Worth Any Price

  Is it you? he thought, tracing the line of her cheek with his fingertip. Desire filled his cock and caused it to stiffen unmercifully. His lashes lowered slightly as he continued to watch the tiny painted face, and his hand slid down to the aching jut of his arousal.

  As was her daily habit, Lottie took an early-morning walk across the landscape of Stony Cross, over steep hills covered in heather or forest, past bogs and ponds and glades that teemed with life. Most of the guests at the manor, including Lady Westcliff, slept late and took breakfast at the hour of ten. However, Lottie had never been able to adapt to such a schedule. She needed some form of exercise to rid herself of an excess of nervous energy. On the days when it was too cold or stormy to walk, she fidgeted inside until Lady Westcliff erupted in exasperation.

  Lottie had devised three or four different walks, each lasting approximately an hour. This morning she chose the one that began along Hill Road, crossed through a medieval oak and hazel forest, and passed the source of a local spring called the Wishing Well. It was a cool, damp morning typical of the beginning of May, and Lottie drew in deep breaths of the earth-scented air. Dressed in a gown with loose ankle-length skirts, her feet shod in sturdy mid-calf boots, Lottie trod energetically away from Westcliff Manor. She followed a sandy track that led into the forest, while natterjack toads hopped out of the path of her oncoming boots. The trees rustled overhead, the wind carrying the cries of nuthatches and whitethroats. A huge, ungainly buzzard flapped its way toward the nearby bogs in search of breakfast.

  Suddenly Lottie caught sight of a dark shape ahead. It was a man, roaming through the forest, his outline partially obscured in the mist. A poacher, perhaps. Although Lottie stopped at some distance, he had unusually sharp hearing. His head turned as a twig snapped beneath her boot.

  Lottie held her ground as he approached. She recognized him at once, the fluid, almost catlike grace of his movements. He was casually dressed in shirt-sleeves and a black waistcoat, with boots and decidedly ancient breeches. Lord Sydney…looking disreputable and indecently handsome. She was surprised to see him there, when all the other guests at Westcliff Manor were still abed. Even more surprising was her own reaction to him, a surge of excitement and gladness.

  “Good morning,” Lord Sydney said, a faint smile playing on his lips. His dark hair was disheveled, and his cravat had been carelessly tied.

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to be out at this hour,” she said cheerfully.

  “I never sleep past sunrise.”

  Lottie nodded toward the path he had been contemplating. “Were you planning to go that way? I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “Why not?”

  “That path leads to marshy ponds and very deep bogs. One unfortunate step, and you could find yourself drowning in mud—that is, if you haven’t been done in by raft spiders or snakes.” She shook her head in feigned regret. “We’ve lost some very nice guests that way.”

  He smiled lazily. “I don’t suppose you would care to recommend an alternate route?”

  “If you go the other way, you’ll come to a bridle path that leads to a sunken lane. Follow it to the gatehouse garden, go through the opening in the hedge, and you’ll find a path that takes you to the top of a hill. From there you can see lakes, villages, forests, all spread before you…the view is breathtaking.”

  “Is that where you’re headed?”

  She shook her head and replied impudently, “No, I am going in the opposite direction.”

  “But who will save me from the bogs?”

  She laughed. “You can’t accompany me, my lord. It would neither be seemly nor wise.”

  If they were seen together, it would cause gossip. And it would most certainly displease Lady Westcliff, who had warned her never to take a “follower,” as it was politely called.

  “Do you wish to be alone?” Lord Sydney asked. A new expression crossed his face, so quick and subtle that hardly anyone would have noticed it. “Forgive me. Once again I have trespassed on your solitude.”

  Lottie wondered at what she had seen in his eyes for that fragment of a second…a desolation so vast and impenetrable that it shocked her. What could have caused it? He had everything a person required to be content…freedom, wealth, looks, social position. There was no reason for him to be anything other than ecstatic over his lot in life. But he was unhappy, and everything in her nature compelled her to offer him comfort. “I am rather too accustomed to solitude,” she said softly. “Perhaps some company would be a pleasant change.”

