Passion for Him

Chapter 6

“So that is the whole of it,” Amelia said, her fingers fidgeting with her teaspoon.

The Earl of Ware reached over and stilled his fiancée’s restless movement by covering her hand with his own. “No need to be nervous,” he murmured, his mind sifting through everything she had related.

“You are not angry?” Her green eyes were wide with a mixture of surprise and apprehension.

“I am not pleased, but I am not angry.” He smiled ruefully and settled back more firmly in his chair.

They were seated on the terrace of the St. John house, enjoying tea before their customary ride through the park. It was with some trepidation that he had passed the hours waiting to speak with her. He knew what a woman looked like after a heated assignation, so while Amelia’s revelation was in keeping with his own suspicions, he was sorry to have them confirmed.

“I do not know what to do,” she said, sounding forlorn. “I fear I am out of my depth.”

“And I fear I am not going to be much help,” he admitted. “We are friends, love, but I am a man first and foremost. It does not sit well with me to hear that you feel things for this stranger that you do not feel for me.”

As her hand twisted and gripped his tightly, a becoming blush spread across her cheeks. “I do not like myself very much at this moment. You are dear to me, Ware. You always have been, and I have not acted as you deserve. I pray you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He stared pensively over the rear “garden.” The word barely applied to the outdoor space that surrounded the St. John manse. Only low-lying flowerbeds alleviated the stark severity of the spacious lawn.

“I forgive you,” he said. “And I admire your honesty. I doubt I would have the fortitude to reveal so much were I in your stead. However, I cannot have a fiancée who is engaging in such behavior, especially in public venues.”

She nodded, looking like a chastened schoolgirl. While the scolding was required, he took no pleasure in it.

“You will have to decide, once and for all, whether you wish to wed me or not, Amelia. If you choose to proceed with our arrangement, you must act in good faith and deport yourself properly.” Ware pushed to his feet and rolled his shoulders back to alleviate the tension there. “Damnation, I do not like feeling as if you are being coerced to marry me!”

Amelia stood as well, her floral muslin skirts falling to a graceful drape. “You are angry.” She held up a delicate hand to stem his reply. “No. I understand. You have the right to be. Had you acted similarly, I would have been equally furious with you.”

Blowing out her breath, she walked to the marble terrace railing and leaned her weight upon her hands. He joined her, the lawn to his back, she to his side.

She was lovely this afternoon, as she was every afternoon. Her dark hair was arranged in artless, powdered curls that swayed around her shoulders. Her skin was pale as cream, her eyes as green as jade, her lips red like dark wine. He had once jested that she was the only woman he thought of in poetic prose, and she’d laughed with him, delighted at what she called his “fancifulness.” He was only fanciful with her.

“If we wed,” she murmured, “do you intend to be faithful to me?”

“That depends on you.” He considered her carefully. “If you lie there and pray for a swift finale, I probably will not be. I enjoy sex, Amelia. I crave it. I would not give up the pleasure of sexual congress for anything, even a wife.”

“Oh.” She looked away with a sigh.

A stray breeze blew by, rolling a tight curl along the tender, bared skin where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered, not with cold, but from the sensation. Ware noted that reaction, as he noted everything about her. Cataloguing the finer details for future use. Amelia was a tactile, sensual creature. Something he appreciated and had been gentle not to exploit, biding his time for the day when she would be his and he could teach her how to embrace that side of herself. With him alone.

Now, he had much to consider.

“I believe we could enjoy each other,” he offered, teasing her fingers on the ledge with his own. “I think sex between us could be much more than a chore, but only if you open yourself to me completely in that way. No shyness, no reserve. If our marital bed is welcoming, I will not go elsewhere. I am not a man given to the pursuit of conquests. I simply want to fuck and have a splendid time doing it. If I can do that with one woman, more the better in my estimation. Less work.”

The coarse word shocked her, he could tell, but it was the right word for how he liked his bedsport, and it was best she know that now. There would be no brief groping and grunting in the darkness. There would be illumination, flushed and sweaty skin, and many hours.

“Is that what passion in the bedroom is?” she asked, with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. “Animal urges given free rein? Is there nothing more involved in the process?”

It took him a moment to comprehend the question. “Are you referring to the glances your sister shares with St. John? Or how the Westfields look at one another?”

“Yes. They are…indecent, yet romantic.”

“You are not the only one to see such affection and covet it.” The inquisitiveness in her gaze made him smile.

“Do you?”

