The Legend of the Werestag (2 page)

“Luke Trenton, the Viscount Merritt,” Portia said, scribbling in her notebook. She gave Brooke a spiteful glare. “We widows do favor those dark, haunted types.”
No. She wouldn’t
. She couldn’t possibly be so obtuse. During all the years Luke was at war, Cecily had never told Portia of her hopes—she’d scarcely dared admit them to herself—but surely her friend must know her well enough to understand, to intuit…

“I thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Yardley,” Luke said from the shadows.

No. He wouldn’t
. He couldn’t possibly be so cruel.

“Actually, Portia,” Cecily said, determined to cauterize this vein of conversation, “you may find gothic inspiration in the neighborhood, if not within the house. Denny, tell her that story you used to tell me when we were children, summering here.”

His brow creased, and he ruffled his sandy hair. “The one about the vinegar bottle?”

“No, no. The one about the woods that border Corbinsdale.”

“Corbinsdale?” Brooke asked. “Isn’t that the Earl of Kendall’s estate?”

“The very one,” Denny said. “And well done, Cecily. Now
that
is a story for Portia’s gothic novel.”

“I don’t know about my novel,” Portia said, scribbling again, “but the Earl of Kendall definitely goes on the list.”

“Now wait,” Luke protested, “I cease to be complimented, if you’re lumping me in with that old devil.” He eased his chair into the firelight, and Cecily could not divert her gaze in time. Or perhaps she simply could not bring herself to look away. Portia was right; he did look haunted. Haunted, haggard, in perpetual need of a shave. The rough suggestion of a beard covered a sharply angled jaw and crept up gaunt, hollow cheeks. His face seemed more shadow than substance now. And his eyes… She could scarcely make out the green anymore, through that persistent glaze of liquor. When their gazes met, she saw only the pupils: two hard, black lodestones that trapped her gaze, pulled the air from her lungs, drew on her heart.

Oh, Luke. What has happened to you?

He turned away.

“The old devil you refer to died almost a year ago,” Denny informed him. “The son’s inherited now. A good enough fellow.”

“So the ladies report.” Portia flashed a wicked smile as she underscored Lord Kendall’s name in her book. “He’s quite a favorite with the widows, you know. Oh, Mr. Denton, do invite him for dinner!”

“Can’t. He’s not in residence at Corbinsdale. Never is, this time of year.”

“Pity,” said Brooke dryly.

“Indeed,” Portia sighed. “My list is back to one.”

“Leave him alone.” Cursing her unthinking response, Cecily added, “Lord Kendall, I mean. And do put away your list. Denny was about to tell his story.”

Luke moved to the edge of his armchair. Those cold, dark eyes held her captive as he posed a succinct, incisive question. “Jealous, Cecy?”

Cecy
. No one had called her that in years. Not since that last night before he’d left, when he’d wound a strand of her hair about his finger and leaned in close, with that arrogant, devastating smile teasing one corner of his mouth.
Won’t you miss me, Cecy?

Four years later, and her blood still responded just as fiercely as it had that night, pounding in her heart and pushing a hot blush to her throat.

She
had
missed him. She missed him still.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Why should I be jealous of Lord Kendall?”

“Yes, how absurd.” Portia gave a throaty laugh. “Everyone knows Cecily’s going to marry Denny.” Lifting his tumbler of whiskey, Luke retreated into the shadows. “Do they?” Was it disappointment she detected in his voice? Or merely boredom? And for heaven’s sake, why couldn’t she simply forbid herself to care?

“Denny, won’t you tell Portia the story? Please. It’s so diverting.” She forced a bright tone, even as tears pricked her eyes.

“As you wish.” Denny went to the hearth and stirred the fire, sending up a plume of orange sparks. “The tale begins well before my time. It’s common knowledge, among the locals, that the woods stretching between Swinford and Corbinsdale are cursed.”

“Cursed,” Brooke scoffed. “Ignorance and superstition are the true curses. Their remedy is education.

Don’t you sponsor a school on this estate, Denny?”

“It’s a story,” Portia said. “Even schoolchildren know the difference. And they could teach you something about imagination. Your cynicism is not only tiresome, but pitiable.”

“You pity me? How amusing.”

“Pity won’t get you on my list.”

