Passion for the Game

Chapter 12

“Feeling better?” Miss Pool asked, glancing aside at Amelia as they walked through the village on their return trip home.

Amelia nodded. “I am, yes. Thank you.”

Ever since the night Maria had come for her, she’d grown more and more restless. When it became obvious that she couldn’t concentrate on the day’s lessons, Miss Pool had suggested they set the work aside in favor of a day outdoors. Parasols in hand, they had ventured out with no particular destination in mind but had found themselves drawn to the nearby market town. Amelia enjoyed the afternoon stroll, appreciating the opportunity to see others industriously going about their daily business. Other people had full lives, even if she did not.

“The body needs as much conditioning as the mind,” Miss Pool said in her soft, sweet voice.

“I have always thought so, too.” Of course, she’d grown up alongside a physically active boy and had learned to relish hard play. She also relished a dimpled smile, but she had not seen that in years.

“I do like your hair worn up.” The governess smiled. “You look every inch the fine lady. I will write your father this evening and suggest the procurement of a proper abigail for you.”

Amelia touched her hair nervously. Braided and then coiled into a bun, it was heavy and her neck ached with the unaccustomed weight. But if this was what was required to be considered a young woman and not a child, she considered the discomfiture worth it.

“Good afternoon, Miss Pool. Miss Benbridge.”

They slowed and smiled at the young cobbler who had stepped outside of his shop to greet them. The handsome blond man smiled shyly through his beard and rubbed his palms nervously against his apron.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Field,” Miss Pool greeted with a soft blush on her cheeks that didn’t escape Amelia’s notice.

The two appeared to like each other, with more than casual interest. Curious, Amelia studied them, wondering if she looked so obviously smitten when she crossed paths with Colin. How dreadful if she did, to wear that glowing look of hope and longing in the face of his curtness and obvious distaste for her.

Feeling both morose and embarrassed that she was intruding on an exchange that seemed intimate, she turned her back to the couple…

…and spotted a familiar set of broad shoulders and long legs walking away from her. At Colin’s side was a blond girl who Amelia guessed was close to his age, if the ripe womanly curves were any indication. They were laughing, their eyes bright as they looked at each other. His hand was at her lower back, steering her around a corner so that they disappeared from view.

Unable to resist, Amelia moved forward, her movements jerky. Colin and the buxom girl had looked at each other much as Miss Pool and Mr. Field were. A look filled with promise.

Amelia rounded the same building, her steps slowing as she heard low murmured voices and subdued giggles. She passed barrels and crates, her focus so narrow that when a stray cat leapt to the ground with a meow it frightened her half to death. She fell back against the brick, her hand sheltering her racing heart, her eyes squeezed shut with dread. It was cooler back here, the pass-through shaded from the sun by the building.

She knew she should turn back. Miss Pool wouldn’t be distracted long and then she would worry about her. But Amelia’s heart ignored reason, to no surprise. If the stubborn thing listened at all, it would have ceased pining for Colin months ago.

Taking a deep breath of courage, she pushed off the wall and turned the corner to reach the back of the shop. There she stilled, her breath seized in her lungs, her open parasol first falling to her side and then falling from her fingers to thud on the soft earth.

Colin and his companion were too occupied to note the sound. The pretty blonde was pressed against the rear wall, her head tilted back to invite Colin’s roving mouth, which moved across the swell of flesh exposed by her low bodice. He caged her in, his left arm bearing the weight of his torso, his right hand kneading the full breast the girl thrust wantonly toward him.

Pain stabbed deep into Amelia’s heart, a wound so brutal she moaned with the agony of it. Colin’s head flew up, his eyes widening as he saw her. He straightened instantly, thrusting himself away from the building and the girl he ravished there.

Horrified, Amelia turned and ran the length of the shops, leaving her parasol behind. Her sobs echoed off the rear of the stores, but she heard him calling out to her, regardless. That deep voice, so different from the boy she had known, the tone serrated and pleading as if he cared that he’d broken her.

Which he didn’t, she knew.

She ran faster, the thudding of her panicked boot steps lost in the sound of blood rushing in her ears.

But even running her fastest, she could not outrun the memory of what she had seen.

“Will you please allow me to handle the matter?” Simon murmured, his head next to Maria’s as they both stared out the small traveling coach window.

“No, no,” she insisted, her foot tapping impatiently upon the floorboards. “It will be less messy all around if I do it.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “If you approach the man, you will end up in fisticuffs, which will draw attention. In order for this to succeed, we will need to depart as quietly as we arrived.”