Ware shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his hip into the railing. “On occasion. But I do not pine for it or suffer from its lack. I think, however, that you do.”

As honest as ever, she nodded.

“I begin to see that my straightforward approach to wooing you was not the best,” he mused aloud. “I assumed that the miserable end to your first love affair would make you inclined to appreciate a more…grounded relationship. But you want the opposite, do you not?”

She pushed away and began to pace, which was her wont when agitated. At times like this, she reminded him of a caged cat prowling in its boredom. “I do not know what I want, that is the problem.” The look she gave him pinned him in his place.

“I am content. There is nothing more that I need.”

“Are you truly content?” she challenged. “Or do you simply accept that friendship is all that one can hope for in your position?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Who would you wed, if not for me?”

“I’ve no notion, nor do I care to think about it until absolutely necessary. Are you suggesting I consider alternatives to you?”

Coming to a halt, Amelia released a sound that reminded him endearingly of a kitten’s growl. “I want to be mad for you! Why is the choice not mine to make?”

“Perhaps you suffer from bad taste?” He laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him. Then he lowered his voice and stared at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “If it’s the mask that arouses you, I can wear one to bed. Such games can be fun.”

When her eyes went big as saucers, he winked.

Her hands went to her hips as she bristled; then her head tilted to the side. “Perhaps it is the mystery that intrigues me so? Is that what you are suggesting, my lord?”

“It is a possibility.” Ware’s smile faded. “I intend to make inquiries about your admirer. Let us see if we can unmask him.”

“Why?”

“Because he is not for you, Amelia. A foreign count? You have always longed for a family. You would not move away from your sister now that you are reunited, so what future do you have with this man? And let us not discount the fact that he may seek to wound me through you.”

She began pacing again, and he watched, admiring the inherent grace in her movements and the way her skirts swirled enchantingly around her long legs. “Everyone appears to believe that Montoya has no interest in me as an individual, only in the people connected to me. I admit I find it rather insulting to learn that those who claim to love me find it impossible to imagine a man desiring me for myself.”

“I can more than imagine it, Amelia. I feel it. Do not take my courtesy as a lack of desire for you. You would be wrong.”

Heaving out her breath, she said, “St. John is also attempting to find him.”

He expected as much. “If the man is hiding in the rookeries, St. John might succeed. But you said the count was finely dressed and cultured. He sounds as if he is a denizen of my social circles, rather than the pirate’s. My search may prove more fruitful.”

Amelia paused again. “What will you do if you find him?” There was more than a small measure of suspicion in her voice.

“Are you asking me if I will hurt him?” The question was not frivolous, as he was a swordsman of some renown. “I might.”

Her beautiful features crumbled. “I should not have said anything to you.”

Straightening, Ware moved toward her. “I am pleased you spoke the truth. Our relationship would have been irreparably damaged if you had presented a lie to hide your guilt.” As he reached her, he breathed deeply, inhaling the innocent scent of honeysuckle. He had long suspected that her body resembled the flower she favored, fragrant and sweet as honey upon the lips.

He cupped her face in both hands and tilted her gaze upward to lock with his. Something new swirled in the emerald depths and he found himself falling into them. “But that does not change the fact that the man knew you were mine and took liberties regardless. A grave insult to me, love. I can forgive you, but I cannot forgive him.”

“Ware…” Her lips parted, the seam glistening in the soft afternoon light.

Leaning over her, he bent to take her mouth. Her breath caught as she recognized his intent.

“Good afternoon, my lord.”

They sprung apart as Amelia’s sister and her husband joined them on the terrace, followed shortly by a maid bearing a new tea service.

“It is a lovely day,” the pirate said in his distinctive raspy voice. “We thought we would join you in the sunshine.”

Ware understood the warning. With a slight bow of his head, he stepped back farther. The former Lady Winter smiled at his perceptiveness. It was a bedroom smile, the one a woman shared with her lover after a bout of great sex. For Mrs. St. John, it was her only smile, and it was a lauded part of her appeal.

“We would enjoy the company,” Ware said, leading Amelia back to their table.

He spent the rest of the afternoon trading inanities with the St. Johns and, later, with those he and Amelia passed during their drive through the park. But part of his mind was actively occupied with the logistics of his hunts-the one for Amelia’s favor and the other for the masked man who sought to steal it from him.

“Are you certain the man’s name is Simon Quinn?”

“Aye,” the tavern keep said, setting another pint on the bar.

