One Week as Lovers (10 page)

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“The viscount. London isn’t a place for a man like him.”

“Apparently it is just the place. He went happily enough.”

She began to wash Cyn’s back with too much force.

Cynthia frowned. “He was hardly homesick. He never once even scrawled a note to me.”

“It wasn’t what you thought.” The quiet words swelled with such warning that Cynthia put her hands on the edge of the tub to brace herself. The scrubbing stopped. A pitcher appeared in front of her as Mrs. Pell scooped up water. She had only a moment to catch her breath before heat cascaded over her hair. But it was still in its braid.

“Oh, mercy me,” Mrs. Pell sighed. “I didn’t even take down your hair.” She reached for the braid, but Cyn stopped her hand.

“Mrs. Pell.” She wrapped her fingers around the woman’s small wrist. “You’re not saying something. What is it?” The only answer she got was a shake of Mrs. Pell’s head. “Please tell me.”

A great sigh shuddered through her as her blue eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t think it was true.”

“What?”

After a quick glance at the closed door, she looked at the floor. “What they said about Master Nicholas.”

The water had only held her tension as a passing courtesy, it seemed. All the anxiety was leaching back into her flesh now. “What did they say, Mrs. Pell?”

“After he left here…” She looked into Cynthia’s eyes. “Something happened. Some scandal. I don’t know what. And Nicholas meant to kill himself.”

The words evoked no response from her gut, they were so ridiculous. “That’s absurd.”

Mrs. Pell nodded, but not in agreement. “They said he hung himself. And the rope…” Her right hand touched her neck, and Cynthia suddenly understood.

A burn, he’d said. A burn that had scarred his whole neck.

“That’s absurd,” she repeated, because it must be.

“I thought so too.” The tears finally spilled over her eyes and Mrs. Pell brushed a wrist across her cheek. “The old coachman…he told me that a family friend found Master Nicholas hanging and cut him down. They thought he was dead already.”

“No.”

“His parents took him to London to recover where no one knew him. That’s why he left. But I didn’t believe it. I told that coachman if I ever heard him repeat those lies again, I’d have him turned out.” Mrs. Pell finally collapsed into a chair and let the tears flow. “I didn’t believe it.”

Cynthia stared at the fire and told herself it couldn’t be true. Life had always meant joy to Nick. He had left here
happy.

Her stomach sunk in on itself and cramped in pain. It didn’t make sense. What could possibly have befallen him to change him so completely?

What had he said to her? Something about how being easy could be dangerous. But that meant
nothing.
Nothing when compared to the laughing, joyful young man he’d been.

It couldn’t be true.

She didn’t know how long she stared at the fire, but by the time Mrs. Pell touched her shoulder and drew her out of her own mind, the new pot of water was steaming away.

“Best to finish here,” the woman murmured, her fingers working through the braid. Shivers began to course through Cynthia. The bath had cooled. When Mrs. Pell poured lukewarm water over Cyn’s loosened hair, she shivered harder.

“It might not be true,” Mrs. Pell said softly.

“It isn’t true,” she insisted. “It isn’t true and I will never believe that. He burned himself. That’s all.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Pell answered, her voice holding all the worry that was breaking Cynthia’s heart in two.

Did she know?

Lancaster watched Cynthia brush a few breakfast crumbs off the kitchen table, avoiding his eyes as she had all morning. She touched the end of her braid as if to be sure it was still secure, then filled a pail of water and set it near the hearth.

Did she know that he’d pleasured himself again last night? Did she know that he’d thought of
her
?

After his bath, he’d found her before the fire in his room, bundled up in nightdress and robe and brushing out her hair. He hadn’t seen her hair down before, and the sight had been startlingly intimate. As if she were getting ready to lie down. With him.

But then she’d noticed him and hurried out, babbling that there was no hearth in her room and she’d needed the heat and she wouldn’t bother him again and good night. By the time he’d raised a hand to stop her, she’d been gone, the door to her room closing firmly against him. But the thought of her straight brown hair gleaming in the dim light had remained.

