Her movement must have drawn his eye toward the open panel. His head turned toward it, then back to her. She saw the moment he was about to rise, could feel a wave of awareness as his mind fell free of sleep. Cynthia bolted.
Her fingers managed to catch the edge of the panel when she ran past, but it banged on her heel and bounced back open…right into Nicholas if his gasp was any indication.
A burst of triumph flooded her veins as she sprinted toward the stairway. He didn’t know these passageways and he couldn’t see in the dark. Her escape seemed even more sure when a sharp crack sounded behind her. Nicholas cursed loudly and thoroughly, and she imagined him rubbing his elbow while she slipped away into the black maze.
She was planning her next move, mentally gathering up the few belongings she’d stashed in the attic, thinking where she could go…and then her foot slipped. A small scream escaped her as the world tilted. Her legs floated in the air for a moment before they crashed down to the hard steps and pulled her back toward the floor she’d just escaped.
The man she’d just escaped was waiting at the bottom. His hands closed over her shoulders in an impossibly strong grip.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, not sounding like Nick at all. “Who the hell are you?” Every shred of terror she’d managed to tamp down burst free to course through her body.
She pushed her feet against his legs and tried to pull away. Dull pain throbbed through her shins, but she ignored it and pushed harder. Foolish, apparently, as he simply plucked her up and carried her toward the faint silver rectangle that marked the open panel.
“You must be mad, pretending to be a dead girl,” he muttered. His fingers dug into her arm and hip. “Completely insane, not to mention heartless and cruel. I actually thought you a bloody ghost.” Bitterness had crept into the anger, and now he really sounded like a stranger. She never could have imagined such coldness in Nicholas’s voice. He didn’t sound the least bit soft or slow now, and nothing close to charming.
“Please,” she gasped, as he ducked through the opening.
“Please, what? Ghosts don’t feel fright or pain, do they? I can do with you what I like.”
What did he mean? The words pushed Cynthia to struggle in earnest, but it was too late. He only laughed and tossed her on the bed. Before she could catch her breath he had one hand wrapped tight around her ankle. She screamed and twisted, but only succeeded in hurting her own leg. Glass clattered, a match flared, and Nicholas managed to light the lamp with one hand.
Desperate, Cynthia kicked out with her free foot, meaning to knock the lamp to the floor, but she didn’t make contact with anything but Nicholas’s arm. He grabbed that ankle as well, as Cynthia pressed her face to the blankets and reached out to pull herself toward the other side of the bed.
“Well,” he scoffed as the lamplight grew brighter around them. “Your thighs certainly look pink enough. I don’t think you’re dead at all.”
Alarm stiffened her spine when she realized that the coolness against the back of her legs was air. His grip stopped her from snapping her legs together or even shifting her position. A different kind of fear was just sizzling over her nerves when he tugged her closer. He moved her ankles together, offering more modesty, but now he was turning her toward him. What to be most concerned with, her virtue or her identity?
Identity, her brain screamed. She had little to no virtue left anyway.
Cynthia made very sure her face was still hidden in the blankets. When his weight dipped the bed and his hold loosened, she shifted fully to her stomach and scooted down toward him, knowing it would push her nightdress higher. Cool air swept under her skirt and Nicholas froze. Her little distraction was working. Now if she could only reach something heavy…
The thief—what else could she be?—clearly had no idea what was happening with her gown. Every attempt to struggle pushed the skirt higher…and higher. In fact, Lancaster was just beginning to get a glimpse of the soft, generous rise of her bottom where it curved up from pale thighs. Jesus.
Anger was already pushing his blood hard, screaming through his nerves. He briefly considered that, whoever she was, she was at least in need of a good spanking. But that was ridiculous, of course. He was no rutting hound, and for all he knew she could be somebody’s grandmother. But she didn’t look like a grandmama from this vantage point. Not at all.
