One Week As Lovers

by Victoria Dahl

  “Ain’t got a soul, far as I can tell,” the man offered with a shrug, as if that were a perfectly normal observation.

  “No soul,” Lancaster repeated tonelessly.

  The boat maker nodded. “Nothing there.”

  “And you say he’s been here?” The tiny inn was cloudy with peat smoke and packed to the rafters with fishing net. It hardly seemed a likely stopping place for an earl’s man.

  “Every so often, yup. Come in to wet his whistle three days ago.”

  “What’s he looking for?” Lancaster asked, though he already knew the answer would be vague.

  “Don’t know. Never says a word.”

  “All right then.” Lancaster slapped his hat against his knee. “Thank you for your kind attention.”

  “Honored, yer lordship.”

  Lancaster slipped his hat on and glanced around to be sure there were no newcomers in the inn, but the same five men stared back at him. He raised his hand in farewell before stepping out into the rain.

  If he remembered correctly, and he wasn’t sure he did, Richmond’s land started a good five-hour carriage ride to the west. Less than that on horseback then. It was possible Bram made the trip from Richmond’s every few days and then returned immediately home. If he was staying somewhere nearby, no one in the village suspected.

  Despite the rain, Lancaster ignored the carriage and crossed to the lane where Adam’s family lived. The boy’s mother had been taken by surprise yesterday, caught between the excitement of a viscount visiting her tiny cottage and the fear of letting her boy go live in a house beset by spirits. She hadn’t wanted to say yes but had been unable to say no. Feeling guilty for her worry, Lancaster braved the short walk in the rain to offer a good day and assure the woman her youngest boy was settling in well.

  After that, he crossed to the Painter home to check on Mrs. Pell, but she’d set out for home during a brief lull in the storm. Hopefully, she was already home, dry and safe, and working hard at a meaty stew for tonight’s dinner.

  Lancaster, feeling a bit lost, glanced down the road before stepping up into the carriage. He hadn’t accomplished much aside from giving himself time to think about Cynthia.

  Her arguments for making love had made perfect sense in the confines of that small room. It had all been very logical with the sight of her naked skin gleaming in the firelight. Of course they should make love. What a grand idea.

  But now he was reeling. What had he done? He couldn’t marry her, but he couldn’t not marry her now. She might be pregnant this very moment, despite his attempt to prevent it.

  She’d been so lovely and tempting and warm. And so familiar despite the newness of this physical desire.

  Lancaster rubbed his knuckles against his forehead. He shouldn’t have made love to her. And yet the thought of taking it back twisted a knife into his gut.

  Even more painful was the thought of sending her on her way when this adventure was done.

  He couldn’t marry her, and he couldn’t not marry her.

  His head began to throb. They’d roll up to Cantry Manor soon. He should have some idea of what he would say to her. “We can’t do that again,” seemed like a good opening. And then what?

  The knife in his gut turned another revolution.

  “Jackson,” he called, slamming his fist against the ceiling. A small panel slid open. “Take me to Oak Hall.”

  Jackson’s reply was lost in the wind, but the panel slid closed.

  Instead of going home, Lancaster would question Mr. Cambertson. Find out more about this debt and Bram’s mysterious appearances. If he stalled long enough he just might have an inkling of what to do with Cynthia Merrithorpe. Right now all he could think to do was help to solve her problems.

  Bram was a mystery. His identity, his whereabouts, his intention. Perhaps Lancaster should just kill him and ignore the mystery altogether. Cynthia said he hadn’t hurt her, but he’d allowed her to be hurt. He’d stood by and watched her attacked by a monster.

  Then again, Lancaster already planned to kill Richmond. And then there was that animal, James. Three murders might be beyond the pale. Probably Cynthia wouldn’t appreciate his collecting corpses for her like a macabre bouquet.

  Perhaps this Bram fellow did not deserve murdering per se. Perhaps just a good thrashing. Well, that took him down to two killings. Was two a reasonable number? The beast deep inside him seemed to think so.