Lancaster had wrapped an imaginary fist around it. He’d pulled her close and kissed her hard and told her exactly what she would do to please him. Then he’d tied her hands above her head and secured her to a bedpost. She hadn’t tried to resist at all. Her body had writhed in pleasure, not fear. And he’d climaxed to the thought of pounding into her until she screamed for mercy.

She couldn’t know that. And yet she behaved as if she did.

Self-disgust roiled through him. He swallowed the last of his tea, amazed that his throat could be so dry even when filled with liquid.

“Ready?” he rasped, and she nodded without looking up. Perhaps she could sense the perversion in him, like prey scenting a predator.

Lancaster shoved his arms into his coat and led the way toward the front door as Cynthia pulled her hood over her head.

A gorgeous day greeted his scowling face when he threw open the door. Birds calling, sun shining, the breeze tinted with warmth instead of damp. He narrowed his eyes against the beauty and focused on the figure approaching through the tall grass just past the road. A man, neither tall nor short. He approached from the west, but his hat kept his face in shadows.

It wasn’t until Cyn started to slip past him that Lancaster realized he should be very alarmed.

He shot out an arm and shoved her back through the door.

“Say! What—”

“Someone’s coming.”

“Who?”

He pushed her farther in and slammed the door. “Does it matter? I’m the only one who knows you’re alive. Now hide, damn it!”

Her mouth formed an “O” that would have been comical if Lancaster’s heart hadn’t been doing its best imitation of a diving hawk.

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll just…”

She darted away while he wondered if the man had seen them. If the visitor’s face had been in shadow, his head had probably been lowered, picking a safe path through the rocky meadow. Lancaster had been so absorbed in his own dark thoughts that the image wasn’t clear.

Damn.

A quick glance around didn’t reveal any obvious signs of Cynthia’s presence. Lancaster was wiping his damp palms against the wool of his coat when the knock came.

After a deep breath that helped to open the tight knot in his throat, Lancaster pasted a smile on his face and threw open the door. “Good day!” he boomed before realizing there was no one there. But then a man popped into view and Lancaster nearly swallowed his tongue.

Cynthia’s stepfather. He rose from a crouch and held something out to Lancaster. “Here.”

Lancaster blinked down at his gloves. “Ah. So sorry. Did I leave them in your study?”

“What?” Cambertson’s bulbous nose crinkled. “No, I found them here on your step. Right strange, if you ask me.”

“Yes, of course. On the step. I just had them. Thank you.” He was babbling now. “So sorry,” he added in case there was any doubt that his mouth was working independently of his mind.

Cambertson eyed him cautiously, his chin tucking in. “Right then. Might I come in?”

“Um…” No good excuse presented itself, so Lancaster offered a weak, “Yes.”

As soon as Cambertson stepped in and closed the door behind him, Lancaster realized he should have just muttered something about the stables and taken the man for a walk. By God, he’d always lied quite well in London. The fresh country air must be interfering, infusing his character with wholesomeness. Though it hadn’t reached too deeply, it seemed.

The thought of unwholesomeness made him think of Cynthia and what was at stake, and Lancaster managed to draw up his spine. He’d lived a charade his whole life. Fooling Cambertson shouldn’t be hard.

“So! What can I do for you, Mr. Cambertson?”

“I wondered…” the man started, then stopped to look around as if he might be invited to have a seat. When no invitation presented itself, Cambertson shrugged. “I heard a story.” His eyes flickered from Lancaster to the hallway and back.

“A story?”

“I heard…” He took off his hat, revealing matted hair and a pale forehead. “I heard you had a ghost.”

Lancaster’s throat clicked shut in shock and he made a strange sound that might have been “Gahn?”

Cambertson nodded. “It hardly bears asking about, but…” He met Lancaster’s eyes for a heartbeat of time before looking back to the floor. “Is it true?”