“Thank you.” Colin accepted the ale and moved to a table in the corner. The report of a man searching for him was disturbing, even more so because the one making the inquiries was using Quinn’s name. It could be Cartland, or one of the men with him, though the owner of the tavern was fairly certain the man did not have a French accent.

There was nothing Colin could do aside from settling in to wait, using techniques of concealment in which he was well versed. A man of his size could never hide completely, but he could make himself less noticeable by sprawling low to disguise his height and breadth of shoulder. He also left his hair unrestrained, which roughened his overall appearance.

The establishment itself made it easy to lose oneself among the crowd. The lighting was kept low to hide a multitude of faults and dirt. The dark-stained walnut furnishings-round tables and spindle-backed chairs-only added to the dimness of the interior. The air was filled with the smells of old and new ale and crackling grease from the kitchen. Patrons wandered in and out. Several were regulars whom Colin had spoken to previously.

Long ago, in his past life, he had frequented such places with his uncle, Pietro. Those lazy afternoons off had been spent listening to the imparted wisdom of a good and decent man. Colin missed him, thought of him often, and wondered how he was faring. Pietro had instilled strength of character in him and a belief in honor that had stood him in good stead these many years.

Colin’s hand fisted on the table.

One day, they would be reunited, and he would show his uncle how he had heeded those early teachings. He would free Pietro from his life of servitude and establish him in comfort. Life was too short, and he wanted his beloved uncle to enjoy as much of it as possible.

“Evenin’,” greeted a voice to his side, drawing Colin from his introspection.

Beside him stood an elderly gentleman who spent most of his life in the taverns on this street, offering companionship to those who would buy him a drink or something to eat. Occasionally, the man overheard something worth selling, and Colin was willing to pay for it, as he was well aware.

“Have a seat,” Colin replied, gesturing to the chair opposite his own.

Hours passed. He used the time to question those who found him familiar from his previous sojourns there. Many hoped to earn a coin or two by passing along information of note. Sadly, there was nothing of interest about Cartland, but Colin bought a pint for anyone who talked with him and used their company to deepen his disguise.

Then, quite miraculously, the man he most hoped to see appeared in a swirl of heavy black cape. Simon Quinn paused at the bar and exchanged words with the keep, then turned with wide eyes to find Colin waving from the corner.

“By God,” Quinn said as he approached, unclasping the jeweled frog that secured his cloak to his neck. “I have been searching all over London for you, half-starved, and you have been here in my lodgings the entire time?”

“Well”-Colin grinned-“the last few hours, at least.”

Quinn muttered a curse under his breath and sank wearily into the seat across from him. A pint was brought over, then a plate of food. Once he was fully settled, he said, “I come bearing both good and bad news.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Colin said dryly.

“I have been betrayed in France.”

Colin winced. “Did Cartland forfeit the names of everyone?”

“It would appear so. I believe that is how he was able to prove his loyalty.”

“The man has loyalty to no one but himself.”

“Very true.” Quinn stabbed a piece of meat, brought it to his mouth, and chewed angrily.

“So that is the bad news, then. What is the good?”

“I have been able to secure a promise of a pardon for all of us, including you.”

“How is that possible if they hunt you as well?”

Quinn’s smile was grim. “Leroux was valuable to the agent-general, enough so that the capture of his killer is of greater concern than the routing of English spies. I was allowed to leave on the promise that I would return with the murderer-whoever that may be. To guarantee my return, they hold the others Cartland betrayed.”

Colin straightened. “By God…we must work swiftly, then.”

“Yes.” Quinn finished off his pint. “And there are conditions to complicate matters. First, I must persuade Lord Eddington to release a French spy whom he has in captivity. Then, we must convince a member of Cartland’s group-a man named Depardue-to vouch that Cartland has confessed to the crime.”

The first seemed unlikely, and the second seemed highly difficult, but Colin would take what opportunities were given to him and gladly.

I want to know you, Amelia had said. If only he had the chance to make that happen.

“You seem unduly pleased by this,” Quinn said around a bite. “It is not much.”

“I saw Amelia,” Colin confessed. Held her, touched her, tasted her.

Quinn stilled with a forkful of food lifted halfway to his mouth. “And?”

“It is complicated, but hopeful.”

Setting his utensils down, Quinn gestured for more ale. “How did she take your emergence from the grave?”

Colin smiled ruefully and explained.

“A mask?” Quinn asked when he finished. “Out of all the guises you are capable of donning, you chose a mask?”

