One Week As Lovers Page 13

  “Oh, Lord help us!” he cried out with half-hearted enthusiasm. “It’s the ghost of Cynthia Merrithorpe!”

  “Wooo-o-o,” she answered, waving her arms in a slow swimming motion, expanding the cloak around her.

  “Her spirit has followed me from the sea!” Nick flung one arm over his forehead and stumbled back.

  Cynthia glanced toward Adam to find him still frozen in the same spot, though his brow had fallen from shock to confusion.

  “Leave now,” she howled. “Or I’ll drag you to my watery grave!”

  Adam shook his head. “Miss Merrithorpe, is it really you?”

  “Yes, ’tis I! The ghost of Cynthia Merrithooorpe.”

  The boy frowned and cocked his head.

  Nick dropped his arms. “Oh, for God’s sake, Cyn. Stop making a fool of yourself. He can see you’re not dead.”

  Disgusted, she planted her fists on her hips and spun toward Nick. “Damn you, I almost had him convinced.”

  “You’re delusional,” he snorted.

  “You weren’t even trying!”

  “You’re alive!” a broken voice squeaked, and they both turned to face Adam and his amazed smile.

  She crossed the room to put her hands on his shoulders. “Adam, you can’t tell a soul.” Whatever else she’d been about to say was cut off by the sudden vise of his arms squeezing her ribs. Skinny he might be, but his arms were already strengthened from years of hard work. She hugged him back briefly before trying to extricate herself.

  “Don’t break her back, boy,” Nick called. “She’s only just risen from an untimely death.”

  He finally let her go, then stood beaming up at her. “You look right good.”

  “Thank you. But you can’t tell anyone, understand?”

  “Sure I do!” he answered, then began to chatter at a nearly impossible speed. Cynthia heard the word “ghost” and “spirit” several times, along with the names Tommy and Simon and something about old Mr. Doddy.

  She met Nick’s eyes and watched them cloud with worry. Finally, Nick smiled and walked over to clap a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Well, Adam, we could use more help around here. We had to let the maids go for obvious reasons. Do you think your mam would allow you to move in here with us for a week or two? Now that you know our secret, I’m sure Mrs. Pell could make room somewhere.”

  Adam brightened even more. “There’s a second room over the stables!”

  “Wonderful idea. Perhaps my coachman might even teach you a few basics of caring for horses while you’re here.” Nick glanced out the door. “He is still here, is he not?”

  “Oh, sure he is,” Adam said. “Though he’s spent a few afternoons at the alehouse.”

  “Excellent. Best to keep him occupied as well, then. A splendid solution all around.”

  “I’ll run home and tell my mam!”

  Nick’s grip stopped his lunge for the door. “Not a word, Adam. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” And then the boy was gone, sprinting out the door and down the path before Cynthia could so much as blink.

  “She won’t like it,” Mrs. Pell murmured. “Adam’s her youngest. She’s a mite protective.”

  Nick glanced toward the fire that roared in the hearth, his shoulders slumping. “Right then. I’d better speak to her myself. I don’t think that boy could keep his mouth shut for more than one full day.”

  “Nick, you don’t have to—” Cyn started, but he just waved a farewell and set off for the village. His boots squished faintly as he walked.

  Cynthia watched him go and wondered if this grand plan of hers was about to come to a spectacular end.

  Chapter 11

  The brush eased gently through Cynthia’s hair as Mrs. Pell searched for tangles. Once she’d worked through all the knots the wind had tied in the strands, she brushed more firmly.

  “Ah, that feels like heaven,” Cynthia sighed.

  “I’ve finished the dress. Would you like to wear it for dinner?”

  Her heart jumped with excitement. “Are you kidding? Do you know how sick and tired I am of that old gown?” She clapped her hands at the thought of the new dress. Not that it was new. It was simply a secondhand frock Mrs. Pell had bought to alter for Cynthia. It had been far too large as Mrs. Pell had been forced to purchase something that might have been altered to fit her, but Cynthia didn’t care about a perfect fit. She simply wanted something else to wear.