  “If you’re certain—”

  “Yes, come along.” She gave his athletic form a deliberately challenging glance. “I only hope that you’ll be able to keep pace with me.”

  “I’ll try,” he assured her wryly, falling into step beside her as she continued her walk.

  They approached the trunk of a huge oak that had fallen across the path. Insects buzzed lazily through the rays of strengthening sunlight that streamed in from above. “Look,” Lottie said, gesturing to a dragonfly as it flew and dipped before them. “There are more than a dozen varieties of dragonfly in this forest, and at least a hundred different moths. If you come at dusk, you can see purple hairstreak butterflies—they gather right there at the tops of the tr—”

  “Miss Miller,” he interrupted, “I’m a Londoner. We don’t care about insects, except to consider how they may best be exterminated.”

  Lottie heaved a theatrical sigh, as if vexed by his lack of interest in the subject. “All right, then. I will refrain from describing the many varieties of aquatic beetle we have here.”

  “Thank you,” came his fervent reply. “Here, allow me to help you over that oak—”

  “No need.”

  Lottie hopped onto the fallen trunk and walked along the gnarled surface, showing off her physical coordination with no trace of modesty. When her efforts were greeted with silence, she glanced over her shoulder and discovered Sydney walking right behind her, his footing as sure and easy as a cat’s. A startled laugh escaped her as she made her way to the end of the trunk. “You are quite agile for a gentleman of your size.”

  Lord Sydney let the comment pass, his mouth twisting to indicate that his agility was of no consequence. “Why did you become a lady’s companion?” he asked as Lottie jumped to the ground, her feet rustling through the brittle layer of leaves. He followed her, landing in the same spot she had. Curiously, he did not make nearly as much noise as she had, despite the fact that he was easily twice her weight.

  Lottie chose her words with great care. She disliked talking about her past—not only was it dangerous but the subject filled her with melancholy. “My family is poor. There was no other choice for me.”

  “You could have married.”

  “I’ve never met anyone that I wanted to marry.”

  “Not even Lord Westcliff?”

  “Lord Westcliff?” she repeated in surprise. “Why would I have designs on him?”

  “He’s wealthy and titled, and you’ve resided beneath his roof for two years,” came Sydney’s sardonic reply. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  Lottie frowned thoughtfully. It wasn’t as if the earl was unappealing—quite the opposite, in fact. Westcliff was an attractive man who shouldered his responsibilities and considered it unmanly to complain about them. In addition to his own strict morality, Lord Westcliff possessed a dry wit and a carefully concealed sense of compassion, and as Lottie had discreetly observed, he employed his courteous manners as skillfully as a weapon. Women were drawn to him, although Lottie was not one of them. She sensed that she did not have the key to unlock his innate reserve…nor had she ever been tempted to trust him with the reason for her uncompromising solitude.

  “Naturally a man of Westcliff’s position would never entertain that kind of interest in a lady’s companion,” she said in reply to Lord Sydney’s question. “But even if we were on the same social footing, I am certain that the earl would never regard me in that way, nor I him. Our relationship—if one
could call it that—does not possess that particular…” She paused, searching for an appropriate word. “Alchemy.”

  The word hovered gently in the air, dispelled only by the sound of Sydney’s quiet voice.

  “Surely alchemy pales in comparison to the safety that he could offer you.”

  Safety. The thing she wanted most, and could never have. Lottie stopped and stared into his dark face. “What makes you think that I am in need of safety?”

  “You’re alone. A woman needs someone to protect her.”

  “Oh, I have no need of protection. I have a very pleasant life at Stony Cross Park. Lady Westcliff is quite kind, and I want for nothing.”

  “Lady Westcliff won’t live forever,” Sydney pointed out. Although his words were blunt, his expression was strangely understanding. “What will you do after she is gone?”

  The question caught Lottie by surprise. No one ever asked her such things. Perturbed, she took her time about replying. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I suppose I never let myself think about the future.”

  Sydney’s gaze was riveted on her, his eyes an almost unnatural shade of blue. “Neither do I.”

