The word hovered gently in the air, dispelled only by the sound of Sydney's quiet voice.
"Surely alchemy pales in comparison to the safety that he could offer you."
Safety. The thing she wanted most, and could never have. Lottie stopped and stared into his dark face. "What makes you think that I am in need of safety?"
"You're alone. A woman needs someone to protect her."
"Oh, I have no need of protection. I have a very pleasant life at Stony Cross Park. Lady Westcliff is quite kind, and I want for nothing."
"Lady Westcliff won't live forever," Sydney pointed out. Although his words were blunt, his expression was strangely understanding. "What will you do after she is gone?"
The question caught Lottie by surprise. No one ever asked her such things. Perturbed, she took her time about replying. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I suppose I never let myself think about the future."
Sydney's gaze was riveted on her, his eyes an almost unnatural shade of blue. "Neither do I."
Lottie didn't know what to make of her companion. It had been easy at first to think of him as a spoiled young aristocrat, with his beautifully tailored clothes and perfect features. But on closer inspection, there were signs that conveyed the opposite. The deep-cut shadows beneath his eyes betrayed countless sleepless nights. The harsh grooves on either side of his mouth gave him a cynical look that was odd for a man so young. And in unguarded moments such as this, she saw in his eyes that he was no stranger to pain.
His expression changed like quicksilver. Once again he was a lazy rogue with mocking eyes. "The future is too boring to contemplate," he said lightly. "Shall we continue, Miss Miller?"
Disconcerted by his swift change of mood, Lottie led him out of the forest to a sunken road. The morning sun rose higher, chasing the lavender from the sky and warming the meadows. The field they passed was filled with heather and emerald sphagnum moss, and dotted with tiny red sundew rosettes. "They don't have views like this in London, do they?" Lottie remarked.
"No," Lord Sydney agreed, although he seemed distinctly unenchanted by the quiet rural beauty around them.
"I gather you prefer town life," Lottie said with a smile. "Tenements, cobbled streets, factories, coal smoke, and all that noise. How could anyone choose that overthis ?"
The sunlight touched on the mahogany and gold highlights in his brown hair. "You keep your beetles and bogs, Miss Miller. I'll take London any time."
"I'll show you something that London doesn't have." Triumphantly Lottie led him across the sunken road. They came to a deep muddy basin filled with water that spilled from the bank beside it.
"What is that?" Lord Sydney asked, viewing the sloshing hole dubiously.
"A wishing well. Everyone in the village visits it." Busily Lottie searched the pockets of her walking skirts. "Oh, curse it, I haven't got any pins."
"What do you need pins for?"
"To drop in the well." She gave him a chiding smile. "I thought everyone knew that you can't make a wish without a pin."
"What do you want to wish for?" he asked huskily.
"Oh, it isn't for me. I've made dozens of wishes here. I wanted you to have one." Giving up her search for a pin, Lottie glanced up at him.
There was a strange look on Lord Sydney's face...blank, painfully surprised...as if he had just been kicked in the stomach. He didn't move or blink, just stared at her as if he couldn't quite comprehend her words. The silence between them became thick, and Lottie waited in helpless fascination for him to break it. Wrenching his gaze away, Lord Sydney gazed at the field of heather with puzzling intensity, as if his mind were striving to wrap itself around something that didn't make sense.
"Do make a wish," Lottie said impulsively. "I'll throw a pin in the well for you the next time I come."
Lord Sydney shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was oddly hoarse. "I wouldn't know what to wish for."
They continued in silence, making their way over a muddy patch and following the sunken road to a footbridge that covered a small stream. On the other side of the stream, a damp meadow beckoned, blazing with waist-high yellow meadowsweet bushes. "This way," Lottie said, lifting her skirts to her knees as they traversed grass and heather and approached a barrier of hedge and fence. "Beyond the hedge, the footpath leads back through the forest to Stony Cross Park." She pointed to the tall arched gate, so narrow that it would allow only one person to pass through at a time. Glancing at Lord Sydney, she was relieved to see that he had recovered his composure. "The only way through is that kissing gate."
"Why is it called that?"
"I don't know." Lottie considered the gate thoughtfully. "I suppose because a kiss would be the unavoidable consequence of two people trying to pass through it at the same time."