Lancaster watched the top of the man’s head for a long moment. The pale skin of his scalp gleamed beneath curls of thin hair. This man had given Cynthia over to a madman. He’d declared her selfish and ungrateful. Lancaster felt calm return to his heart. “Are you asking if my home is haunted, Mr. Cambertson?”

His scalp turned pink. “I know it sounds foolish, but the villagers are talking. They say there’s a woman here, roaming your hallways.”

“A woman?”

He looked up, but his gaze didn’t hold the suspicion Lancaster had expected. Instead his bloodshot eyes were brimming with resignation. “Some say they’ve seen her pacing the cliffs. Where she died.”

Lancaster didn’t quite know what to say. If Cynthia had been seen, the legend of her ghost could only be a good thing. “The new maids did indeed get spooked. They ran off. And I admit to hearing a few strange noises here myself.”

“So it’s true? It’s Cynthia?”

“Uh…I suppose it must be.”

“Aye. She took her own life. She’s damned for eternity.” Cambertson crumpled his hat in his hand and began to pace. “She blames me, I’m sure.”

Lancaster glanced uneasily around. He wouldn’t put it past Cynthia to pat some flour onto her skin, pull the hood low over her face, and make a ghostly appearance just to torment her stepfather.

“Mrs. Cambertson won’t come home,” Cambertson muttered. “She blames me too, I don’t doubt. But I didn’t know. I’d heard the rumors, of course, but…that’s neither here nor there. And now Richmond’s man is hanging about again—”

“His man?” Lancaster blinked to attention. “Who do you mean?”

Cambertson waved an impatient hand. “Bram. Richmond calls him a secretary, but he don’t seem like any secretary I’ve ever seen. Always just looming about, quiet as you please, watching. He looks just like Richmond, only twenty years younger, if you take my meaning.”

No, he didn’t take the meaning at all. “This man has been here? Recently?”

“He came by Oak Hall last evening. Said Richmond wanted to know when my lovely young daughter would return home.”

Fear shocked his heart like lightning. “But she’s dead.”

“Not that daughter.” Cambertson shook his head. “My little Mary. That heartless wretch hasn’t even let us grieve a month!”

Oh, of course. Little Mary. “Did this Bram ever meet Cynthia?”

Cambertson shot him an exasperated look. “Course he did.”

Well, damnation. If he got a look at Cynthia, things would come quickly to a head.

“I heard she fell upon you while you slept.”

“Um…pardon?”

“The ghost. I heard she assaulted you bodily. Was it the witching hour?”

“Well…I’m sure it was. It must have been.”

Cambertson grunted in thought, then darted his gaze around, touching on each corner of the room before he began to back toward the door. “Perhaps you could let her know that I’ve forgiven her. I wouldn’t like her to stop by Oak Hall.”

“You’ve forgiven her, hm? Well, I’ll pass the message along the next time she visits my bed.”

“Aye. Well.” Cambertson slapped his hat against his palm a few times before shoving it onto his head. “You’re a braver man than I. Good day then.”

When the front door closed, a panel in the hall jumped open as if pulled by the vacuum. Cynthia emerged, face flushed with anger. “He’s
forgiven
me?”

Lancaster rubbed his chin. “Who is this Bram fellow?”

Cynthia stopped her angry pacing and hugged her arms to her chest. “You heard my stepfather. He’s Richmond’s man.”

“What does he do for Richmond?” Lancaster couldn’t say he’d exactly kept a close eye on Lord Richmond over the years, but he’d never heard any whispers of an accomplice.

“I don’t know.”

“Your stepfather implied that he might have been Richmond’s son.”

“He could be. They certainly look related.”

Cynthia’s frown distracted him from his puzzlement. He didn’t like the way she rubbed her hands over her arms. “Why does it make you nervous to speak of him?”

“I don’t like to speak of either of them!”

Well, he could certainly understand that. Especially when Cynthia’s hand went to her mouth. He’d noticed the scar before. Still pale pink, the jagged line bisected her perfect bottom lip like a reminder of fresh pain.

