A Passion for Him

  “What do you want me to do?” the Frenchman asked, looking grim as always.

  “I cannot go into town. There is some concern that Miss Benbridge will follow, and while I find that highly unlikely, the request is valid, so I must stay for now.”

  “I understand.”

  “St. John is sending a man to rally those who work for him in Bristol. Go and direct the search. Tell them what to look for, what to expect. If you find anything of import, send for me.”

  Jacques nodded and set off immediately. The Frenchman took the main staircase; Colin took the servants’. It emptied by the kitchen, and he ignored the startled glances sent his way as he exited out the delivery door and headed toward the stables.

  Every step he took grew heavier, his heart weighed upon by the upcoming confrontation that would cut him nigh as deeply as the one with Amelia had.

  He entered silently and inhaled deeply, finding the smells of hay and horses both familiar and soothing. The many beasts inside snorted and shifted restlessly as his scent filled the air and disturbed their equanimity. Glancing about, he looked for the groomsmen’s quarters. His stride faltered when he found the doorway. A man leaned against the jamb, watching him with wounded, angry eyes.

  The years had been kind to Pietro. Aside from a slight pouch at the belly, the rest of his body was still fit and strong. Strands of silver accented his temples and beard, but his skin was smooth and free of wrinkles.

  “Uncle,” Colin greeted, his throat tight with sorrow and affection.

  “My only nephew is dead,” Pietro said coldly.

  Colin flinched at the repudiation. “I have missed you.”

  “You lie! You let me think you were dead!”

  “I was offered the chance at a different life.” Colin held out his hands in a silent plea for understanding. “I had one chance to accept and no time to second-guess.”

  “And what of me?” Pietro demanded, straightening. “What of my grief? Was that nothing to you?”

  “You think I was not grieving?” Colin bit out, stung by the condemnation of yet another person he loved. “I might as well have been dead.”

  “Then why did you do it?” Pietro came forward. “I have tried to see what would make you do such a thing, but I don’t understand.”

  “I had nothing to offer anyone before. No way to create a life of comfort for those I loved.”

  “Comfort from what? The only discomfort in my life has been my mourning for you!”

  “What of freedom from work?” Colin challenged. “What of a life of travel and discovery? I can offer you those things now, when I could not before.”

  Pain wracked Pietro’s handsome features. “I am a simple man, Colin. A roof over my head . . . food . . . family. Those are all I need to be happy.”

  “I wish my needs were as simple.” Colin moved to the nearest stall and set his crossed arms along the top of it. “I need Amelia to be happy, and this was the only way I could conceive of to have her.”

  “Colin . . .” He heard his uncle sigh. “You love her still.”

  “I have no notion how not to love her. It is ingrained in me, as much a part of me as my hair and skin color.”

  Pietro joined him at the stall door. “I should have raised you in the camp. Then you wouldn’t want things that are beyond your reach.”

  Colin smiled and looked aside at him. “Amelia and I would have met at some point, at some time.”

  “That is your Romany blood talking.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  There was a long silence, as each attempted to find the right thing to say. “How long have you been in England?” Pietro asked finally.

  “A few weeks.”

  “A few weeks and you didn’t come to me?” Pietro shook his head. “I don’t feel that I know you at all. The boy I raised had more care for the feelings of others.”

  Aching from the pain he had inflicted, Colin reached out and set his hand atop Pietro’s shoulder. “If my love is in err, it is not due to lack of it for you but to a surfeit for her. I would have done anything, gone anywhere, to become worthy of Amelia.”

  “You seem to have accomplished what you set out to do,” Pietro said quietly. “Your clothes and carriage are fine indeed.”

  “It seems a waste now. She is as angry as you are. I do not know if she will forgive me, and if she does not, all is lost.”

  “Not all. You’ll always have me.”

  Tears came to Colin’s eyes, and he brushed them away with jerking movements. His uncle looked at him a moment, then heaved out his breath and embraced him.