He sighed audibly and fell back against the squabs with high drama, playing the part of the exasperated male to perfection. Maria laughed, then immediately fell silent as a large form appeared from the mews behind the St. John household. “Is that one of them?” she asked.

Simon looked out the window again. “Yes. But I suggest we wait for one of the smaller ones.”

Maria considered that a moment, admitting to herself that she was quite intimidated by the man’s great size. He was a giant. His long, unkempt hair and black beard only added to the image of a large troll. He walked away from them with a heavy, lumbering stride that she was certain shook the very ground beneath him.

She took a deep breath and thought of her sister. Maria had already questioned all of the men who had been with her the night she failed to retrieve Amelia. Sadly, there was very little useful information to be gained from them. They had been too intent on saving her. Christopher’s men, on the other hand, might have been more inclined to absorb the whole scene. Therefore, she had to question at least one of them. Her sister needed her. Somehow, she would find the strength required to abscond with a behemoth.

Thrusting open the door, Maria stepped down before she could come to her senses. She hurried after the man, calling out for his assistance such as a helpless, needy female would.

The giant paused and turned with a scowl, which quickly turned to masculine appreciation, which in turn immediately grew into wariness as she pulled a pistol from behind her back.

“Hello,” she greeted with a wide smile, aiming for his heart. “I would enjoy your company for a spell.”

His gaze narrowed. “Are ye daft?” he rumbled.

“Please don’t make me shoot you. I will, you know.” She widened her stance in preparation for the resulting kick of the discharging weapon. It was all for show, of course, but he couldn’t know that. “I would deeply regret putting a hole in you, as you helped to save my life recently and I do owe you a great deal for that.”

His eyes widened with recognition, then he cursed under his breath. “They’ll tease me for the rest of my life for this,” he muttered.

“I am sorry about that.”

“No, yer not.” He stomped past her, proving her suspicion about the quaking earth. “Where?”

“My coach is around the corner.”

He reached it and yanked the door open, revealing a wide-eyed Simon.

“Good God!” Simon blinked. “That was too easily done.”

“I’d take ’er over my knee,” the giant rumbled, “but St. John would ’ave my ’ide.” He climbed into the carriage and took up an entire squab, causing the equipage to creak in protest. Crossing his arms, he griped, “Come on, then. Get on with it.”

Maria handed Simon the gun and stepped up unassisted. “Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, Mr.-?”

“Tim.”

“Mr. Tim.”

He glared. “Just Tim.”

She settled on the rear-facing seat next to Simon. She arranged her skirts as the coach lurched into motion and then beamed at her guest. “I hope you like Brighton, Tim.”

“The only thing I’ll like is to know that you torment St. John the same,” he grumbled.

Bending over conspiratorially, she whispered, “I am much worse with him.”

Tim grinned from the depths of his beard. “I like Brighton fine, then.”

The setting sun cast the ocean in a reddish glow that turned the water to molten fire. Hard, heavy waves pounded onto the shore, molding it into shape, the rhythmic roar soothing Christopher as it always had. He stood on the high cliff, his stance wide, his hands clasped at his back. The salty sea breeze gusted against him, chilling his skin and tugging strands of his hair free of the queue that contained them.

Beyond the horizon one of his ships waited, its belly full of spirits and tobacco, rich materials and exotic spices. Once night fell, the vessel would draw closer, searching for the winking light his crew would use to signal them into the proper position.

It was then that his rivals would strike, disrupting the transport of contraband to the shore. Tonight they would receive what they had truly been spoiling for-a fight.

The anticipation for the confrontation ahead thrummed in Christopher’s veins, but he was neither anxious nor eager. This was a necessary task, nothing more.

“We stand at the ready,” said Sam, who took up position beside him.

Christopher’s men were scattering everywhere, some along the cliffs and beach, others in the caves and village. His hands unclasped, allowing his shirtsleeves to flutter violently in the wind. He gripped the hilt of his foil and inhaled sea air deep into his lungs.

“Right,” he murmured. “Let’s go down, then.”

He led the way to the beach below, his gaze directly meeting the eyes of his many men as he passed them. It was such a simple thing, those fleeting glances, yet they said so much to the men who risked their lives in service to him.

I see you. You are someone to me.

Over the years he’d watched others in command and noted how they walked the gauntlet with eyes set straight ahead, puffed up with pride as if they were too good to acknowledge their underlings. The only loyalty such men inspired was built on fear or love of coin. A shaky foundation, easily destroyed.

