A Woman of Choice Read online

  Then Sydney began to cry.

  Small sniffles soon grew to deep, gulping sobs.

  Nicolas was terrified that he had been too rough; uncaring in his desperate urgency, had he hurt her?

  “Sydney? What’ve I done?” he rasped. “Did I harm you?”

  Sydney shook her head, but she didn’t stop crying. Nicolas gently pulled away from her; it almost hurt, like rending his own body. He examined the petticoat that lay beneath her. The lack of blood confirmed what he thought was true.

  “You weren’t a virgin,” Nicolas whispered as he lay down beside her. “Did you believe you might be?”

  Again Sydney shook her head. She put her arms around him and pulled him close, tucking her head under his chin. Her cheek rested against his still-hammering heart. He held her until her diminishing sobs allowed her to speak.

  “I never—I mean—it’s never been like that before.”

  Nicolas didn’t move, didn’t register his surprise.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, though he was fairly certain he knew.

  “At the end. That, that…” Sydney’s face burned hot and damp through his shirt front.

  “Are you saying that you never ‘finished’ before?” Nicolas kept his voice gentle and matter-of-fact. Sydney nodded and Nicolas hugged her closer.

  “Are you certain?” he prodded. “What I mean is, you don’t remember being married, do you?”

  Sydney heaved a ragged sigh and her body shook with it. “No, but I can tell you this with absolute certainty: there are some things a body may not remember, but there are others that are unforgettable. If I had ever experienced that before, I would know it.”

  Nicolas and Sydney lay on the floor and held each other. He was unwilling to let go, lest their fragile bond be broken. When the fire finally died, he helped her to her feet in the dark, cooling room, then led her to the stairs. At the top, he hesitated, glancing at his bedroom door and then down the hall to Sydney’s.

  She made the decision for him. She pulled Nicolas past the room with too many memories, to the one that held no memories at all.

   

  Nicolas awoke before dawn. He was curled around Sydney, both of them naked. He closed his eyes and thought back a few hours to the second time.

  With the pounding urgency of deprivation behind him, he was able to take more time with her. They stood in the middle of her room, illuminated by fading moonlight through the opened shutters. He undressed her slowly, kissed her skin as it was exposed, and raised gooseflesh on her healed body. He let her undress him, surprised when she caressed him boldly in return.

  He carried her to the bed and laid her on the white sheets, her dark hair spilling in all directions. Nicolas could see her in his mind’s eye; the dark circles of her bosom and the darker thatch at the inner angle of her thighs. With slow, maddening deliberation they touched, teased and tarried, until neither one could hold any longer. Their mutual culmination left him feeling breathless and boneless, unable to move. They stayed connected, drifting into satiated sleep.

  Aware he mustn’t be found in her room, Nicolas pulled himself away from the warmth and comfort of her slumbering body. He felt the hollowing loss immediately. He fumbled for his discarded clothing on the floor, closed the shutters on the graying sky of dawn, and padded down the hall to his room. He dropped his clothes on a chair and climbed into his bed, idly fondling that part of him that woke up early every day.

  “I should believe you would sleep late this morning,” he mumbled, smiling at his joke. But his smile faded as he considered what to do next.

  Making love to Sydney was not the wisest thing he had ever done, that was clear enough. While he desired her, he wasn’t in love with her. Certainly she was beautiful. And she was interesting to talk with. Nicolas truly looked forward to their conversations after dinner each evening. And she possessed an admirable skill with horses, plus the confidence to wear those ridiculous breeches and still maintain her femininity. She was undoubtedly different from any woman Nicolas ever met.

  But love her? No. He wouldn’t love again. He couldn’t. That was too big a risk.

  The other, larger, reason marched in and sat heavily on his chest: Sydney might already be married. If that was the case then they had, in their alcohol-loosened arousal, just committed adultery.

  Twice.

  But, if she was married, why had a month gone by with no response to his inquiries? Perhaps her husband was dead. That idea hadn’t occurred to him before. Had it occurred to Sydney?

