One Week As Lovers

by Victoria Dahl

  “This is sheer madness!” Nick shouted. “Damn it, Cyn. Stop right there!”

  “If you can’t keep up, I understand. There’s no shame in that. You’ve been in the city for a long time. Stay here. I’ll be back in a few hours.” She didn’t have to look back to know that his face had gone red. She’d always been good at goading him.

  “Mrs. Pell will have my scalp if you break an arm,” he’d said each time she’d proposed a race to the top of the great oak tree next to the churchyard. Cynthia would nod and assure him that the village boys would likely not consider his forfeit a genuine loss to a girl. They were too fair-minded for that, surely. And Nick would scowl and kick at dead leaves and refuse her challenge. Until she started up the branches.

  Perhaps he hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought, because as soon as she’d worked her way around to the far side of the outcropping, the air echoed with the scrape of his shoes against stone. And with muffled cursing.

  She hurried along the last few feet to the relative security of a crooked boulder, which provided a ramp down to the beach.

  Nick materialized, a dangerous scowl marring his handsome features.

  “It’s actually quite a challenge during high tide,” she called innocently. His face threatened to crack in two.

  Making sure to hide her smile, Cyn turned and hurried on before he could catch her. But he’d gotten faster in the past ten years. And her skirts had gotten heavier. By the time she realized the thumps vibrating up the soles of her feet were actually Nick’s footsteps, it was too late. She only managed a few lurching steps before he was on her, cursing.

  His hands grabbed at her, and Cynthia spun away, her heart exploding into pattering alarm. Fear mixed with something else. A startled laugh bubbled from her breathless lungs as she scrambled away, a nimble cat escaping a wolf. Except that this wolf’s claws had caught on something.

  One side of her skirt tugged free of the leather cord. His eyes met hers, flashing triumph as he jerked her to a halt.

  “Let me go!” she shouted.

  “You are completely out of control.”

  She wound her fingers into the fabric.

  “You could be killed out here, climbing around like that.”

  She tightened her grip.

  “I will not allow—”

  When she tugged as hard as she could, the gray wool slipped from his grasp. She felt a moment of pure victory. And then she stepped backward, right into a hill of sand that sucked her heel deep into the loose pack. She hovered for a moment, arms flailing, the sky tilting slowly into her view.

  Then she was down.

  And Nick pounced.

  The sudden weight pushed a gasp from her throat as he settled onto her hips, his knees tight against her ribs, hands trapping her wrists against the sand.

  “Get off me.”

  “Why, so you can hang yourself over a bloody cliff and risk your life?”

  “I was five feet off the ground.”

  “Damn it, Cyn, I should tan your hide.”

  Those words—those words meant for a child—goaded her hot blood into a full boil of fury. “I am not a child!” she screamed, pushing with all her might at his hands.

  His fingers flexed and tightened. “You’re childish enough to do something stupidly reckless, so I’d say you’re childish enough to be turned over my knee.”

  Fire fizzed through her veins. “You just try it.”

  His gaze flicked to her straining arms. When he spoke again, he leaned menacingly close, his voice dropping low to stroke over her skin. “You think I wouldn’t?”

  Did she? Did she think he’d dare to flip her over and raise her skirts? Would he humiliate her and beat her like a child? Cynthia growled and gave one last furious, futile yank of her arms.

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. He looked at his right hand as it slowly tightened to a vise on her wrist.

  “Nick…”

  His gaze slid to her lips. And then his mouth descended.

  For a brief moment she didn’t understand what part this played in their argument. And then her body reported to her mind what was really happening. Nick was kissing her. Just as she’d hoped. Oh, sweet mercy…

  Shock loosened the iron band around her lungs, and she parted her lips to find some air. This was apparently just the right thing to do, as Nick moaned in response and slipped his tongue against hers. Wet, warm surprise shivered through her nerves and made her hum into him.

