Seven Wicked Nights (32 page)

Did he still want her?

Yes, and yes. God, yes.

And yet nothing was easy between them, and Cecily had questions of her own.

When you kissed me that night, did it mean anything to you?
How could he give her an honest answer? When he’d kissed her that night, it
had
meant little. But there’d been moments in the years since—dark, harrowing, nightmarish moments—when that kiss had come to mean everything. Hope. Salvation. A reason to drag one mud-caked boot in front of the other and press on, while men around him fell. He had remembered Cecily, in times and places he hadn’t expected to think of her at all. In places a delicate, well-bred lady had no business intruding. He’d dragged that memory—that fresh, pure kiss—through muck, sweat, blood. Surely he’d sullied it, tainted her innocent affection with violence and raw physical need. His behavior tonight had proved that beyond any doubt. He’d sniped at her and insulted her, provoked her to tears. Embraced her not to offer affection or comfort, but only because a twisted spear of aggression drove him to claim her body for his own.

He’d bitten her, for Christ’s sake.

People change
, she’d said.

Yes, dear Cecily. They do, indeed. In more ways than you could dream.

A hollow laugh rattled in his chest. Portia had pulled them all out to the forest, to hunt for her fabled “werestag”? Little did she know, they’d left the true beast here at the house. He’d been prowling this bedchamber every night, driven wild by the knowledge only two oaken doors and some fifty paces of wainscoted corridor lay between him and the woman he’d crossed a continent to hold. By day, he’d been drinking himself into a stupor, positioning himself at the opposite end of every room, adopting a temporary vow of silence. Futile efforts, all. He’d known a scene like tonight’s was coming, and he’d known it would end with Cecily hurting and in tears. Charm, politesse, gentlemanly behavior—they’d long ago been stripped away. He was down to his basest form now, both hardened and desperate, and if she had not slapped him cold this evening, only the devil knew what he would have done to her. Cecily was far safer roaming a cursed forest with Denny.

She was safer with Denny, in general.

Sighing heavily, Luke closed the velvet drapes. He tugged his cravat loose, then rang for his valet and poured himself yet another tumbler of whiskey.

Time to be honest. He did know what to do about Cecily. The answer
was
easy, and there was just enough human decency left in him to divine it. He’d known it the moment he’d pressed his cracked, weathered lips to her pale, delicate fingers eight days past.

He had to let her go.

L
UKE FOLLOWED HER INTO THE FOREST
.

Cecily tried to leave him behind, but she couldn’t. The memories stalked her down the root-scored pathways; her thoughts cast long, flickering shadows. Two kisses they’d shared now: one innocent and fresh, one desperate and demanding. Both intoxicating. Stirring, in ways she scarcely had words to describe. She’d wanted him, even as a girl, though she’d hardly known what it meant. Now a woman, she understood longing and claimed more than a passing acquaintance with desire. And she burned for him, body and soul. She must find some way to extinguish that fire, before it consumed her completely.

“Tell us more about the werestag,” Portia called to Denny.

It took Cecily a moment to understand what her friend meant, and to recall that they were not hunting Luke in the undergrowth.

“Is the legend centuries old?” Portia asked, stepping over a fallen branch.

“Not at all,” Denny answered. “Mere decades. If you believe the locals, these woods have been cursed for generations, but the man-beast is only one of the more recent victims.”

“Oh, come now.” Brooke swatted an insect against his neck, then squinted at his hand before wiping it against his trousers. “What evidence is there for this supposed curse? Unless by ‘cursed’ you mean plagued by midges, in which case I readily capitulate.”

“People have died here,” Cecily said.

“People die everywhere.”

“Yes, but this forest claims more than its share,” Denny said, pausing and raising his torch high. “And it has a taste for the young and foolhardy.”

“Of course it does,” Brooke argued. “Most people who die of accidental causes
are
young and foolhardy.”

Denny shrugged. “Believe what you will. But there is no way to disclaim the fact that nearly every family in the area has been touched by some tragedy that occurred here. Even aristocracy cannot escape the curse. Why, the old Earl of Kendall’s—”

“This local history is all so very fascinating,” Portia interrupted, taking Denny’s other arm, “but could we return to the story of the werestag? If we’re going to find him, we ought to know what we’re about.”

“Yes, of course.”

Denny began to tell the story, and Cecily purposefully fell a few paces behind. She’d heard this tale before, many times. How an impoverished man, desperate to feed his ailing wife and children, had gone into the forest at night to trap game. Such poaching was illegal and incurred stiff penalties, but Denny’s grandfather had generally turned a blind eye to the practice. The man in the story, however, had made the grave mistake of wandering across the Corbinsdale border, and the old Earl of Kendall did not share Mr. Denton’s leniency. Men had been sentenced to hard labor, even transportation, for the offense of poaching on Kendall land.

“So there he was,” she heard Denny recounting in a dramatic tone, “crouched over his brace of pheasants, when he heard the hounds. The Corbinsdale gamekeeper had spotted him. The poor fellow ran, even dodged a bullet or two, weaving through the woods. But he couldn’t outrun the dogs forever. He tried throwing them the pheasants, but the hounds were well trained and barely stopped to sniff at the birds.”

Denny paused, drew up, considered. At length, he pointed right. “There’s a deer trail, just here. We’ll follow it.”