  Lottie didn’t know what to make of her companion. It had been easy at first to think of him as a spoiled young aristocrat, with his beautifully tailored clothes and perfect features. But on closer inspection, there were signs that conveyed the opposite. The deep-cut shadows beneath his eyes betrayed countless sleepless nights. The harsh grooves on either side of his mouth gave him a cynical look that was odd for a man so young. And in unguarded moments such as this, she saw in his eyes that he was no stranger to pain.

  His expression changed like quicksilver. Once again he was a lazy rogue with mocking eyes. “The future is too boring to contemplate,” he said lightly. “Shall we continue, Miss Miller?”

  Disconcerted by his swift change of mood, Lottie led him out of the forest to a sunken road. The morning sun rose higher, chasing the lavender from the sky and warming the meadows. The field they passed was filled with heather and emerald sphagnum moss, and dotted with tiny red sundew rosettes. “They don’t have views like this in London, do they?” Lottie remarked.

  “No,” Lord Sydney agreed, although he seemed distinctly unenchanted by the quiet rural beauty around them.

  “I gather you prefer town life,” Lottie said with a smile. “Tenements, cobbled streets, factories, coal smoke, and all that noise. How could anyone choose that over this?”

  The sunlight touched on the mahogany and gold highlights in his brown hair. “You keep your beetles and bogs, Miss Miller. I’ll take London any time.”

  “I’ll show you something that London doesn’t have.” Triumphantly Lottie led him across the sunken road. They came to a deep muddy basin filled with water that spilled from the bank beside it.

  “What is that?” Lord Sydney asked, viewing the sloshing hole dubiously.

  “A wishing well. Everyone in the village visits it.” Busily Lottie searched the pockets of her walking skirts. “Oh, curse it, I haven’t got any pins.”

  “What do you need pins for?”

  “To drop in the well.” She gave him a chiding smile. “I thought everyone knew that you can’t make a wish without a pin.”

  “What do you want to wish for?” he asked huskily.

  “Oh, it isn’t for me. I’ve made dozens of wishes here. I wanted you to have one.” Giving up her search for a pin, Lottie glanced up at him.

  There was a strange look on Lord Sydney’s face…blank, painfully surprised…as if he had just been kicked in the stomach. He didn’t move or blink, just stared at her as if he couldn’t quite comprehend her words. The silence between them became thick, and Lottie waited in helpless fascination for him to break it. Wrenching his gaze away, Lord Sydney gazed at the field of heather with puzzling intensity, as if his mind were striving to wrap itself around something that didn’t make sense.

  “Do make a wish,” Lottie said impulsively. “I’ll throw a pin in the well for you the next time I come.”

  Lord Sydney shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was oddly hoarse. “I wouldn’t know what to wish for.”

  They continued in silence, making their way over a muddy patch and following the sunken road to a footbridge that covered a small stream. On the other side of the stream, a damp meadow beckoned, blazing with waist-high yellow meadowsweet bushes. “This way,” Lottie said, lifting her skirts to her knees as they traversed grass and heather and approached a barrier of hedge and fence. “Beyond the hedge, the footpath leads back through the forest to Stony Cross Park.” She pointed to the tall arched gate, so narrow that it would allow only one person to pass through at a time. Glancing at Lord Sydney, she was relieved to see that he had recovered his composure. “The only way through is that kissing gate.”

  “Why is it called that?”

  “I don’t know.” Lottie considered the gate thoughtfully. “I suppose because a kiss would be the unavoidable consequence of two people trying to pass through it at the same time.”

  “An interesting theory.” Sydney paused inside the narrow gate. Leaning against one side of it, he sent her a challenging smile, knowing full well that she could not go through without brushing against him.

  Lottie raised her brows. “By some chance are you expecting me to test it?”

  Lord Sydney lifted one shoulder in a relaxed shrug, watching her with a vagabond charm that was nearly irresistible. “I won’t stop you, if you feel so inclined.”