  “Can I see it now?”

  “Just a moment.” Her quick fingers pulled Cynthia’s hair into a braid high on her head, then coiled and pinned it neatly on her crown. Strangely, she then paused to work a few tendrils loose at Cyn’s temples.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making you look pretty,” she murmured, stepping back a foot to look over the work she’d done.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’ve a new dress, haven’t you?”

  Cynthia couldn’t argue with that logic, so she only touched a careful hand to her hair and wondered if she really did look pretty.

  When Mrs. Pell strolled to the wardrobe and pulled out the dress, Cynthia ceased to care about her hair.

  The dress was beautiful. Oh, it was no tulle ball gown. In fact, it wasn’t anything she would have considered beautiful a year ago. No frills or lace or decorative lines. But the pine color glowed with depth. And the curve of the neckline promised to show off her collarbone at least, if not any hint of cleavage.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

  “Oh, hush. ’Tis naught more than any simple woman would wear to church.”

  “It’s so…green.”

  “And you’ve been wearing gray for too long, it seems. Out of that rag, now. Though there’s no hope but that you’ll have to wear it again tomorrow. The new one won’t do for crawling through sand. Now turn ’round.”

  Cynthia stared at the fine wool draped over the bedstead as Mrs. Pell worked at the hooks of the old dress.

  “What happened between you and Lord Lancaster this morning?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the servants’ hall.”

  Her blood skidded to a halt in her veins. “Oh, that? We were hiding. Together. Nothing more. Just hiding.”

  “Nothing more, eh? Well, you must’ve had an awful time of it in the dark then.”

  Cynthia hesitated. “How so?”

  “Why, your mouth was all pink and swollen. I daresay you banged into the wall two or three times. Awkward place to hit your face though. Poor thing.”

  Trying her best to think as Mrs. Pell tugged the dress down her arms, Cynthia held herself still. She breathed in and breathed out and told herself not to worry.

  Mrs. Pell cleared her throat. “You know, if his lordship takes your virtue, he’d likely marry you.”

  “Pardon?” The word nearly choked her, it leapt so quickly from her mouth.

  “He’s an honorable man. He always has been.”

  “What, exactly, are you suggesting?”

  “That you follow the natural course of events and lie with him.”

  “Mrs. Pell!”

  The housekeeper shook out the gray dress with a snap. “Oh, don’t ‘Mrs. Pell’ me. You think I don’t know what you two were doing in the dark?”

  “We were kissing!”

  “And you both clearly enjoyed it.”

  “I…” She watched as the woman casually gathered up the new dress and brought it over. Even as flummoxed as she was, Cynthia still couldn’t keep from sliding a hungry gaze over the soft waves of green fabric. “I hate to disabuse you of your ridiculous imaginings, but perhaps you didn’t see the way he bolted out of there like a man chased by an angry boar.”

  Mrs. Pell eased the dress over Cyn’s head. “If he’s afraid of his feelings for you, it only goes to show how strong they are.”

  “You’re mad.” The dress began to tighten around her as Mrs. Pell fastened the hooks. “He couldn’t marry me regardless.” Her stomach
flinched at her own words.

  “Men have done stranger things.”

  “As if I’d want to ruin his whole family by tricking him into matrimony.”

  The housekeeper sniffed. “Fine then. ’Twas only an idea.”

  “A fairly shocking one, I’d say.”

  Mrs. Pell seemed unmoved by her outrage. “I was a young woman once too, you know. I’ve been tempted to the occasional roll in the hay. Some of them even when I wasn’t so young.”

  That distracted Cyn. “With who?”

  “There was once a rather handsome stable master employed at Cantry Manor.”

  “Took him for a ride, did you?” Cyn giggled before it occurred to her just who the stable master had been. “Old Mister Thurgood?” she squeaked, trying to imagine the appeal of the gruff man with the gray beard.

  “His name was John. And he wasn’t so old. No, he wasn’t old at all, missy. Now then. Let’s sneak into his lordship’s room so you can see yourself.”

