How to Catch a Wild Viscount

  Which suited Cecily fine. If she had to endure this miserable tension much longer, she would grow fangs and claws herself. Imprudent adventure seemed a welcome alternative. With a brave smile, she rose to her feet. "What are we waiting for? Let's go find him."

  Chapter Two

  At last, Cecily had him cornered.

  The party had dispersed to prepare for their impromptu hunting excursion. Brooke and Denny had gone to see about footmen and torches. Cecily was supposed to be fetching a cloak and sturdier boots from her chambers, as Portia had done, but she'd tarried purposely until the three of them had left. Until she was alone with Luke. It was time to end this . . . this foolish dream she'd been living for years.

  She cleared her throat. "Will you come with us, out to the woods?"

  "Are you going to marry Denny?" He spoke in an easy, conversational tone. As though his answer depended on hers.

  She briefly considered chastising his impudence, refusing to answer. But why not give an honest reply? He'd already made her humiliation complete, by virtue of his perfect indifference. She could sink no lower by revealing it. "There is no formal understanding between us. But everyone assumes I will marry him, yes."

  "Because you are so madly in love?"

  Cecily gave a despairing sniff. "Please. Because we are cousins of some vague sort, and we can reunite the ancestral fortune." She stared up at the gilt ceiling trim. "What else would people assume? For what other earthly reason would I have remained unmarried through four seasons? Certainly not because I've been clinging to a ridiculous infatuation all this time. Certainly not because I've wasted the best years of my youth and spurned innumerable suitors, pining after a man who had long forgotten me. No, no one would ever credit that reasoning. They could never think me such a ninny as that."

  That cold, empty silence again. A sob caught in her throat.

  "Was there anything in it?" she asked, not bothering to wipe the tear tracing the rim of her nose. "Our summer here, all those long walks and even longer conversations? When you kissed me that night, did it mean anything to you?"

  When he did not answer, she took three paces in his direction. "I know how proud you must be of those enigmatic silences, but I believe I deserve an answer." She stood between his icy silence and the heated aura of the fire. Scorched on one side, bitterly cold on the other--like a slice of toast someone had forgotten to turn.

  "What sort of answer would you like to hear?"

  "An honest one."

  "Are you certain? It's my experience that young ladies vastly prefer fictions. Little stories, like Portia's gothic novel."

  "I am as fond of a good tale as anyone," she replied, "but in this instance, I wish to know the truth."

  "So you say. Let us try an experiment, shall we?" He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, his expression one of jaded languor. His every movement a negotiation between aristocratic grace and sheer brute strength.

  Power. He radiated power in every form--physical, intellectual, sensual--and he knew it. He knew that she sensed it.

  The fire was unbearably warm now. Blistering, really. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but Cecily would not retreat.

  "I could tell you," he said darkly, seductively, "that I kissed you that night because I was desperate with love for you, overcome with passion, and that the color of my ardor has only deepened with time and separation. And that when I lay on a battlefield bleeding my guts out, surrounded by meaningless death and destruction, I remembered that kiss and was able to believe that there was something of innocence and beauty in this world, and it was you." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Almost. Warm breath caressed her fingertips. "Do you like that answer?"

  She gave a breathless nod. She was a fool; she couldn't help it.

  "You see?" He kissed her fingers. "Young ladies prefer fictions."

  "You are a cad." Cecily wrenched her hand away and balled it into a fist. "An arrogant, insufferable cad."

  "Yes, yes. Now we come to the truth. Shall I give you an honest answer, then? That I kissed you that night for no other reason than that you looked uncommonly pretty and fresh, and though I doubted my ability to vanquish Napoleon, it was some balm to my pride to conquer you, to feel you tremble under my touch? And that now I return from war, to find everything changed, myself most of all. I scarcely recognize my surroundings, except . . ." He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly framed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. "Except Cecily Hale still looks at me with stars in her eyes, the same as she ever did. And when I touch her, she still trembles."

  Oh. She was trembling. He swept his thumb across her cheek, and even her hair shivered.

  "And suddenly . . ." His voice cracked. Some unrehearsed emotion pitched his dispassionate drawl into a warm, expressive whisper. "Suddenly, I find myself determined to keep this one thing constant in my universe. Forever."

  She swallowed hard. "Do you intend to propose to me?"

  "I don't think so, no." He caressed her cheek again. "I've no reason to."

  "No reason?" Had she thought her humiliation complete? No, it seemed to be only beginning.