  It was obvious that he did not expect her to take up the challenge. Lottie knew she had only to roll her eyes and reprove him and he would step aside. However, as she considered her response to him she became aware of a painful hollowness inside. She had not been touched by anyone in two years. No impulsive girlish hugs from her friends at Maidstone’s…no caress of her mother’s hand, no sweetly childish kisses from her younger siblings. She wondered what it was about this man that had made her aware of the deprivation. He made her want to tell him her secrets—which was, of course, unthinkable. Impossible. She could never trust anyone, when her very life was at stake.

  She realized that Lord Sydney’s smile had vanished. Without being aware of it, she had drawn closer to him and now stood within arm’s length. Her gaze flickered to his mouth, so wide, masculine, full. Her pulse escalated to a wild rhythm as temptation exerted a force stronger than anything she had ever known…as strong as fear, as deep as hunger.

  “Hold still,” she heard herself say. Carefully she laid a hand on the center of his chest.

  The instant that Lottie touched him, Lord Sydney’s chest moved beneath her palm in a strong, quick breath.

  The violent thump of his heart against her fingers filled Lottie with a curious tenderness. He seemed to be frozen, as if he feared that any movement might frighten her away. Softly she touched his lower lip with her fingertips and felt his hot breath fan against them. A butterfly left its resting place on the gate and flew away, a trembling stain of color in the air.

  “What is your name?” Lottie whispered. “Your first name.”

  It took an unaccountably long time for him to reply. The bristly fans of his lashes lowered to conceal his thoughts. “John.”

  He was so tall that Lottie had to stand on her toes to reach his mouth, and even then she couldn’t quite manage it. Catching her waist in his hands, he compacted her gently against his body. Suddenly there was a strange, lost look in his eyes, as if he were drowning. Hesitantly Lottie slid her hand around the back of his neck, where the interlaced muscles had gone rigid.

  He let her tug his head lower, lower, until their breath mingled and their lips touched in a sweet, supple kiss. His mouth remained warm and still against hers, and then his lips began to move in soft brushes. Disoriented, Lottie swayed in his grasp, and his arm slid around her back to hold her securely. Instinctively she nudged upward, straining on her toes as she sought to deepen the tender pressure. But he was careful to keep his passion under tigh
t rein, refusing to take any more.

  Gradually she eased away from him, sinking back to her heels. She dared to touch the side of his face, relishing the warmth of his skin against her palm. “I’ve paid the toll,” she whispered. “May I pass through the gate now?”

  He nodded gravely and moved away from the threshold.

  Lottie crossed through and wandered past the hedge, surprised to discover that her knees were a bit quivery. Her companion followed in silence as she walked along the footpath that led to Stony Cross Park. When they had almost reached the great house, they paused in the shelter of an oak tree.

  “I must leave you here,” Lottie said, her face dappled by the overhead boughs. “It wouldn’t do to be seen together.”

  “Of course.”

  A wistful ache gathered inside her chest as she stared at him. “When will you leave Stony Cross Park, my lord?”

  “Soon.”

  “Not until after tomorrow evening, I hope. The village has a wonderful May Day celebration. Everyone from the manor comes down to watch.”

  “Will you?”

  Lottie shook her head immediately. “No, I have seen it before. I will probably remain in my room with a book. But for a newcomer, the festivities would be entertaining.”

  “I will consider it,” he murmured. “Thank you for the walk, Miss Miller.” And with a polite bow, he left her.

  After breakfast, Charlotte pushed Lady Westcliff’s wheeled chair along the paved walks of the estate gardens. Nick watched from an open first-floor window, able to hear the regal old woman as she lectured Charlotte.

  “There is no substitute for daily inspection,” Lady Westcliff was saying, gesturing with a bejeweled hand. “Weeds must be pulled as soon as they show. Plants must never be allowed to grow outside their proper places, or they will ruin the proportion of the garden…”

  Charlotte appeared to be listening respectfully as she guided the chair along the path. The ease with which she maneuvered it belied the vehicle’s obvious weight. Her slim arms were surprisingly strong, and she showed no signs of tiring as they proceeded along the hedgerow.