A Passion for Him

by Sylvia Day

  The clouds drifted, allowing a brilliant shaft of moonlight to illuminate their small space. It turned the hedges silver and his mask into a brilliant pearl. The black satin ribbon that restrained his queue blended with the inky locks, the gloss and color so similar they were nearly one and the same. Her skirts brushed against his flowing cape, his cologne mingled with her perfume; together they were lost in a single moment. Amelia was arrested there, ensnared, and wished—briefly—never to be freed.

  Then the unmistakable warble of a birdcall rent the cocoon.

  A warning from St. John’s men.

  Amelia stumbled, and Montoya caught her close. Her arm lowered to her side, taking her mask with it. His breath, warm and scented of brandy, drifted across her lips. The difference in their statures put her breasts at level with his upper abdomen. He would have to bend to kiss her, and she found herself wishing he would, wanting to experience the feel of those beautifully sculpted lips pressed against her own.

  “Lord Ware is looking for you,” he whispered, without taking his eyes from her.

  She nodded, but made no effort to free herself. Her gaze stayed locked to his. Watching. Waiting.

  Just when she was certain he wouldn’t, he accepted her silent invitation and brushed his mouth across hers. Their lips clung together and he groaned. The mask fell from her nerveless fingers to clatter atop the gravel.

  “Good-bye, Amelia.”

  He steadied her, then fled in a billowing flare of black, leaping over a low hedge and blending into the shadows. He headed not toward the rear of the manse but to the front, and was gone in an instant. Dazed by his sudden departure, Amelia turned her head slowly toward the garden. She found Ware approaching with rapid strides, followed by several other gentlemen.

  “What are you doing over here?” he asked gruffly, scanning her surroundings with an agitated glance. “I was going mad looking for you.”

  “I am sorry.” She was unable to say more than that. Her thoughts were with Montoya, a man who had clearly recognized the whistle of warning.

  He had been real for a moment, but no longer. Like the phantom she’d fancied him as, he was elusive.

  And entirely suspect.

  “Would you care to explain what happened last night?”

  Amelia sighed inwardly, but on the exterior she offered a sunny smile. “Explain what?”

  Christopher St. John—pirate, murderer, smuggler extraordinaire—returned her smile, but his sapphire eyes were sharp and assessing. “You know very well what I am referring to.” He shook his head. “At times you are so like your sister, it is somewhat alarming.”

  What was alarming was how divinely handsome St. John was, considering how devilishly his brain worked. Despite the years she’d lived within his household, Amelia was still taken aback by his comeliness every time she saw him.

  “Oh, what a lovely thing to say!” she cried, meaning every word. “Thank you.”

  “Minx. Fess up now.”

  Any other man would have difficulty prying information out of her that she didn’t wish to share. But when the raspy-voiced pirate became cajoling, he was impossible to resist. With his golden hair and skin, thin yet carnal lips, and jeweled irises, he reminded her of an angel, for certainly only a celestial being could be formed so perfectly from head to toe.

  The only outward sign of his mortality were the lines that rimmed his mouth and eyes, signs of a life that was fraught with stresses. They’d softened a great deal since his marriage to her sister, but they would never fully dissipate.

  “I noted a man’s uncommon interest. He noted that I’d noted, and approached me to explain.”

  Christopher leaned back in his black leather chair and pursed his lips. Behind him was a large window that overlooked the rear garden, or what would have been a rear garden if they’d had one. Instead, they had a flat, brutally trimmed lawn that made stealthy approach of the manse impossible. When one had a great deal of enemies, as St. John did, one could never lower their guard, especially for frivolous aesthetic reasons. “What explanation did he offer?”

  “I reminded him of a lost love.”

  He made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “A clever, sentimental ruse that almost embarrassed Ware and caused a terrible scandal. I cannot believe you fell prey to it.”

  Flushing with renewed guilt, she nevertheless protested. “He was sincere!” She did not believe anyone could pretend melancholy so well. That was not to say that she wasn’t aware of something amiss, but she did believe his emotional response to her.

  “My men followed him last evening.”

  Amelia nodded, expecting as much. “And?”

  “And they lost him.”

  “How is that possible?”

  St. John smiled at her astonishment. “It’s possible if one is aware that he is being followed and is trained in how to evade shadows.” His smile faded. “The man is no lovelorn innocent, Amelia.”

  She rose, frowning, which forced St. John to rise as well. Her floral skirts settled around her legs, and she turned to face the rest of the room, lost in thought. Appearances could be deceiving. This room and the criminal who owned it were prime examples. Decorated in shades of red, cream, and gold, the study could belong to a peer of the realm, as could the manse it was a part of. There was nothing here to betray its primary purpose—that of being the headquarters of a large and highly illegal smuggling ring.

  “What would he want with me?” she asked, remembering the previous night’s events in crystal clarity. She could still smell the exotic scent of his skin and hear the slight accent to his words that made her insides quiver. Her lips tingled from the press of his, as did her breasts with the memory of the hardness of his abdomen.

  “Anything from a simple warning to me, to something more sinister.”

