A Passion for Him (Georgian #3)
Page 23“I think I’ll wed Sarah after all,” he growled, yanking on her stays so tightly, she lost her ability to breathe. “I’m too old fer this.”
Gasping and lacking the air required to speak, she swatted at him to fix it. He scowled, then appeared to notice that she was about to faint, and why. He grumbled an apology and loosened the tapes.
“I ’ope yer ’appy,” he snapped. “You’ve driven me to the altar!”
Amelia pulled on her underskirts. After Tim tied them to her, she caught up her dress from where it pooled on the floor and thrust her arms into the sleeves.
Tim’s thick fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons that secured the gown.
“I love you.” She looked over her shoulder. “I do not know if I have ever told you that, but it’s true. You are a good man.”
The flush of his skin spoke volumes.
“’E’d best marry you, if that’s what you want,” he said gruffly, his gaze on his task. “Otherwise, I’ll string ’im up and gut ’im like a fish.”
It was some sort of peace offering, and she accepted it gratefully. “I would help you, if it came to that.”
He snorted, but a quick glance over her shoulder revealed a wry curve to his lips. “’E doesn’t know what trouble ’e’s got ’imself into with you.”
Amelia shifted impatiently. “I pray we can keep the man alive long enough to show him.”
The moment Tim announced he was done, she pulled on stockings and shoes, and rushed toward the door. As she took the stairs with all the decorum she could muster, her breath shortened until she felt dizzy.
The next moments of her life would alter the future forever; she felt it in her bones. The feeling of portent was so strong, she was almost inclined to flee, but could not. She needed Montoya with a depth and strength she had thought she would never feel again. Part of her heart screamed silently at the betrayal of her first, dear love for Colin. The other half was older, wiser and understood that affection for one did not negate the affection she felt for the other.
Her hand shook as she reached for the doorknob of the private dining room. In the best of circumstances she would be nervous. She was about to face the man who had seen her and touched her in ways no one else ever had. The added tension brought on by the revealing of his face only deepened her disquiet and concern.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, Amelia knocked.
“Come in.”
Before she lost her courage, she entered with as confident a stride as she could affect. She paused just inside, taking in the lay of the room with its cheerily blazing fire, large circular table draped in cloth, and walls covered in paintings of the countryside. He faced away from her before a window, his hands clasped at the small of his back, his broad shoulders covered in exquisite colorful silk, his silky black locks restrained in a queue that ended just between his shoulder blades.
The sight of his richly clad form in the simple country room was glaring. Then he turned, and her body froze in shock.
It cannot be him, she thought with something akin to panic. It is impossible.
Her heart ceased beating, her breath seized in her lungs, and her thoughts stuttered as if she had taken a blow to the brain.
Colin.
How was it possible . . . ?
As her knees gave way, she grappled blindly for a nearby chair but missed. She crumpled to the rug, a loud gasp filling the highly charged air as her instincts rushed to the fore and forced her to breathe.
“Amelia.” He lunged toward her, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“Stay away!” she managed, through a throat clenched painfully tight.
The Colin Mitchell she knew and loved was dead.
Then, how is it, an insidious mental voice questioned, that he is here with you?
She repeated that litany endlessly in her mind, unable to bear the thought of the years between them, the life he must have led, the days and nights, the smiles and laughter . . .
The betrayal was so complete, she could not credit that Colin was capable of it. Yet, as she stared at the dangerously handsome man who stood across from her, her heart whispered the agonizing truth.
I would know him anywhere, it said. My love.
How could she have missed the signs?
Because he was dead. Because I grieved long and deeply.
Freed from the confines of the mask, Colin’s exotic Gypsy features left no doubt that it was he. He was older, the lines of his face more angular, but the traces of the boy she had loved were there. The eyes, however, were Montoya’s—loving, hungry, knowing eyes.
The lover who’d shared her bed was Colin . . .
A wracking sob escaped her, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Amelia.”
The aching tone in which her name was spoken made her cry harder. The foreign accent was gone, leaving behind the voice she heard in her dreams. It was deeper, more mature, but it was Colin’s.
She looked away, unable to stand the sight of him.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked quietly. “No questions to ask? No insults to hurl?”
A hundred words struggled to leave her mouth, and three very precious ones, but she leashed them tightly, unwilling to bare the depth of her pain. She stared at a small, square painting of a lake that adorned the wall. Her lower lip quivered, and she bit it to hide the telltale movement.
“My body has been inside yours,” he said hoarsely. “My heart beats in your breast. Can you not at least look at me, if you will not speak to me?”
Her silent reply was the tears that flowed in a steady, endless stream.
He cursed and came toward her.
“No!” she cried, stilling him. “Do not come near me.”
Colin’s jaw clenched visibly, and she watched the muscle tic with an odd disconnection. How strange to see Montoya’s maturity and polish within her childhood love. He looked the same and yet different. He was bigger, stronger, more vital. He was stunningly attractive, blessed with a novel masculine appeal few could rival. She used to dream of the day they would be wed and she could call him her own.
But that dream had died when he had.
“I still dream of that,” he murmured, answering the words she had not realized she’d spoken aloud. “I still want that.”
“You allowed me to believe you were dead,” she whispered, unable to reconcile the Colin she remembered with the magnificently dressed man standing before her.
“I had no choice.”
“You could have come to me at any time; instead you have been absent for years!”
“I returned as soon as I was able.”
“As another man!” She shook her head violently, her mind filling with memories of the last weeks. “It was a cruel game you played with my affections, making me care for a man who does not exist.”
“I exist!” He stood tall and proud, his shoulders back, his chin lifted. “I played no role with you. Every word that left Montoya’s mouth, every touch, was from my heart. The same heart beats in both men. We are one and the same. Both madly in love with you.”