  “There is still some of the Colin of old in you,” he said gruffly.

  “I am sorry for the pain I caused,” Colin whispered, his throat too tight to speak any louder. “I saw only the end, not the interim. I wanted everything, and now I have nothing.”

  Pietro shook his head and stepped back. “Don’t give up yet. You’ve worked too hard.”

  “Can you forgive me?” If he could manage to win back the love of one, perhaps there was a possibility that he could win back the other.

  “Maybe.” A grin split the depths of his uncle’s beard. “I have six horses to groom.”

  Colin’s mouth curved wryly. “I am at your service.”

  “Come on.” Pietro put his arm around Colin’s shoulders and urged him toward the groomsmen’s quarters. “You’ll need to change your clothes.”

  “I can buy more if these are ruined.”

  “Hmm . . .” His uncle looked at him consideringly. “How wealthy are you?”

  “Obscenely.”

  Pietro whistled. “Tell me how you did it.”

  “Of course.” Colin smiled. “We have time.”

  It was late afternoon. The sun was dipping to the west and supper was being prepared. Ware’s guests would eat earlier tonight than they would in Town, then spend the evening in the parlor, attempting to ignore the tension simmering between all parties. It would no doubt be unpleasant, but Ware understood the emotional undercurrents that were affecting everyone but him. He cared for Amelia and thought her the most suitable bride for his needs. That was his only tie to all of the rest.

  “Mitchell stayed,” he said to Amelia, as they strolled through the rear garden.

  “Oh.”

  She stared straight ahead. With a sigh, he drew to a halt, which forced her to do the same.

  “Talk to me, Amelia. That has always been the core strength of our friendship.”

  With a shaky smile, she canted her body to face his. “I am so sorry to have done this to you,” she said remorsefully. “If I could go back and alter the events of this last week, I would. I would go back years and have married you long ago.”

  “Would you?” He tugged her closer, and set his hands lightly on her hips. Behind her, a profusion of climbing roses hugged an archway that led to a pond. Dandelion seeds drifted in the breeze, creating an enchanting backdrop for an enchanting woman.

  “Yes. All these years I mourned him and he was thriving.” Something deliciously like a growl escaped her. “He finds it far too easy to leave me behind. I am sick of being left behind. First my father, now Colin.”

  Amelia wrenched away and began to pace, her long legs moving with a lithe, determined elegance.

  “I have never left you,” he said, pointing out what he knew to be his greatest strength. “I enjoy your company far too much. There are precious few people in this world about whom I feel similarly.”

  “I know. Bless you. I love you for that.” She managed a brief smile. “That is what has decided my mind. You will be steadfast and supportive. You do not seek to be someone you are not. You inspire me to be decorous and deport myself in a manner befitting a lady. We rub along well together.”

  Ware frowned, considering. “Amelia. I should like to discuss your thoughts on decorum and deportment in greater detail. Forgive me, but I find it rather odd to mention those traits as being most attractive. I would think our friendship and ease of assoc
iation would lure you most.”

  She halted, her pale green skirts settling gently around her feet. “I have come to realize something these past days, Ware. I have reckless tendencies, just as Welton did. I require a certain environment in order to restrain those selfish impulses.”

  “And I provide this environment.”

  Amelia beamed at him. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

  “Hmm . . .” He rubbed his jaw. “And Mitchell inspires your reckless nature?”

  “‘Goads’ would be a more apt word choice, but yes, he does.”

  “I see.” Ware smiled wryly. “His role sounds more fun than mine.”

  “Ware!” She looked affronted, which made him laugh.

  “Sorry, love. I must be honest. In one breath, you point out that I do not seek to be someone I am not—in opposition, I presume, to Mr. Mitchell. Then in the next breath, you say that I inhibit a part of your nature that you are not proud of. Is that not seeking to be someone you are not . . . in a fashion?”