  “Such as?” She faced him and found him watching her with knowing eyes.

  “Such as seducing you and ruining you for Ware. Or seducing you and luring you away to use as leverage against me.”

  The word “seducing” used in conjunction with the mysterious, masked Montoya did odd things to her. It should, perhaps, frighten her, but it didn’t.

  “You know as well as I how fortuitous it is that you met Ware while in your father’s captivity and that he is willing to disregard your scandalous past and familial connections.” His fingers drummed almost silently upon the desktop. “Your son will be a marquess and your children will have every advantage. Anything that jeopardizes your future is cause for concern.”

  Amelia nodded and looked away again, hoping to hide how the reduction of her relationship with Ware to the material benefits made her feel. She was well aware that she stood to gain the most from their union. As Ware’s friend, she wanted only the best for him. Marriage to her was anything but. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Do not venture off by yourself. If the man approaches you again, do not allow him within a few feet of you.” The severity of his features softened. He wore cerulean blue today, a color that complemented both his tawny coloring and the beautifully embroidered waistcoat that hugged his lean waist. “I do not mean to chastise you. I want only to keep you safe.”

  “I know.” But the entirety of her life had been spent in gilded cages. She found herself torn between loving the security of it and resenting the restrictions. She tried to behave, tried to follow the rules set for her, but at times it was difficult to conform. She suspected that was due to her father’s blood in her veins. It was the one thing she most wished to change about herself. “May I be dismissed? Ware will be along shortly to take me for a ride in the park, and I must change.”

  “Of course. Enjoy yourself.”

  Christopher watched Amelia leave the room and then resumed his seat, only to stand a moment later when his wife entered in a profusion of pale pink skirts. As always, the sight of her made his heart race with a mixture of attraction and pure joy.

  “You look a vision this afternoon,” he said, rounding the desk to emb
race her. As she had since the moment they had first met, Maria melted against him, a lush warm weight that he adored.

  “You say that every day,” she murmured, but her smile was filled with pleasure.

  “Because it’s true every day.” He cupped her spine and molded her curves to his hardness. They fit together like two matching puzzle pieces, despite their disparity in height.

  Maria shared the same glossy raven tresses as her younger sibling, but that was the extent of their physical similarities. Amelia took after her father, the late Viscount Welton, with his emerald green eyes and tall, slender build. Maria, who gratefully claimed a different pater, took after their Spanish-blooded mother with her sloe eyes, short stature, and full figure.

  St. John and his wife made a striking couple; their contrasting appearances complemented each other in ways oft commented on. But they drew the most attention for their reputations. The former Lady Winter was still known as the “Wintry Widow,” a woman who was widely rumored to have murdered her first two husbands. Christopher was her third and last husband, the husband of her heart, and he was frequently celebrated for remaining alive.

  You have survived another night in your wife’s bed, they jested.

  Christopher would smile and say nothing. It wasn’t true, but he would not refute the misconception. Few would understand how he died in her arms every night and was reborn.

  “I overheard the end of your conversation with Amelia,” she said. “I think you are looking at the situation from the wrong perspective.”

  “Oh?” This was where their true similarities lay. As different as they were on the exterior, on the interior they were alarmingly alike, both criminally minded and quite wily. “What am I missing?”

  “You are seeing only what interest the masked man had in Amelia. What of her interest in him? That is where my worry stems.”

  He frowned down at her, absently admiring the artfully arranged curls that tumbled about her ears and shoulders, and her full bosom which swelled enticingly above her low, ribbon-edged bodice. “She has always been curious. That is how she met Ware to begin with.”

  “Yes, but she allowed this man to kiss her. A stranger. Why? She has been pining for her Gypsy sweetheart all these years and keeps Ware at bay. What was the fascination with this man that goaded such a response in her?”

  “Hmm . . .” Lowering his head, he took her mouth in a long, luxurious kiss. “Would you mourn for me with such devotion, were I to pass on?” he queried, his lips moving against hers.

  “No.” Maria smiled with the hint of mystery that kept him endlessly enthralled with her.

  “No?”

  “Nothing or no one could ever take you from me, my darling.” Her small hands brushed over his chest. “I will die alongside you. It is the only way I will allow you to go.”

  Christopher’s heart swelled with love so fierce, it sometimes overwhelmed him. “So our young Amelia was drawn to this man in ways she has not been to anyone else. What do you suggest we do about that?”

  “Watch her more closely, and find that man. I want to know him and his intentions.”

  “Done.” He smiled. “Have you any plans for the rest of this afternoon?”

  “Yes. I’m quite busy.”

  He hoped he hid his disappointment. While he had a great many items on his list of things to accomplish, he would not have minded an hour or two of his wife’s company. There was something delicious about making love in the middle of the day with the drapes thrown wide and the sun shining in. Especially when she took the top and writhed above him in the daylight.

  Sighing dramatically, Christopher released her. “Enjoy yourself, love.”

  “That depends on you.” Her dark eyes shined wickedly. “You see, my schedule says ‘lovemaking’ from two to four. I will need your help to accomplish that task.”

  Christopher was instantly aroused. “I am at your service, madam.”

