A Passion for Him (Georgian 3)

“The bed may be,” she said, watching him impassively, “but I have some doubts as to whether you are.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then threw up his hands. “Bah! Rot in the chair, then.”

Freezing, he hurried back to the bed and crawled between now-cooled linens. Curling into a ball, he prayed the warmth of the renewed fire would reach the bed soon.

“Curse you,” he grumbled, glaring down the length of the bed at her. “It would be much warmer if there were two of us in here.”

“You have more reason to want me dead than alive,” she pointed out in a far too reasonable tone.

“At this moment, truer words were never spoken,” he snapped. “The only reason I am not strangling you is because killing you would rob me of your body heat!”

Her pretty lips thinned primly.

“This is ridiculous, Lysette.” He sat up, too frustrated to even attempt sleep. The impracticality of sleeping in the cramped wing chair after a long day of travel was so out of character for her. She was faultlessly practical, as was everyone who lived by their wits. “Why would I kill you now, when I have not before?”

She shrugged, but the way her gaze darted nervously belied the careless gesture.

Heaving out a long-suffering sigh, Simon once again tossed back the covers and stalked toward her. When she wielded a knife from between the edges of her cloak, he was not surprised.

“Put that away.”

“Stay back.”

“I am not attracted to you,” he reiterated slowly. “And even if I was, I have no need to force myself on an unwilling woman.”

Lysette frowned suspiciously. “I am fine in the chair.”

“Liar. You look exhausted, and I cannot afford to drag you along while I attempt to clear Mitchell’s name. You must carry your own weight.”

She bristled at that. “I will not be a burden.”

“Damned if you won’t after a night spent sleepless and frozen. You will become ill and useless.”

Pushing to her feet, she said, “I can take care of myself. Go back to bed and leave me in peace!”

Simon opened his mouth to argue further, then shook his head instead. He once again climbed between the sheets and turned his back toward the other side of the bed. A few moments later, the taper was extinguished. Shortly afterward he heard delicate snoring.

Faced with a deepening puzzle, Simon lay awake for some time.

Amelia studied the masked man in repose beside her and wondered how deeply he slept.

“We will wait until the sunrise to remove it,” Montoya had said earlier.

“Why not now?” she countered, desperate to see beneath the now intrusive barrier. Her heart was smitten and her body no longer innocent. But what they shared could be no more than infatuation—it could not be love—if she did not see all sides of him.

“I want nothing to mar this evening,” he had explained, withdrawing from her body and moving to the washstand behind the screen in the corner. He’d returned with a damp cloth and washed between her thighs, then cleansed himself before joining her in the bed. “In the morning, I will bare myself to you, strengthened by the memories of a blissful, perfect night in your arms.”

In the end, she had reluctantly agreed, unwilling to be at odds with him over the matter of a few hours.

With his back to the headboard and her body curved to his side, he had asked her to share a beloved memory from her past. She had chosen a tale about Colin, relating how she had conquered her fear of heights by climbing a tree during a game of hide-and-seek.

“He passed below me several times,” she said, her cheek resting over Montoya’s heart. “I half hoped he would find me quickly, because it was frightening clinging to that limb, but the desire to surprise him was too great to give myself away.”

His hand caressed up and down the length of her back. “You wanted to win,” he corrected, laughing that low, deep laugh she had adored from the moment she heard it.

“That, too.” She smiled. “When he finally forfeited, I was so pleased with myself. Colin spent his allowance on a new ribbon to mark the conquering of that fear.”

Montoya sighed. “He must have loved you a great deal.”

“I think he did, although he never told me. I would have given anything to hear those words from him.” Her fingers sifted through the hair on his chest.

“Actions speak louder than words.”

“I tell myself that. I still have that ribbon. It is one of my greatest treasures.”

“What do you imagine your life would have been like now, if you two had never been parted?”

