Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  Glancing around frantically, Aurelia saw the crowbar, lying forgotten by the open crate. Even as she caught it up, she heard the crack of the revolver, followed by a sharp exclamation of pain. Turning, she saw to her horror that Mercer had clambered to his feet and was leveling his gun at James, still prone on the ground, his right hand clamped around his bleeding left arm.

  She swung the crowbar with all her strength at Mercer’s head, felt it connect with a sickening crunch. He collapsed in an ungainly sprawl, the gun dropping from his hand. Shaking with reaction, the blood pounding in her ears, she stared down at his motionless form.

  “Aurelia, the gun!”

  His voice, slicing through the fog and paralysis. Dropping the crowbar, she scooped up the gun and turned to see him struggling upright, his face drawn with pain, but blessedly alive.

  “James.” It emerged as a breath, rather than a word. But his dark eyes kindled into fire as he heard it. Without a word, he stretched out his uninjured arm, and she flew into it, felt it close around her as his mouth sought hers again and again. Wrapping her own arms around him, she kissed him back no less fiercely. Words spilled out between kisses, a breathless jumble of assurances and endearments. “Safe. Love. Thank God…”

  “James! Aurelia!” Sir Harry erupted into the chamber. “I heard a gunshot—” He stopped short at the sight of them embracing, with Mercer unconscious at their feet.

  “Good work, cousin,” he remarked prosaically as they turned to him with identical dazed expressions. He prodded Mercer with his foot, drawing a faint groan in response. “I’ve brought some rope. Shall we start by tying this bastard up?”

  ***

  “See that these are sent to Lady Talbot and Lady Durward at Pentreath, right away.” James handed over the sealed letters.

  “Very good, Lord Trevenan.” Accepting the letters, the footman bowed and withdrew.

  Alone in his guest chamber, James sighed and pushed back his chair from the desk. Hours had passed since that tense encounter in the cave, hours since Mercer—barely conscious and still groaning weakly—and his cargo had been turned over to the proper authorities. He, Harry, and Aurelia had all given statements about what had happened in the cave and then been sent on their way without further questioning.

  James flexed his aching arm, now cleaned and dressed. According to the doctor Harry had summoned on their return to Roswarne, the bullet had apparently passed through the upper arm without striking anything vital, so the wound would heal soon enough with rest and proper care. The doctor had left tincture of willow bark and a mild opiate to relieve any fever or pain, but James had not yet availed himself of either.

  He rose and went to the window, gazing out at the darkening sky. Once again, he relived those moments in the cave—the blazing pain in his arm as he struggled to rise and fight again, Mercer looming over him with that damned revolver, and a golden-haired avenging angel swinging the crowbar that brought their enemy down.

  His Aurelia, bright, brave, and beautiful: the woman who’d saved his life, which would never again belong to him alone. Aurelia, who held his heart so completely that he no longer had even a piece of it to give to any other woman—not even the sister who so closely resembled her. And somehow, he had to convince her of that.

  If he could even get to her, that was. On their return, Sophie and Aunt Isobel had borne her off to another chamber, and he hadn’t seen her since. Was she asleep now, exhausted by their ordeal, or lying awake, fretting over what had happened? She’d struck down Mercer to save them both, but anyone unaccustomed to violence would have been shaken at having to resort to it. And James did not want her to suffer even a moment’s guilt or grief over that cold-blooded bastard. His own blood turned to ice when he remembered how Mercer had turned his gun on her. Thank God Harry had arrived in time.

  Filled with a new resolve, he turned from the window. If Aunt Isobel wouldn’t let him see Aurelia, she could at least tell him how she fared. He strode toward the door, and stopped short when he heard the tentative knock.

  “Enter,” he said after a moment.

  The door opened, and Aurelia herself stood there, holding a tray and smiling at him, a little uncertainly. She wore a robe and a nightgown—borrowed from Aunt Isobel by the look of it—and her golden hair lay across her shoulder in a single plait, like his dreams, almost, but so much better. “Your aunt thought you should have something to eat, after all this time.”

