the pink, rippling scar slanting from his collarbone to his ribs. She had seen worse, but not on anyone she loved. It was so difficult to contain all the silly feminine impulses welling up inside her: the desire to weep, to hold and rock him, to trace his scar with her lips.

  But he wouldn’t want that sort of fuss.

  Clearing her throat, she turned her attention to his injured forearm. It was a clean wound, and not deep enough to be truly worrisome. But as she’d suspected, the binding had come loose—most likely when he’d sprung Portia’s trap.

  “There’s water,” he said, nodding toward a covered basin on the table. “I filled it last night.”

  Together they moved toward the table and settled on the two rough-hewn stools. Cecily dipped her handkerchief in the cool liquid, then dabbed his arm with it.

  “If you knew last night,” he asked quietly, “why tell the others it was a werestag?”

  “Because it was obvious you didn’t want the others to know.”

  “Hang the others. I did
n’t want you to know.” He swallowed hard, and stared into the corner. “I never wanted you to see me like that. When a man faces death, he meets the animal lurking inside him. When it’s hand to hand, blade to blade, kill or be killed…” Defiant green eyes met hers, and he slapped a hand to his scar. “The man who did this to me—I killed him. With his bayonet stuck in my flesh, I reached out and grabbed him by the throat and watched his eyes bulge from his skull as he suffocated at my hand.”

  She would not react, Cecily told herself, calmly dabbing at his wound. That’s what he expected, what he feared—her reaction of revulsion or disgust.

  “And he wasn’t the only one,” he continued. “To learn what violence you’re truly capable of, in those moments… It’s a burden I’d not wish on anyone.”

  She risked a glance at him then. “Burdens are lighter when they’re shared.”

  Luke swore. “I’ve shared too much of it with you already. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

  “You can tell me anything. I’ll still love you. And I warn you, I’ve learned something of tenacity in the past four years. I’m not going to let you go.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Sometimes, I scarcely feel human anymore. The brutal way I took down that boar, Cecily. That barbarism with the stocking…”

  “Ah, yes.” She put aside her handkerchief and stood. “The stocking.”

  She propped one boot on the stool and slowly rucked up her skirts to reveal her stocking-clad leg.

  “Cecy…”

  “Yes, Luke?” She leaned over to untie the laces of her boot, giving him an eyeful of her décolletage.

  He groaned. “Cecy, what are you doing?”

  “Tending to your wounds,” she said, slipping the boot from her foot. With sure fingers, she unknotted the ribbon garter at her thigh, then eased the stocking down her leg. “Making it better.” Skirts still hiked thigh-high, she straddled his legs and nestled on his lap.

  “Shh.” She quieted his objection, then deftly wound the length of flannel around his injured arm, tucking in the end to secure it. “There,” she said in a husky voice, lowering her lips to the underside of his wrist. “All better.”