"An interesting theory." Sydney paused inside the narrow gate. Leaning against one side of it, he sent her a challenging smile, knowing full well that she could not go through without brushing against him.
Lottie raised her brows. "By some chance are you expecting me to test it?"
Lord Sydney lifted one shoulder in a relaxed shrug, watching her with a vagabond charm that was nearly irresistible. "I won't stop you, if you feel so inclined."
It was obvious that he did not expect her to take up the challenge. Lottie knew she had only to roll her eyes and reprove him and he would step aside. However, as she considered her response to him she became aware of a painful hollowness inside. She had not been touched by anyone in two years. No impulsive girlish hugs from her friends at Maidstone's...no caress of her mother's hand, no sweetly childish kisses from her younger siblings. She wondered what it was about this man that had made her aware of the deprivation. He made her want to tell him her secrets-which was, of course, unthinkable. Impossible. She could never trust anyone, when her very life was at stake.
She realized that Lord Sydney's smile had vanished. Without being aware of it, she had drawn closer to him and now stood within arm's length. Her gaze flickered to his mouth, so wide, masculine, full. Her pulse escalated to a wild rhythm as temptation exerted a force stronger than anything she had ever known...as strong as fear, as deep as hunger.
"Hold still," she heard herself say. Carefully she laid a hand on the center of his chest.
The instant that Lottie touched him, Lord Sydney's chest moved beneath her palm in a strong, quick breath.
The violent thump of his heart against her fingers filled Lottie with a curious tenderness. He seemed to be frozen, as if he feared that any movement might frighten her away. Softly she touched his lower lip with her fingertips and felt his hot breath fan against them. A butterfly left its resting place on the gate and flew away, a trembling stain of color in the air.
"What is your name?" Lottie whispered. "Your first name."
It took an unaccountably long time for him to reply. The bristly fans of his lashes lowered to conceal his thoughts. "John."
He was so tall that Lottie had to stand on her toes to reach his mouth, and even then she couldn't quite manage it. Catching her waist in his hands, he compacted her gently against his body. Suddenly there was a strange, lost look in his eyes, as if he were drowning. Hesitantly Lottie slid her hand around the back of his neck, where the interlaced muscles had gone rigid.
He let her tug his head lower, lower, until their breath mingled and their lips touched in a sweet, supple kiss. His mouth remained warm and still against hers, and then his lips began to move in soft brushes. Disoriented, Lottie swayed in his grasp, and his arm slid around her back to hold her securely. Instinctively she nudged upward, straining on her toes as she sought to deepen the tender pressure. But he was careful to keep his passion under tight rein, refusing to take any more.
Gradually she eased away from him, sinking back to her heels. She dared to touch the side of his face, relishing the warmth of his skin against her palm. "I've paid the toll," she whispered. "May I pass through the gate now?"
He nodded gravely and moved away from the threshold.
Lottie crossed through and wandered past the hedge, surprised to discover that her knees were a bit quivery. Her companion followed in silence as she walked along the footpath that led to Stony Cross Park. When they had almost reached the great house, they paused in the shelter of an oak tree.
"I must leave you here," Lottie said, her face dappled by the overhead boughs. "It wouldn't do to be seen together."
"Of course."
A wistful ache gathered inside her chest as she stared at him. "When will you leave Stony Cross Park, my lord?"
"Soon."
"Not until after tomorrow evening, I hope. The village has a wonderful May Day celebration. Everyone from the manor comes down to watch."
"Will you?"
Lottie shook her head immediately. "No, I have seen it before. I will probably remain in my room with a book. But for a newcomer, the festivities would be entertaining."
"I will consider it," he murmured. "Thank you for the walk, Miss Miller." And with a polite bow, he left her.
After breakfast, Charlotte pushed Lady Westcliff's wheeled chair along the paved walks of the estate gardens. Nick watched from an open first-floor window, able to hear the regal old woman as she lectured Charlotte.
"There is no substitute for daily inspection," Lady Westcliff was saying, gesturing with a bejeweled hand. "Weeds must be pulled as soon as they show. Plants must never be allowed to grow outside their proper places, or they will ruin the proportion of the garden..."
Charlotte appeared to be listening respectfully as she guided the chair along the path. The ease with which she maneuvered it belied the vehicle's obvious weight. Her slim arms were surprisingly strong, and she showed no signs of tiring as they proceeded along the hedgerow.