  At some point he’d shifted above her, and his weight was no longer pressing just her hips and hands. Now his legs slid down to embrace her thighs. His hips pinned her. His belly lay flush against hers. As if they were making love. As if he wanted her.

  His tongue thrust harder, and she arched her neck and opened to him.

  She’d imagined this a thousand times and a thousand more. She’d thought Nick’s lips would brush softly, a gentle taste, a breath of love across her cheek. She’d never once considered he would kiss as if he were needy. As rough as James, even. But better than those stolen kisses with James Munro. Infinitely better.

  Nick shifted his head and pushed her arms higher, his grip as tight as ever. When he planted his knee between hers, Cynthia curled her leg around his thigh to offer encouragement. With half the skirt tucked up, his trousers rubbed against her bare thigh. She jerked at the shock of it, and that brought him snug between her thighs. The clear evidence of his arousal rubbed hard against her sex.

  Their simultaneous gasps filled the air around them. Nick’s gasp seemed rather tinged with alarm though, as he immediately lifted himself on his elbows and gawked down at her.

  A splash of foam landed on her knee.

  Nick panted, eyes widening with panic. He’d come to his senses.

  Cynthia blinked. “I do believe the tide is coming in,” she blurted out, as inane conversation seemed all that her brain was capable of.

  “Cynthia,” he squeaked. And then, strangely, “I mean, Miss Merrithorpe.”

  “Er…Yes?”

  “I think…I do apologize.”

  She uncurled her naked leg from around his thigh, the action clearly belying the need for any apology. “It’s quite all right.” When she lowered her foot to the ground, her body rubbed against his hardness.

  Nick’s head dropped. He rested his forehead against hers for a long, quiet moment. His fingers flexed, trembling against the bones of her wrists. And then he pushed up and let her go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…do that.”

  He made to tug down her skirts, but one side was still tucked up and didn’t budge despite his desperate smoothing.

  “Nick, it’s fine.”

  “Of course,” he answered, scrambling to his feet. She only had to endure a brief moment of being sprawled awkwardly on the ground before he reached down to pull her up after him. She wished he would’ve given her a moment more. Her feet felt heavy and graceless as bricks, and her legs as unsteady as stalks of grass.

  After occupying himself with brushing the sand from his knees, Nick offered a bright smile that didn’t match his troubled eyes. “Well then. It seems that neither of us are children, and we shouldn’t play at those sorts of games, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes?” she answered, unable to keep the confusion from her voice. Well and good that he didn’t see her as a young girl anymore, but what was she to him?

  “I hope I did not scare you. Men are…unreliable in their propriety.”

  Unreliable? Cynthia shook her head as she let her skirt down to cover the leg that had wrapped so shamelessly around him.

  His smile grew wider and even less natural. “Shall we hurry on, then?”

  Trying, and failing, to find a steady thought, Cynthia could do nothing but nod and turn to lead the way up the narrow beach.

  What had he done?

  My God, what had he done?

  The feel of her arms pushing against his hold, her body arching beneath him…Something had clicked into place inside him. Or out of place. That broke
n part of his soul had shifted into stark distortion. He knew the feeling well enough, but he hadn’t ever figured out if it was peace or pain that overtook him in those moments.

  Thank God he’d managed to stop himself. Thank God he hadn’t abused her further.

  He rubbed a shaking hand over the back of his head and stared at Cyn’s back as she reached a new trail and began a gradual ascent. Each step set loose tiny rivulets of sand from the pleats of her skirt, a faint reminder of his transgression revealed with her every movement.

  Nick could hardly breathe, even before she glanced back, her cheeks reddened by shame or cold or anger.

  “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said simply, and his heart twisted into a sick knot. Cynthia walked on, calm and steady.

  “I know,” he answered. A lady could not be treated in that way. He knew that. There were other women…women who did not mind a little roughness if the pay was right. He—

  “You’re in love with someone else,” she scolded over her shoulder.

