One Week as Lovers by Victoria Dahl

his head enough that it didn’t catch his nose, but it still hurt like the devil. She jerked beneath him, trying to yank her body out from under his, but Lancaster was done with her games and simply put his forearm to her neck. Even if the pounding in his head suddenly overcame him, his weight would work to his advantage.
    The woman soon gave up pushing at him and instead began clawing at his arm. Sympathetic to the horror of suffocation, he relented quickly and eased his arm up until the sound of air rushing into her lungs filled the room.
    “Now then—” he started, but the words dissolved to ash in his mouth when his gaze finally focused enough to see.
    Her . Cynthia. Her face, not waxen with death, not hazy and ethereal, but flushed with life. Her eyes, not clouded over, but bright and real and blazing with fury.
    “Holy bloody hell,” he wheezed.
    “You sodding bastard ,” she answered.
    Lancaster shook his head, leaned closer to be sure his vision hadn’t failed him. “ You’re alive .”
    “Not for long if you don’t get your arm off my neck.”
    He murmured, “Sorry,” and climbed off her to stand and stare in shock. His limbs felt numb and yet the rest of the world seemed sharper, more real. “You’re alive. Cynthia …My God. You’re alive .”
    “Yes, well…” She rubbed her neck and her gaze moved to him and then around the room and back to him again.
    Strangely, her face was growing redder despite that he’d released her. Perhaps he’d injured her throat or—
    “You are, um…” Her eyes dipped down his body. “You’re very naked, Lord Lancaster.”
    “Am I?” he was saying just as her words hit him. He looked down. Of course. He’d been sleeping. “Yes, I see that you’re right.”
    “It seems inappropriate now that I am no longer dead.”
    “Of course.” But he couldn’t move, could only stare at her, breathing and talking. And blushing. “Sorry,” he repeated and looked dazedly around for his robe. The dark blue robe lay tossed over a chair, and as soon as he had it in hand, he turned his eyes back to her to be sure she hadn’t disappeared.
    It suddenly occurred to him that this might all be a dream. After all, not only was she alive and in his bed, but she was watching him quite immodestly as he shrugged the robe on. Not to mention that he’d just seen a good bit of her naked bottom.
    Lancaster rubbed his forehead, then jerked his hand away at the sharp stab of pain. Perhaps he wasn’t asleep, but knocked unconscious and tumbling toward death.
    “This doesn’t make any sense.”
    She blinked as he tied the robe, then finally pulled her gown down to cover her legs. She folded her knees to her chest, tugged the skirt down to hide even her toes, and glared at him. There were the stubborn jaw and wise eyes. Her cheekbones were high, eyes almost slanted at the corners. An interesting, compelling face, just as he’d thought. Relief bubbled up and mixed with his confusion.
    “What the hell is going on?” he asked when she said nothing.
    “Well, to begin with, you’ve ruined everything .”
    “You must know I have no idea what that means, Cyn—Miss Merrithorpe.”
    She frowned, stubborn mouth turning mutinous. “It’s not so hard to puzzle out, surely. I am pretending to be dead. Your estate provided the perfect hiding place. Until you returned for reasons I can’t quite fathom.”
    Not a dream. This was definitely the working of a damaged brain. He shook his head, then pressed his palm to the spot above his left eye that shrieked with pain. “You hit me.”
    Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Of course I hit you, what else could I do?”
    “Politely ask for help?”
    She snorted, but when he lowered his hand to look at her, her snort turned to a gasp. “You’re bleeding!”
    “I’m not surprised. Are my brains spilling out? It rather feels as if they are.”
    She scooted off the bed and drew close. “It’s just a small cut. Already healing. I…Oh, I am sorry,