“Originally, it suited the masquerade. Later, she saw it on Jacques and it drew her to him. It seemed appropriate to wear it a third time under those circumstances.”

“She is more like her sister than I thought.” Quinn’s lips curved into the slight smile he always wore when referring to Maria. “However, I fail to see how the situation is hopeful. Amelia has no idea who you are.”

“That is a bit of a problem,” Colin agreed.

“A bit? My friend, you are the master of understatement. Trust me, she will not take the news well. She will take it as lack of affection. When she discovers that you were not chaste and pining for her the entire time, she will have her proof that you do not love her.”

Colin heaved out a sigh and sank back into his chair. “This was your plan! You said that I should become a man of means in order to make her happy.”

“Also to make you happy. You would always doubt your worth if you came to her as an underling.” Quinn smiled at the serving girl who brought over the fresh pint, then sat back and studied Colin for a long moment. “I hear she is betrothed to the Earl of Ware.”

“Not yet.”

“She could be a marchioness, despite her father’s scandal and her sibling’s reputation. Quite an accomplishment.”

Glancing around the room, Colin’s gaze paused a moment on every patron, taking stock of each one. “Yes, but she does not love him. She still loves me. Or rather, the boy I used to be.”

A lovely blonde entered the room from the staircase that led to the bedchambers above. Dressed in deep purple and wearing a black ribbon and cameo at her throat, she reminded Colin of a doll. Her delicate features and slender build roused protective instincts, her heavy-lidded eyes and full, red lips inspired carnal musings.

His brows lifted as she turned her head and locked eyes with him. Her smile made him frown in confusion, and he watched her approach with much curiosity, pushing to his feet when she came to a halt behind Quinn.

She set her hands on the Irishman’s broad shoulders. “You should have told me you were back, mon amour,” she said, her voice inflected with an unmistakable French accent.

The look Quinn shot Colin was intriguing, bearing more than a trace of irritation. He did not stand, merely caught the blonde’s hand and tugged her around, directing her to a chair he pulled closer with his foot. Considering Quinn’s love of females, his apparent disinterest in such a beautiful woman was beyond surprising. In close proximity, she was a delight. Pale blue eyes were framed by long, thick chocolate lashes and accented by finely arched brows.

“Is this him?” she asked, studying Colin with an appreciative eye.

Quinn growled.

She smiled wide, revealing straight white teeth. She offered her hand and said, “I am Lysette Rousseau. You are Monsieur Mitchell, oui?”

Colin glanced at Quinn, who cursed under his breath and resumed his meal. “Perhaps,” he replied with caution.

“Excellent. Should it become necessary to kill you, it will be much easier now that I have catalogued your appearance.”

Blinking, he asked, “What the devil did you just say?”

“Provoking wench,” Quinn muttered. “He is innocent.”

“They all say that,” she replied sweetly.

“It is true in this case,” Quinn argued.

“They all say that, too.”

“Pardon me.” Colin glanced between them. “What are you talking about?”

Quinn gestured toward Lysette with an off-hand jerking of his fork. “She is an additional part of my guarantee. She is to return to France with either Cartland, you or me.”

“Or a confession,” she purred. “A confession from any of you would suffice. See? I am not so difficult to please.”

“Christ.” Resuming his seat, Colin examined the Frenchwoman. It was then that he noted a hardness to her eyes and mouth that he had missed before. “How do you find these femmes fatales, Quinn?”

“They find me,” Quinn grumbled, biting into a potato with gusto born of frustration.

“You see only the negatives,” Lysette said, gesturing for service. “There are three of us at this table, all searching for the same thing. I am here to assist you.”

Quinn glared. “If you think holding a sword over my head is endearing, you are sadly mistaken.”

Colin was not so quick to dismiss her. “How can you help?”

“In many ways.” The blonde took a brief moment to order wine from the attending serving girl. “Think of the places I can go where you cannot. All the people who might speak to me but not to you. All the wiles I employ as a woman that you cannot employ as a man. Why, the possibilities are endless!” She lifted a delicate hand to the cameo at her throat, and he found it nearly impossible to imagine her killing anyone.

“How does your participation relate to Depardue?” Colin asked.

Something dark passed over her features. “If he resolves this, it will save me the trouble.”

“The agent-general is determined to leave nothing to chance,” Quinn explained. “Depardue watches Cartland. Lysette watches me. They perform the same service. She is an added…warranty.”

Colin winced. “I cannot imagine Depardue appreciates the intimation that he might not be successful.” He looked at Lysette, wondering what the lure of such a position would be. “Why are you doing this?”