  Five minutes later he was about to knock on the door of Oak Hall when it opened quickly enough to create its own breeze.

  “You got my message?”

  Lancaster stared in shock at Cambertson, whose hand still clutched the door handle. Where in the world was the decrepit old butler? Had he finally keeled over?

  “Come on, come on,” Cambertson muttered, waving him in.

  “What message?”

  “I sent a message ’round with the idiot maid. Didn’t you get it? Good God, how many trials can one man go through?”

  Lancaster didn’t like the odd implication that Cynthia’s death might somehow be equated with trouble with the help, but he bit his tongue and followed her stepfather down the hall and back to his shabby study. The butler sat, sound asleep, in a chair outside the door.

  “Bram paid another visit,” Cambertson barked as he rounded his desk and collapsed into his seat.

  “Today?”

  “No, yesterday noon. Reminded me that Lord Richmond only wanted to know when my Mary would be back. Nothing more. I told him it didn’t matter. The girl is only thirteen!”

  “And why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’re the only man around who can understand.”

  “Me?” Lancaster shook his head in disgust. “Understand what?”

  “What it’s like to live with this pressure. The life of a gentleman and all the debt that goes along with it.”

  He wanted to spit in this man’s face and scream that they were nothing alike. But he only shot his cuffs and stared at a smear in the dust atop the desk.

  “I know you think I did wrong by Cynthia, but I meant her to have a good marriage. Her father was a knight, after all. She wasn’t meant to marry low. I tried my best to honor his name.”

  “How much do you owe Richmond?”

  “Thirteen hundred,” Cambertson muttered.

  Thirteen hundred pounds. It wasn’t so much. It wasn’t worth the life of a young girl. It certainly wasn’t worth the life of two. But it was probably five years’ income on this land, assuming he hadn’t already sold off great swaths of it.

  “So what will you do?” Lancaster asked.

  “What can I do? He’s threatened to see me hauled into court once already. It was either give him Cynthia or sell the land. Without the land, we’d have nothing.”

  “But without Cynthia, you’d be fine.”

  “Of course we’d be fine,” Cambertson snapped. “She would’ve married someday regardless. And we will be fine without Mary as well, if only I can make my wife see that.”

  Amazingly, there appeared to be a sheen of tears in the man’s eyes. But it was just as likely grief for his debt as it was for the fate of his daughters. Lancaster could understand how untenable it would be for the man to sell his land, but if he sold off his whole family, whom would he pass the land to?

  On the other hand, if Lancaster simply removed Richmond from the equation, the whole situation might be solved. Except that the debt would then be held by whomever inherited.

  “Do you think Bram is Richmond’s heir?” he asked.

  Cambertson shrugged. “It’s possible. Richmond’s been married three times.”

  “And widowed.”

  The man ignored Lancaster’s pointed tone. “I never heard anything about an heir, but it’s clear he’s related.”

  “Can you find out?” He didn’t want the fate of Cynthia and her sister falling into the hands of a man who supposedly had no soul.

  Cambertson shrugged again. “He asked about you, you know.”


  “Who?”

  “Bram.”

  Well, that was disturbing. Bram had little reason to be looking in the direction of Cantry Manor. “What did he ask?”

  “Asked who you were and why you’d returned.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him you were the viscount and I expected you could visit your estates anytime you liked. And I figured you were hiding from your creditors.”

  “Ah. There you have it, then.” A perfectly logical reason for him to remain on this lonely coast. Certainly more logical than keeping company with a dead girl who wasn’t actually dead.

  Cyn’s stepfather cleared his throat so loudly that Lancaster jumped in surprise. “So,” Cambertson drawled. “Did you tell her?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Did you tell the ghost what I said?”

  Lancaster watched him rub his hands together in nervousness. He felt utterly ridiculous even answering the question, but Cambertson was all serious attention. “I shouted it out at midnight in a darkened room, but I can’t confirm the absence or presence of any spirits.”