Nick watched her intently as he tried to sort through the anarchy of his thoughts. His usual appetite had vanished after their walk this morning. He had not eaten breakfast...had not done anything, really, except to wander around the estate in a sort of daze that appalled him. He knew himself to be a callous man, one with no honor, and no means of quelling his own brutish instincts. So much of his life had been occupied with basic survival that he had never been free to follow higher pursuits. He had little acquaintance with literature or history, and his mathematical abilities were limited to matters of money and betting odds. Philosophy, to him, was a handful of cynical principles learned through experience with the worst of humanity. By now, nothing could surprise or intimidate him. He didn't fear loss, pain, or even death.
But with a few words and one awkward, innocent kiss, Charlotte Howard had devastated him.
It was clear that Charlotte had changed from the girl her parents, friends, and Radnor himself had known. She had become accustomed to living in the moment, with no thought given to the future. The knowledge that she was being hunted, that her days of precious freedom were limited, should have made her bitter and disillusioned. And yet she still threw pins into wishing wells. A wish. The flicker of hope that implied...it had struck at his soul, when he had believed he had no soul left.
He could not give her to Radnor.
He had to take her for himself.
His hand closed around the painted wood casement, gripping hard to assure his balance. Otherwise, he would have staggered from the violent surprise of his discovery.
"Sydney."
The sound of Lord Westcliff's voice startled him. Nick was not pleased to realize that he had been so absorbed in watching Charlotte that his customary alertness had vanished. Keeping his face blank, he turned toward the earl.
Westcliff's features seemed even more harshly cut and uncompromising than usual. His dark eyes contained a hard, cold gleam. "I see that you've taken notice of my mother's companion," he remarked softly. "An attractive girl, not to mention vulnerable. In the past, I have sometimes found it necessary to discourage a guest's interest in Miss Miller, as I would never allow any of my servants to be taken advantage of."
Nick returned Westcliff's steady regard, aware that he was being warned away from Charlotte. "Am I poaching on your preserve, my lord?"
The earl's eyes narrowed at the insolent question. "I have advanced my hospitality to you with very few conditions, Sydney. However, one of them is that you leave Miss Miller alone. That is not open for negotiation."
"I see." Suspicion ignited inside him. Had Charlotte confided in her employer? He had not thought that she would trust anyone, even a man as honorable as Westcliff. However, if she had taken that chance, then the earl would undoubtedly offer strong opposition to her being removed from Stony Cross Park. It was also possible that Charlotte had earned his protection by sleeping with him.
The thought of Charlotte na*ed in another man's arms brought an acid taste to Nick's mouth, and he was suddenly filled with bloodlust.It must be jealousy , he thought incredulously. Christ.
"I'll leave the choice to Miss Miller," Nick said flatly. "If she desires my presence-or absence-I will abide byher preference. Not yours."
Nick saw from the warning gleam in Westcliff's eyes that the earl did not trust him.
The man had good instincts.
CHAPTER 4
The English celebration of May Day varied from village to village. It had been derived from an ancient Roman festival honoring the goddess of springtime, and over time each region had added its own customs in addition to the standard Maypole dance and a-maying songs. Nick had vague childhood memories of the May celebrations in Worcestershire, especially the man dressed as "Jack-in-the Green," who cavorted through the village completely covered in fresh greenery. As a small child, Nick had been terrified by the sight of the plant-festooned man and had hidden behind his older sister Sophia's skirts until he had gone away.
It had been a long time since Nick had seen a May Day celebration of any kind. Now, from his adult perspective, the sexual connotations of the holiday were more than obvious...villagers dancing with the phallic staffs, the May King and Queen going from door to door and sprinkling "wild water" on the household inhabitants...the streets adorned with hoop-shaped garlands featuring pairs of marigold balls hanging in the centers.
Nick stood on a hill near the manor house with a crowd of other guests, watching the riotous dancing in the center of the village. Hundreds of lamps and blazing torches lit the streets with a golden glow. A cacophony of laughter, music, and singing filled the air as women took their turns at the towering Maypole. Blasts from hunting horns frequently punctuated the din. Young men danced with ropes woven of tail hair from cattle, which would later be dragged through the night dew to ensure a good milk supply for the next year.