Christopher stepped behind a large boulder that rested partly in the water and waited. The sky darkened; the roaring waves lessened their fury. The lander moved into place to begin the well-organized task of hauling cargo from the ship to the shore.

The knowledge of what was to come coiled tightly inside Christopher. He watched the beach from his hiding place, emotionless, as he would need to be to survive the long night. Shadows flowed down from the village like smoke, betraying those who wished to usurp him. As he gestured for the lantern that was hidden to the side, the clash of steel and shouts of warning could be heard. The air changed, became charged, the scent of fear filling his nostrils. Christopher revealed himself, holding a lantern aloft to cast illumination upon his features.

“Ho, there!” he called out, his tone filled with such command that the battling men on the shore faltered. As he expected, one man separated himself from the many.

“About time you showed yer cowardly face!” the cretin shouted.

Arching a brow, Christopher drawled, “Next time you desire my company, might I suggest a handwritten invitation?”

“Quit yer riddles and fight like a man.”

Christopher smiled coldly. “Ah, but I prefer to fight like a heathen.”

A grouping of men rushed toward him and he tossed the lantern at their feet, spraying oil and flames, which quickly engulfed the lot of them and lit up the beach. Their screams of agony tore through the night, sending a ripple of terror and unease outward to engulf anyone within hearing distance.

Yanking his foil free of its scabbard, Christopher tossed up his left arm for balance and lunged into the ensuing fracas.

The night was long, the carnage plenty.

“Are you going to see Mr. Field?” Amelia inquired from her seat on Miss Pool’s bed.

The pretty governess lifted her blue eyes to meet Amelia’s in the vanity mirror’s reflection. “Are you playing matchmaker?”

Amelia wished she could smile, but she hadn’t managed that feat in days. “You look as lovely as a china doll,” she said instead.

Miss Pool turned in her seat to study her for the umpteenth time. “Are you certain you won’t come with me? You always love a trip into the village.”

Painful memories flashed through her mind, and Amelia shook her head violently to rid herself of them. She would not cry in front of Miss Pool.

“Please know that you can talk to me about anything,” the governess coaxed. “I kept your secret about your sister. I can keep others, too.”

Pursing her lips, Amelia tried to keep her thoughts to herself but found herself blurting, “Have you ever been in love?”

The blue eyes widened, then Miss Pool admitted, “I fancied that I was. It ended badly, I’m afraid.”

“Did you still love him? When it ended?”

“Yes.”

Rising to her feet, Amelia moved to the window. It looked out toward the stream and away from the stables, so it was an innocuous view. “How did you recover?”

“I’m not sure that I did, until I met Mr. Field.”

Amelia turned back at that. “How does he signify?”

“I am no expert, so I hesitate to speak about this, but I think perhaps a new romance can fill the void left by an old one.” Miss Pool stood and crossed to her. “You will never have to worry about that. You are far too wonderful a person to ever lose your love.”

“How I wish that were true,” Amelia whispered.

A commiserating smile spread across the governess’s delicate features. She set her hands gently atop Amelia’s shoulders and asked, “You speak of first loves, yes? Those always end with heartache, Amelia. It is a rite of passage. The signal that you have grown beyond youthful fancy into the deeper knowledge of yourself. It is painful proof that you have left the tiny concerns of childhood behind and have grown into a woman’s awareness.”

Tears welled in Amelia’s eyes. Miss Pool pulled her closer and offered solace in a warm embrace. Amelia accepted it gratefully, crying until she was wracked with hiccups, then she managed to cry some more.

Finally empty of tears, she reached deep inside herself and found a bit of strength she had not known she possessed.

“Go,” Amelia ordered, blowing her nose into the handkerchief thrust at her. Miss Pool was always prepared. “I have held you here long enough.”

“I will not leave you like this,” Miss Pool protested.

“I feel better. Truly. I feel so much better, in fact, that I intend to go for a walk to clear my head.”

It was Tuesday, the day when Colin and his uncle had the afternoon to themselves. They always ventured away, which meant the estate was safe to traverse.

“Come with me, then.”

Amelia shuddered. She was not that strong. “No, thank you. I would much prefer to stay close to home today.”

It took more assurances and cajoling before Miss Pool reluctantly left for the village. Then Amelia questioned the cook-who knew everything about everyone-to make certain Colin was gone. Still, the fear of seeing him again made her nauseated.

