Once Upon a Wallflower (22 page)

The cottage was small, but appeared sturdy enough, the roof made of slate rather than thatch and the windows actually glazed. It was set in a small clearing, the surrounding woods obscuring any view of the ocean, but the sound of the surf indicated that they were not far from the cliff. To the right of the cottage, a small stream emerged from the forest, its water gathering in a pool in the center of the clearing before continuing on toward the sea. She realized that the pool must be the sacred well, the black water for which Dowerdu was named.

Nicholas gently handed Mira down to Pawly before dismounting himself. Before she could utter any protest, Nicholas swung her up in his arms and carried her into the house.

The drag in his step shook her gently. With the cold and the damp, not to mention the exertion of her rescue, his leg must have been throbbing. And bearing her weight could not help.

“Nicholas,” she muttered against the warm column of his throat, “Nicholas, please put me down. I assure you I can walk under my own power.”

“Hush.”

They moved through the main room of the cottage without pausing, and he began to mount the narrow stairs to the upper level.

“Nicholas, where are we going?”

“There is a bed up here, a place where we can get you warm and dry and where you can rest through the night.”

“But shouldn’t we return to Blackwell tonight? I will need dry clothes. And Nan must be beside herself with worry.”

“No, I will send Pawly back to Blackwell to reassure Nan. But you need to rest. And I do not want to take you back until we have a better sense of what happened out there today. Someone, possibly my father, tried to kill you, perhaps because you are too close to the truth. I want answers before I return you to Blackwell Hall.” Nicholas’s tone brooked no argument, and Mira settled back into the cradle of his embrace.

The upstairs of the cottage was a single, spartan room, dominated by a large bed covered with an array of colorful quilts.

Nicholas carried Mira to the bed and set her down carefully on the edge. Pawly appeared with a lantern, but left after setting it on a low table.

Kneeling at Mira’s feet, Nicholas began removing her walking boots with brisk efficiency.

She sat in stunned silence, watching the top of his head as he worked.

With a sigh of impatience, he glanced up at her. “Mira, you need to get out of these wet clothes. Do you need assistance?”

Hot and fast, the blush overcame her. “Um, no. No, I am certainly capable of, uh, un…well, yes. I do not need assistance, I need…” She paused, mortification turning her tongue to lead in her mouth. He continued to stare at her expectantly, until she was finally forced to explain. “I need privacy,” she choked.

For a brief moment, he looked utterly taken aback, as though she had just told him she needed a coal scuttle and a periwig. Then a sultry smile spread across his face, his eyes turning to molten silver. “Mira,” he murmured, raising a hand to stroke the curve of her cheek, “your days of privacy are numbered. But I suppose I shall honor your maidenly sensibilities for the moment.”

With brisk, sure movements, he finished removing her sodden boots, then stood and fetched her some toweling and a long linen shirt from a chest set against the wall. “Until Pawly returns tomorrow, this will have to suffice,” he explained with an apologetic shrug.

Nicholas ducked down the stairway. Mira heard the low rumble of quiet male voices then the slam of the door. Pawly was gone. She was alone with Nicholas in a remote cottage for the entire night. She sat frozen in wonder at the enormity of the situation.

“Mira, I do not hear you disrobing,” Nicholas called up the stairs. “If you do not do so posthaste, I shall be forced to renege on my agreement and come handle the chore myself.” His silky tone left no doubt that he did not consider the prospect a chore in the least.

As quickly as her aching body would allow, she stood, scrambled out of her clothes, chafed her frigid skin with the toweling, and pulled the linen shirt on over her head.

She held her arms out straight in front of her, and the sleeves of the shirt slipped over her small hands to hang several inches below her fingertips. Such fine fabric it was, sliding over her skin like a whisper.

Such fine fabric. Mira suddenly glanced down and saw how very fine the fabric was. Without a shift or any stays, the lamplight penetrated the delicate linen revealing the clear outline of her breasts, the large dark circles that tipped them, and even the tangle of fiery curls at the juncture of her thighs. She might as well be naked.

