Sylvia Day - Passion for the Game

He paused and glanced around suspiciously. Amelia held her breath, afraid to even blink as he craned his neck back and forth, searching the area. Forever seemed to pass before the guard moved on.

For a long moment, she waited, needing to be certain that he’d gone far enough away that she would not be seen climbing over the fence. Then she made her escape.

Amelia hopped over onto the neighboring property, slipping into the wooded area before blowing out the breath she’d been holding. “Heavens,” she breathed, relieved beyond measure to have succeeded. “What a most unpleasant man.”

“I agree.”

Amelia jumped at the sound of the low, cultured drawl. She spun about, then gaped at the gentleman who stood nearby.

He was undeniably wealthy, as indicated by the fine quality of his garments and the craftsmanship of his wig. He was pale and slender, almost pretty. Despite the fact that he looked to be of similar age, he carried himself with a bearing that proclaimed clearly that his word was to be obeyed. A man of privilege.

He gave an elegant bow and introduced himself as the Earl of Ware. Then he explained that the stream she so enjoyed was on his father’s land. “But you are welcome to it.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She dipped a quick curtsy. “You are most gracious.”

“No,” he said dryly. “I am most bored. I appreciate the company, especially when that company is the fair maiden freed from her turret prison.”

“What a fanciful image,” she murmured.

“I am a fanciful fellow.”

Lord Ware took up her hand and escorted her to the stream. There she found Benny, who was working industriously with a long stick. He felt her gaze and looked up. “I’ll make you a pole, too.”

“See?” Ware said. “No more need for tears and reddened noses. After all, what could be better than an afternoon on the shore with an earl and an urchin?”

She glanced aside at him and he winked.

For the first time in days, Amelia smiled.

As the sun climbed steadily above the horizon, bringing with it a new day, the scene on the beach at Deal was revealed to those who still drew breath. Bodies littered the blood-soaked sand and floated in the gently lapping morning waves. The ship was gone, its cargo unloaded and placed on carts that had long since rolled away.

Christopher ignored the aches and pains that wracked every part of his body and stood still, his hands steepled together and pressed to his lips. To the ignorant, he might appear to be lost in prayer, but those who knew him knew that God would never deign to help a soul as black as his. At his feet lay the man who had challenged him, the ambitious fool’s heart pierced with a foil, pinning the corpse to the beach.

An older man approached with a pronounced limp, his upper thigh sporting a bloody bandage. “A dozen lost,” he reported.

“I want a list of their names.”

“Aye. I’ll see to it.”

A soft touch came to his arm, and Christopher turned his head to find a young girl standing beside him.

“Yer bleeding,” she whispered, her eyes big as saucers.

He lowered his gaze, noting for the first time that he had a deep gash in his biceps that bled profusely and soaked his tattered shirtsleeves.

“So I am,” he said, extending his arm so that she could tie it off with the torn strips of linen in her hand.

He studied her as she worked, admiring how composed she was despite her youth. Grown men were vomiting over the scene before them, but she bore it stoically. Violence was not unknown to her.

“Did you lose anyone today, child?” he asked softly.

Her gaze stayed focused on her work. “My uncle.”

“I am sorry.”

She nodded.

He exhaled harshly and turned his head to watch the sunrise. Although his position here was once again secure, he would not leave immediately. He had known the battle itself would be short. The fortnight he anticipated was for the rest of it. It would take at least a sennight to visit every one of the families who had suffered a death today and ensure they would have the means to survive. A miserable task, with days on end of grief, but it had to be done.

Then, quite suddenly, the thought of Maria entered his head. Where it came from was a mystery. Christopher knew only that her memory straightened the weary curve of his spine and gave him a goal-a soft bed and her warm, curvy body pressed to his. To hold her, to relax with her, to experience that odd tightening in his chest that he found so discomfiting. It would be preferable to this…nothing he felt now.

Do you ever contemplate leaving this life?

He did not, even now in the midst of this ugliness. But for the first time, he contemplated a reprieve, one made possible by Maria.

It was God’s punishment for his sins that in order to keep his life, he would have to extinguish his one pleasure in it.

Maria tucked her legs up on the chaise and studied Tim as he drew pictures at the desk. The cottage Welton had secured for her was small but comfortable. Situated near the shore, it was a lovely retreat, the soft crashing of the waves an enchanting accompaniment to lazy activities.

Tim hummed some tune to himself as he worked, and Maria marveled again at how gentle he was in comparison to his massive size. He was kind and deeply loyal to St. John, a loyalty which he extended to her because he believed she was important to the pirate. It was that which most startled her. Yes, St. John had shown great interest in her, but she knew men well. Deep interest did not mean deep affection. She had something he wanted, and she placed no more stock in their relationship than that. Tim, however, seemed to think there was more to it, and something inside her longed to believe that was true.

She missed him, her pirate. How odd it was to care for him so quickly, but she did. At night she lay in her bed and longed for the feel of his muscled arms around her, his furred chest cushioning her cheek, his heated skin warming hers. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes, she imagined that she could smell him, that luscious scent of bergamot and virile, lustful male.

Most of all, she wished for the illusion of safety. Christopher made her feel protected. Simon, bless him, was content to allow her to rule everything. Sometimes, however, she wished to have someone else bear the burdens. Only for a little while. Not enough to make her dependent, but enough to give her a smidgeon of peace.