  Her lower lip quivered in that way it had when she was upset. She set her hands on her hips and demanded, “Do you want me to be with him?” she cried. “Is that what you are saying?”

  “No.” All traces of amusement left him, and he bared the emotions he kept hidden below the surface. “I do not think he is the man for you. I do not think he deserves you. I do not believe he can provide a life that would content you. But that does not mean I want to live with only half of you.”

  Amelia blinked. “You are angry.”

  “Not at you,” he said gruffly, reaching for her again. He gripped her by the elbows and pulled her close. “But I may eventually become so and I do not want that. I resent that I can have only the one side of you. If you choose me, Amelia, I can make you happy. The question left is whether you can make me happy, and I wonder if that is possible if I am forever waiting for the return of that precocious girl who asked me to kiss her.”

  “Ware . . .”

  She cupped his cheek with her hand, and he nuzzled into it, inhaling the sweet scent of honeysuckle that clung to her.

  “I do not deserve you,” she whispered.

  “Is that not what Mitchell said to you?” he asked, altering his hold to embrace her fully. Resting his cheek against her temple, he said, “I will leave you now. I have arrangements to make, and you require time to think.”

  “I do not want you to fight him.”

  “It is too late to change that end, Amelia. But I demand first blood, nothing more.”

  He felt relief relax the tautness of her spine. “Thank you,” she said.

  Ware brushed away the lone tear that stained her cheek, and stepped back.

  “I am available to you at all times. Do not hesitate to seek me out if you have a need.”

  Amelia nodded, and watched Ware turn about and head toward the manse. When he disappeared from her view, she glanced around her, feeling lost and alone. No one knew how she felt, how deeply wounded she was by Colin’s reappearance after all these years.

  She stilled, her heartbeat stumbling for a moment over a sudden realization.

  There was one person who loved Colin as she had. One person who would be equally devastated by his betrayal.

  Knowing Pietro would need comfort as she did, Amelia lifted her skirts and hurried toward the stables.

  Chapter 15

  Francois Depardue assumed a vaguely bored expression as he entered the inn in Bristol. He took the stairs to the guest rooms above and knocked on the appropriate door. A shout of permission for entry was heard from the interior, and he answered it by stepping inside.

  “Well?” Cartland asked impatiently, glancing up from the maps he had spread across the small, round table.

  It was with great effort that Francois bit back an angry retort. With every day that passed, he disliked the brash, arrogant Englishman more and more. He’d argued with and then begged his superiors to have Cartland held in custody until he could ascertain who was truly guilty of Leroux’s murder, but to no avail.

  If he is lying, they said, he will be close at hand for you to eliminate.

  They had insisted that Cartland join the search, and the Englishman had immediately assumed that he was in charge. He was an excellent tracker and even better killer, but those skills were tempered by his mistaken belief in his own superiority.

  “It appears that Mitchell will be staying with Lord Ware. The manse is heavily guarded for some distance around. I would guess that is due to the presence of Christopher St. John.”

  Cartland smiled. “The earl is likely concerned that Mitchell will flee like the coward he is before the challenge can be met.”

  “So you say,” Francois said.

  The Englishman’s features darkened. “I think the presence of Mademoiselle Rousseau has spoiled your temper.”

  Lysette. Francois smiled at the thought of her. Once, she had been harmless, but he and his men had ensured that she would never be harmless, or innocent, again. Aside from his sincere desire to see justice brought to Leroux’s killer, his one pleasure in this miserable assignment was the thought of crossing paths with Lysette again.

  His blood heated in anticipation. She would fight him, she always did, and she improved with every encounter. The harder she resisted him, the more he enjoyed it. Now that the Illuminés, on whose behalf she worked, had tasked her with ensuring either Cartland or Mitchell paid for Leroux’s death, he imagined his inevitable domination of her body would be that much sweeter.

  Perhaps the Illuminés thought he would welcome their assistance, but he did not like being second-guessed, which was how he viewed their interference.