  She stepped back and glanced down at the front of his breeches. “Yes, I see that you are. Shall we retire?”

  “I should like that,” he purred, his blood hot.

  A knock intruded from the open doorway. They both looked over.

  “Hello, Tim,” Maria said, smiling at the giant whose great head was ducked to fit beneath the threshold.

  He bowed in greeting, then rumbled, “Did you still wish to speak with me?”

  “Yes.” Tim was one of Christopher’s most trusted lieutenants. He was also infinitely patient and had a way with women. His fondness for the fairer gender was obvious. They sensed it and were far more open with him than they were with other men. They listened to and trusted him, which would facilitate keeping Amelia in line.

  Christopher looked down into Maria’s uplifted face. “Don’t undress,” he whispered for her ears only. “I want to unwrap you myself.”

  “As if I’m a gift,” she teased.

  “You are. My most prized possession.” Kissing the tip of her nose, he stepped back from her. “I must discuss Tim’s new assignment to watch Amelia.”

  Her answering smile was a sight to behold. “You are so clever to anticipate my concerns. You never require my input in matters.”

  “But I do,” he refuted, “and I value it.” His voice lowered with promise. “Shortly, I shall show you how much.”

  Maria’s fingertips brushed along his palm as she moved away and their hands separated. “See you at dinner, Tim,” she said, sashaying past him as he entered the room.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tim looked at Christopher with a wry smile. “I know that look. This will be quick, eh?”

  “Yes. Very. I want you to shadow Miss Benbridge.”

  “I ’eard about last night. No worries. She’s in good ’ands with me.”

  “I would not ask you if I weren’t confident in that.” Christopher patted him on the shoulder as he headed out the door. “See you at dinner.”

  “Lucky bastard,” Tim said after him.

  Christopher grinned and sprinted up the stairs.

  Chapter 3

  France, a month earlier

  “So,” Simon Quinn said, setting his fork down. “The time has come.”

  “It has.” And not a moment too soon in Colin Mitchell’s estimation. He’d waited years for this day. Now that it had arrived, he found that sitting decorously at the table for dinner was nigh impossible. In mere hours he would set sail for England and the love of his life. He wished he were already there. With her.

  All around them, revelry was the order of the day. Although raised in a boisterous Gypsy camp, Colin preferred quiet evenings. It was Quinn who sought out these loud venues. He claimed they made eavesdropping impossible and solidified their carefully affected mien of ennui and nonchalance, but Colin suspected the predilection was goaded by another reason entirely. Quinn was not a happy man, and it was easier to feign contentment when surrounded by gaiety.

  Still, this establishment was one Colin tolerated better than most. It was clean, well lit, and the food was delicious. Three massive chandeliers hung from the wooden-beamed ceiling above them, and the air was redolent of various appetizing dishes and the perfumes of the many buxom serving wenches. Raucous laughter and a multitude of conversations fought to be heard over the frenetically playing orchestra in the far corner, which left them in relative privacy among the din, just two finely attired gentlemen enjoying an evening meal out.

  “I had thought you might have grown beyond your feelings for the fair Amelia,” Quinn said with a faint hint of his Irish brogue still evident. He lifted a glass of wine to his lips and studied Colin carefully above the rim. “You’ve changed a great deal from the young man who came to me searching for her so many years ago.”

  “True.” Colin knew Quinn did not want him to go. He was too valuable a player in Quinn’s games. He could become anyone, anywhere. Men trusted him and women found him irresistible. Perceptive creatures, they sensed that his heart was locked away, and it made them try harder to win him. “But
that is one part of me that has not changed.”

  “Perhaps she has changed. She was a girl when you left her.”

  “She changed while I knew her.” He shrugged. “It only deepened my feelings.” How could he explain all of the many facets he had seen in her over the years?

  “What allure does she possess that enslaves you so? The contessa adores you, and yet she is merely a diversion to you.”

  A vision of the lovely Francesca came to mind, and Colin smiled. “As I am a diversion to her. She enjoys the game, never knowing who will appear at her doorstep or which disguise I will be hidden beneath. I suit her reckless inclinations, but those extend only to the bedroom. She is too proud a woman to accept a man of my breeding in a capacity other than the one I fill presently.”

  Once, on assignment for Quinn, Colin had been chased into the first open door he’d come to during a ball. The room had been occupied by Francesca, who was adjusting her appearance and enjoying a small respite from the crush. He had bowed, smiled, and proceeded to divest himself of wig and clothing, turning his specially tailored garments inside out. The contessa had found the act of changing from a white-haired, black-clad gentleman to a dark-haired, ivory-clad rogue quite diverting. She’d eagerly assumed the ruse of his companion, exiting to the hallway with her hand firmly attached to his forearm, which effectively stumped the two scowling gentlemen who stumbled upon them in their search.

  She’d taken him to her bed that night and kept him there the last two years, unconcerned when his employment forced him to leave her for weeks or months at a time. Theirs was an affair of convenience and mutual understanding.

  I sometimes envy the woman who has such a tenacious hold on your heart, she once said to him.