  Swimming through new images of Mr. Thurgood that she didn’t care for, Cynthia let herself be pulled into Nick’s room.

  Nick.

  In the space of a few hours’ time, both he and Mrs. Pell had spoken of her virginity as it related to marriage. Was that the only obstacle to this seduction? Her nonexistent maidenhead?

  If she told him the truth, perhaps he’d indulge her curiosity. Or perhaps he’d recoil in horror at her slatternly nature and demand she cease to disgrace his good home with her soiled presence.

  It seemed unlikely, but stranger things had happened in her life. One couldn’t expect too much from gentlemen, she’d found.

  “There,” Mrs. Pell said, brushing fussily at Cyn’s shoulder. “The fit seems good.”

  Turning her mind from her thoughts, Cynthia raised her gaze, caught sight of herself in the mirror, and gasped. “It’s perfect!”

  Mrs. Pell beamed over her shoulder.

  The deep green set off Cyn’s pale skin, transforming it from plain white to soft pearl. Her dark hair looked darker. Her lips more red. And the neckline showed off her shoulders as well as her collarbone.

  A boot fall alerted her to a new presence just before Nick’s voice filled the room. “Oh,” he said. “I apologize. I didn’t know you were in my chambers.”

  Well, it wasn’t quite silver tulle floating down a staircase, but Cynthia smiled, took a deep breath, and turned to face Nicholas Cantry.

  Nick tripped over the threshold of the door, despite that there was no discernible difference in the height of the floorboards. Cynthia, or some strangely mature version of Cynthia, lost her smile and frowned at him.

  “Well, hullo,” he babbled. “Got a new dress?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  They stared at each other. It wasn’t just the dress, somehow. Her hair looked different. Softer and more sensual. Her neck seemed longer and her shoulders more…bare.

  Mrs. Pell broke the silence. “I’ve got a pudding to check,” she called as she bustled out of the room.

  Nick nodded. A few moments later he found that he was still standing there, nodding blankly at Cynthia. He smiled brightly to cover his confusion. “You must be relieved to have a new frock.”

  “I am, yes.” She twined her fingers together in front of her hips, drawing Nick’s eye. “I’m sorry we took over your room. It was the mirror we were after.”

  “I understand.”

  Strangely, Cynthia seemed to have grown a pair of hips. Or was it her waist that had been missing in that oversized dress? A puzzle worth pondering for interesting amounts of time.

  “All right,” she murmured. “I’ll leave you be.”

  “No! Wait.”

  She jumped a little at his sharp tone, so Lancaster forced his smile wider.

  “I wanted to speak with you. About the treasure hunt. Our treasure hunt.” She arched a doubtful eyebrow, so he hurried on before she could interrupt. “I think I should take a look at the journal. Give it a fresh eye.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I didn’t say it was necessary, but I think it will help.”

  Cynthia folded her arms and set her jaw.

  “Cyn, let me help. You said we were a team, didn’t you? Yet I’m feeling strangely like a pack mule.”

  “You’re more than a pack mule.”

  He gave her a disappointed frown. Cynthia tapped her foot. Her bare foot. Tipped with lovely pink toes.

  “You must promise you won’t take the journal and go off on your own. This is my treasure hunt, Nick.”

  Nodding, Lancaster studied the arch of the bones of her foot.

  “Oh, fine,” she huffed. “Just read it.”

  “Hm?” He watched her walk to her room, bare feet padding, new hips swaying.

  “Come on.”

  “Right.” He followed the view of her hips into the smaller room.

  Cynthia slumped into a chair and opened a drawer in her desk. “Here it is.”

  “Thank you.” The cover of the diary lay rough against his palm when he grasped it. He didn’t know what to say now. Their conversation was over, but he didn’t want to leave.

  Just as she was closing the drawer, Lancaster spotted what had lain beneath the journal. “Say, what’s that? Another drawing?” He reached toward it and Cynthia nearly slammed the drawer shut on his fingers. “Hey!”

  “It’s nothing,” she snapped. And she was right, of course. Just another crude drawing by a young boy. But it was something to speak of, all the same.