Irritated with his ridiculous train of thought, Lancaster huffed in anger and pushed completely off the bed. “Madam, you may wish to adjust your skirts. Then if you’ll stop this meaningless resistance, we can decide what is to be done with you.” He’d gotten his voice back under control, but he still felt swelled with rage. A common thief and she’d actually had him believing in ghosts and vengeance and wandering spirits.
She’d stopped wiggling, but her arse was still teetering on the brink of exposure. He glared very pointedly somewhere else—at the back of her head where a tangled mess of braid snaked down her spine. “Mary or Lizzie? Which of you is it? Come now, there’s no point putting this off.” Her spine stiffened, drawing his eyes back down….
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he growled, lunging forward to yank her gown down himself. Before the thick flannel was even covering her knees, she’d twisted beneath his hands. He’d finally see her—
Fist. Holding the small clock from the other bedside table. He got a very close view of it when it landed right between his eyes. He’d ducked his head enough that it didn’t catch his nose, but it still hurt like the devil. She jerked beneath him, trying to yank her body out from under his, but Lancaster was done with her games and simply put his forearm to her neck. Even if the pounding in his head suddenly overcame him, his weight would work to his advantage.
The woman soon gave up pushing at him and instead began clawing at his arm. Sympathetic to the horror of suffocation, he relented quickly and eased his arm up until the sound of air rushing into her lungs filled the room.
“Now then—” he started, but the words dissolved to ash in his mouth when his gaze finally focused enough to see.
Her. Cynthia. Her face, not waxen with death, not hazy and ethereal, but flushed with life. Her eyes, not clouded over, but bright and real and blazing with fury.
“Holy bloody hell,” he wheezed.
“You sodding bastard,” she answered.
Lancaster shook his head, leaned closer to be sure his vision hadn’t failed him. “You’re alive.”
“Not for long if you don’t get your arm off my neck.”
He murmured, “Sorry,” and climbed off her to stand and stare in shock. His limbs felt numb and yet the rest of the world seemed sharper, more real. “You’re alive. Cynthia…My God. You’re alive.”
“Yes, well…” She rubbed her neck and her gaze moved to him and then around the room and back to him again.
Strangely, her face was growing redder despite that he’d released her. Perhaps he’d injured her throat or—
“You are, um…” Her eyes dipped down his body. “You’re very naked, Lord Lancaster.”
“Am I?” he was saying just as her words hit him. He looked down. Of course. He’d been sleeping. “Yes, I see that you’re right.”
“It seems inappropriate now that I am no longer dead.”
“Of course.” But he couldn’t move, could only stare at her, breathing and talking. And blushing. “Sorry,” he repeated and looked dazedly around for his robe. The dark blue robe lay tossed over a chair, and as soon as he had it in hand, he turned his eyes back to her to be sure she hadn’t disappeared.
It suddenly occurred to him that this might all be a dream. After all, not only was she alive and in his bed, but she was watching him quite immodestly as he shrugged the robe on. Not to mention that he’d just seen a good bit of her naked bottom.
Lancaster rubbed his forehead, then jerked his hand away at the sharp stab of pain. Perhaps he wasn’t asleep, but knocked unconscious and tumbling toward death.
“This doesn’t make any sense.”
She bli
nked as he tied the robe, then finally pulled her gown down to cover her legs. She folded her knees to her chest, tugged the skirt down to hide even her toes, and glared at him. There were the stubborn jaw and wise eyes. Her cheekbones were high, eyes almost slanted at the corners. An interesting, compelling face, just as he’d thought. Relief bubbled up and mixed with his confusion.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked when she said nothing.
“Well, to begin with, you’ve ruined everything.”
“You must know I have no idea what that means, Cyn—Miss Merrithorpe.”
She frowned, stubborn mouth turning mutinous. “It’s not so hard to puzzle out, surely. I am pretending to be dead. Your estate provided the perfect hiding place. Until you returned for reasons I can’t quite fathom.”
Not a dream. This was definitely the working of a damaged brain. He shook his head, then pressed his palm to the spot above his left eye that shrieked with pain. “You hit me.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Of course I hit you, what else could I do?”