Lifting her head, she’d met his questioning gaze. “I have imagined it in hundreds of scenarios. The most likely one, I think, would be that St. John would have taken Colin under his wing.”

“Would you be married?”

“I have always hoped so. But that would depend upon him.”

“He would have asked you,” Montoya said with conviction.

Amelia smiled. “What leads you to be so certain?”

“He loved you deeply. I have no doubt. You were simply too young for him at the time, and he was not in a position to offer for you.” He brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheekbone. “Do you love him still?”

She hesitated, wondering at the wisdom of confessing a lingering affection for one man while warming the bed of another.

“Always tell me the truth,” he urged softly, “and you will never be wrong.”

“Part of me will love him forever. He helped to mold me into the person I am today. He is weaved into the very fabric of my life.”

Montoya had kissed her then, sweetly and with deep reverence. Breathless and enamored, she asked him to share a part of his past with her, expecting that he might speak of his lost love. He did not.

He chose to speak of his livelihood and the dangerous work he had done for the Crown of England. He shared how he’d traveled the length and breadth of the Continent, never having a true home or family, until the day he sought to resign and was instead embroiled in a life-threatening intrigue.

“That is why I attempted to maintain my distance from you,” he said. “I did not want to taint your life with my mistakes.”

“Is that how your face was scarred?” she asked, her fingertips lightly following the edge of the mask where it touched his skin.

He went rigid. “Beg your pardon?”

Instantly contrite for having distressed him, Amelia rushed to say, “I can understand your fear, but your disfigurement will not alter my affection for you.”

“Amelia . . .” He seemed at a loss for words.

The conversation had died then, and they had simply clung to each other as Montoya fell asleep. She remained awake, her mind shifting through a multitude of thoughts. She planned what to say to Ware and Maria and mentally rehearsed how she would ask St. John for his assistance. She catalogued the various aches and pains that heralded her new awareness as a woman and speculated on how her relationship with Montoya would proceed once they were freed from all the unknowns that plagued them. She also wondered at her outrageous behavior of the last week and what it meant.

Only Maria truly understood what a monster Lord Welton was. That his b

lood ran through Amelia’s veins made her ill at times. Externally, she was clearly his issue. Was she also like her father in ways she could not see? It was terrifying to realize that everything she had done these last few days had been selfishly motivated. She had disregarded the feelings and concerns of those who cared for her—Ware, Maria, and St. John—in favor of her desire to be with Montoya. Was she truly her father’s daughter?

Amelia gazed into the licking flames and thought of the mask, ruminating about the man beneath it. The urge to peek beneath the guise was pressing. She tried to excuse the action with the reasoning that it was the mystery of his identity that had goaded her to act so rashly, not a defect in her character.

But what if Montoya was a light sleeper? What if he caught her and became angry? She dreaded the thought of exchanging furious words.

Perhaps she could test the depth of his slumber in some way . . . ?

Her hand lifted from the hard expanse of his abdomen, and her fingertips ran lightly along his thigh. The muscle twitched, but he made no other movement. Amelia tried again, caressing him with deeper pressure. This time, he moved not at all.

She became hopeful. He had loved her long and well, and extended journeys were known to make many a traveler weary.

Raising her head, her gaze roamed admiringly over the sculpted beauty of his chest. The scar on his shoulder was more visible now, the room lightened considerably by the fire Montoya had stoked into a hearty blaze to banish the pervasive chill. She studied the bullet hole with sympathy, guessing by the size and many radiating lines that it had been a nasty wound.

She kissed the evidence of injury, her lips brushing featherlight over the damaged flesh. The tempo of his breathing changed, and his nipples tightened while she watched in awe.

How fascinating the human body was. Tonight she had learned so much about her own. Amelia felt the sudden urge to know everything about his.

With the memories of his lovemaking still fresh and burning in her mind, she extended her tongue and licked across the tiny bead of darkened flesh. His skin was salty, the texture firmer than hers. She loved it, as she was beginning to love all of him.