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
She dismissed his claim with a wave of her hand. “You affected an accent and allowed me to believe you were disfigured.”
“The accent was a facade, yes. A way to keep you from guessing the truth before I could tell you properly. The rest was a creation of
“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.
“You think of everything,” Maria praised, wrapping her arm around his.
“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.”