  Or what if he simply didn’t want to be married anymore? Could he possibly keep quiet and hope she would never remember him? No. That was, in all nature’s wrath, a crazy idea.

  But if she didn’t remember, how would she get out of this limbo?

  Nicolas rubbed his eyes as the determined headache of his overindulgence lodged there. The only thing he could do was ask Sydney all these questions and see if she possessed any answers. They must talk today, and settle on how things would be between them after last night.

  Nicolas rolled onto his stomach and pulled the covers over his nakedness. It was then he realized that, all the while he made love with Sydney, he had not thought of Lara once.

  Chapter Thirteen

  May 2, 1819

  Sydney uncurled under the covers. She drew a deep breath and stretched like a spoiled housecat, relishing the sultry caress of the cotton sheets against her naked body.

  Naked body?

  Memory slapped her awake. With a cry, Sydney rolled over and threw her arm to the other side of the bed; but she was alone.

  “No. Oh, no. Oh, God, no.”

  Please make it not be true.

  The blunt, persistent pounding in her head reminded her of the dinner party and the copious amount of wine she enjoyed. The damp stickiness between her thighs reminded her of what happened later.

  What have I done?

  Sydney slid her fingers to her tender quim, remembering. Beautiful beyond language, desperately needful, giving and gratified, Nicolas carried her outside herself and showed her a place she had never been. It was unexpected, ethereal, consuming her in such a way that she was more whole afterward than she could have ever imagined.

  But it was a mistake.

  A very big mistake. She rubbed herself hard and tried to stop the wanting. She must never do it again.

  Sydney considered hiding in bed and not facing him. She wondered how many hours it would take for Addie to come looking for her. Maybe she could sneak away from the estate and—what? She had no place to go.

  After a quarter hour, Sydney heaved herself out of bed and collected her ball gown from the floor. With the cold water in the bedside ewer, she washed away all the physical reminders of last night’s bliss. She welcomed the chill and gooseflesh; shivers of discomfort, not arousal.

  The emotional reminders would require much deeper cleansing. They were branded on her soul.

  Sydney dressed in the breeches and work shirt. Then she plaited her hair, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. With a bracing sigh of resignation, she went down to breakfast.

  Nicolas sat at the table in the kitchen and he looked rough. Bloodshot eyes rose to meet her as she came through the door. The cadence of her heart missed a beat. It wanted to sprint into his arms. She had grossly underestimated the impact of facing him again.

  He glanced a warning toward Addie, back turned and cheerfully chatting while she cooked the eggs.

  Eggs. Sydney’s stomach rebelled at the thought. She poured herself a mug of coffee and added a little milk. Ruffling Stefan’s hair, she sat down next to him.

  “What are your plans today, little man?” Sydney sipped her coffee and avoided Nicolas’s eyes.

  “Clean the chicken poop.”

  “You mean ‘coop’,” Nicolas corrected. Stefan scowled at his father.

  “Chickens don’t coop, they poop!” he corrected right back. Sydney laughed out loud, nearly spitting coffee.

  “Yo
u’re right, Stefan,” Nicolas acquiesced. “My mistake.”

  Stefan attacked his eggs with satisfied energy. Sydney made deliberate small talk with Addie who wanted to know all about the party, relaying as much detail as she could stand to. Or remember. Nicolas rested silent at the other end of the table, mechanically forking food through stiff, colorless lips.

  Sydney rose from the table, her nerves frayed like a worn rope tether and even less reliable.

  “Have a good day, Addie.” She patted Stefan’s shoulder. “You, too, little man.”

  She hurried out the back door without a word to Nicolas.

   

  Nicolas half-stood, shoveled the last bite, gulped his too-hot coffee and followed Sydney out the door. He approached her in the stable while she bridled Fyrste. A saddle was on the floor at her feet.

  “Do you have it in mind to mount that beast today?” were his first incredulous words to her since last night. It was not at all what he intended to say. His stomach threatened to throw his breakfast at him.

