One Week as Lovers by Victoria Dahl

familiar. Funny and handsome and carefree. But then he’d become that other creature. That London gentleman whose natural charm had been hammered into a brutal tool. He still had charisma, there was no denying that, but now it was polished to a shine. Like jewelry. Or a weapon. Or armor.
    But if he was protecting something, it certainly wasn’t the soft heart he’d worn on his sleeve as a boy. That boy hadn’t been able to walk past an injured frog without helping. But this man cared nothing for a woman he’d pledged himself to. He’d said it so callously. With no emotion at all.
    Did his fiancée love him ?
    Cynthia snorted at her own question. Of course the woman loved him. Everyone loved Nick. His mother had always said he’d been born with a gift, a way of putting people at ease and infusing every room with joy.
    Was it possible he’d used it all up in London? Had it run out?
    She sighed so deeply that the sketching paper ruffled and danced. A faint dusting of charcoal floated away, as if sand were blowing off the very cliffs she’d tried to capture.
    She picked up the charcoal and darkened a shadow on the rocks.
    Her work was not precisely art. Oh, it wasn’t anything like art, in truth. Cynthia understood that. The crashing waves looked a bit like tangled hair wound around the rocks. The cliffs resembled sides of beef. But she was improving. And it soothed her, the soft scratch of charcoal against parchment, the sense that she’d accomplished a small task.
    But she couldn’t think beyond Nick tonight, so she packed the charcoal into the tiny writing desk and pulled out the old journal. The pages were burned into her memory already. She’d read it a dozen times over and found nothing new in the last ten passes. But maybe it would act as a talisman, willing to reveal secrets if only she showed her faith.
    When a tap sounded at the door, Cyn rubbed her eyes. Lord, but she was tired. Perhaps she would skip dinner entirely tonight.
    “Come in,” she called to Mrs. Pell, but the hall door didn’t open. The connecting door did.
    “Good evening,” Nick said, offering her a cheery smile and a covered white bowl. “Mrs. Pell says that Adam is late finishing up his chores, so we’ll have to eat en privé if we hope to avoid seeing him.”
    The smell of leek soup swelled into the room, bringing Cyn’s mouth to instant attention. “Thank you for delivering the message. And the soup.”
    He stepped farther into the room, looking around and making no move to give up the bowl. “Are you settled?”
    Mrs. Pell had cleaned while they were out, and the extra chamber was now polished and dusted and smelled of fresh herbs. “All is well.”
    “Mm.” He tilted his head. “Is that the diary?”
    Her hands clenched with the instinct to snatch it up. “Yes.”
    “It’s so small.” He took another step and stopped only six inches from her shoulder. “And is that a drawing of the site?”
    Her heart froze. Her drawings weren’t meant for anyone but her. “Mm.”
    “I’d suggest we study it for clues, but I daresay it’s hopeless. How old was your uncle at the time? Eight or nine?”
    She snapped her head around to look at the sketch. An eight -year-old? Why, the rudeness of—
    Nick reached for the paper and she snatched up the journal and sketch and shoved them into the drawer. “He was eleven.”
    “Not much of an artist.”
    “Yes, well…You can set the soup here, thank you.”
    He tucked the white crock closer to his chest when she reached for it. “I’ve bread in my room. Will you join me?”
    “I’m very tired.” She looked up to find Nick watching her, his eyes all warm pleading.
    “Please join me.” His mouth quirked up. “I’ve wine as well.” He’d apparently shaken off whatever mood had come over him on the shore. Or perhaps he’d already indulged in a drink. Whatever the cause, the old Nick was back, and resistance was futile. Or she assumed it was. She’d never tried to deny