It Happened One Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  Cassandra paused and swiveled her head around, and noted that Mrs. Tildon was studying her with an expression that made Cassandra feel as if she could see into her soul, an unsettling sensation, to be sure. She was an attractive woman, Cassandra realized, probably no older than thirty, with brown hair and dark, intelligent eyes, her trim figure apparent even beneath the apron she wore over her plain gray gown.

  Turning fully around, she said, “Yes, Mrs. Tildon?”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear what ye said to Ethan earlier, about yer husband passin’ on. I lost my husband, John, two years ago. ’Tis a hurt that never quite goes away. I wanted to extend my sympathies to ye.”

  A hurt that never quite goes away. Yes, that described it very well. “Thank you. Please allow me to extend the same to you for your loss.”

  She nodded her thanks. “Ye said ye knew Ethan years ago…?”

  The way her voice trailed off made it clear she hoped for more information, and Cassandra saw no reason to deny her. “He worked in the stables at my family’s estate in Land’s End.”

  “That’d be Gateshead Manor?”

  “Yes. He’s mentioned it?”

  “Said he worked there. Grew up there, actually.”

  “Yes, he did. He was only six when his father was hired as stable master. They lived on the estate, above the stables.”

  “Got a gift with horses, Ethan does.”

  Cassandra couldn’t help but smile. “He always had, even as a young boy. His father possessed the same gift.”

  Again Mrs. Tildon nodded, her steady gaze never straying from Cassandra’s. “He’s a good man, Ethan is.”

  Something in Mrs. Tildon’s tone, in the intensity of her expression, stilled Cassandra. Although she didn’t add the words “my man,” they seemed to hang in the air between them. And Cassandra realized that the woman was doing more than making a simple observation. She was, very subtly—or perhaps not so very subtly—staking a claim.

  Cassandra wasn’t certain what in her manner had given Mrs. Tildon the impression that such claim staking was necessary, but she had no intention of repeating the mistake.

  Lifting her chin in the manner employed by generations of Westmores, she met the woman’s gaze straight on and said, “A very good man, indeed. I bid you a good afternoon, Mrs. Tildon.” Then she turned and exited the inn, ignoring the gaze she felt boring into her back.

  Yet she couldn’t ignore the tension churning in her stomach. Had she said or done something to bring out Mrs. Tildon’s clearly possessive feelings for Ethan? Or did the woman merely feel the need to warn off every female who visited the Blue Seas Inn? Was there something between her and Ethan, or was Mrs. Tildon just a concerned friend? Or perhaps she’d mistaken the woman’s tone and misinterpreted her words.

  She covered the short distance to the livery and entered through the opened double doorway. She blinked several times to acclimate her eyes to the shadowed interior. The air inside was cool and redolent with fresh hay, leather, and the earthy scent of horses. Dust motes danced on the ribbons of golden sunlight filtering through the shadows.

  The stables were spacious and scrupulously neat; not that she would have expected anything less from Ethan. He’d always taken great pride in his work, and she’d never met a man with a greater affinity for horses. Indeed, he had loved all animals.

  As if the thought of Ethan conjured him up, he strode through a side doorway, one she guessed led to the tack room. A large black dog trotted at his heels. At the sight of her, Ethan halted, but the dog continued toward her, tail wagging, tongue lolling.

  She pulled her gaze away from Ethan, who was staring at her with an unsettling intensity, and looked down at the approaching dog. She noted the animal’s white-tipped tail, and her eyes widened with recognition.

  Crouching down, she scratched behind the dog’s ears, then looked up at Ethan, who still hadn’t moved, and asked, “Is this…could this possibly be T.C.?”

  The dog, who obviously knew his name, answered by emitting a deep woof, then running in a circle to chase his tail, his favorite trick, which had earned him his name—Tail Chaser.

  A laugh escaped her at the dog’s antics, surprising her, and she realized that it had been a long time since she’d indulged in laughter. Since she’d had any reason to do so. After successfully capturing the snowy end between his teeth, T.C. released the offending bit of white fur, then flopped onto his back and presented his belly for rubbing—his second favorite trick.