  For a moment, he stood where he was, drinking in the sight of her. Then he took her gently by the arm and drew her inside, closing the door behind them.

  ***

  Safe—and whole. Aurelia felt the hard knot of fear in her stomach loosen, then dissolve at the sight of him standing in the doorway. Despite the doctor’s assurances that he’d sustained only a minor wound, she hadn’t been able to banish her fears until she saw him again.

  “Your arm,” she began in instinctive protest as he took the tray from her now.

  “Will heal quickly, I’m told.” He set the tray on the dresser, turned back to her.

  “I’d have come sooner, but Sophie and Lady Tresilian wanted to know everything,” she rushed on, feeling absurdly shy with him. “And then the doctor came to tend your wound, and your aunt thought I should wash and change and—”

  She fell silent as he took her by the shoulders and drew her to him. This time, his kiss was not the desperate, almost feverish response to barely averted danger, but rather, the slow, deliberate caress of a man determined to do something properly. She closed her eyes, her lips parting beneath his like a flower. He deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing lightly against hers, an intimate touch that made her shiver, even as warmth flooded through her entire body. She leaned into him, wanting more, striving to give all she could. Her hands slid along the strong planes of his face—the face she’d seen in her dreams, waking or sleeping, for the last year—and buried themselves in his hair; the dark waves felt as thick and soft as she’d imagined they would.

  “James,” she murmured against his lips. “Dear God…”

  He made a sound low in his throat that might have been laughter. “Now, that’s something I don’t hear every day.” He pulled away just a little, gazing at her with steady dark eyes. “Listen, dear heart—I’m not marrying your sister. It would be the worst thing I could do, for all of us.”

  Aurelia swallowed. “I know.” From the moment she’d swung that crowbar in the cave, she had known—less in her head than in her blood and bones—that she wasn’t fighting for Amy, but for him and herself and the future they were meant to have together. And that life was too short and too precious to waste it denying the truth of one’s own heart.

  “I thought it would be dishonorable to break our engagement,” he went on. “Now I see it would be far more dishonorable—and unjust—to proceed with the marriage when I love someone else. When I love you.”

  Her eyes flooded, even as her lips trembled into a smile. “I love you, James.” She freed a hand to dash away the tears. “I can say that now, with all my heart and no divided loyalties.”

  He searched her face. “Truly? I know how close you and Amy are.”

  “She’s half my soul. But I would have lost her anyway if she’d married you. I would have stayed away—I couldn’t have borne it…”

  He kissed her again, brushing away more tears with gentle fingers. Sighing, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I just pray that she can forgive us both. That she’ll understand.”

  “We’ll make her understand,” he promised. “My word on it.”

  She believed in his word. And even more than that, she believed in what they could accomplish, together. Raising her head, she kissed him, shyly at first, then with growing confidence as he responded, his mouth working a subtle magic on hers that made her senses sing. Desire coursed through her, a tidal wave of longing sweeping away all else before it.

  She felt an almost physical sense of loss when he drew back and touched her hair, bound in a loose plai
t for the night. “You should go back to your chamber now.” His eyes looked dazed, and his voice, like his hand, was not quite steady when he spoke. “I can’t answer for the consequences, if you stay.”

  “There would be consequences?” Aurelia paused as a sudden daring stirred to life inside of her. “Then I definitely want to stay!”

  His brows arched over widening eyes. “Aurelia, you don’t know—”

  “Yes, I do. In theory, anyway. Mama told me a few years ago.” She fought down a giggle at his expression; it wasn’t often she could shock the man she loved. “And I mean it, James! I want to be with you tonight—and every other night for the rest of our lives.” She twined her arms around his neck, pressed closer to him. “We could have died today. And I can face anything, anything at all, tomorrow, if we have tonight! Don’t send me away.”

  “Oh, God.” It emerged as a near-groan, and he kissed her once more, so fiercely that her head swam and even her name seemed a distant memory. Then, unbelievably, he pulled away.