Lancaster crossed the room and touched his fingers to hers. The distance vanished from her eyes as she snapped her hand away from her mouth and backed away. He followed.

When her back touched the wall, he put his fingers to her cheek and feathered his thumb over the scar. “He did this to you, didn’t he?”

She made no pretense of answering. Her eyes blazed a bright combination of sorrow and frustration.

“Richmond or his man?”

Her lips parted, and the heat of her breath on his skin shocked him. “Richmond,” she whispered. “Bram never touched me.”

“But Richmond did?” Fury sprang loose in his chest, the perfect complement to the new lust she was inspiring. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

She shook her head and the moistness of her mouth dragged over his thumb. Something inside him broke. He didn’t want to know, but he asked the question all the same. “What did he do, Cyn?”

“He just…I made him angry. And he wanted me to be scared, I think, and I wasn’t, and that made it worse.”

Every word touched his skin and burned him. Yes, Richmond liked to inspire fear above all else.

“He was on top of me, and he…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. But when I spat on him, he snapped. I thought…I thought he was kissing me too hard. I tried to shove him off and his teeth…they tore my lip. And I screamed that he was
biting
me. I screamed for help and Bram…he just stood there.”

“Bram was
there?
”

“He was always there, but…I don’t know. He was there, but he looked right through me, and I was bleeding everywhere and crying—”

“Oh, Cyn.”

“And my mother came in, thank God. I ran past her, and then I was free.”

“You ran here?”

One tear touched his knuckle, scalding hot before it cooled on his skin.

“I ran here,” she breathed.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, as her wide eyes drew him in. “I’m sorry he hurt you, and I’m so glad you came here.” She went still. So still, and Lancaster leaned closer, as slowly as he could bear, and brushed her lips with his own.

He’d meant never to touch her again, but he needed to kiss this pain away. He couldn’t resist her and didn’t want to.

Cynthia didn’t seem interested in resisting either. She parted her lips and rubbed her tongue into his mouth. Her hands fisted in his shirt, and he was relieved he wouldn’t have to hold her wrists and disappointed he’d miss the chance.

Whatever hesitance he might have retained disappeared when she pulled him closer. Lancaster went gladly. He pressed her into the wall and kissed her too hard, just the way he wanted. Long seconds passed as he plunged into her mouth the way he wished he could plunge between her thighs. But when Cyn groaned, his conscience flared to life.

He tried to pull away, but her hands wound tighter into his coat.

“I’m sorry,” he moaned, but Cynthia shook her head.

“No, don’t. I want this. I want it. Please.”

Oh, God, why was she saying that?
Please
, she’d begged him in his fantasies the night before.
Please
. His cock swelled to sudden, painful need. “I can’t,” he groaned, but she surged up on her tiptoes and kissed him again.

His mind tumbled over itself until he was dizzy. Wrapping his fingers around her arms, he clung to the taste of her mouth and the slick slide of her tongue on his. Her hands pulled at his coat as if they were struggling. And she was so hot inside. So hot. He wanted deeper and more.

When he dragged his mouth over to her jaw, she moaned. When he sucked at the softest spot on her neck, her pulse beat against his tongue.

“Please, Nick,” she groaned and everything inside him swelled to an ache.

Sometimes a man simply couldn’t walk away from what he wanted. Sometimes he had to stay and face it.

This was wrong.

It was wrong for so many reasons, and Cynthia didn’t care. There was no future for them, and it didn’t matter. There was now.

All night she’d thought about Nick. About his unhappiness and her own. How had they both come to such disastrous paths? How had they both lost their hope for joy along the way?

But now, as his mouth tasted her neck, all her worries fell away. This was joy, and they could have it for a moment.

As long as they weren’t interrupted.

“Here,” she muttered. “Come.” Reaching blindly to her right, she pulled open the panel in the wall and revealed the narrow passage within. Nick didn’t seem to notice, but he followed where she led. She shut the door, and they were plunged into darkness.

He looked up for a moment as if startled, but she put her mouth on his and brought him back to her.