  “Hm,” he grunted. “She didn’t respond?”

  “A strange feeling of warmth did come over me.”

  His eyebrows flew up. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “A friendly feeling?”

  “Decidedly so.”

  Cambertson nodded sagely. “A good sign. Perhaps she’ll be at peace if she knows I won’t hate her.”

  “She did seem happier.” Tired of toying with the man, Lancaster shifted toward the edge of his seat. “Do you know if Bram is still about?”

  “He said he would explain my position to Richmond, so I gather he meant to return home.”

  “Send a note if he shows up again, will you? I’ll see myself out.” He paused in the doorway to glance down at the old butler. “Is your man quite well? Looks a bit pale.”

  Cambertson snorted and waved him on, so Lancaster left the old man to his nap, hoping it wasn’t a permanent rest.

  As he started around the corner of the hall, Lancaster stopped in his tracks and pivoted toward the closed door of the music room. He pushed with the flat of his hand and the door swung in to reveal the bright square of the portrait of Cynthia. He’d thought it would look different now, knowing who the artist was, but it only seemed more beautiful. This time, looking at that stubborn jaw and those slanted eyes, he felt a warm swell of comfort.

  He leaned forward to peer at the signature. Munro, it said. James Munro.

  Bastard he might have been, but the artist had captured that elusive shimmer of beauty about her. Something that glowed from her eyes. Something not born of perfect features, but of spirit. She was stubborn, yes, but grounded in peace all the same.

  Staring at that portrait, Lancaster felt a certainty snap into place inside him. He would marry her, family and fortune be damned. He’d find a way.

  Bram was gone, at least temporarily, so they could spend the whole day tomorrow searching the cliffs. They’d find that bloody treasure or he’d die trying. And if it truly was a fortune…Well, the gold that would purchase Cyn’s freedom could purchase his as well.

  “Scoundrel,” Cynthia growled as Nick raised a glass of wine triumphantly in her direction. “Beast.”

  He pursed his lips in mock sympathy. “Poor dear. Taken advantage of by a worldly gentleman.”

  While Cyn glared, Mrs. Pell shook her head and tapped the tabletop. “You two act as if you’re playing for coin instead of beans.” She slid one card toward Nick and then laid her hand down, face up. “And it’s a good thing you’re not or you’d both be beggared. That’s in, then.”

  She and Nick both looked down in time to watch the housekeeper sweep the last few dried beans into her pile.

  “Damn me,” Nick muttered, which prompted another warning about language from Mrs. Pell.

  “Really, milord. You’d think you’d never been around a decent young woman. I’m off to bed then.” She untied her apron and folded it over a chair. “I’m too old to stay up past ten. Sleep well.”

  When the door to her room closed, Nick arched an eyebrow. “Decent, eh?”

  Cynthia blushed at the gleam in his eye and tried to keep her laughter quiet. “You are a scoundrel.”

  “A very happy one.”

  Happy, he’d said. She grinned down at her last few cards and pushed them around the table. She was happy too.

  Worry had overtaken her in the hours he was gone. He’d left solemn and frowning, not the type of man to take such a thing lightly. But he’d returned as the charming Nick he’d been so many years before. Not polished and perfect, but easy. Happy.

  “We’ve another early day tomorrow,” he said, and Cynthia’s heart raced ahead to the night to come. Lust twined around her limbs and tightened.

  “Best to retire then,” she murmured, stealing a glance at him through her lashes.

  Nick’s smile gentled. He reached across the table to take her hand. “We can’t do that again, love.”

  Love, he called her, as if she really were his love. That was all she heard for a moment. She sat straighter and gave up looking coy. “Can’t do what again?”

  “What we so thoroughly did earlier. I can’t…have you like that again.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and leaned closer. “How can you have me then?”

  “Cyn…” His helpless look offered only apologies.

  “I’m sorry, Nick, but you’ve…you’ve introduced me to the pleasures of the flesh. You can’t cry off now.”