  “Look, dear heart,” he began, over her soft protestation, “I want you just as badly, in just the same way. But we have to do this right.” He touched her plait again with aching tenderness. “I want no shadows between us, no regrets, and no reproaches. Nothing to taint what we have.”

  Longing, frustration, and a strange sense of pride in him all tangled inside of her at his words. “James—”

  “One more day, Aurelia, to sever what must be severed. And then, I promise, we need never be apart again.” He cupped her cheek, traced the seam of her lips with his thumb. “It will be all the sweeter for the waiting—I promise that too.”

  He was right, she knew, though that made the delay no easier to bear. Poised precariously between tears and laughter, she leaned against him, savoring his warmth and nearness while she could. “Honorable to the last,” she managed to choke out. “Is it any wonder that I love you?”

  “No more than I love you.” He kissed her again, more gently this time. “Because you understand honor too. Now, go—before I change my mind and take you right here and now.”

  He wanted her, as deeply and urgently as she wanted him. Aurelia knew enough about men’s bodies to sense that much. With persistence she could have overborne him, made him do as he threatened; instead, she detached herself reluctantly and stepped back, sighing. “All night safe sleeping in her maidenhood. No wonder Iseult of Brittany turned sour.”

  He smiled, skimming a finger down her cheek—the scarred one. “‘As the dawn loves the sunlight I love thee,’” he quoted. “Sweet dreams, my love.”

  Slightly mollified, she headed for the door. “Sweet dreams, my lord.”

  “Aurelia?”

  She paused with her hand on the knob. “Yes, James?”

  “For what it’s worth, I expect to sleep very badly tonight.”

  She gave him a look of pure mischief before whisking out of the room. “Good!”

  Thirty-One

  I’ll have no husband if you be not he.

  —William Shakespeare, As You Like It

  “Mr. Pendarvis is here to see you, Sir Harry,” the Tresilians’ butler announced, entering the breakfast room the following morning. “And Lord Trevenan, your carriage has arrived.”

  Sir Harry and James exchanged a glance, as did Aurelia and Sophie. “Thank you, Parsons. You may show Mr. Pendarvis in here.”

  “And you may tell the coachman that Miss Newbold and I will be departing shortly,” James added. Aurelia felt his fingers brush hers under the table and hid a smile in her teacup.

  “Very good, Sir Harry, my lord.” Parsons bowed and withdrew.

  “Good morning, Rob,” Sir Harry greeted his friend as he strode into the room looking more than a little agitated, Aurelia observed with interest.

  Mr. Pendarvis nodded almost absently. “Forgive the intrusion, Harry, but I’ve just heard that there was some trouble here yesterday, and someone was injured?” His gaze went at once to Sophie, who colored at this evidence of concern for her, but gave a small shake of her head.

  “That would be me,” James replied. “But not seriously—a graze on the arm, nothing more. And I’m glad to say, the trouble’s been resolved.”

  Mr. Pendarvis relaxed. “I’m relieved to hear it, Trevenan. Might I know the details?”

  “I’m about to return to Pentreath, but Harry can fill you in.” James pushed back his chair and turned to Aurelia. “Are you ready to go, my dear?”

  Aurelia nodded and rose, smiling around the table. “Thank you all for your hospitality.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Sophie smiled back, even as her gaze kept drifting toward their latest visitor. “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Pendarvis? Or a bite of breakfast, perhaps?”

  He hesitated, not looking at his host, but Sir Harry said, “Yes, take a plate and join us, Rob. I’ll tell you what happened, once I’ve seen James and Miss Aurelia on their way.”

  The last thing Aurelia saw as she left the breakfast room was Sophie pouring tea for Mr. Pendarvis and looking more hopeful than she had for the last two days. So perhaps things would end well there, she mused, whatever shadows Mr. Pendarvis claimed were in his past.

  Outside, the Pentreath coachmen presented James with a sealed note from his aunt, which he slipped into his pocket for the present. Bidding farewell to Sir Harry, he and Aurelia climbed into the carriage and settled back in comfort against the cushioned seat.