  Sydney shot him a challenging look.

  “Perhaps,” she responded in the same tone. “Perhaps I wish to mount something myself!”

  Nicolas’s face grew hot. Even after what they shared last night, she was still challenging, infuriating, confusing. And he was convinced this was not how this conversation should go. Frustrated, he sat down hard on a bale of hay and dropped his thick, aching head onto the heels of his hands.

  “I’m sorry, Sydney.”

  He heard tack jangling. “What are you sorry for?” Her tone had softened a little.

  Nicolas raised his head and stared at her, his thoughts unformed. What was the right answer? When he didn’t speak, Sydney faced him again. He examined her countenance and tried to gage her mood.

  “It wasn’t my intent to snap at you.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Apology accepted,” she whispered. She rubbed her palms against her thighs. Fyrste snorted and shifted his weight.

  Relieved, Nicolas pulled a deep breath and blew it out through loose lips. He managed a weak smile.

  “Let’s begin again.”

  Sydney looped Fyrste’s reins around a stall latch. Then she dropped, cross-legged, in front of him. Nicolas offered one hand and she took hold of it. That was a good start.

  “Last night,” Nicolas began, “was…” and he fumbled. Fear squeezed his ribs and he fought to inhale.

  “Wonderful,” Sydney picked it up. But before he could speak, she added, “And horrible.”

  Nicolas held his inhaled breath, cushioning his struggling heart.

  He wasn’t sure what he felt.

  “Well put,” he finally admitted. It was, at the least, honest.

  “We cannot do that again,” Sydney stated with determination. “We must not do that again.”

  Nicolas didn’t respond. Trepidation hollered at him to put distance between himself and this woman, and quickly. But longing, desire, and need pummeled his gut, bruising him toward foolishness.

  “No,” he pretended to agree. “Not again.” He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t lie, looking into her eyes.

  They sat silently, holding hands. Her fingers stroked his. He wanted to kiss them. Instead, he asked her the question that occurred to him early this morning.

  “Sydney, do you believe you could be a widow? That whatever—or whoever—nearly killed you might have killed him?” Nicolas watched intently as Sydney turned the idea over in her mind.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s possible. Or I could be a run-of-the-mill adulteress.” Her wry smile negated the sting of her words.

  Nicolas’s faint smile echoed hers. “No one’s responded to the notices. It’s been a month, now. Perhaps you truly don’t have anyone.”

  Sydney’s expression sank below her cheeks, pulling down the corners of her mouth. “Or perchance, whomever I had no longer wants me.”

  Nicolas was surprised that her thoughts followed the same line as his. He wanted to comfort her, but had no idea how. He tried, “In either circumstance it appears you have the opportunity to begin a new life.”

  Sydney stared at him, her brows drawing together over diluted gray eyes. “Does it?”

  Startled, Nicolas realized that he was on the verge of suggesting more than he intended. He stopped and regrouped. “Of course, I’ve no experience to draw on… It only seems…”

  He shrugged.

  Sydney faced the floor. A drop of moisture darkened her nankeens. She wiped something from her cheek. She spoke so quietly, Nicolas could barely make out what she said.

  “I reckon I should consider that. But I’m not certain that I’m ready just yet. I feel I must give it more time.”

  “How much more time?” he asked. Once again, he realized that his words hinted at things he didn’t feel. Panic prodded him and he reworded his question. “I mean, how much time do you feel is right? What terms can you bide?”

  “At the least three months, I believe.” Sydney met his gaze with gray pools of hopeless depth. “Assuming I still remember naught, of course; and that’s a truly large assumption.”

  “Three months,” Nicolas repeated, then clarified. “You intend two more, then?”

  “I’ll find a way to repay you for all of this, Nicolas,” Sydney said with a level of confidence her countenance did not begin to reflect. “For everything that you’ve done for me.”

  Nicolas waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Sydney, that’s not on my mind. Don’t let it concern you. It’s been my honor to assist you.”

