Seven Wicked Nights

by Courtney Milan

  Where was his little fighter? Where was the girl who had taken to combat like a bird to the sky, for no other reason than to have it out with him? Dropping back into fighting position, he whipped up his blade. “En garde,” he demanded.

  She stared at him in confusion, her foil still idle at her side. “Nick—”

  “En garde,” he barked again, swishing his weapon through the air in warning.

  Warily, she raised her foil and planted her feet. He sprang into action, lunging at full force. She yelped and stumbled backward, glaring at him.

  “What was that for?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he engaged, forcing her to defend herself or be struck. She didn’t disappoint. After a few hits, she started to get angry, her cheeks gaining color and her eyes narrowing in fierce concentration. That’s when she really began to fight. The clash of metal against metal rang through the morning air, punctuated by harsh breathing and grunts of exertion. Around them, the red light of dawn grew brighter and brighter, but he had no intention of relenting, not yet.

  “What… has … gotten … into you!” She ground out through clenched teeth as her foil whipped left and right, parrying his attacks.

  “Shut up and fight,” he growled, punctuating the words with powerful hits. They danced back and forth, their feet moving over the rocky ground almost in unison. Sweat poured down his face and dampened his shirt, but still he didn’t let up. He wasn’t going to coddle her, damn it. He wanted her to work, to be forced to battle as if their lives depended on it.

  As she retreated from his lunge, she stumbled over a rock, falling hard on her backside. “Ow! Nick, wait—!”

  But he didn’t wait. Dirt flew as she scrambled away from him, abandoning her weapon. Oh no, he wasn’t about to let her give up. He kicked the foil back at her, waiting for her to pick it up. Frustration came off her in waves as she reclaimed it and struggled to her feet, sucking in gusts of air. She jerked a hand through her hair, scraping the fallen strands back from her sweaty face.

  With a warrior yell, she came at him, her swings even stronger, her precision more deadly. Again and again she jabbed and slapped her blade against him, even tearing his shirt at the shoulder. This was more like it. This was a woman on fire, damn it. He met her swing for swing, making her work for every small point.

  “Getting a little angry, are we?” he said, forcing the arrogant smile he knew she hated.

  “Yes,” she fairly growled, advancing again and again. Finally, she was giving it all she had. She was focused, and driven—furious as a caged lioness—and every bit as glorious as a Greek goddess of war. Her cheeks were red, her eyes flashing. Her body was all that was powerful yet graceful. He’d never seen her so passionate, and he loved it.

  Again and again she forced him backward, forced him to yield to her onslaught. As his back smacked against the ruins of the old abbey wall, he jarred to a stop, losing his grip on his weapon. His foil clattered to the ground between them.

  For a moment they just stared at each other, their shoulders heaving as they panted for air. And then her eyes grew wide with shock as she realized what this meant. She’d beat him. For the first time ever, she had won. Eleanor pointed her blade directly at his heart, as the certainty of victory visibly engulfed her.

  He’d never been so proud of anyone in his entire life; he was nearly bursting with the force of it. “That’s the girl I wanted to see. You’re a fighter, Elle; never forget it. Malcolm can’t take from you what you refuse to let him have.”

  She stood stock still, her gaze assessing as she worked to calm her breathing. At that moment, the sun crested over the horizon, illuminating the pride in her eyes. God, but she was gorgeous. Had anyone ever looked more beautiful with messy hair and a dirt-streaked face?

  “If you tell me,” she said sternly, “that this was all meant to teach me some sort of lesson, I may very well plunge this foil into your heart, Nicolas Norton.”

  He chuckled before dragging his sleeve over his sweaty forehead. “Bloodthirsty wench.” Grabbing her foible, he pulled the weapon from her grasp. She didn’t fight him, easily surrendering her hold. He dropped it to the ground beside his own, and held out his hand to her. “Come here.”

  “I will not,” she said, straightening her shoulders imperiously. “In case you didn’t notice, I won.”