  “Who?” Nick blurted out before remembering that he was engaged. His brain began scrambling for an excuse at the same moment that Cynthia jerked to a halt.

  Spinning toward him, she threw her hands in the air. “Your betrothed!”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Her.”

  “Nick!” she huffed, hands still outstretched, palms open to the sky.

  He did not look at her delicate wrists. “Yes?”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  His face heated to an unbearable burn. How was he to answer that question? There were so many things wrong with him.

  “Nick, do you not care for her at all?”

  He let her question sink in for a moment. “No,” he whispered then. “Not at all,” and the words loosened the tightness in his chest. Finally, some truth.

  “But…that’s awful.”

  “Yes.”

  “You would marry this woman for money and nothing else?”

  He considered it for a moment, hoping it wasn’t true, but what other reason could he give himself now? “Yes,” he answered again.

  “Good God, Nick, you are as mercenary as my stepfather.” The sharp edge of disgust hardened her words.

  Lancaster nodded, but it wasn’t really the truth. Not quite. A mercenary was paid to use his body to fight. That wasn’t what Lancaster would be paid for. He was an entirely different thing altogether.

  He must have grown used to the idea. It hardly seemed to hurt anymore. Or perhaps it was distance that made the prospect less real.

  When he looked up, Cynthia was yards away, growing smaller as she walked. Nick tugged his coat collar up against the wind, shoved his hands in his pockets, and followed.

  Chapter 7

  What a horrid day.

  Cynthia dropped the stick of charcoal and watched it roll across the desktop as she planted her chin in her hand.

  Hours of uncomfortable silence as she and Nick worked together, climbing cliffs and poking their heads into every narrow crevice.

  He’d said nothing more about her recklessness or safety. He’d said hardly anything else at all, and she hadn’t been in a talkative mood either. But despite their concentration on the task at hand, they’d found nothing. Nothing except the genuine distance that had grown between them over the years.

  For a short time that morning he’d seemed so familiar. Funny and handsome and carefree. But then he’d become that other creature. That London gentleman whose natural charm had been hammered into a brutal tool. He still had charisma, there was no denying that, but now it was polished to a shine. Like jewelry. Or a weapon. Or armor.

  But if he was protecting something, it certainly wasn’t the soft heart he’d worn on his sleeve as a boy. That boy hadn’t been able to walk past an injured frog without helping. But this man cared nothing for a woman he’d pledged himself to. He’d said it so callously. With no emotion at all.

  Did his fiancée love him?

  Cynthia snorted at her own question. Of course the woman loved him. Everyone loved Nick. His mother had always said he’d been born with a gift, a way of putting people at ease and infusing every room with joy.

  Was it possible he’d used it all up in London? Had it run out?

  She sighed so deeply that the sketching paper ruffled and danced. A faint dusting of charcoal floated away, as if sand were blowing off the very cliffs she’d tried to capture.

  She picked up the charcoal and darkened a shadow on the rocks.

  Her work was not precisely art. Oh, it wasn’t anything like art, in truth. Cynthia understood that. The crashing waves looked a bit like tangled hair wound around the rocks. The cliffs resembled sides of beef. But she was improving. And it soothed her, the soft scratch of charcoal against parchment, the sense that she’d accomplished a small task.

  But she couldn’t think beyond Nick tonight, so she packed the charcoal into the tiny writing desk and pulled out the old journal. The pages were burned into her memory already. She’d read it a dozen times over and found nothing new in the last ten passes. But maybe it would act as a talisman, willing to reveal secrets if only she showed her faith.

  When a tap sounded at the door, Cyn rubbed her eyes. Lord, but she was tired. Perhaps she would skip dinner entirely tonight.

  “Come in,” she called to Mrs. Pell, but the hall door didn’t open. The connecting door did.

  “Good evening,” Nick said, offering her a cheery smile and a covered white bowl. “Mrs. Pell says that Adam is late finishing up his chores, so we’ll have to eat en privé if we hope to avoid seeing him.”