She looked around frantically. The sudden movement of her head made her feel faint, but she had to find something more substantial to wear. On the edge of the bed lay a throw of some sort. On feet still stinging with cold, she moved around the foot of the bed and snatched up the soft woolen lap-rug.

But as she swung her arms around to wrap the makeshift shawl about her shoulders, a wave of darkness swept over her, crowding out the light, and she dropped like a stone to the floor.

…

Nicholas bounded up the stairs as quickly as his bad leg would allow. He saw Mira immediately, lying in a heap upon the floor, the nearly transparent linen of her shirt tangled about her body.

“Bloody hell.” He lifted her gently, careful to hold her head steady. She was so soft, the flesh of her backside rounded and full like ripe fruit. Yet her curves were offset by the trim length of her legs, the lithe arc of her waist, and she was rather short, so even the lax weight of her body was slight.

He rested her on the edge of the bed, continuing to cradle her against his body while he pulled back the blankets. With shaking hands, he managed to settle her into the bed, tucking the covers up to her chin. As he moved her, though, the chain around her neck shifted and the pendant he had given her slipped free from the neck of her shirt.

Nicholas stood over her, staring fiercely at her still form. She was deathly pale, her skin cold and waxy, and her breathing was shallow.

And she was wearing his gift.

He felt completely helpless.

His first thought when he had peered over the cliff’s edge and had seen her on the ledge below was that she had leapt just like his mother, another woman choosing to fly away rather than limp along at his side. The truth was only slightly less painful. She had almost died, and it was his fault, yet another sin to add to his conscience.

If he had not gotten drunk the night before, not hared off after his father, not passed out at Dowerdu in a gin-soaked fog, not slept away the morning—if he had not been so irresponsible—he would have met Mira in the library and escorted her to Dowerdu himself. Or he would have been keeping an eye on his father. Either way, he should have protected her from the hooded rider. He should have kept her safe.

But instead, she had faced that nightmare alone. While he had been tucked away in the cottage, a roaring fire keeping the chill at bay as he lost himself in sketching, Mira had been clinging to the face of the cliff, battered by the storm, thinking she would likely die.

Guilt devoured him from the inside out, paralyzing him with its icy venom.

Mira suddenly drew in a wheezing breath and began to cough, a thick, wet sound that started deep in her chest and convulsed her body with its force.

She was cold and shaking and he did not know what to do.

Muttering a jumbled mix of curses and prayers, Nicholas sat on the edge of the bed and threw off his clothes, stripping off every barrier between Mira and his own body heat. He crawled beneath the covers and gently rolled her onto her side, pressing the length of his body against her back, tucking his legs into the bend of hers, burying his face in the frigid curve of her neck and letting his hot breath warm her.

His arm snaked around her middle, and when another fit of coughing seized her body, he held her tight against him, absorbing as much of the power of the spasm as he could.

He tucked the blankets around their bodies as tightly as possible without relinquishing his hold on her, and soon their shared heat began to warm her skin. Her breathing deepened into that of true sleep, and the coughing subsided.

He pulled her closer still, and allowed the steady cadence of her breathing, the slow rhythm of her heart beneath his hand, to lull him to sleep. And as oblivion claimed him, he vowed that he would do whatever it took to protect his Mira.

Chapter Sixteen

Mira came awake slowly, aware of a delicious heat surrounding her. She wanted to revel in it a bit longer, but other details began to intrude on her slumber. The heavy weight of an arm around her waist, the hot pulse of breath on her neck, the tickle of hairy legs against her own.

She was in bed with Nicholas, and there were very few clothes between them. The realization prodded her awake.

With a tiny yip, she sat up in the bed, and the covers dropped away allowing a draft of cold air to strike them both.

First she looked down at herself, at the thin, rumpled linen of the shirt she was wearing, at the way in which the neck of the shirt drifted over the curve of her breast, accentuating the fullness of its shape.

Then she looked at Nicholas. Who was quite naked. With a growing sense of hunger, her eyes swept over the spare lines of his body, marveling at the tight muscles that defined the shape of each limb. The combination of his leanness and his power reminded her of a wolf she had seen once at Astley’s, a creature of brutal beauty, every sinew sculpted with a purpose.

