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For Lancaster, there was nothing more excruciating than an evening at his club, surrounded by whiskered, loud, bulky gentlemen filling the room with cigar smoke and clumsy gestures.
Yes, he loved women. And that was the great tragedy of his life. The dull, constant ache that he could never forgive or forget. The unavoidable feeling that the axis of his world was broken, and he was being pulled ever so slightly out of balance.
If he were still normal, still whole, Lancaster knew what his life would have been. He could see it clearly, a bright and raucous scene painted in yellows and reds.
He would already have fallen in love a dozen times, sure that each woman was the one, whether she was a shy virgin or the jaded wife of a boorish lord. He would have loved them all, cheerfully and completely. And when it proved time to take a wife, he would have loved that woman too, marriage of convenience or not.
And his nights…his nights would have been so different. Hours of pleasure and companionship. Laughter and warmth. Tangles of limbs and stroking hands and kisses.
He’d give anything—anything—to simply lie with a woman and feel. Be kissed and caressed. Stroked. Held.
Lancaster closed his eyes and tried to ignore the tight band squeezing his chest. It didn’t matter what might have been. He was not a caring and careful lover. He was a man who needed something darker than that.
He’d thought he could control it with Imogene. Grit his teeth and ignore his needs. But with Cynthia…My God, with Cynthia he’d lost control over a simple kiss.
He couldn’t want her like that. He couldn’t. And yet his body was hardening at the very thought of her beneath him, her arms stretched high above her head. He wanted her like that again, skirts rucked up, arms pinned down. He wanted to have her there in the sand, like a doxy.
But she was his Cyn, and even if he weren’t betrothed, he couldn’t do that
.
Hating himself, Lancaster slid his hand slowly down his body and took his arousal in hand. The thought of what he wanted made him ill, but that did not stop the wanting. It never did.
Chapter 8
Face pressed to the cliff, Lancaster flinched and tried to tug his fingers out of their rocky vise. “Pardon me, but would you mind removing your foot from my hand?”
“What?” Cynthia shouted down.
“Your foot!” he yelled.
She frowned past her shoulder as if she didn’t understand, but her boot finally lifted. Lancaster could only hope that the howling wind stole his groan away.
“Come along. We’re almost there.”
“I don’t like this,” he muttered with a glance down to the sand ten feet below him. He didn’t like this, but his guilt overrode all his objections. Guilt and Cynthia’s ornery nature. So now here they were, perched far too high on this blasted cliff while the wind tried its best to set them flying.
“Cyn!” he called. “Stop! This is far higher than we thought.”
“I’ve reached it!” she screamed back, hoisting herself up and disappearing into the rock.
“Damn it.” Lancaster very carefully placed his foot on the next niche and pushed higher. If she was going to kill him, very well. His blasted brother could marry Imogene Brandiss and save the family. The surge of anger helped carry him up the last few feet. Pebbles slid and bounced to their doom as he boosted himself onto the ledge.
The cave wasn’t as big as it had seemed from the imperfect vantage point below. Cynthia couldn’t stand up straight, and it would be a tight squeeze for both of them to crouch in there together. He briefly considered the benefits of joining her, but Cyn interrupted his unwise thoughts.
“There’s something here!”
“Really?” Despite that they were hunting for treasure, he’d be damned surprised if they actually found it.
“Just a moment,” she breathed. “I think…it’s…”
He was twisting toward her when she screamed. Lancaster lurched to his feet while his stomach tumbled right off the edge of the cliff. “Cynthia!”
He’d almost reached her when she backed into him with a strangled squeal.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, I just…I pulled that out of a hole…” Her whole body shuddered as she pointed at a dull white object about the size of his fist.