  The smell of leek soup swelled into the room, bringing Cyn’s mouth to instant attention. “Thank you for delivering the message. And the soup.”

  He stepped farther into the room, looking around and making no move to give up the bowl. “Are you settled?”

  Mrs. Pell had cleaned while they were out, and the extra chamber was now polished and dusted and smelled of fresh herbs. “All is well.”

  “Mm.” He tilted his head. “Is that the diary?”

  Her hands clenched with the instinct to snatch it up. “Yes.”

  “It’s so small.” He took another step and stopped only six inches from her shoulder. “And is that a drawing of the site?”

  Her heart froze. Her drawings weren’t meant for anyone but her. “Mm.”

  “I’d suggest we study it for clues, but I daresay it’s hopeless. How old was your uncle at the time? Eight or nine?”

  She snapped her head around to look at the sketch. An eight-year-old? Why, the rudeness of—

  Nick reached for the paper and she snatched up the journal and sketch and shoved them into the drawer. “He was eleven.”

  “Not much of an artist.”

  “Yes, well…You can set the soup here, thank you.”

  He tucked the white crock closer to his chest when she reached for it. “I’ve bread in my room. Will you join me?”

  “I’m very tired.” She looked up to find Nick watching her, his eyes all warm pleading.

  “Please join me.” His mouth quirked up. “I’ve wine as well.” He’d apparently shaken off whatever mood had come over him on the shore. Or perhaps he’d already indulged in a drink. Whatever the cause, the old Nick was back, and resistance was futile. Or she assumed it was. She’d never tried to deny him.

  “All right. I want wine, and you have it. So I suppose I’ve no choice.”

  She followed him into his room—the room where she’d lain last night—and looked around as if his belongings might be a message left for her to study.

  A basin still steaming faintly in the cool air. A cloth that had washed his face, his neck. The bed, now neatly made and absent any evidence of her body. Two wine glasses on a table pulled close to the fire, one empty and one stained with the dregs of his recent consumption.

  Nick waved her toward the table. “Sit. You must be tired.”

  She glanced at the corners of his eyes, reddened as if he’d rubbed them h
ard. “You must be as well.”

  As if to confirm her words, he collapsed as soon as she took her own seat. “I admit to a bit of trouble sleeping last night. Unearthly revelations, you know.”

  My word, he already had her smiling. “I suppose.”

  After he filled the glasses, they both set into their soup. Heat worked its way from her belly to her limbs. Quiet as they were, this was a hundred times more comfortable than their earlier hours had been. When Nick reached for the bread, his fingers caught her eye.

  Long and blunt, they were not as elegant as the rest of him. They tore into the bread, ripping the crust, breaking the thin loaf in half. The firelight glinted off the golden hairs that dusted his skin. The muscles of his forearm flexed as he stretched across the table to deliver half the bread to her plate.

  Those big fingers had been on her today. Stroking. Holding. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  “My pleasure,” he answered, the words soft.

  Her gaze flew to meet his. Could he read her thoughts? Did he share them? But his smile was pure and free of flirtation.

  Guilt turned the warm soup in her stomach into a hot coal. He belonged to someone else.

  “How is your family?” she asked too loudly.

  “Well.” He did not add more.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father. He was so kind. A good man.”

  A smile flashed over his face. A smile or a grimace. “Yes. A wonderful man.” Nick picked up his wine and pushed the half-eaten soup away. A few seconds later, he’d downed the glass of wine and refilled it to the brim. “Kind,” he added with another strained smile.

  “You must miss him.”

  “I suppose. It’s been a very long time.”

  A long time? His father had only died two years before. She took a bite of bread to hide her shock. He’d always been so close to his father, a man nearly as warm and friendly as Nick himself. Perhaps his grief made two years seem an eternity.

  But his eyes were distant, removed. More like an ancient wound than a fresh one. It’s been a very long time.

  Another glass of wine disappeared. Her confusion deepened. “Are you not hungry?”