“Politely ask for help?”
She snorted, but when he lowered his hand to look at her, her snort turned to a gasp. “You’re bleeding!”
“I’m not surprised. Are my brains spilling out? It rather feels as if they are.”
She scooted off the bed and drew close. “It’s just a small cut. Already healing. I…Oh, I am sorry, but you shouldn’t have tried to stop me! You forced me to hit you!”
He felt a smile tug at his mouth. A real smile. Nothing contrived or meant to charm. Nothing false or prompted. It was just joy. “Cynthia,” he whispered, as she pursed her lips and stared at his forehead.
“Hm?”
“Cynthia.”
She finally met his gaze and her eyes went wide. Her mouth relaxed and her breath hitched a little as she exhaled. “What?”
Lancaster raised a hand and touched one finger, just one, to her cheek. Her skin was warm, soft and tender, and he thought he felt a tiny shiver work through her muscles. “You’re alive.”
Though she’d been still for a few long seconds, she finally moved, her shoulders rising and falling as she took one deep breath. “I must ask you to tell no one, of course. But yes…” She nodded. “Yes, I am alive.”
His grin widened. He began to laugh.
And then Cynthia smiled.
Lancaster felt a dull concussion, as if something significant had exploded on the horizon of his life. But perhaps that was only the head wound.
Chapter 5
“I won’t turn you in to your father,” Lancaster was insisting, his brown eyes dark with sincerity. His hands opened, as if to show that he held no weapon.
“You’re a man,” Cynthia scoffed. Or meant to scoff. But as the words left her lips, she was reminded of the proof of his manhood she’d glimpsed just a few minutes before. Not as impressive as James had been, but most definitely a man. She cleared her throat. “Worse than that, you’re a gentleman.”
“Pardon?”
“Gentlemen. They’re bound by rules of honor. Would you help me escape my family so that I can make my own way in the world?”
“Make your own way?” he repeated, the earnestness in his eyes sharpening to horror. “Of course not. The world is a dangerous place, Miss Merrithorpe.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And so you see why I cannot trust you.”
“Because I want to keep you safe?”
“Because I mean to escape this place for good, Viscount. And while I could possibly be in danger out amongst strangers, there is no doubt of the danger if I remain.”
His full lips pressed together and his body straightened to a hard line. “Richmond.”
The name shocked her, and she realized that she and Mrs. Pell had only referred to him as “that man” for weeks now. “Yes,” she said, fighting the urge to touch her lip. “A friend of yours, probably, in London.”
“No.” His voice hadn’t risen, but something in that one word fell with the weight of a boulder. When she glanced up in surprise, Cynthia saw something in Nick’s eyes that she’d never seen. Ice.
Impossible.
But then, he was no longer the sweet neighbor boy who held her heart. He was Viscount Lancaster, who’d left this place without a good-bye and not spent a moment thinking of it in the decade since, as far as she could tell. God only knew what kind of life he’d led in London.
Whoring, gambling, boxing, drinking. She’d spent years imagining the kinds of trouble he might find there. Even in the deepest throes of girlish love, she’d understood that he would sow his oats in London. But ten years ago, she hadn’t imagined the city would become his whole world. Hadn’t imagined that he would shape himself to fit so snugly that he could not be budged.
He was changed. The boy she’d known had never flashed eyes so cruel.
“Tell me what happened,” he said while she was still reeling over the difference in him. She blinked, and suddenly that stranger was gone. It was just Nick, watching her with clear worry on his face.
“You heard the story from my stepfather, I assume.”
“I heard he was forcing you to marry Richmond. But I also heard that you jumped to your death from one of my cliffs, so pardon if I doubt parts of the tale.”
Exhaustion rolled over her like a fog, and Cynthia let her weak knees lower her to the bed. Lancaster must have been waiting for her to take a seat, because he immediately reached for a chair and pulled it closer before collapsing into it.