“Really?” Brooke smirked. “It seems to have worked for Lord Merritt.”
Enough
. Cecily leapt to her feet. “A man-beast!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly toward the windows.

“There’s a fiendish creature living in those woods, half man and half beast!” There, now she had everyone’s attention. Even Luke’s, for the first time all week. He was regarding her as though she were a madwoman, but still.

Denny pouted. “Really, Cecily. I was getting to that.”

She gave him an apologetic shrug. She was sorry to ruin the end of his story, but it was what he deserved for dithering so.

“A man-beast?” Portia asked, her eyes widening. “Oh, I do like the sound of this.” She put pencil to paper again.

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.”

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.”

“Are you certain? It’s my experience that young ladies vastly prefer fictions. Little stories, like Portia’s gothic novel.”

“I am as fond of a good tale as anyone,” she replied, “but in this instance, I wish to know the truth.”

“So you say. Let us try an experiment, shall we?” He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, his expression one of jaded languor. His every movement a negotiation between aristocratic grace and sheer brute strength.

Power
. He radiated power in every form—physical, intellectual, sensual—and he knew it. He knew that she sensed it.

The fire was unbearably warm now. Blistering, really. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but Cecily would not retreat.

“I could tell you,” he said darkly, seductively, “that I kissed you that night because I was desperate with love for you, overcome with passion, and that the color of my ardor has only deepened with time and separation. And that when I lay on a battlefield bleeding my guts out, surrounded by meaningless death and destruction, I remembered that kiss and was able to believe that there was something of innocence and beauty in this world, and it was you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Almost. Warm breath caressed her fingertips. “Do you like that answer?” She gave a breathless nod. She was a fool; she couldn’t help it.

“You see?” He kissed her fingers. “Young ladies prefer fictions.”

“You are a cad.” Cecily wrenched her hand away and balled it into a fist. “An arrogant, insufferable cad.”

“Yes, yes. Now we come to the truth. Shall I give you an honest answer, then? That I kissed you that night for no other reason than that you looked uncommonly pretty and fresh, and though I doubted my ability to vanquish Napoleon, it was some balm to my pride to conquer you, to feel you tremble under my touch? And that now I return from war, to find everything changed, myself most of all. I scarcely recognize my surroundings, except…” He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly framed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Except Cecily Hale still looks at me with stars in her eyes, the same as she ever did. And when I touch her, she still trembles.” Oh. She
was
trembling. He swept his thumb across her cheek, and even her hair shivered.

“And suddenly…” His voice cracked. Some unrehearsed emotion pitched his dispassionate drawl into a warm, expressive whisper. “Suddenly, I find myself determined to keep this one thing constant in my universe. Forever.”

She swallowed hard. “Do you intend to propose to me?”

“I don’t think so, no.” He caressed her cheek again. “I’ve no reason to.”

“No reason?” Had she thought her humiliation complete? No, it seemed to be only beginning.

“I’ll get my wish, Cecy, whether I propose to you or not. You can marry Denny, and I’ll still catch you stealing those starry looks at me across drawing rooms, ten years from now. You can share a bed with him, but I’ll still haunt your dreams. Perhaps once a year on your birthday—or perhaps on mine—I’ll contrive to brush a single fingertip oh-so-lightly between your shoulder blades, just to savor that delicious tremor.” He demonstrated, and she hated her body for responding just as he’d predicted.

An ironic smile crooked his lips. “You see? You can marry anyone or no one. But you’ll always be mine.”

“I will not,” she choked out, pulling away. “I will put you out of my mind forever. You are not so very handsome, you know, for all that.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, chuckling. “And there’s the wonder of it. It’s nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you. I know you, Cecily. You may try to put me out of your mind. You may even succeed. But you’ve built a home for me in your heart, and you’re too generous a soul to cast me out now.”

She shook her head. “I—”

“Don’t.” With a sudden, powerful movement, he grasped her waist and brought her to him, holding her tight against his chest. “Don’t cast me out.”

His mouth fell on hers, hard and fast, and when her lips parted in surprise, he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. He kissed her hungrily, thoroughly, without finesse or restraint, as though he hadn’t kissed a woman in years and might not survive to kiss another tomorrow. Raw, undisguised need shuddered through his frame as he took from her everything he could—her inhibitions, her anger, her very breath.