  It was all he could do not to tug her into his arms right then. “Yes, and as such, you may collect your spoils, same as I always have.” He turned his cheek, screwing up his face just as she invariably did whenever he claimed his prize, pretending he didn’t want her to kiss him.

  Hoping like hell she would.

  Her laughter was full of delight, heady in its sweetness. “Do you know, Mr. Norton, for the first time in your life, I think you may have earned a kiss.”

  ELEANOR STEPPED TOWARD HIM, feeling strong and in control in a way she hadn’t in days. Years perhaps. Nothing was solved, but hope had been renewed. Faith in herself had been restored. She could at least try for another solution. Nick had given her that much, and for that she adored him.

  For the next few moments, at least—then they could return to being adversaries.

  With his damp shirt plastered to his body, he looked every bit the gladiator, standing tall and proud on the heels of victory. Ironic, considering he had lost, but still somehow fitting. She hadn’t been exaggerating—he had truly earned a reward.

  As she leaned forward, his chest rose with a sharp intake of air. She flicked her gaze from his cheek to his expression, and froze, only inches away. His green eyes were burning, his lips slightly parted. Awareness washed over her, cascading through her veins and landing deep in her belly. All at once the moment took on a whole new meaning.

  She wasn’t just sharing an innocent moment with her step-cousin. She was standing almost chest-to-chest with a tall, powerful, handsome-as-sin man.

  Alone.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs, pounding harder than it had during their entire match. His smell was familiar, his eyes exactly as they had always been, but somehow everything seemed different.

  Slowly, deliberately he turned his head until they faced each other directly, the very air they breathed mingling in the narrow space between them. The morning light caressed them as they stood completely still, unable to look away. She knew it should feel wrong—this was Nicolas!—but nothing had ever felt more natural.

  Her eyes dropped to his lips. For once they were without any hint of that rakish smile with which he so loved to torture her. He’d always seemed so young, but all she could see right then was the man he had become.

  A man her very heart seemed to be beating for.

  And yet, still neither of them moved. A sixth sense told her that as soon as they did, nothing would ever be the same. He would never again be little Nick, thorn in her side. Uncertainty warred with unfamiliar passion, and she dragged her gaze up to meet his, helpless as to what to do.

  For a moment, she thought he would act, pressing his lips to hers and releasing the desire that both tantalized and terrified her. She held her breath, afraid to so much as blink. How was it possible she could want something so badly, and at the same time want to escape, to run from the emotions she wasn’t prepared for?

  Finally, he closed his eyes and exhaled, surely every drop of air from his lungs. When he opened them again, it was as if a curtain had been drawn shut. “Fine, fine—I’ll give you a reprieve. I know deep down you’re just afraid you’ll never measure up to my outstanding kisses.” His voice was hoarse, but the smile was firmly in place. “Now off with you, before someone discovers us and ruins all our fun.”

  He was right. Already, the sun was well above the horizon, the sky transitioning from reds to pinks. Nodding, she bent to retrieve her foil, trying to convince herself that it was relief, not regret, that wilted her shoulders. Whatever madness had seized her, it was gone now.

  Or so she told herself.

  Turning on her heel, she hurried toward the dirt
path that led to the house, wanting to put distance between them, to cut the odd connection that even now tempted her to turn back.

  With her future at stake, she simply couldn’t afford to be diverted by the man who had long been her opponent, but who now seemed like so much more.

  Chapter Six

  GOD IN HEAVEN, what had just happened?

  Nick slumped down the wall, dropping to his backside and letting his head fall back against the cool stones of the old tumbledown wall. His blood still roared in his ears—as well as in other places—and he raked his hands through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp.

  What the hell was wrong with him? If she had any clue how he truly felt about her, she’d never allow them to be alone together again. Perhaps not even in the same bloody room. He gave a humorless laugh. How could he have let his control slip so thoroughly?

  Because of her.

  For the first time in fifteen years, she had been about to kiss him. Of her own prerogative. When she’d declared her intention, he’d been so surprised, he couldn’t stop his reaction. How could he? It was something he’d dreamed about for so long, he couldn’t bloody well remember a time he hadn’t wanted it.