“Here,” Tim said as he pushed heavily to his feet and lumbered toward her. He handed her the drawing and moved back to the desk to begin another.

Maria set aside the map she studied and the notes she made to Simon of where she wished him to search, and stared down at the sketch with awe.

“You have a gift,” she said, admiring the beautiful lines and shadings that created a picture of an exceptionally handsome adolescent male. Exotic features and dark hair and irises gave him an alluring edge of danger that was obvious even with his youth. Thick hair grew too long and fell over his brow, framing those sensual eyes and a beautifully etched mouth.

“It’s nothing,” Tim dismissed gruffly, causing her to lift her gaze and catch his blush.

“And your memory is nothing short of miraculous. I noted this young man, too, and yet until I saw this likeness, I could not have described him to you. His features are too unique to make common comparisons, yet you captured them perfectly.”

He growled his embarrassment, his gaze narrowing beneath unruly brows. She smiled and then looked at the pile of drawings beside her. Together, they created a tapestry of that night’s events-the carriage, the governess, the groomsman, and the coachman. Next up was Amelia, and Maria was almost frightened to see it, uncertain of how she would react. She had seen her sister only a moment, and over the last three weeks, she’d found that the mental image of her was already dimming.

“You will fetch her back,” Tim rumbled.

Blinking, Maria returned her attention to her guest. The fortnight was nearly over, much to her relief. Her injury had required inactivity to fully heal, but the indolent life was anathema to her. She’d paced the floor enough to circle the globe on foot. Distant command was not her style. She much preferred to be directing the action in the flesh. Thankfully, in two more days she would leave for London. Tim would then be returned to St. John, and she would recommit herself fully to her search. “Beg your pardon?”

“Yer sister,” he elaborated. “You’ll fetch her back.”

Dear God. How did he know?

“Is St. John aware?” she asked softly, her mind racing at the possibilities. Amelia was her one vulnerability. Aside from Simon and Welton, no one else knew that.

“Not yet. You caught me before I had a chance to tell him.”

She sighed with relief, though her heart still raced.

“I cannot take you back now,” she advised.

Of course both of them knew that he could depart at any time he chose. Nothing short of leg irons would hold a man of his size against his will, and even that was uncertain.

“I knew that when I told you,” he retorted simply.

“So why?” Maria frowned.

The giant tugged at his wiry beard and sat back in the chair that was nearly too small to hold him. “I was tasked that night with protecting you. I failed. If I guard you now, perhaps I can right that wrong.”

“You cannot be serious!” But she could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was. “There was no way for us to know what would happen.”

He snorted. “St. John did, or he wouldn’t have sent us. He trusted me to act in his stead, and I wasn’t worthy.”

“Tim-”

Holding up a meaty hand, he cut her off. “There’s no point in arguing. You want to keep me with you, and that’s where I want to be. Nothing to piddle o’er.”

Her mouth snapped closed. There was nothing she could say to that bit of logic.

“Mhuirnín.”

Maria looked over her shoulder to see Simon, who stepped into the room with his usual indolent grace. He was still dressed in his traveling clothes, having only recently returned from his long stay away. Under her detailed written directions, he’d taken a dozen men and swept the length of the southern coast, making the necessary inquiries in their search for Amelia.

“You have a visitor.”

Immediately alert, she swung her legs to the floor and rose. She hurried to him and lowered her voice. “Who is it?”

He caught her elbow and led her out, tossing a guarded glance over his shoulder at Tim. Then he bent low and murmured, “Lord Eddington.”

Her steps faltered and she gazed up at him with wide eyes. He shrugged to answer her unspoken question and continued to escort her to the parlor.

She was not dressed for visitors, but then, this was not a social call. Lifting her chin, she swept into the room with all the charm she possessed. She found she needed it as Eddington turned to her with a fulminating glare.

“You and I have much to discuss,” he said in a clipped, angry tone.

Quite accustomed to overbearing males, Maria offered a brilliant smile and took a seat on the settee. “Lovely to see you, too, my lord.”

“You will not think so in a moment.”

“She walked up to him with a pistol, bold as you please, in the bright light of day.”

Christopher grinned at the image Philip’s words brought to mind of Tim being captured by the tiny Maria. In his chest, warmth spread along with his smile. Damned if he did not like the woman more and more each day. Even absence had not lessened his appreciation and desire for her. Her welfare was the first inquiry he had made that afternoon when Philip arrived at the posting inn. There was much for him to be apprised of, too much to wait until he returned to London.

“It was quite amusing,” Philip said, having taken note of Christopher’s mirth.

“I wish I would have seen it.” He lounged deeper into the squab, his gaze moving to the window where the scenery flew by. Crimson curtains were tied to the side, the deep red a touch of color in the otherwise black interior. “So Tim has remained with her.”

“Yes, which is probably best. The Irishman has been absent since the second day of her holiday.”

“Hmm…” The thought gave Christopher deep pleasure. It was unfamiliar, that writhing feeling of discontent he felt whenever he thought of Maria with Quinn. That she still cared for the Irishman was glaringly obvious. The only comfort Christopher had was her empty bed that she shared only with him.

The last thought heated his blood. There were times when he told himself that the sex could not be as good as he remembered. How could it be? Then there were times-in the evenings while lying abed-where he could almost feel her hands caressing his skin and hear her low voice purring provocative taunts.