  “Oh, you were barely more than a baby when I saw you last,” Cassandra said with a chuckle, tickling her fingers over the dog’s thick fur, much to his squirming delight. “What a big, handsome boy you are now.”

  She heard Ethan’s boots shifting against the rough wood floor, and seconds later he stood next to her. The fresh scent of soap wafted toward her, and she looked up, taking in his scuffed black boots—clearly old favorites. Clean fawn breeches hugged his long, powerful legs—in a most distracting way. Forcing her gaze to continue upward, she noted his snowy white shirt, casually open at his throat, the sleeves rolled back to reveal strong, tanned forearms dusted with dark hair.

  Then she found herself staring into ebony eyes that pinned her in place with an inscrutable expression. Fathomless eyes that were both familiar and those of a stranger. From this angle he appeared impossibly tall. And ridiculously masculine.

  Warmth raced through her, and she was about to rise when he suddenly crouched down. Her relief that he no longer towered over her was tempered by the unsettling realization that he was now so close she could feel the heat emanating from his large body. His face, less than two feet from hers, remained streaked in shadows, his scar barely visible.

  For several long seconds they simply looked at each other, and her fingers stilled on T.C.’s warm fur. It seemed as if all the air had left the room. She searched her mind for something, anything to say, but apparently she’d forgotten how to speak. How to breathe.

  “It appears T.C. remembers you,” he finally said.

  She had to swallow to locate her voice. “I doubt it,” she said, pleased that she managed not to sound as breathless as she felt. “I’d wager he flops onto his back like this for anyone who appears willing to pet him.”

  “Obviously you remember him, too,” he said in a dry tone. He shifted his gaze to the dog and patted the animal’s sturdy side. “You remember Cassie, don’t you, boy? She’s the one whose handkerchief you stole. The one you pulled into the lake.”

  Cassie. The name reverberated through her mind, swamping her with memories. And relief that Ethan obviously remembered those times as well, a fact that made him seem somewhat less forbidding.

  Adopting a mock-haughty tone, she informed him, “T.C. didn’t pull me into the lake. I had every intention of wading in.”

  “With your shoes on? I think not. As I recall, he grabbed the hem of your gown between his teeth and dragged you in.”

  “Hmm. No doubt because you sat in the rowboat in the middle of the lake calling out, ‘C’mon boy! Bring her here!’”

  He glanced at her, and for an instant he was the mischievous young man she remembered. “I don’t recall doing any such thing,” he said, perfectly straight-faced. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  Before she could refute his claim, their fingers brushed, sending a heated jolt up her arm. Her hand stilled and her gaze dropped. Ethan’s large hand rested only inches from hers. She’d always admired his hands, so strong and capable. They were browned from the sun, and hers looked small and white in comparison. Fragile and useless.

  Silence fell between them, and again she searched for something to say. And when she looked up and met his gaze, the words simply spilled out of her.

  “I haven’t heard the name Cassie since the last time I saw you. You’re the only person who ever called me that.”

  A curtain seemed to fall over his expression. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Oh, but you shoul
d have. You have no idea how wonderful it sounded. But I don’t know…” Her voice trailed off, and she dipped her chin.

  “Don’t know what?”

  She drew a bracing breath, then again met his gaze. “I don’t know what happened to her. To that girl you called Cassie.”

  “She’s right here. Petting my zany dog.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen her in a long time. But I’d like to. Before she’s lost forever.”

  A frown bunched his brows. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that…I’m not that same person anymore, Ethan. Are you the same man you were ten years ago?”

  He raised his hand and ran his fingers over the left side of his face. “I think you can see that I’m not.”

  “I’d like to know what happened, if you’d care to tell me. About that, and everything else that has occurred in your life.” Summoning her courage, and with her gaze steady on his, she said, “We have this one day together. This one beautiful summer day before I have to leave. We could walk along the beach and reminisce about Gateshead Manor. Tell each other about our lives these last ten years.” She gave a half smile. “I’d love to see more of this lovely town you’ve made your home. Will you spend the day with me, Ethan?”