“The accent was a façade, yes. A way to keep you from guessing the truth before I could tell you properly. The rest was a creation of your mind, not mine.”
“Do not blame this farce on me!” Amelia struggled to her feet. “You allowed me to grieve for you. Have you any notion of what I have suffered these last years? How I have suffered these last weeks, feeling as if I was betraying Colin by falling in love with Montoya?”
Torment shadowed his features, and she hated the vicious satisfaction she felt at the sight of it. “Your heart was never fooled,” he said roughly. “It always knew.”
“No, you—”
“Yes!” His dark eyes burned with an inner fire. “Do you recall whose name you cried at the height of orgasm? When I was deep inside you, clasped in the very heart of your body, do you remember which lover’s name came to your lips?”
Amelia swallowed hard, her mind shifting through the myriad of sensations that had assailed her untried body. She remembered the look of the bullet scar on his shoulder, the way the feel of it had plagued her in some fashion she could not pinpoint.
“You were driving me mad!” she accused.
“I wanted to tell you, Amelia. I tried.”
“Later, you could have. I nearly begged you!”
“And have this discussion directly after we made love?” he scoffed. “Never! Last night was the culmination of my deepest, most cherished fantasies. Nothing could have induced me to ruin that.”
“It is ruined!” she yelled, shaking. “I feel as if I have lost two loves, for the Colin I knew is dead, and Montoya was a lie.”
“He is not a lie!”
Colin came toward her, and she hastily caught the back of a chair and pulled it between them. The sturdy wooden seat was no deterrent, however, and he shoved it aside.
She turned to flee, but he caught her, and the feel of his arms around her trembling body was too much.
Amelia hung in his embrace, devastated.
“I love you,” he murmured, his lips to her temple. “I love you.”
For so long she’d prayed to hear those words from his lips, but they were too little now and far too late.
Chapter 13
As her coach pulled into the courtyard of the inn specified by the outriders, Maria collected her hat and gloves in preparation for alighting.
“It is a rare sight to see you so anxious,” Christopher murmured, his heavy-lidded gaze making him appear deceptively slumberous. She knew him too well to believe that.
“I am relieved we have found her and that she was of sound mind enough to drag Tim along with her, but there are still the matters of Montoya and Ware to address.” Maria sighed. “As miserable as my youth was, I am grateful to have been too busy to indulge in reckless love such as this.”
“You were waiting for me,” Christopher purred, catching her hand before she gloved it and kissing the back.
She cupped his cheek and smiled. “You were worth the wait.”
The coach rolled to a halt, and Christopher vaulted down. As she accepted his assistance, she said, “I am surprised that Tim is not out here to greet us.”
“As am I,” he agreed. He glanced up at the coachman. “Pietro, make arrangements for the horses, then unload Miss Benbridge’s valise.”
Pietro nodded and pulled away, taking the carriage to the stables several yards away.
“No, I think of you,” he corrected, looking down at her with the melting intensity that had shattered her defenses so many years ago.
They waited for Simon and Mademoiselle Rousseau to join them. Then they all entered the quiet inn.
“I will inquire about Tim,” Christopher said, striding to the counter. A moment later, he gestured for one of the lackeys at her side to join him. Together, the two men followed the innkeeper out of the room.
“What is going on?” Mademoiselle Rousseau wondered aloud.
“Let us order food,” Simon said. “I am half-starved.”
“You are always half-starved,” she muttered.
“It requires a great deal of energy to tolerate you, mademoiselle,” he retorted.
The bickering duo walked away, leaving Maria waiting with a lackey. She frowned as Christopher reappeared with Tim in tow.
Maria noted the grim look on Tim’s face and moved forward to meet them. “Where is Amelia?”
“Apparently,” Christopher drawled, “her phantom admirer has decided to step out from behind the mask.”
“Oh.” She glanced at Tim, who looked both pained and furious. “What is it?”
“They are speaking in the private dining room,” Christopher explained, “with an open door for propriety’s sake. From the sounds of it, it is not going well for the man.”
“Why not?”
“When ’e approached me,” Tim rumbled, “I thought ’e looked familiar, but I couldn’t place ’is face. It came to me when I overheard them talking.”
“What came to you?” she asked, looking between both men. “Who is he? Do we know him?”
“Remember the pictures I drew for you in Brighton?” Tim asked, harkening back to the days of her “courtship” with Christopher. After a failed attempt to retrieve Amelia, Tim had put both his excellent memory and talent for rendering to good use by drawing images of the servants who had spirited Amelia away.
Nodding, Maria recalled the stunningly beautiful drawings. “Yes, of course.”
“The man she’s speaking to is one of them.”
Frowning, she tried to recall them all. There had been a drawing of Amelia and Pietro, as well as of a governess and a young groomsman . . .
“That is not possible,” she said, shaking her head. “That young man was Colin, the boy who died trying to save Amelia.”
“Pietro’s nephew, was he not?” Christopher asked with one brow raised. “If there are any doubts about the man’s identity, I am certain Pietro can help us to dispel them.”
“Bloody hell,” she breathed. Pivoting on her heel, she looked for Simon and found him sinking into a chair. She marched toward him.
He glanced up and saw her coming, his blue eyes first sparkling with welcome, then narrowing warily. The smile that curved his sensual lips faded as resignation passed over his features. She knew then that it was true, and her heart ached for the torment her sister must be feeling.
“Out with it,” she snapped, as he stood before her.
Simon nodded and pulled out the empty seat that waited between him and Mademoiselle Rousseau. “You might want to take a seat,” he said wearily. “This might take some time.”