All this time she had thought her father was protecting her from Maria. Now she was at a loss. The only thing she knew for certain was that her sister’s voice had carried a note of desperation and longing that would be impossible to feign.
Miss Pool pulled her closer and offered a shoulder to cry on, which Amelia gratefully accepted. She knew Miss Pool would not be with her for long. Her father changed her governesses every time he moved her, which was no less than twice a year. Nothing in her life was permanent. Not this new house with its charming garden pathways. Not this lovely room with its floral decor in her favorite shade of pink.
Then her thoughts paused.
Siblings were permanent.
For the first time in years, she realized that she was
Maria had risked life and limb in an attempt to speak with her. What a drastic difference that was from her father, whom she heard from only through third parties.
Suddenly, she felt as if something she had been waiting for had finally come to fruition, though she did not understand why. She would have to explore it, come to terms with it, then decide how she would act upon it. After years of days that blended one into another with nothing new to offer, a mystery had been revealed, one that offered the hope to end her loneliness.
The tears that fell next were tinged with relief.
Maria stared up at the canopy above her bed and attempted to find the fortitude within her to bear the pain of moving. She needed to see to Simon. She knew he was capable of taking care of himself, but she also knew he would be worried about her and she could not allow him to fret unnecessarily.
She was about to slip out of bed when the door from the gallery opened and St. John returned. Once again, her breath caught at the sight of him. He was beyond uncommon handsome, yes, but it was the absolute confidence with which he carried himself that she found most attractive. Simon also bore the trait, but in Christopher it was packaged differently. Where Simon exploded in Irish passion, Christopher coiled tighter and became more dangerous.
“Move and I will turn you over my knee,” Christopher rasped.
A smile hovered, but she held it back. The fierce pirate was something of a mother hen. She found it rather charming. It balanced out his otherwise overbearing and curt deportment. She could tell she set him off kilter. It was a simple joy to tease him, knowing that she was able to penetrate beneath his skin.
“I must show Simon that I am well.”
A low growl rumbled through the space, then he stalked to the adjoining door. Opening it, he said loudly, “Lady Winter is well. Do you understand this, Quinn?”
Grunts and incensed mumbles accompanied Christopher’s statement. He turned to look at her and asked, quite arrogantly, “Do you feel better now?”
“Simon, love?” she called out, wincing as the expansion of her lungs caused her shoulder to burn.
Violent thumping of chair legs against the floor was her reply.
Christopher stood there with one brow arched, waiting.
“Must you restrain him so?”
The other brow rose to match the first.
“I feel as if I should do something to save him,” she murmured, chewing on her lower lip.
Slamming the door shut, Christopher shrugged out of his coat and returned to his spot on the bed. She took note of how the stricture of his garments seemed to irritate him. Then she imagined him in only shirtsleeves and breeches on the deck of one of his ships and she shivered.
His mouth lifted at the corner, as if he knew her thoughts. “I’ve no wish to be courteous to him. He should have been watching you. He failed in that task.”
“He was unaware I was leaving.”
“You snuck out?”
She nodded.
He snorted. “More fool he, then, for not anticipating such an action on your part. He should know you better than I, and yet even I would have expected you to run off.”
“I would not have gone had I anticipated danger,” she argued. But then she would have missed that sighting of Amelia. While the outcome was heartrending, it gave her some hope. Amelia was healthy and still in England.
“Those who live as we do should always anticipate danger, Maria,” he said softly, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “Never lower your guard.”
As she struggled with her response to his gentleness, her gaze shifted to the door, seeking escape.
“Lord Welton was here.”
Her gaze flew back to meet his. Dark blue and fathomless. The man was an expert at keeping his thoughts to himself. She, however, was almost certain he could read her panic. “Oh?”
“He was under the impression that you were injured.”
Maria winced inwardly.
“But I assured him that two nights past we shared a repast and you were in excellent health.”
“Two nights past,” she parroted.
Christopher leaned closer, his free hand lifting to brush across her cheek. He could not seem to stop touching her in some fashion, a foible she found vastly appealing. She had been taking care of herself for so long, it was lovely to feel cared for.
“I told you I would help you,” he reminded softly.
But there was something she sensed churning beneath the surface masculine perfection. More than mere unease with new territory. Until she knew what it was, she could not trust him with simple truths, let alone with something so vital as the reclamation of Amelia.
So she nodded to signify her promise to consider his request, then closed her eyes. “I am truly weary.” The left side of her body throbbed from her head to her hip.
She sensed him lean closer, felt his breath brush across her lips. He was going to kiss her again, one of those light but utterly delicious meldings that made her blood thrum. Because she relished those kisses, she opened to him. He laughed softly, a throaty sound she adored.
“Can I trade a kiss for a secret?” he asked.
She opened one eye. “You put too much stock in your kisses.”
His grin stole her breath. “Perhaps you put too much stock in your secrets.”
“Oh, go away,” she said with a wide smile.
Instead he kissed her senseless.
“Amelia?”
Christopher settled farther into the window bench, resting his forearm atop his bent knee as he looked out at his rear garden below. It was after nightfall, but his home and its surrounding exterior were brightly lit and well guarded. Hedges were trimmed to prevent the creation of any hiding places. Like his life, the necessities were there, but there was no room for comforts or extravagances.
“Yes, that’s what she was saying.”
“And it was the girl who replied, not the governess. You are certain?” He shot a sidelong glance at the four men who were lined up a few feet away.
They all nodded their agreement.
“Why did no one go after the coach?” he asked.
All four men shuffled uncomfortably.
Sam cleared his throat and said, “You told us to watch the lady. When she was injured…” He shrugged lamely.
Christopher sighed.
A knock came to the door and he called out. Philip entered and said simply but gravely, “Lord Sedgewick.”
“Show him in.” Christopher waved the other men out, and a moment later Sedgewick entered. Tall, pale, and attired in a profusion of lace, jewels, and satin, Sedgewick was the epitome of aristocratic foppishness. That the man thought he could dictate to Christopher was so absurd it was laughable. That the man was actively hunting Maria was infuriating. And Christopher was not a man one wished to infuriate.