  For several long seconds he regarded her with an unreadable expression. Then what looked like anger flashed in his eyes. With an impatient sound he rose and strode several feet away, as if he couldn’t wait to put distance between them. Then he halted, his back to her, his shoulders straight with a tension she could almost see radiating from him.

  With a sinking feeling she realized she’d made a mistake. He clearly had no desire to spend time with her, to talk about the past with someone he hadn’t seen in years. Still, she somehow hadn’t anticipated his rejecting her request. Rejecting her. She foolishly hadn’t braced herself for the hurt.

  Skin prickling with embarrassment, she rose, intending to return to her room with as much dignity as she could muster. She’d barely taken a step, however, when he turned around and shot her a dark glare that halted her. With his gaze locked on hers, he moved slowly toward her, and she instinctively backed up several paces, until her shoulders hit the wall, ending her retreat. His advance continued until a mere arm’s length separated them.

  “You’ve had a wonderful life,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Why would you want to hear the sordid details of mine?”

  She froze, staring into eyes that smoldered with an unmistakable animosity she didn’t understand. Yet it was one that sparked her own anger and resentment. One that had her lifting her chin to glare right back at him.

  “Wonderful life?” A bitter sound escaped her. “You know nothing of my life since I saw you last.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. He leaned forward and planted his hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. She sucked in a breath, and her head filled with his scent. Clean soap and something warm and masculine she couldn’t name other than to know it made her heart beat faster. Or perhaps the frantic pounding was the result of his nearness.

  “I’m not the same man I used to be, Cassie,” he said softly, his warm breath touching her lips. “If we spend the day together, I can’t guarantee I won’t do something we’d both regret.”

  “Like what?”

  Fire seemed to kindle in his eyes, and his gaze wandered down to her lips. Her mouth tingled under his scrutiny, but before she could so much as form a thought, his lips covered hers, in a hot, hard kiss that tasted of passion and suppressed need and dark hunger.

  Heat whooshed through her, melting her knees, but then as quickly as he’d started the kiss he ended it, lifting his head and staring down at her with glittering eyes that seemed to breathe smoke.

  Dear God. Shock rendered her immobile. Except for her heart, which thundered hard enough to echo in her ears. Never, in her entire life, had any man looked at her like this. Like he was starving and she was a banquet feast. Like he wanted to devour her. Certainly she’d never inspired her husband to look at her in such a way.

  “Like that,” he said, his voice a husky growl.

  Oh. Like that. Except he thought it was something they’d regret. Perhaps he did, but she didn’t, although she knew she should. Yet how could she possibly regret experiencing something so bold and fiery and darkly arousing? Especially when it had been so long since she’d felt anything except emptiness?

  “Different than last time,” he said softly.

  She knew what he meant, and fire heated her cheeks. Shortly before her marriage, she’d asked Ethan to kiss her. Westmore had finally kissed her, a momentous occasion she’d dreamed would thrill her, but one she’d found oddly disappointing. When she asked Ethan to offer up a comparison, he’d looked angry and initially refused. But after she persisted, he relented and brushed his lips gently over hers. The contact lasted only seconds, but she’d felt as if lightning had struck her—a reaction Westmore’s kiss had most emphatically not induced. She’d desperately wanted him to kiss her again, but couldn’t summon the courage to ask. Indeed, her strong reaction had deeply unsettled her. Ethan had stepped away, then made light of the situation with a joke, and they’d never mentioned it again. Two days later he was gone, leaving only a brief note behind.

  Now she sensed the tension gripping him, and knew without a doubt that he wanted to kiss her again. And God help her, she wanted him to. Just as she’d wanted him to years ago. Was it possible that he’d wanted to then as well, but unlike now had held back?

  She swallowed, then agreed in a shaky voice, “Different than last time.”