  "I'll get my wish, Cecy, whether I propose to you or not. You can marry Denny, and I'll still catch you stealing those starry looks at me across drawing rooms, ten years from now. You can share a bed with him, but I'll still haunt your dreams. Perhaps once a year on your birthday--or perhaps on mine--I'll contrive to brush a single fingertip oh-so-lightly between your shoulder blades, just to savor that delicious tremor." He demonstrated, and she hated her body for responding just as he'd predicted.

  An ironic smile crooked his lips. "You see? You can marry anyone or no one. But you'll always be mine."

  "I will not," she choked out, pulling away. "I will put you out of my mind forever. You are not so very handsome, you know, for all that."

  "No, I'm not," he said, chuckling. "And there's the wonder of it. It's nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you. I know you, Cecily. You may try to put me out of your mind. You may even succeed. But you've built a home for me in your heart, and you're too generous a soul to cast me out now."

  She shook her head. "I--"

  "Don't." With a sudden, powerful movement, he grasped her waist and brought her to him, holding her tight against his chest. "Don't cast me out."

  His mouth fell on hers, hard and fast, and when her lips parted in surprise, he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. He kissed her hungrily, thoroughly, without finesse or restraint, as though he hadn't kissed a woman in years and might not survive to kiss another tomorrow. Raw, undisguised need shuddered through his frame as he took from her everything he could--her inhibitions, her anger, her very breath.

  And still she yearned to give him more. Arching on tiptoe, she threaded her hands into his hair and boldly touched her tongue to his. She'd been afraid to, the last time. But she wasn't afraid now, and she wasn't satisfied with a timid, schoolgirl kiss. Her body bowed into his, and he moaned as he kissed her deeper still. This was what she'd been dreaming of, for so long. His taste, his warmth, his strength surrounding her. This was Luke.

  This was Luke.

  The man who'd years ago held her, kissed her, and left her in the morning without so much as an adieu. The man who saw no reason to marry her now. He was just going to do it all again. Hold her, kiss her . . . then leave her alone and yearning for him. Forever.

  She pushed against his shoulders, breaking the kiss. "Luke--"

  "Cecy," he murmured, his mouth falling to the underside of her jaw. He burrowed into the curve of her neck, licking her pulse, catching her earlobe between his teeth . . .

  "Luke, no." Her voice was thick.

  His hand slid up to roughly clutch her breast, and he nipped her ear, hard. Pain and pleasure shot through her, and she dug her fingernails into his neck. For a mad moment, she wanted to bite him too. To punish him, mark him . . . to taste him one more time.

  "Stop." She fisted her hands in his hair and tugged. "Stop."


  He froze, then slowly raised his head. His lips still held the shape of a kiss, and she slapped his cheek hard enough to make them go slack.

  "Stop," she repeated clearly. "I won't let you do this to me again."

  He blinked, slowly relinquishing his grip on her breast. Then releasing her entirely.

  Cecily knew better than to expect an apology. She smoothed the front of her gown. "I ought to have Denny cast you out of this house."

  "You should." Luke stared at her, rubbing his jaw with one hand. "But you won't."

  "You think you know me so well? It's been four years. I'm not that naive, infatuated girl any longer. People change."

  "Some people do. But not you."

  "Just watch me, Luke." She backed out of the room. "Just watch me."

  *

  Luke watched from his bedchamber window as the would-be-gothic, all-too-comic hunting party sallied forth. Footmen bearing torches flanked the four adventurers: Intrepid Denny in the lead; the dark-haired Portia and slender Brooke a few paces behind, squabbling as they went. Cecily, with her flaxen hair and dove-gray cloak, bringing up the rear--graceful, pensive, lovely. She'd always worn melancholy well. She was rather like the moon that way: a fixture of bright, alluring sadness that kept watch with him each night.

  No, she had not changed. Not for him.

  He watched as the "hunters" crested a small rise at the edge of the green. On the downslope, Cecily made a brisk surge forward and took Denny's arm. Then together they disappeared, the green-black shadows of the forest swallowing them whole.

  Luke felt no desire to chase after them. He'd had his fill of tramping through cold, moonlit forests--forests, and mountain ranges, and picked-clean orchards and endless fallow fields. He was weary of marching, and bone-tired of battle. Yet if he wanted Cecily, it seemed he must muster the strength to fight once more.

  Did he truly want to win?

  The answers were supposed to come to him here. Here at Swinford Manor, where they'd spent that idyllic summer, racing ponies and reading Tom Jones and rolling up the carpet to dance reels in the hall. When Denny had invited him back for this house party, Luke had eagerly accepted. He'd supposed he would greet Cecily, kiss her proffered hand and simply know what to do next. Things had always been easy between them, before. And the way he saw it, the pertinent questions were simple, and few:

  Did she still care for him?

  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.

  Luke 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."