One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“Are you hurt?”

He thought of nodding, and her head wobbled, so perhaps he managed it.

“Where?” She moved, looking over his torso. She was touching him. He could see that she was touching him, but since he couldn’t feel much of anything, he could let it happen. Just to know that her hands rested on his chest, slid down his arms, measured his legs.

Lancaster smiled at the sky.

“Where are you hurt?” Cyn cried.

“Just…Just knocked the wind out,” he managed.

“Oh, Lord above, are you sure?”

“Aye.” Either that or his spine had cracked like kindling, but they’d find out soon enough.

She hovered for a moment, quiet and calm, then collapsed right onto him, as if she were a puppet whose strings had broken. Her head rested on his chest, her hands held his shoulders. He waited for the panic, but long seconds passed and none came. Lancaster willed his arms to curl around her and they did.

“Thank God,” she breathed into his shirt.

Yes. Thank God. He held her to his chest and let her weight soak into him, shocked to realize he could feel her now. His hand cupped her head. Her hair slid against his fingers. Then her hands shifted, sliding over his shoulders in a tender caress.

Lancaster closed his eyes against the tears.

“You were right,” she murmured. “We shouldn’t have dared that. I’m so sorry.”

“You managed just fine.”

“But we are a team,” she answered simply, drawing a smile to his face.

Until she jerked up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be squashing you like that!” She pushed off him.

“No,” he gasped. “Please don’t.” But she was already twisting away to lie on the sand beside him.

“Is t

hat better?”

No. No, it was as lonely and cold as it ever was. His fingers gripped the beach instead of Cynthia. And a great glob of sand seemed to have settled in his throat as well. He could neither speak nor swallow it away.

Minutes passed in silence. Real life seeped back into his body, but he didn’t move.

“You keep your hair so short now,” Cynthia murmured.

The ghost of a cruel grip twisted in his hair. “One must keep up with fashion, of course,” he lied, forcing a jaunty smile.

“Of course.” Her voice shimmered with amusement. It swelled over him and washed away the last of his inertia.

“All right.” Muscles screamed when he pushed to his elbows, but his body seemed in working order. “Back to the hunt.”

Cyn sprang up beside him. “Don’t be an idiot. We’re going home.”

Lancaster opened his mouth to protest. He was a man after all, and eager to show off his amazing fortitude. Nothing short of death could stop an animal as virile as he.

But then she said it again. “Let’s go home, Nick.”

And that sounded like a fantasy. Like an invitation to go back where he wanted to be. “Yes, then,” he agreed. “Yes, let’s go home.” When he pushed to his feet, he was glad he’d agreed. Virility aside, his legs hadn’t appreciated those moments without air. But he could make them work if it meant going home with Cyn.

The warmth of the kitchen was such a change to her chilled body that Cynthia felt as if she were cocooned in wool blankets. Or as if Nick had teased her into joining him in a glass of whisky.