  “Do you have any suggestions for how we should proceed?” Francois asked.

  “We could possibly lure the bulk of the guards away, using me as bait. Then we can attack the manse at night and kill him.”

  “But that will not tell me who is guilty, will it?”

  Pushing to his feet, Cartland snapped, “I am obviously innocent, or they would not have sent me to find Mitchell!”

  “Why, then, is Mademoiselle Rousseau here?” Francois smiled. “You think she is merely present to observe and support my efforts? Surely you are not so stupid. It was well planned to send you with me and Quinn with her. Nothing has been left to chance. You think your spy”—he gestured to the stocky man in the corner with a jerk of his chin—“gives you an advantage, but you are wrong.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” Cartland’s face flushed.

  Francois debated a moment, then shrugged. “Mitchell is dueling over a woman. Perhaps she is the key to his confession.”

  The Englishman paled. “You think to take St. John’s sister-in-law? Are you insane?”

  “Surely he cannot be as fearsome as is rumored,” Francois scoffed.

  “You’ve no notion,” Cartland muttered. Then his features took on a mien of wily determination. “Then again . . . perhaps you are right.” He smiled smugly. “I will think of a way. Give me time.”

  Francois shrugged, but inwardly he was making his own plans. “Fine. I will go eat downstairs. Either of you care to join me?”

  “No. We both have work to do.”

  “As you wish.”

  Cartland watched Depardue leave with a narrowed glance.

  “He is becoming more trouble than he is worth,” he muttered. “Since killing him myself is out of the question, we must find another way to hasten the man to his reward.”

  “Send him to capture the girl, then,” Jacques replied easily. “Since it was his idea, he should not object.”

  Grinning, Cartland considered the beauty of the plan. If Mitchell or St. John took care of Depardue for him, it would only strengthen his own protestations of innocence.

  “Can you arrange for him to gain entry?”

  “Mais oui.”

  “Excellent. See to it.”

  Amelia found Pietro leading a bridled horse from the nearby corral to the stable yard. For a long moment, she was struck dumb by
the resemblance he bore to Colin. With her memories of her childhood love arrested in the past, she had not noticed before. Now that she had seen him as a man, the similarities were unavoidable and agonizing. Tears welled, and though she tried to blink them back, they were plentiful and blurred her vision. She wiped them angrily away.

  “Miss Benbridge.” Pietro looked at her with commiseration in his dark eyes. “It hurts. I know.”

  She nodded. “How are you faring?”

  “I’m angry,” he admitted, “but grateful to have him back. If you still love the boy he was, perhaps you feel the same?”

  “I am glad he is alive,” she managed. “Is there anything you need?”

  A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “It is sweet of you to think of me during this time. I can see why he adores you as he does.”

  Her face heated at the gentle praise.

  “He has loved you a long time, Miss Benbridge.” Pietro’s deep, slightly accented voice soothed her, though his words did not. “From the beginning, I tried to discourage him, but he wouldn’t listen. I think it says a great deal that you both care so deeply for each other after all these years apart.”

  “That does not change the fact that he feels inferior to me”—she released a shaky breath—“or that I do not like the person I become trying to convince him of his worth.”

  He watched her for a long moment, then nodded. “Will you help me?”

  “Of course.” Amelia stepped closer. “What do you need?”

  “Can you lead this horse into the stable for me? I have a few more to round up before the sun sets.”

  She accepted the proffered reins. The smile he gave her was strange, but presently everything in her life felt odd.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, then walked away.

  Amelia turned and moved through the open stable door. The moment she stepped inside, she realized Pietro’s intent. She paused, her breath caught in a mixture of surprise and volatile lust.

  Colin worked with his back to her, but his identity was never in question. His torso was bare, his legs clad in worn coarse breeches, his calves hugged lovingly by polished Hessians. Powerful muscles bunched and flexed beneath sweat-sheened skin as he stroked a brush rapidly over a horse’s flanks.