Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

She had no answer to that.

“And I’ll admit, bachelorhood is losing its charms for me.” Gently, he folded her hands in his. “I know there is no grand passion between us, Cecily. But there is genuine caring. Honesty. Respect. Lasting unions have been built on foundations far weaker than these. And in time, perhaps some deeper attachment would grow. We don’t know what could happen, if only we gave it a chance.”

He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them warmly—first the knuckles, then each sensitive palm—before pressing them to either side of his face and holding them there. The sweetness in the gesture surprised her, as did the fond regard in his eyes.

This was Denny’s face she held in her hands. Dear, familiar, uncomplicated Denny, with the dimple on his right cheek and the tiny pockmark on the other. She’d known this face since her childhood. Could she learn to see to him in a new light, as a husband? She did want children and companionship and a happy home—all the things Luke refused to offer her.

She sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s all right. I’m not asking you to say yes, not right now. Just…don’t say no quite yet?”

He smiled then, that crooked, endearing Denny smile. And he kissed her, still holding her hands pressed against his face.

It was sweet. He tasted of tea and peppermint, and his lips felt soft and warm. Denny’s kiss was mild, tender. Comforting and comfortable. And it was wretchedly unfair to him, that even as he claimed her lips, her heart remained divided. She couldn’t stop comparing this kiss to Luke’s.

It just wasn’t the same.





“DO YOU HEAR SOMETHING?” Portia asked, after they’d been walking some time.

“No,” said Brooke.

“Wait!” Portia signaled the men to halt, then put a finger to her lips for silence.

Luke shifted his feet impatiently, anxious to move on. If they stood here too long, Cecily and Denny might catch them.

“There,” Portia said, cupping one hand around her ear. “Do you hear it? That rustling sound, like dry leaves.”

“Dry leaves, in a forest,” Brooke replied. “Imagine.”

Luke forged ahead, and the pair followed, bickering in agitated whispers. The cottage couldn’t be much farther. Perhaps he could simply barricade the two of them in it and leave. The sooner these two shared a bed, the sooner everyone else could get some peace.

“Wait!” she called again.

Luke pivoted on his heel. “What now?”

“Look at these marks.” Portia pointed to a narrow stripe of depressions in the soil. “Why, they look like deer tracks.”

Brooke rubbed his eyes. “Deer tracks, in a forest. Imagine.”

“But we don’t know they belong to a deer! They could belong to him.” With a self-conscious hunch of her shoulders, she lowered her voice to a murmur. “You know, the werestag.”

“Why are you whispering? Afraid the mandeer might overhear you?” Brooke gave a caustic laugh. “My dear Mrs. Yardley, your fancies grow more amusing by the moment. What on earth would lead you to believe these simple deer tracks are the marks of a vicious werestag?”

“I am not your ‘dear Mrs. Yardley’. And how do you know these tracks do not belong to him?”

In a clear expression of annoyance, Brooke held up his hands. “Very well. I give up.”

“I don’t,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “That is the difference between us.” Lifting her skirts, Portia made a quarter turn and stomped directly off into the woods.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m following the tracks, of course. That’s the only way to learn the truth.”

As Portia’s dark cloak disappeared into the trees, Luke started after her. A wave of dread swamped his progress. “Mrs. Yardley, wait,” he called. “It’s unsafe to go walking off the path. At least let me—”

A metallic snap cut him off.

Followed by a piercing scream.

Luke and Brooke charged through the foliage. They found Portia lying sprawled in leaves and moss, her face gone utterly white.

“My…” She gulped for air. “Help me. I don’t know what’s happened to my foot.”

With shaking fingers, she drew her skirts up to the ankles. The steel jaws of a trap held her left boot clenched in their deadly bite.

“Bloody hell.” Brooke sank to his knees at her side. “Don’t worry, Portia. We’ll have it off straightaway.” He reached for the trap.

“Wait,” Luke said. “Don’t—”

Another tortured scream from Portia.

“Touch it,” he finished weakly.