“My reasons are my own. A word of advice”-she stared at him intently-“you can trust nothing about me except this: I want Leroux’s killer brought to justice.”

Exhaling harshly, Colin drummed his fingertips atop the table. “I do not like this. While Cartland hunts me, we have a serpent in our midst.”

Quinn nodded his agreement.

Lysette pouted as she accepted the goblet she had ordered previously. “I would rather be Eve than the snake.”

“Eve was alluring,” Quinn retorted.

Colin choked, never having heard the Irishman say an unkind word to a female before.

“What have you accomplished up to this point?” she asked, dismissing Quinn’s rudeness and directing her attention to Colin.

“My days are spent evading Cartland and anyone who sounds French, and my nights are spent searching for him.”

“That is the most ridiculous plan I have ever heard,” she scoffed.

“What do you suggest I do, then?” he challenged. “I know nothing.”

“So you must learn.” Lysette took a dainty sip of the blood red wine and licked her lips. She sat with a ramrod straight spine and uplifted chin, the hallmarks of good breeding and proper schooling. “You cannot do that while hiding, which is exactly what Cartland will expect you to be doing. Why do you not contact the man you both work for? Surely, he has the resources to help you bring this to a swift end.”

“That is not his purpose,” Quinn argued. “We are responsible for the managing of our assignments. If we are caught, the cost is ours to pay. I expect your arrangement is similar.”

For a moment, it seemed frustration marred the Frenchwoman’s lovely features, and then it was gone, replaced by a honeyed, careless smile.

Colin could not help but wonder at her, and contemplate how much of a risk she presented. She was so slender and feminine, yet he knew from tales of Amelia’s sister that appearances could be very deceiving. “Do you have other suggestions, mademoiselle? Perhaps you think I should search in the bright light of day?”

“Will you wear a mask?” Quinn asked, finally pushing his plate aside.

“Why would he?” She raked Colin with an assessing glance from the top of his head, down the length of his outstretched legs, to his booted feet. “It would be a shame to conceal such comeliness.” Her mouth curved seductively. “I should like to view all of it.”

Quinn snorted. “Now, you see, love. That is why you are not Eve. You lack the sense required to see the man is taken.”

“You may wear a blindfold,” she offered Colin with a wink, “and call me by whatever name you prefer.”

Colin laughed for the first time in days.

“Watch out for her,” Quinn warned.

“I will leave that task to you. I leave for Bristol in the morning. Cartland’s past may be affecting his present. I hope that something can be discovered that might give me some advantage.”

“Good thinking.” Quinn’s lips pursed with thought. “Lysette and I will stay behind and make inquiries here.”

“I am not comfortable allowing him to go off alone,” she said, with an underlying note of steel to her voice.

“You will grow accustomed.” Quinn lounged in his chair with his usual insolent grace-his body canted to the side, his arm slung across the spindle back, his legs spread wide.

“As handsome as you are,” she sniffed, “I sometimes find it difficult to like you.”

Quinn grinned. “So we are in accord. Mitchell will search elsewhere. You and I will work together in Town.”

“Perhaps I wish to go with him instead.” Lysette’s smile did not reach her lovely eyes.

“Oh, would you?!” Quinn’s exaggerated pleasure made Colin laugh again. “How delightful. At least for me, if not for Mitchell. Sorry, chap.” He shrugged one shoulder and set his hand on the table.

Before either of them could anticipate the action, Lysette was on her feet and Quinn’s discarded knife was piercing the table with precision…directly between his casually splayed fingers.

He froze and stared at how close he had come to losing a finger or two. “Damnation.”

She leaned over him. “Do not mock or underestimate me, mon amour. It is not wise to prick my temper.”

Colin stood. “Thank you for the kind offer of your companion’s company,” he said hastily, “but I must respectfully decline.”

Lysette looked at him with a narrowed glance.

“You trust me not at all,” he said, “but I promise you this: I have every reason to clear my name and no reason to flee.”

For a moment, she did not move. Then her mouth lifted slightly at the corner. “Your woman is here.”

He said nothing, but an acknowledgment wasn’t necessary.

She waved him off with a graceful toss of her wrist. “You will not stray far. Good luck to you.”

After a quick bow, Colin reached into his pocket and tossed coins on the table. “I will pray for you,” he said to Quinn, squeezing his friend’s shoulder as he passed.

Quinn’s reply was a blistering curse.