“Blood loss,” he muttered, gesturing toward the small cut on his forehead.
“My word, you are dramatic, Viscount.”
“Why do you keep calling me Viscount?”
Cynthia huffed. “I know we’ve never been formally introduced, but it is your title, is it not?”
“Well, my friends call me Lancaster, but you never called me anything but Nick.”
“You are not Nick anymore.”
It was only the simple truth, so why did she feel guilty when his face fell? “I suppose I am not,” he murmured. She had to fight the urge to call him Nick and take his hand. In appeasement, she answered his original question.
“Yes, I was promised to Lord Richmond.”
“But…why?”
“My stepfather owed him money. A lot of it. When he could not pay, Richmond proposed a different form of payment.”
He closed his eyes. “You.”
“Yes, me. I…did my best to dissuade him. Both of them, actually. It was not the first time my stepfather had tried to marry me off, but none of my normal arguments were effective this time. It became necessary to take drastic measures.”
His eyelids rose. So did his brows. “Why do I feel as if this version of the story has been scrubbed clean of all but the barest of facts?”
She shrugged.
“Mrs. Pell said your father refused you food.”
“What child hasn’t been put to bed without dinner?”
“What child,” he ground out, “has been locked in their room and starved?”
“Melodrama again. My stepfather was never a kind man. I didn’t expect softheartedness from him in the face of ruin.”
“What did you expect?”
She shook her head. Her stepfather had behaved in his normal fashion. He wasn’t precisely cruel. He simply did not understand her. What kind of girl would not want to be a countess?
No, she hadn’t expected anything different from her stepfather. What had surprised her was an entirely different kind of suitor. A kind who took delight in an unwilling bride.
“How did you escape?”
Though her mouth burned, she did not let her fingers drift to her lips. No matter how much she rubbed at that spot, the tingle never left it anyway. “My father let me out to visit with my betrothed. Richmond became distracted and I managed to run.”
Lancaster’s eyes narrowed at her carefully chosen words. He held her gaze for a long moment, but she did not flinch from it. Still, when his eyes dipped lo
wer, she had to fight the urge to turn away. He focused on her mouth, and she didn’t want him looking at the jagged pink scar that marred it even though he couldn’t know the cause.
“Mrs. Pell said she saw you jump from the cliff. How can that be?”
Thoughts of her scar and the man who’d caused it disintegrated in a blast of alarm. Mrs. Pell. “Ah…yes. She…I made sure…Someone had to see me jump or they’d think I’d only run off.”
“But…” He crossed his legs and the dressing robe parted, revealing his knee and calf. She tried not to stare at the golden hairs on his skin. “How could you have orchestrated an unplanned flight so perfectly?”
“Pardon?” Half of her brain was taking in his small bit of nudity and half of it was screaming that she needed to think.
“Cynthia, does Mrs. Pell know you are here?”
“What?” she gasped. “No! Of course not! How…how could she?”
Lancaster put his foot down and leaned forward to meet her eyes. “This is her home. She lives here.”
“Well, of course she lives here, but she doesn’t go into the attic.”
“The attic?”
“Yes, the attic. Did you think Mrs. Pell had just invited me in and set me up in one of the guest rooms?”
“Well…yes.”
“Don’t be a ninny. I’ve been living up in the attic like a mouse. Speaking of which, it’s late and I’m exhausted.” She started to rise, thinking she could run downstairs and warn Mrs. Pell, but Lancaster was on his feet before she could push off the mattress.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His chest was only inches from her face. She could smell his soap, the same faint scent she’d noticed each night when she entered his room.
“I’m going to bed,” she managed to say past the sudden, overwhelming tightness in her chest. She could not think with him looming over her.
“There is no bed in the attic. You’ll stay here.”
“No!” She had to get to Mrs. Pell. The woman would spill the truth and incriminate herself before Lancaster even finished his first question. “I can’t sleep in your bed!”
One Week As Lovers Page 5