Taking a deep breath, she burst from the kitchen door, ran across the unkempt lawn, and plunged into the cover of trees. As she approached the small fence with the intent to climb over it, a movement in the trees drew her up short.

She ducked low and hid behind a trunk, watching as one of her father’s lackeys made his rounds along the perimeter of the property. He was an older man, neat in appearance but too lean, causing his clothes to hang on his bony frame. His roaming gaze was hard and cold, and his hand gripped the hilt of a wicked-looking dagger.

He paused and glanced around suspiciously. Amelia held her breath, afraid to even blink as he craned his neck back and forth, searching the area. Forever seemed to pass before the guard moved on.

For a long moment, she waited, needing to be certain that he’d gone far enough away that she would not be seen climbing over the fence. Then she made her escape.

Amelia hopped over onto the neighboring property, slipping into the wooded area before blowing out the breath she’d been holding. “Heavens,” she breathed, relieved beyond measure to have succeeded. “What a most unpleasant man.”

“I agree.”

Amelia jumped at the sound of the low, cultured drawl. She spun about, then gaped at the gentleman who stood nearby.

He was undeniably wealthy, as indicated by the fine quality of his garments and the craftsmanship of his wig. He was pale and slender, almost pretty. Despite the fact that he looked to be of similar age, he carried himself with a bearing that proclaimed clearly that his word was to be obeyed. A man of privilege.

He gave an elegant bow and introduced himself as the Earl of Ware. Then he explained that the stream she so enjoyed was on his father’s land. “But you are welcome to it.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She dipped a quick curtsy. “You are most gracious.”

“No,” he said dryly. “I am most bored. I appreciate the company, especially when that company is the fair maiden freed from her turret prison.”

“What a fanciful image,” she murmured.

“I am a fanciful fellow.”

Lord Ware took up her hand and escorted her to the stream. There she found Benny, who was working industriously with a long stick. He felt her gaze and looked up. “I’ll make you a pole, too.”

“See?” Ware said. “No more need for tears and reddened noses. After all, what could be better than an afternoon on the shore with an earl and an urchin?”

She glanced aside at him and he winked.

For the first time in days, Amelia smiled.

As the sun climbed steadily above the horizon, bringing with it a new day, the scene on the beach at Deal was revealed to those who still drew breath. Bodies littered the blood-soaked sand and floated in the gently lapping morning waves. The ship was gone, its cargo unloaded and placed on carts that had long since rolled away.

Christopher ignored the aches and pains that wracked every part of his body and stood still, his hands steepled together and pressed to his lips. To the ignorant, he might appear to be lost in prayer, but those who knew him knew that God would never deign to help a soul as black as his. At his feet lay the man who had challenged him, the ambitious fool’s heart pierced with a foil, pinning the corpse to the beach.

An older man approached with a pronounced limp, his upper thigh sporting a bloody bandage. “A dozen lost,” he reported.

“I want a list of their names.”

“Aye. I’ll see to it.”

A soft touch came to his arm, and Christopher turned his head to find a young girl standing beside him.

“Yer bleeding,” she whispered, her eyes big as saucers.

He lowered his gaze, noting for the first time that he had a deep gash in his biceps that bled profusely and soaked his tattered shirtsleeves.

“So I am,” he said, extending his arm so that she could tie it off with the torn strips of linen in her hand.

He studied her as she worked, admiring how composed she was despite her youth. Grown men were vomiting over the scene before them, but she bore it stoically. Violence was not unknown to her.

“Did you lose anyone today, child?” he asked softly.

Her gaze stayed focused on her work. “My uncle.”

“I am sorry.”

She nodded.

He exhaled harshly and turned his head to watch the sunrise. Although his position here was once again secure, he would not leave immediately. He had known the battle itself would be short. The fortnight he anticipated was for the rest of it. It would take at least a sennight to visit every one of the families who had suffered a death today and ensure they would have the means to survive. A miserable task, with days on end of grief, but it had to be done.

Then, quite suddenly, the thought of Maria entered his head. Where it came from was a mystery. Christopher knew only that her memory straightened the weary curve of his spine and gave him a goal-a soft bed and her warm, curvy body pressed to his. To hold her, to relax with her, to experience that odd tightening in his chest that he found so discomfiting. It would be preferable to this…nothing he felt now.

Do you ever contemplate leaving this life?

He did not, even now in the midst of this ugliness. But for the first time, he contemplated a reprieve, one made possible by Maria.

It was God’s punishment for his sins that in order to keep his life, he would have to extinguish his one pleasure in it.