Her gaze drifted back to the narrow angles of his face. The breath froze in her chest when she met the silver fire of his eyes. He was wide awake, staring squarely at her, his eyes narrowed in predatory ferocity as he took in every curve and shadow beneath the veil of linen.

Mira had seen Mr. Penrose look at Bella that way. A look of hunger and possession and worship, but magnified a hundredfold in the prism of Nicholas’s eyes.

She drew in a breath, and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead she slid her teeth over her lower lip. Nicholas’s eyes followed the movement, darkening visibly.

Without a word, he sat up and leaned forward, angling his body so close that the straining tips of her breasts brushed his chest. His sin-black hair fell around his face, skimming his shoulders, framing his features with savage beauty.

The midnight silence had yet to be broken, and she felt as though she were moving through a dream. They were alone in this world, the two of them, and all of the rules and worries and limits of the daylight were meaningless here…here, where Mira bathed in the sultry benediction of Nicholas’s gaze and was transformed by his fire.

He reached up and, with one long finger, began tracing her features. His touch was reverent, the soft skin of his fingertips just barely brushing against her, and she shuddered at the unbearable lightness of his caress.

Slowly his hand drifted down, lingering on every curve and hollow, until he was feathering across her collarbone, along the arc of her flesh, following the edge of the shirt she wore as it dipped to a vee between her breasts. Then, so gently, his finger strayed beneath the edge of the fabric, brushing the sensitive skin there, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Deep in her throat, she made a small sound, a sound that was alien to her, a sound of primitive animal yearning, voicing a need she could not define.

Her cry seemed to break something in Nicholas, some fragile barrier, and he suddenly wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him, and brought his mouth down on hers with a passionate ferocity. He consumed her with his heat, his mouth moving hungrily against hers, her curves melting into his solid contours.

And she responded. Instinctively, wildly she responded. Her hands wrapped around the wide expanse of his shoulders, clasping him closer, reveling in the exotic feel of his muscles bunching and shifting beneath her touch. The raw power of his physical form was intoxicating, and she gave herself over to the delirium of the moment.

Nicholas groaned low in his chest and fell back into the mattress, pulling Mira down on top of him.

For a moment, they lay still like that. She was transfixed by his stare, unable to do any more than search the silver depths of his eyes for the answer to an age-old question, a question that defied language, defied thought. And she found her answer there, a primitive cry of “yes” that reverberated through every sinew and fiber of her being.

With another soft groan, Nicholas reached up and pulled her down to him, hands tangling in her hair as he met her mouth in a wanton kiss. She tasted the essence of him on her tongue, drew his breath into her lungs, felt his heat seeping into her bones, turning them to molten wax.

Then, with an elegant economy of movement, he rolled them both over so that his weight bore her back onto the mattress. His mouth continued to move over hers, alternately hungry and teasing, nipping and caressing, as his hands began to explore every swell and hollow of her body.

His large warm hand cupped the curve of her belly, stroking the delicate skin there before gliding down to slip between her legs. Intoxicated by the night and the unreality of it all, Mira did not even think to be startled. She gasped as his long artist’s fingers touched her in astonishing places, the delicate strokes sending shivers through her limbs, but then she relaxed into the hypnotic rhythm he created.

Possessed of a hunger all their own, her hands began to explore his body, grasping for his heat and the solidity of his flesh. She ran trembling fingers over the broad width of his shoulders, as his head slid down and he buried his lips in the curve of her neck.

Her hands drifted across the firm slope of his chest, pausing to toy with the tight flat discs of his nipples. He growled, deep in his throat, and gently grazed his teeth over the delicate skin of her neck.

Suddenly, his head slipped lower still, the raw silk of his hair spilling over her chest as he began to nuzzle her breast. Slowly he drew a nipple into the heat of his mouth. And when his firm lips closed around that sensitive flesh, the moist heat of his tongue lashing it with tender fury, a bolt of desire shot through clear to her toes. She cried out, and her hands flew to his hair, tangling there in a blind frenzy of wanting.