soon gave up pushing at him and instead began clawing at his arm. Sympathetic to the horror of suffocation, he relented quickly and eased his arm up until the sound of air rushing into her lungs filled the room.
“Now then—” he started, but the words dissolved to ash in his mouth when his gaze finally focused enough to see.
Her. Cynthia. Her face, not waxen with death, not hazy and ethereal, but flushed with life. Her eyes, not clouded over, but bright and real and blazing with fury.
“Holy bloody hell,” he wheezed.
“You sodding bastard,” she answered.
Lancaster shook his head, leaned closer to be sure his vision hadn’t failed him. “You’re alive.”
“Not for long if you don’t get your arm off my neck.”
He murmured, “Sorry,” and climbed off her to stand and stare in shock. His limbs felt numb and yet the rest of the world seemed sharper, more real. “You’re alive. Cynthia…My God. You’re alive.”
“Yes, well…” She rubbed her neck and her gaze moved to him and then around the room and back to him again.
Strangely, her face was growing redder despite that he’d released her. Perhaps he’d injured her throat or—
“You are, um…” Her eyes dipped down his body. “You’re very naked, Lord Lancaster.”
“Am I?” he was saying just as her words hit him. He looked down. Of course. He’d been sleeping. “Yes, I see that you’re right.”
“It seems inappropriate now that I am no longer dead.”
“Of course.” But he couldn’t move, could only stare at her, breathing and talking. And blushing. “Sorry,” he repeated and looked dazedly around for his robe. The dark blue robe lay tossed over a chair, and as soon as he had it in hand, he turned his eyes back to her to be sure she hadn’t disappeared.
It suddenly occurred to him that this might all be a dream. After all, not only was she alive and in his bed, but she was watching him quite immodestly as he shrugged the robe on. Not to mention that he’d just seen a good bit of her naked bottom.
Lancaster rubbed his forehead, then jerked his hand away at the sharp stab of pain. Perhaps he wasn’t asleep, but knocked unconscious and tumbling toward death.
“This doesn’t make any sense.”
She blinked as he tied the robe, then finally pulled her gown down to cover her legs. She folded her knees to her chest, tugged the skirt down to hide even her toes, and glared at him. There were the stubborn jaw and wise eyes. Her cheekbones were high, eyes almost slanted at the corners. An interesting, compelling face, just as he’d thought. Relief bubbled up and mixed with his confusion.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked when she said nothing.
“Well, to begin with, you’ve ruined everything.”
“You must know I have no idea what that means, Cyn—Miss Merrithorpe.”
She frowned, stubborn mouth turning mutinous. “It’s not so hard to puzzle out, surely. I am pretending to be dead. Your estate provided the perfect hiding place. Until you returned for reasons I can’t quite fathom.”
Not a dream. This was definitely the working of a damaged brain. He shook his head, then pressed his palm to the spot above his left eye that shrieked with pain. “You hit me.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Of course I hit you, what else could I do?”
“Politely ask for help?”
She snorted, but when he lowered his hand to look at her, her snort turned to a gasp. “You’re bleeding!”
“I’m not surprised. Are my brains spilling out? It rather feels as if they are.”
She scooted off the bed and drew close. “It’s just a small cut. Already healing. I…Oh, I am sorry, but you shouldn’t have tried to stop me! You forced me to hit you!”
He felt a smile tug at his mouth. A real smile. Nothing contrived or meant to charm. Nothing false or prompted. It was just joy. “Cynthia,” he whispered, as she pursed her lips and stared at his forehead.
“Hm?”
“Cynthia.”
She finally met his gaze and her eyes went wide. Her mouth relaxed and her breath hitched a little as she exhaled. “What?”
Lancaster raised a hand and touched one finger, just one, to her cheek. Her skin was warm, soft and tender, and he thought he felt a tiny shiver work through her muscles. “You’re alive.”
Though she’d been still for a few long seconds, she finally moved, her shoulders rising and falling as she took one deep breath. “I must ask you to tell no one, of course. But yes…” She nodded. “Yes, I am alive.”
His grin widened. He began to laugh.
And then Cynthia smiled.
Lancaster felt a dull concussion, as if something significant had exploded on the horizon of his life. But perhaps that was only the head wound.
Chapter 5
“I won’t turn you in to your father,” Lancaster was insisting, his brown eyes dark with sincerity. His hands opened, as if to show that he held no weapon.
“You’re a man,” Cynthia scoffed. Or meant to scoff. But as the words left her lips, she was reminded of the proof of his manhood she’d glimpsed just a few minutes before. Not as impressive as James had been, but most definitely a man. She cleared her throat. “Worse than that, you’re a gentleman.”
“Pardon?”
“Gentlemen. They’re bound by rules of honor. Would you help me escape my family so that I can make my own way in the world?”
“Make your own way?” he repeated, the earnestness in his eyes sharpening to horror. “Of course not. The world is a dangerous place, Miss Merrithorpe.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And so you see why I cannot trust you.”
“Because I want to keep you safe?”
“Because I mean to escape this place for good, Viscount. And while I could possibly be in danger out amongst strangers, there is no doubt of the danger if I remain.”
His full lips pressed together and his body straightened to a hard line. “Richmond.”
The name shocked her, and she realized that she and Mrs. Pell had only referred to him as “that man” for weeks now. “Yes,” she said, fighting the urge to touch her lip. “A friend of yours, probably, in London.”
“No.” His voice hadn’t risen, but something in that one word fell with the weight of a boulder. When she glanced up in surprise, Cynthia saw something in Nick’s eyes that she’d never seen. Ice.
Impossible.
But then, he was no longer the sweet neighbor boy who held her heart. He was Viscount Lancaster, who’d left this place without a good-bye and not spent a moment thinking of it in the decade since, as far as she could tell. God only knew what kind of life he’d led in London.
Whoring, gambling, boxing, drinking. She’d spent years imagining the kinds of trouble he might find there. Even in the deepest throes of girlish love, she’d understood that he would sow his oats in London. But ten years ago, she hadn’t imagined the city would become his whole world. Hadn’t imagined that he would shape himself to fit so snugly that he could not be budged.
He was changed. The boy she’d known had never flashed eyes so cruel.
“Tell me what happened,” he said while she was still reeling over the difference in him. She blinked, and suddenly that stranger was gone. It was just Nick, watching