  “Looks like that habit of spying on nude bathers runs in your family.”

  “Pardon me?” she barked.

  “Your great-uncle. It looked like a drawing of a nude woman in the sea. Or a nude man. I couldn’t quite tell because the waves come up to her, or his, waist. And the rest of it was, well…indistinguishable.” Nipples came in both kinds, after all. And the figure’s hair had been rather seaweedy in appearance. A mermaid, perhaps.

  “I think it was a man,” she grumbled.

  “I’m not sure. The shoulders were rather wide, but that’s likely just a problem with the proportions. I remember what I thought about at age eleven and it had a lot to do with unclothed females.”

  “You can leave now.”

  Well, perhaps that hadn’t been the right topic of conversation. Nick very slowly and reluctantly turned and plodded out of the room. But he left the door open just in case she got the urge to follow.

  He had the journal anyway. That was what he’d come for, but strangely, his hands felt empty as he dropped into a seat next to the fire and stared balefully at the cover. A faint trace of the name “Edward” ghosted across the upper corner, though it seemed to fade the harder he looked.

  He ran a finger over the name before carefully turning back the cover. “Edward Merrithorpe,” the first page read. “Spring, 1797.” Strange to think that members of Cyn’s family had been canvassing these cliffs, searching out nudity for decades. Centuries, perhaps.

  The first few pages seemed to be solely devoted to the lambing of 1797, followed quickly by the excitement of shearing season. Edward Merrithorpe, as the son of a conscientious landowner, had been expected to learn all there was to know about owning and breeding sheep, and he thoroughly enjoyed the education. The boy was a gifted storyteller, painting a picture that Lancaster recognized from his own childhood. Despite that the boy hadn’t yet mentioned the cliffs thirty pages into the journal, Lancaster found himself spellbound by the descriptions of Edward’s world.

  “Nick?” Cynthia’s voice shocked him so much that he dropped the book in his lap. She stood only five feet from him, one hand clasped around the opposite wrist.

  “I haven’t found anything yet, I’m afraid. Though your great-uncle was a far better writer than he was an artist. A natural storyteller.”

  She shifted her feet against the wood, and he saw with some disappointment that she’d slipped on thick stockings.

  “Would you like to keep me company until dinner
?” When he gestured toward the chair opposite his, Cyn nodded and sat down, tucking her feet beneath her. Lancaster picked up the book and tried his best to get back to the narrative, but he found himself sneaking constant glances at her face to see if she watched him or the fire. So far, she’d only looked at the fire.

  He crossed his legs and tried to look serious as he read the same line for the third time.

  Rain has flooded the north field. One ewe drowned and now her lamb has been killed. I found an excuse to avoid the butchering, though father didn’t notice. He was—

  “There is something I wished to tell you,” Cynthia murmured, relieving him of his pretence of reading.

  He closed the book quickly and set it on the narrow table to his left. “What is it?”

  “Our earlier discussion…” She paused to brush a stray thread from the skirt of her new dress. “I wanted to make something clear.”

  A blush touched her cheeks. Or perhaps the fire was too warm. He dipped his gaze down to her chest to see how low the pink extended.

  “As far as the garden goes,” she murmured, “my jewel was already plucked.”

  Yes, the flush spread down her neck, all the way to her chest. “Pardon?” He cleared his throat. “A garden? I believe you’re mixing metaphors.”

  “I thought you preferred them thoroughly stirred,” she snapped, her voice crackling with annoyance.

  Lancaster rolled his shoulders and tried to take his mind off her pinkening skin. “I’m sorry. What are you saying?”

  “Nick, my flower has already been plucked. So it’s not something you need concern yourself over.”

  “Your flower…?” The metaphors were trying hard to explain themselves, but Cynthia couldn’t mean what he thought she meant.

  She took a long, deep breath. “I’m not a maiden anymore, Nick.”

  “You…” Her words were vague for a few precious seconds before the meaning hit him squarely between the eyes. Cynthia wasn’t a virgin. Her skin wasn’t the only thing that looked red to him now. The whole room had gone scarlet.