  Visibly relieved, Sydney said, “Two more months, then. If I don’t have answers by the first of July, then I’ll begin a new life as Sydney… Something-or-other!”

  Nicolas chuckled. There was that delightful sense of humor again.

  “But in the meantime.” Sydney paused and tightened her grip on his hand. “We truly mustn’t be together again like last night. It wasn’t right.”

  Wasn’t right? Nicolas wanted to shout that it was the epitome of right! The way their bodies melded, responded; it was positively glorious! Even now he could smell her hair, taste her lips, feel her hand on him. He dove into her completely and she surfaced with him, bursting through earthly boundaries. His manhood stirred, eager. He pulled his knees together.

  “Yes. We must be wise,” he rasped. And he thought he couldn’t lie and still look at her.

  Sydney reached up to stroke Nicolas’s cheek. He laid his hand over hers, and turned to kiss her palm. Then she pulled her hand from his, unfolded from the ground, and led Fyrste out of the stable without looking back.

  Nicolas slumped against the stable wall. Living with her now was going to be hell.

  May 3, 1819

  Rickard stepped through the Hansen’s kitchen door. “Hello! Is anyone at home?”

  “Onkel Rick!” Stefan hopped off his chair threw his arms around Rickard’s legs. Then he leaned way back to look up at his tall uncle. “Did you bring me somethin’?”

  “I brought you this,” Rickard grabbed Stefan around the waist, lifted him upside down, and slung him over his shoulder.

  Stefan giggled wildly. “What else?” he squealed.

  “This!” Rickard tickled his nephew. He squirmed and wiggled and his infectious laugh filled the room, all the while safe in Rickard’s strong grasp.

  “I—w-want—c-candy!” Stefan gasped between spasms of laughter. Rickard flipped him back over and set him on his feet. Dizzy from the sudden movement, Stefan dropped on his bottom and grinned expectantly at his uncle. He lifted open hands. Rickard reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of peppermint.

  “Finish your lunch first, understand?” Rickard admonished as he handed the treat to his sister’s son. Stefan climbed back into his seat. He set the candy carefully by his plate.

  “What do you say to your Onkel Rick?” Addie prompted.

  “Thank you.” Stefan’s blue eyes did not leave his sweet.

  But Rickard’s hazel
eyes shifted to Sydney.

  When he appeared so unexpectedly at the door, Sydney’s nerves snapped to awareness, sending urgent messages to pertinent parts of her body. The first message entailed how intimately he said goodnight to her the evening before last. The second message concerned what happened between her and Nicolas immediately afterward.

  Sydney felt her gut warm and her cheeks blaze.

  Rickard pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He turned to Sydney and lifted one corner of his mouth in a perfectly adorable grin.

  “And how are you today, Madam? Any ‘besmirchers’ in sight from whom I, your humble and obedient servant, might protect you?”

  Sydney conjured what she hoped was a convincing smile, and

  shook her head. Her mouth was glued shut by a sudden lack of moisture.

  Since her appallingly wonderful night with Nicolas, Rickard was the farthest man from her mind. Sydney had not taken time to consider how her horrific actions might affect their burgeoning relationship. Flirtation aside, one thing seemed clear: Rickard was romantically interested in her. And while she hadn’t professed any particular feelings for him—how could she in her situation?—at the ball she kissed him quite warmly and more than once. Of course he would be encouraged.

  And now here he was, unbidden and unexpected, dribbling chameleon chocolate bronze all over her.

  Skitt.

  She decided to ask Nicolas to teach her to curse in Norse. It was needful.

  Sydney glanced out the kitchen window and prayed that a deadly, black, screaming twister might manifest itself and provide her imminent rescue. Lacking that, she sat squarely in a tangled mess of inappropriate attractions and unknown ramifications. What sort of horrible woman might she truly be?

  No wonder no one wanted her back.

  Sydney looked down at her bowl of soup. Breaking off a piece of bread, she dipped it and put it in her mouth, chewing slowly.

  Rickard ruffled Stefan’s hair, lips pressed and brow lightly creased.