  “Still want to go for that walk with me, Cassie?”

  His voice was edged with challenge, his eyes daring her to say yes. And she realized that he hadn’t lied—he wasn’t the same man.

  But neither was she the same woman.

  “Yes, Ethan. I still want to go for that walk with you.”

  Chapter Four

  With T.C. leading the way, Ethan walked next to Cassie along the trail that led through a thick copse of trees toward the beach, and tried his damnedest to shove aside the memory of the kiss they’d just shared. But he might as well have attempted to push back the tide with a broom.

  Part of him was deeply irritated that after only a few minutes in her company he’d allowed himself to lose control like that. Allowed his anger and resentment to get the better of him. But another part of him was darkly pleased that he’d finally acted on his long-suppressed desires. Still, another part of him cursed him for doing so. Because instead of satisfying his desire, that brief taste had unfortunately only whetted his appetite for more. Just as it had ten years ago.

  The memory of the chaste kiss they’d shared that summer day in the stables flashed through his mind, burning as brightly as if it had taken place a moment, rather than a decade, ago. In that brief instant he’d discovered what she tasted like. Heaven. And no longer had to wonder if her lips were as lush and soft as he’d suspected. They were.

  Her request for a kiss had stunned him. And angered him—because he knew damn well she only wanted to compare it to her bloody fiancé’s kiss. But in the end he couldn’t deny her. Or himself. And after he’d experienced that perfect taste of that which he could never have, he’d wanted to kiss her again more than he’d wanted to draw his next breath.

  And ten years later he felt the exact same way after kissing her in his stable.

  Damn it, she should have slapped his face. Stormed from the stables in a fit of outrage. He’d hoped she would. Instead she’d looked at him with those damn big shocked eyes, making him feel like a bastard. While he grudgingly admired the fact that she’d held her ground and accepted his challenge, he still wished, for both their sakes, she’d scurried off. But he should have known she wouldn’t. His Cassie had never been a coward.

  His Cassie. Foolish words that he needed to thrust from his mind. She wasn’t his—never had been, never would be. Yet still, she was here, and they’d been friends, and he w
as acting churlish. It wasn’t her fault he’d fallen in love with her and never gotten over his feelings. But bloody hell, how could he stand an entire afternoon of being regaled with stories of London society and fancy soirees and her perfect husband?

  You know nothing of my life since I saw you last.

  Her words had sounded angry, although he couldn’t imagine why. Surely Westmore had worshipped the ground she walked on. Most likely his recent death was the source of her embitterment.

  They continued along the path, and in spite of the tension he sensed between them, it felt as if the years had slipped away. They’d explored the grounds of Gateshead Manor countless times, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback. Sometimes they talked, barely pausing for breath, as if there weren’t enough hours in the day to say all that needed to be said. Other times, as now, they remained silent.

  Of course back then it was a comfortable silence, one steeped in being with someone who knew you well. Someone with whom you’d shared your deepest thoughts and hopes. Discussed your fears and disappointments. Someone with whom you’d laughed and cried.

  He’d loved her for as long as he could remember, but after the realization when he was fifteen that he was in love with her, he’d often spent those silences wondering what she was thinking, fantasizing that her thoughts ran along similar lines to his—that he was a titled gentleman who’d come to court her. Who would lavish her with jewels and gowns and ask her to marry him. That he could spend every day with her. Draw her into his arms and kiss her. Touch her. Make love to her. Sleep beside her. That she belonged to him. And now, years later, he found himself again wondering what she was thinking.

  “It’s beautiful here.”

  Her soft voice yanked him from his brown study and he turned toward her. Sunlight dappled through the thick leafy cover overhead, glinting off her shiny hair. Her bonnet hung down her back by its ribbons, reminding him how she’d always remove her headwear the instant she was out of her mother’s sight. She’d often regaled him with her mother’s frequent warnings about allowing the sun to freckle—or as her mother called it, ruin—her skin, but he’d always liked the pale gold dots that marched across her nose.