  But this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about the desire coursing through his body, or the secret longing he had hid so effectively for years. This was about Eleanor having what she wanted in life; or more to the point, what she didn’t want: a husband.

  He closed his eyes, shaking his head back and forth. He’d do whatever it took to protect her from getting hurt. Yes, he wanted to instill self-confidence in her once more, but after that near kiss, he wasn’t leaving anything to chance. He’d be damned if he’d let another man claim her against her will.

  If Malcolm thought he could strong arm her into doing his bidding, he had another thing coming. The trick was Nick had to come up with a way to keep her from being married off, without giving Malcolm the chance to blame her.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he came to his feet and straightened his shoulders. It was time to go to battle.

  IF UNCLE ROBERT SENT ONE MORE SELF-SATISFIED LOOK in her and Lord Henry’s direction, Eleanor was going to scream, right there in the middle of Miss Landon’s song. And wouldn’t that put a damper on his plans. She allowed a small smile at the thought.

  The earl leaned closer from his seat to the right of her and murmured uncomfortably close to her ear, “I’m so pleased to see you enjoying yourself, Miss Abbington. My late wife, bless her, never was one for these sorts of amusements.” He fluttered a hand in the vicinity of his forehead. “Megrims.”

  Possibly. Eleanor was more inclined to believe the dearly departed countess was simply more skilled at escaping his company than she. She nodded politely and leaned away as inconspicuously as she could manage.

  It wasn’t that he was unkind, but he possessed the conversation skills of a parrot. Not to mention he seemed to think her eyes were located somewhere in the region of her breasts, or the fact that he was exceptionally fond of onions, the evidence of which emanated from him like a fog.

  She really didn’t dislike him, but the idea of marriage to him made her physically ill. And blast it all, Nicolas was right. She didn’t have to bow to Uncle Robert’s demands, nor did her sister have to suffer the consequences. There had to be a way to get around them, and she wouldn’t rest until she figured out what that was. Perhaps she should have shared with Nick exactly what she was dealing with. He’d surprised her a lot since returning home; maybe he’d be able to surprise her again by coming up with a solution.

  For perhaps the tenth time since the recital began, Eleanor cut her gaze toward the side wall, where he stood alone, watching the performance. She still had no idea what to make of what had happened between them this morning. Or more accurately, what hadn’t happened. All she knew for certain was that every time she thought of him, her cheeks heated and a shower of sparks seemed to cascade through her middle.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, Nick shifted his gaze, catching her with God knew what expression on her face. She jerked her attention back to the front of the room, her heart beating like mad. Good heavens, she had to get hold of herself. She was acting like a proper fool there in the drawing room for anyone to see.

  And truly, there were much more important things to think about.

  Beside her, Aunt Margaret hummed along with the music, her head bobbing in time with the pianoforte tune. Eleanor still didn’t know what to do about her aunt. It was a sort of betrayal, knowing that her own mother’s sister had thought her hopeless these past few years. They were supposed to be each other’s support.

  The song came to an end, and Miss Landon curtseyed prettily as the guests clapped. Eleanor stood, hoping to steal a few moments for herself, but Lord Henry blocked her way. “Miss Abbington,” he said, his cheeks oddly ruddy, “Would you care to step out onto the terrace with me? The night air shall do us both good after an evening indoors.”

  Drat it all—why couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested in spending time with him? Not that she could overtly offend him, but still, one would think her disinterest would speak for itself. “Oh, how kind. But my aunt and I were just about to take a turn about the room.” She widened her eyes at her aunt, willing her to go along. It had just come out—a holdover from when she could rely on Aunt Margaret’s support.

  Blinking in surprise, the older woman hesitated for an instant before turning a bright smile to Lord Henry. “Yes, yes, I thought a bit of exercise would be just the thing after sitting for so long.”

  Eleanor sighed. Thank goodness.

