Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Brooke leaned over her shoulder. “Are you taking notes for your novel or adding to your list?”


“That depends,” she said coolly, “on what manner of beast we’re discussing.” She looked to Denny. “Some sort of large, ferocious cat, I hope? All fangs and claws and fur?”

“Once again I must disappoint you,” Denny replied. “No fangs, no claws. It’s a stag.”

“Oh, prongs! Even better.” More scribbling. “What do they call this…this man-beast? Does it have a name?”

“Actually,” said Denny, “most people in the region avoid speaking of the creature at all. It’s bad luck, they say, just to mention it. And a sighting of the beast…well, that’s an omen of death.”

“Excellent. This is all so inspiring.” Portia’s pencil was down to a nub. “So is this a creature like a centaur, divided at the waist? Four hooves and two hands?”

“No, no,” Cecily said. “He’s not half man, half beast in that way. He transforms, you see, at will. Sometimes he’s a man, and other times he’s an animal.”

“Ah. Like a werewolf,” Portia said.

Brooke laughed heartily. “For God’s sake, would you listen to yourselves? Curses. Omens. Prongs. You would honestly entertain this absurd notion? That Denny’s woods are overrun with a herd of vicious man-deer?”

“Not a herd,” Denny said. “I’ve never heard tell of more than one.”

“We don’t know that he’s vicious,” Cecily added. “He may be merely misunderstood.”

“And we certainly can’t call him a man-deer. That won’t do at all.” Portia chewed her pencil thoughtfully. “A werestag. Isn’t that a marvelous title? The Curse of the Werestag.”

Brooke turned to Luke. “Rescue me from this madness, Merritt. Tell me you retain some hold on your faculties of reason. What say you to the man-deer?”

“Werestag,” Portia corrected.

Luke circled the rim of his glass with one thumb. “A cursed, half-human creature, damned to an eternity of solitude in Denny’s back garden?” He shot Cecily a strange, fleeting glance. “I find the idea quite plausible.”

Brooke made an inarticulate sound of disgust.

“There’s a bright moon tonight. And fine weather.” Portia put aside her pencil and book, a merry twinkle shining in her eyes. Cecily recognized that twinkle. It spoke of daring, and imprudent adventure.

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.”