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.
Chapter 9
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.