  “There you are, dear sister,” Uncle Robert cut in, sidling up behind them. “I wonder if I might steal you away for a moment. I have… something that I wish to discuss.” Though he smiled cordially, his eyes were sharp enough to cut glass. “Lord Henry, you wouldn’t mind keeping my niece company, would you?”

  “Delighted, old man. I was just saying a bit of air on the terrace sounded like just the thing.” He lifted a brow at Eleanor. “Shall we?”

  Blast, blast, blast. To refuse would be the height of rudeness. Now was not the time to make a scene. Dipping her head in reluctant agreement, she said, “Indeed.”

  As she and Lord Henry started for the doors, her eyes met with Nick’s. He stood beside Miss Landon as she chattered away, her cheeks rosy and her face alight with delight. Eleanor felt the heat of his gaze all the way to her toes, but then he abruptly turned away, severing the connection as he gave his whole attention to his companion.

  Hurt flooded her heart even as she smiled her thanks to Lord Henry for opening the door for her. Despite herself, she’d been begging Nick to help, to somehow intervene. She had no right to be upset, but it still stung that he had turned his back on her—literally.

  Warm, sweetly fragranced air greeted her as she stepped outside. She allowed Lord Henry to guide her to the ornamental balustrade overlooking the rose garden, which, thanks to a series of torches along the outer wall, was well enough lit so as to not seem overly intimate.

  “Miss Abbington,” he said, surprising her by boldly taking her gloved hand in his. “It’s no secret I came to this party with an eye toward beginning the search for my next wife. With only my three daughters, I am still very much in need of an heir. At my age, the thought of marrying a young debutant seems a somewhat distasteful. You, on the other hand, have the maturity and lineage to be quite an appropriate match.”

  Even through her growing alarm, Eleanor still managed to be insulted. Yes, at four-and-twenty she was the perfect match for a man with four and a half decades under his belt. Gently but firmly she tried to extract her hand from his grasp, to no avail.

  Chuckling indulgently, he said, “No need to worry, my dear. I have already spoken with your uncle, and obtained his permission to ask you to be my wife. Such an intimacy is to be expected.” He lowered his head slightly, and she exhaled in an effort to ward off the smell of his breath. “Besides, Malcolm told me how favorably inclined
you were to accept my suit. I’m honored that you think well enough of me to approach your uncle about such a thing.”

  Alarm catapulted into panic as her blood turned to ice. She was supposed to have more time—she wasn’t properly prepared yet.

  “Lord Henry, I…” Her mind went blank as she desperately cast about for a proper response—one that would not result in a betrothal announcement.

  He squeezed her hand and grinned. “I can see you are quite beside yourself. To be expected, I think. Perhaps we shall bypass words for a moment.”

  Bypass words? What did— Oh heaven help her, he was leaning in for a kiss. Eleanor tensed, her mind flailing about for a way to escape.

  “There you are.”

  The sharp, jovial words made them startle apart, and Eleanor stumbled backward a few steps, desperate for space. Nick stood at the door, outlined by the blazing candles of the drawing room behind him. He stepped toward them, his muscled shoulders ramrod straight and his hands clasped behind his back. His features were arranged in polite greeting, but his eyes blazed in the torchlight. “Lord Henry, my stepfather asked that I retrieve you. He had a most pressing matter which he feels must be discussed at once.”

  Eleanor sucked in great gusts of air, trying to regain her composure. Nick had never looked more handsome, more like a savior than he did in that moment, especially with his smart crimson army dress jacket.

  “Now? Can you tell him I’ll be in momentarily?” Henry sounded as befuddled as she felt.

  Nick lifted his chin in a gesture designed to showcase his authority. “I’m afraid he was most insistent, my lord. I’ll wait here with my cousin while you see to him. She’ll be here when you return.”

  For the first time, Eleanor could imagine him dressing down one of his men. He emanated power and superiority with little more than a stern expression and commanding voice. Henry glanced back at Eleanor for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do. She found a smile, heaven knew where from, and nodded encouragingly. “Do hurry back.”