One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

If she were bold, she might slip off her boots and stockings and cool her feet in a shallow wave. Viscount Lancaster would try to hide the way he stared at her feet, waiting impatiently for glimpses of her ankles. His admiration would make her bold, and she might occasionally lift her skirts high enough to show off the curve of her calves. He’d be overcome with passion and stop her right in the wake of a wave to declare his love.

“Bollocks,” Nick said, startling her so much that she stumbled over her own feet. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Boots are full of water.”

He might not have been mocking her daydream, but somebody should. What utter bollocks to descend back into the self-same fantasies she’d had as a child. Delusions that Nick would love her and they’d ride off into the sunset together.

Well, Nick wasn’t free to love her. And she couldn’t ride a damned horse at any rate. But she would take what she could and be satisfied with that.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked him.

“No, we’re almost there. And I fear if I take them off they might not go on again.” He squeezed her hand briefly and then let go, leaving her skin tingling with grief.

“Ah, here’s the infamous spot of my early demise.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” she scolded, smacking his arm as hard as she could. “I really thought you might have been dead.”

He winked, but that didn’t stop the horrible flutter in her stomach. He’d hit the sand so hard, she still couldn’t believe that he was fine. She hurried past the spot, and they rounded a short outcropping that didn’t quite reach the water.

“Oh, look at this,” Nick said.

Cynthia stopped to stare. The land curved in here, creating a small horseshoe-shaped cove. But instead of being filled with water, it was flat sand broken up by piles of boulders.

“I remember this place,” Nick said, turning in a slow circle. “Close to the full moon, it fills with water at high tide. Do you remember?”

“I do,” she answered. Of course she remembered. She’d been here the whole time.

While he looked around, she began a careful study of the cliffs around them. An hour later, she collapsed into a defeated lump on the sand and threw an arm over her eyes. “There’s nothing here.”

“I know. We should head home soon or you’ll be burned.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know that too.” He chuckled. “But considering your foul tongue and awful temperament, you’ve only your fine skin to recommend you. Best to protect it.”

“Scoundrel,” she muttered. The pleasant weather and Nick’s good mood had begun to annoy her. Was gloominess too much to ask?

“I should have brought…”

When his silence drew out, Cynthia lifted her arm to find him staring off into the distance, head cocked at a slight angle. “What is it?”

“I thought I heard something.”

She held her breath, straining to hear. And then it came again. The clink of metal on metal. Nick’s head jerked up, his gaze locking on the tops of the cliffs on the far side of the little cove.

“A rider.”

When the wind brought the sound of a horse’s snort, she jumped to her feet and looked frantically around. The largest boulders were too far away to reach quickly. There was nowhere to hide.

“Over there,” Nick bit out, pushing her toward the pile of rocks closest to them. “Pull the cloak over you and curl up as tightly as possible.”

The largest of the rocks was perhaps two feet wide. She knelt beside it, though she nearly tripped over her skirt when she saw that Nick had removed his coat and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Going for a swim. Now get down.”

She did as he instructed, tucking the gray cloak under her knees and pulling the hood fully over her head. She curled into a ball, and barely squeaked when something landed on her back.

“I’m going to pile my clothes on you. Do not move.”