  Alone together. Aurelia found herself smiling, despite knowing what awaited them both at Pentreath. Breaking the news to Amy and even Charlie…she couldn’t help but quail at the thought. But neither could she regret that she and James would finally be together, and that soon they could bring their love out into the open.

  He touched her cheek, a feather-light caress that made her tingle. “Tired, dear heart?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “But mostly preoccupied.”

  He said gently, “I’ll do my best to spare Amy’s feelings, when I tell her.”

  “I know you will.” She laid her hand over his. “I fear I have a heart to bruise as well.”

  “Vandermere.” To his credit, he spoke the name without even the slightest grimace.

  She nodded. “To tell the truth, I’m dreading it. I believe he was sincere about wanting another chance with me. And I thought—I owed it to him to try, for old times’ sake. But I’m not the girl I was then. We’ve both changed too much to go back to the way things were.”

  “Would you have married him, if we hadn’t both come to our senses?”

  “Not after you kissed me. That clarified things considerably.” Lacing her fingers with his, she decided that a change of subject was in order. “What does Lady Talbot say in her note?”

  He took out the note, opened it, and scanned the contents. “Mainly that she’s relieved we came to no serious harm. And that Helena and Durward have departed for Wiltshire, though Helena wishes to convey her thanks for uncovering the truth about Gerald’s death.”

  “Under the circumstances, I’d say that was the least she could do,” Aurelia observed tartly. “But it’s a start, I suppose. Anything else?”

  James looked up from the page, frowning. “Thomas has also left, for London.”

  “Heavens, that is unexpected!” Surely Mr. Sheridan hadn’t finished Amy’s portrait already; she wondered uneasily if hostilities had broken out again. “When did this happen?”

  “Late yesterday afternoon. I hope nothing’s wrong there.”

  ***

  Amy gazed about the schoolroom, now as desolate as a field after the traveling circus had departed. The wooden chair still stood where it had yesterday, and the props that were to have been used—the tapestry, the feathered fan, the crystal bowl—sat discarded on the low table. Gone were the easel, the canvases, the paints, the palette…and the artist.

  Gone. Between one hour and the next, it seemed, and with a stealth she could never have imagined, Sheridan had departed. And without a further word spoken be
tween them.

  This, after a revelation and a kiss that had sent her reeling. And now had her rethinking everything, especially the careful plans she’d made for the future.

  Amy shivered, hugging herself against an inner chill. What she was contemplating now must be madness, sheer folly even. To change her mind, let her castles in the air go, on the strength of what she had seen in another man’s eyes…the practical, calculating Amy of one year ago—even three months ago—would never have considered such a thing.

  But that girl hadn’t kissed Thomas Sheridan, or felt the ardent quiver of his body against hers, and her own body’s response to that—a response she’d had to no other man. Easy to explain away, of course: Sheridan was so much more experienced than she, and doubtless adept at rousing these feelings in women. But how, then, to explain her apparent effect on him? The hunger in those green eyes when he kissed her, the haunted look in them when he broke away?

  Other memories crowded into her mind: Sheridan rescuing her from Glyndon and then thrashing him soundly, making him apologize in writing, listening without judgment to her doubts about life in Cornwall, laying aside his role of observer to waltz with her last night…

  He cares—and it frightens him. Because of what he lost before, in Elizabeth. It frightened her too, and so did the hollow ache inside of her whenever she thought about not seeing him again. Or worse, seeing him when she was irrevocably tied to someone else.

  “I will not dishonor us both. I will not betray James.”

  Dear James, who deserved far better and for whom she hadn’t spared a thought since kissing Thomas. She’d given her word, along with her family’s money, to be his countess and the mistress of Pentreath. How could she even think of betraying him? But—wouldn’t marrying him when she suspected she cared more deeply for Thomas Sheridan be a worse betrayal?

  No easy answer, but at the very least, she owed James honesty. So once he returned from Roswarne, she’d tell him of her doubts, and together they would decide what should be done.