  “I didn’t intend to introduce anything!”

  “Well, you did, and that’s that. Perhaps you’d like another glass of wine?”

  He pulled his hand from hers and crossed his arms. “Cynthia Merrithorpe, you listen to me. We are not going to make love again. Not until after we’re married.”

  “We—” His words flashed through the room like lightning. “What did you say?”

  “Marry me, Cyn.”

  “No!”

  He smiled and reached for her, lacing his fingers through hers. “Please do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  “I will not!” Sweat sprang up along her hairline and she shivered at the sudden chill. “And you are already engaged, you fool.”

  “To a woman who hates me.”

  She tried to tug her hand away, but he held tight.

  “You said you wanted me to be happy, Cynthia. Marrying you would make me happy.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It would.”

  His thumb stroked the ball of her hand, brushing tingles into the sensitive flesh. How horrid he was, offering her everything she’d ever dreamed.

  They’d fall in love. The world would spin to a halt around them. They’d marry too young and move to London, and the whole ton would marvel at the strength of their passion.

  But no. That wouldn’t happen at all. If he married her, they wouldn’t be able to afford a fashionable life in town. And the whole ton would be too busy marveling at the abject foolishness of the match to even notice their passion.

  “We cannot marry. Even if you don’t marry that woman, you can’t take me as a wife.”

  “I can and I will.”

  “Don’t I have a say in this?”

  That finally dimmed the sparkle in his eyes. “But I thought…I love you, Cyn.”

  Damn him. How could he say that so simply? How could he look at her with those clear brown eyes and make it true? “You love me as a friend.”

  “I love you as a woman. And I’ve never told a woman that before. I’ve never even thought it.”

  She couldn’t believe that. Nick must have fallen in and out of love a dozen times over by now. At heart, he’d always been a romantic. Surely he’d loved many women.

  The room spiraled around her. Only Nick stayed still, the calm center of this quietly raging storm.

  His warm gaze held her captive. “I told you we couldn’t make love un
less we planned to marry.”

  “I thought you’d gotten past that foolishness! Nick, listen. Please. Even if you do love me now, it wouldn’t last long once the creditors descended.”

  “I’m happy here, with you, with nothing but a kitchen table and a pot of stew between us.”

  My God, he looked like himself again. Young and hopeful. Her foolish Nick. The man she’d always loved. “This isn’t real. It’s not. What of your family? Your sister and brother depend on you. Your estates must need improvements. Your family would hate me. They would all hate me, and then you’d hate me too.”

  His smile was patently puzzled. “Where do you get these ideas?”

  “I’ve lived in a home drowning in debt for more than fifteen years. It is all my family thinks about. Money. Money. Can we afford new dresses? No. But if a new dress will help me find a better husband, can we afford it then? If we sell the carpets, will the neighbors notice? If they notice, will their sons shy away from marriage? But if we don’t sell the carpets, we will lose the horses, and that will be hard to hide.”

  “Cyn—”

  “There is no room for love when you cannot pay the servants, Nick. Or when your mother cries into her tea every evening. Or when your sister is forced to marry a tradesman and ceases to exist in the eyes of the ton. I’ve been the bane of my stepfather’s existence for years now. I won’t be the bane of yours as well.”

  He hadn’t looked away from her during her whole speech, and he didn’t look away now. “I know what it means to sacrifice for my family, Cyn. Believe me, I do. I understand duty and obligation.”

  “Then you know that we can’t marry.”

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “We shall see.”

  “We shall not see.” Tears burned her throat, swelling into a lump too large to swallow.

  Nick raised her hand to his lips and brushed his mouth over her fingers.

  How could he be such a fool? Such a lovable, awful fool?

  Cynthia jerked her hand from his grasp and ran from him and his storybook dreams.

  The cold of the floor soaked through her stockings and numbed her feet, but Cynthia kept pacing. It was late, and they faced another early morning, but she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even sit down.