He felt her shake, vibrating from her chest and along her arm, shivering in his fingers. His heart sank. He hadn't talked her into anything; he'd made her cry.
Her body wracked against his side, and he relinquished her arm. Amelia fell back on the bed and clutched her middle. What he had translated in the dark as sobs revealed themselves now as peals of laughter.
"What…" She gasped until she coughed. "What on earth are you doing?"
"What do you mean, 'you'? I am…a stranger!" he rumbled out, tugging at her sleeve; a last ditch effort at saving face. "I'll have your coin, and your company on the road!"
Amelia didn't tremble or comply; if anything, she slackened against the mattress. Her laughter carried on, unchecked. "Patrick, this is very amusing. You really should study a novel more carefully, however."
His ruse unraveled with abandon. "I am not Patrick!"
Some of her laughter faded and she wriggled onto her elbows. "Of course you are."
He abandoned his ruse and snapped down his mask, surprised. "How did you know?" he demanded, using the handkerchief to scrub soot from his face.
"Because." She sat up all the way. "You smell like Patrick. And…and you feel like him," she breathed.
"Feel?" he murmured, words parched.
"There's just a feeling, when I'm near you. It's the same, dark or light; I would know that it's you." Her eyes were luminous in the lamplight peeking in around the curtain, jewels set into a face grown even more beautiful since morning. How had he ever thought her features childlike?
"Amelia," he whispered, heart aching. "I don't know what to say."
She stood up and claimed his hand, and caressed his knuckle with her thumb. Her soft skin slipped over his finger, and he shivered. "Also, you forgot to remove your signet ring. I saw it before you put out the light," she said in apology.
"Oh, sod the whole business," he grumbled, dropping to sit on the bed while Amelia lit the lamp again.
She settled beside him, peering up at him through a sweep of chestnuts curls. "I was very amused, but what did you think to accomplish with this charade?"
"To convince you to go back to London. I thought Baron McTavish might persuade you where no one else could."
Her laugh now was different, deep, rich, and mature. "It isn't Baron McTavish I'm infatuated with, not really. It's that perfect joining of two souls, but with the promise of freedom and adventure. Baron McTavish just happens to embody that in the land of A Patient Heart."
Patrick's chin dropped, and he stared at her in the lamplight. He couldn't speak because he couldn't think; she had thrown him off balance yet again.