Although the winding ribbon of trail was only wide enough for one, Portia clung to Denny’s arm. “What did he do? The hunter, being chased by the dogs?”

“Ah, yes. Just as the dogs were about to reach him, the man fell to his knees and pleaded with the spirits of the forest to spare his life.”

“And…?”

“And a strange force struck him to the ground, and when his consciousness returned—he’d been transformed into a stag. A white one, so the story goes.”

“Absurd,” Brooke grumbled.

“After that, he easily outran the dogs—made it all the way back to Denton land. He was even able to change back into human form, once the danger had passed. But the spirits had played a cruel trick on him, you see—for he could never leave the woods again. Every time he tried to set a foot—or hoof—beyond the woodland border, some mystical force would throw him back. The forest spirits saved his life, but now they will not relinquish it.”

“What of his family?” Portia asked.

“His wife died,” Denny answered. “The orphaned children were sent to a workhouse. And the man-beast”—he cleared his throat—“beg pardon,
werestag
, has been doomed to roam the forest ever since.”

“Rubbish. Poppycock. Lies, all of it lies.” Brooke strode to the lead, then halted and turned to face the group. Everyone tripped to a standstill. “Legends,” he continued, “always have a logical explanation. This is clearly a cautionary tale, concocted by old, toothless grandmothers. Everyone knows the old earl was rabid about hunting, and he had these woods stocked with exotic game—peacock, boar, and yes, even stag. Everyone knows his lands were a magnet for poachers, and that he dealt with trespassers harshly. Of course the locals created this man-deer nonsense. They wanted to scare young people, discourage them from wandering off into the woods.”

“Well, if that was their intent”—Cecily looked around the group—“it doesn’t seem to have worked.”

“That’s right.” Portia released Denny’s arm and continued on the path. “Here we are, plunging ever deeper into these cursed woods, unarmed and intrigued. Fearless.”

Brooke grabbed her elbow. “A thin line separates boldness from stupidity.”

“Yes.” Smiling sweetly, Portia looked at his hand on her arm. “You’re treading it.”

His lips thinned as he released her.

With an affable grin, Denny pulled out his flask. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m having a capital time.”

The group forged ahead in silence. Once again, Cecily let herself fall behind, the better to indulge her maudlin humor. She trailed them by ten paces or so, lingering in that auditory border between her companions’ crunching footsteps and the forest’s profound hush. The sounds were smaller here. The chirp of insects. The subtle cracks as tree limbs splintered overhead. Little currents of rustling that betrayed nocturnal creatures burrowing in the undergrowth. Somewhere far in the distance a confused rooster crowed, a good five hours premature. That happened, sometimes, when the moon was nearly full and so bright.

Cecily strained her ears. Could one
hear
moonlight? She almost imagined she could—one clear, silvery note ringing through the woods, like the hum of a celestial tuning fork. The sort of sound one felt in her bones, rather than detected with her ears.

Beautiful.

A bright flash caught her eye, like a distant bolt of mercury. She swiveled, tracking it left. It disappeared, and she froze, peering hard into the woods in the direction she’d seen it last. To the left, then up a slight rise…

There
. There it was again. An arrow of white bounding through the shadows. And…could that sharp glint be a
prong
?

She turned and stepped toward it instinctively, then looked down in surprise when her boot failed to create the expected crunch. She’d assumed, in stepping off the path, she’d crush a goodly number of leaves and twigs beneath her heel.

But she hadn’t, because the smooth-packed furrow of the trail split here, directly under her boots. The right fork led toward Denny and the rest, now several paces ahead. The left path shot off in the direction of the mysterious silver-white flash.

A thin line separates boldness from stupidity
.

Yes, and she’d crossed it four years ago.

The little laugh she gave surprised her, as did the ease with which she made a choice. The decision smacked of petulance and self-destructive tendencies. Cecily knew it.

She turned left anyhow.

Chapter Three

H
E WAITED FOR HER
.

There was no other possible explanation. The stag must have waited for her, patiently gleaming in the moonlight, while she followed the serpentine path through the woods. For after following the trail for just a few minutes, Cecily rounded a tight thicket of brambles to nearly collide with the beast.

He did not bolt, but stood his ground. Awed, she did the same. She fought to keep her breathing steady, to make no sudden movements. How curious, that after all the cautionary tales of a cursed man-beast—“Werestag,” she heard Portia correcting in her mind—Cecily was concerned about frightening
him
.

With a soft snort, the animal gave her his handsome profile and regarded her with one large, dark, intelligent eye. His creamy hide bunched shaggy and soft on the underside of his throat, then stretched taut over his backbone and haunches. One of his rear hooves stamped the ground, as though the power coiled in those haunches wanted to spring free.

Feeling a little bit silly—and why should she, she talked to horses and dogs all the time—she addressed him. “Can you understand me? My speech, I mean?” When he gave no response, she added, “If you can understand me, nod your head twice. Or tap your hoof, perhaps.”

His neck lengthened a fraction, so that his regal crown of antlers struck an even more impressive silhouette.
I am not one of your horses or dogs
, his proud bearing told her.
I do not nod or tap on command
.

Oh, yes. He understood her. Or rather, they understood one another.

A sense of affinity passed between them, a moment of mutual admiration and respect. Cecily’s fingers itched to stroke the felty thatch beneath his ear, to judge if it was really as soft as it looked. But she sensed it would offend him, to be petted in such a manner.