Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Cecy, this is hardly the time and place for—”

“A tryst?” She laughed. “You think I mean to trap you in this secluded cottage and have my wicked way with you? You should be so lucky. No, remove your shirt. I want a look at your arm.”

“My arm?” His eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

“Which one do you think?” She crossed to him and began unknotting the cravat at his neck. “The one you injured while wrestling the boar last night.”

Oh, the look on his face…

Cecily wanted to kiss him. He was so adorably befuddled. At last, he’d let slip that hard mask of indifference he’d been wearing since his arrival at Swinford Manor. And in its place—there was Luke. Engaging green eyes, touchable dark brown hair, those lips so perfectly formed for roguish smiles and tender kisses alike.

This was the man she’d fallen in love with. The man she still loved now. Yes, he’d changed, but she had too. She was older, wiser, stronger than the girl she’d been. This time, she wouldn’t let him go.

“You knew?”

She smiled. “I knew.”

His breath hitched as she slipped the cravat from his neck. Attempting to ignore the wedge of bare chest it revealed, and the mad pounding of her blood that view inspired, Cecily set to work on his waistcoat buttons.

“How?” he asked, obeying her silent urgings to shed the garment. “How did you know?”

“It’s a fortunate thing you weren’t assigned to espionage. You’ve no talent for disguise whatsoever. If I hadn’t suspected already, I would have figured it out this afternoon. My stocking was found in this remote cottage, and you just happen to know the secrets of the door latch? Then there’s the fact that you’ve been favoring your arm since breakfast.” She undid the small closure of his shirtfront before turning her attention to his cuffs. “But I knew you last night. I’d know your voice anywhere, not to mention your touch.” She gave a shaky sigh, unable to meet his questioning gaze. “It’s like you said, Luke. You still make me tremble, even after all these years.”

His voice was soft. “I don’t even know why I followed you. The way we’d parted so angrily…I just couldn’t let you go, not like that.”

“And I’m glad of it. You saved my life.” With a brisk snap, she jerked the shirt’s hem from the waistband of his trousers, gathering the fine linen in both hands. “Arms up, head down.”

She made a move to lift the shirt over his head, but he stopped her.

“I caught a bayonet at Vitoria. I’ve scars. They’re not pretty.”

“I’ve been tending wounded soldiers for a year. I’m certain I’ve seen worse.”

And she had seen worse, Cecily reminded herself as she surveyed the pink, rippling scar slanting from his collarbone to his ribs. She had seen worse, but not on anyone she loved. It was so difficult to contain all the silly feminine impulses welling up inside her: the desire to weep, to hold and rock him, to trace his scar with her lips.

But he wouldn’t want that sort of fuss.

Clearing her throat, she turned her attention to his injured forearm. It was a clean wound, and not deep enough to be truly worrisome. But as she’d suspected, the binding had come loose—most likely when he’d sprung Portia’s trap.

“There’s water,” he said, nodding toward a covered basin on the table. “I filled it last night.”

Together they moved toward the table and settled on the two rough-hewn stools. Cecily dipped her handkerchief in the cool liquid, then dabbed his arm with it.

“If you knew last night,” he asked quietly, “why tell the others it was a werestag?”

“Because it was obvious you didn’t want the others to know.”

“Hang the others. I didn’t want you to know.” He swallowed hard, and stared into the corner. “I never wanted you to see me like that. When a man faces death, he meets the animal lurking inside him. When it’s hand to hand, blade to blade, kill or be killed…” Defiant green eyes met hers, and he slapped a hand to his scar. “The man who did this to me—I killed him. With his bayonet stuck in my flesh, I reached out and grabbed him by the throat and watched his eyes bulge from his skull as he suffocated at my hand.”

She would not react, Cecily told herself, calmly dabbing at his wound. That’s what he expected, what he feared—her reaction of revulsion or disgust.

“And he wasn’t the only one,” he continued. “To learn what violence you’re truly capable of, in those moments… It’s a burden I’d not wish on anyone.”

She risked a glance at him then. “Burdens are lighter when they’re shared.”

Luke swore. “I’ve shared too much of it with you already. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“You can tell me anything. I’ll still love you. And I warn you, I’ve learned something of tenacity in the past four years. I’m not going to let you go.”