by Lisa Kleypas
Amelia ducked her head and pressed a shaky smile against the cool smoothness of his jerkin. “This is lunacy,” she muttered.
Cam held her closer. “Marry me, Amelia. You’re what I want. You’re my fate.” One hand slid to the back of her head, gripping the braids and ribbons to keep her mouth upturned. “Say yes.” He nibbled at her lips, licked at them, opened them. He kissed her until she writhed in his arms, her pulse racing. “Say it, Amelia, and save me from ever having to spend a night with another woman. I’ll sleep indoors. I’ll get a haircut. God help me, I think I’d even carry a pocket watch if it pleased you.”
Amelia felt dizzy, unable to think. She leaned helplessly into the hard support of his body. Everything was him, every breath, beat, blink, quiver. He said her name, and his voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“Amelia…” Cam shook her a little, asking something, repeating the words until she gathered that he wanted to know when she had eaten last.
“Yesterday,” she managed to reply.
Cam didn’t look sympathetic as much as annoyed. “No wonder you’re ready to faint. You’ve had no food and hardly any sleep. How are you to be of use to anyone when you can’t manage to take care of your own basic needs?”
She would have protested, but he gave her no opportunity to explain anything. Fitting a hard arm around her back, he propelled her back to the house, offering caustic advice the entire way. It seemed to take all her strength to ascend the back staircase.
By the time they reached the top, Lillian, Lady Westcliff, was there, her dark gaze chasing over Amelia with concern. “You look as if you’re about to cast up your crumpets,” she said without preamble. “What’s the matter?”
“I proposed to her,” Cam said shortly.
Lillian’s eyebrows lifted.
“I’m fine,” Amelia told her. “I’m just a bit hungry.”
Lillian accompanied them as Cam took Amelia to her sisters’ table. “Did she accept?” she asked Cam.
“Not yet.”
“Well, I’m not surprised. A woman can’t possibly consider a marriage proposal on an empty stomach.” Lillian watched Amelia with concern. “You’re very pale, dear. Shall I take you inside to lie down somewhere?”
Amelia shook her head. “Thank you, no. I’m sorry to make a scene.”
“Oh, you’re not making a scene,” Lillian said. “Believe me, this is nothing compared to the usual goings-on here.” She smiled reassuringly. “If there is anything you need, Amelia, you have only to ask.”
Cam led Amelia to her sisters. She sank gratefully into a chair, in front of a plate heaped with sliced ham, chicken, various salads, and a plate of bread. To her astonishment, Cam took the chair beside hers, cut a bite of something on the plate, and speared it with a fork.
He held the morsel up to her lips. “Start with this.”
She scowled. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding mys—”
The fork was pushed into her mouth. Amelia continued to glare at him as she chewed. When she swallowed, she could only manage a few words—“Give me that”—before he shoved another bite in.
“If you’re going to do such a poor job taking care of yourself,” Cam informed her, “someone else will do it for you.”
Amelia picked up a piece of bread and bit deeply into it. Although she longed to tell him that it was his fault she’d gotten so little sleep and missed breakfast in the bargain, she couldn’t say a word with her sisters present. As she ate, she felt the color returning to her cheeks.
She was aware of conversation taking place around her, the younger Hathaway sisters asking Cam about the condition of Ramsay House, and what was left of it. A chorus of groans greeted the revelation that the bee room had been left intact, and the hive was still busy and thriving.
“I suppose we’ll never be rid of those dratted bees,” Beatrix exclaimed.
“Yes we will,” Cam said. His hand lowered to Amelia’s arm, which was resting on the table. His thumb found the delicate blue veins on the underside of her wrist and stroked the agitated throb of her pulse. “I’ll see that every last one of them is removed.”
Amelia didn’t look at him. She picked up a cup of tea with her free hand and took a careful sip.
“Mr. Rohan,” she heard Beatrix ask, “are you going to marry my sister?”
Amelia choked on her tea and set the cup down. She sputtered and coughed into her napkin.
“Hush, Beatrix,” Win murmured.
“But she’s wearing his ring—”
Poppy clamped her hand over Beatrix’s mouth. “Hush!”
“I might,” Cam replied. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he continued. “I find your sister a bit lacking in humor. And she doesn’t seem particularly obedient. On the other hand—”
One set of French doors flew open, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Everyone on the back terrace looked up in startlement, the men rising from their chairs.
“No,” came Win’s soft cry.
Merripen stood there, having dragged himself from his sickbed. He was bandaged and disheveled, but he looked far from helpless. He looked like a maddened bull, his dark head lowered, his hands clenched into massive fists. And his stare, promising death, was firmly fixed on Cam.
There was no mistaking the bloodlust of a Roma whose kinswoman had been dishonored.
“Oh, God,” Amelia muttered.
Cam, who stood beside her chair, glanced down at her questioningly. “Did you say something to him?”
Amelia turned red as she recalled her blood-spotted nightgown and the maid’s expression. “It must have been servants’ talk.”
Cam stared at the enraged giant with resignation. “You may be in luck,” he said to Amelia. “It looks as if our betrothal is going to end prematurely.”
She made to stand beside him, but he pressed her back into the chair. “Stay out of this. I don’t want you hurt in the fray.”
“He won’t hurt me,” Amelia said curtly. “It’s you he wants to slaughter.”
Holding Merripen’s gaze, Cam moved slowly away from the table. “Is there something you’d like to discuss, chal?” he asked with admirable self-possession.
Merripen replied in Romany. Although no one save Cam understood what he said, it was clearly not encouraging.
“I’m going to marry her,” Cam said, as if to pacify him.
“That’s even worse!” Merripen moved forward, murder in his eyes.
Lord St. Vincent swiftly interceded, stepping between the pair. Like Cam, he’d had his share of putting down fights at the gambling club. He lifted his hands in a staying gesture and spoke smoothly. “Easy, large fellow. I’m sure you can find a way to resolve your differences in a reasonable fashion.”
“Get out of my way,” Merripen growled, putting an end to the notion of civilized discourse.
St. Vincent’s pleasant expression didn’t change. “You have a point. There’s nothing so tiresome as being reasonable. I myself avoid it whenever possible. Still, I’m afraid you can’t brawl when there are ladies present. It might give them ideas.”
Merripen’s scorching black stare flickered to the Hathaway sisters, lingering an extra second on Win’s pale, delicate face. She gave him an infinitesimal shake of her head, silently willing him to relent. To reconsider.
“Merripen—” Amelia began scratchily. The scene was mortifying. But at the same time it moved her that Merripen was so protective of her honor.
Cam silenced her with a touch on the shoulder. He leveled a cool stare at Merripen and said, “Not in front of the gadjos.” Jerking his head in the direction of the back gardens, he headed to the stone staircase.
After a brooding hesitation, Merripen followed.
Chapter Seventeen
When the pair was out of sight, Lord Westcliff spoke to St. Vincent. “Perhaps we should follow at a distance to prevent them from killing each other.”
St. Vincent shook his head, relaxing in his chair. He reached for his Evie
’s hand and began to play with her fingers. “Believe me, Rohan has the situation well in hand. His opponent may be a bit larger, but Rohan has the considerable advantage of having grown up in London, where he’s interacted with criminals and remarkably violent brutes.” Smiling at his wife, he added, “And those are just our employees.”
Amelia had no fears for Cam’s sake. A fight between the two men would be like wielding a cudgel against a rapier … the rapier, with its superior grace and adroitness, would win. But that outcome brought its own perils. With the possible exception of Leo, the Hathaways were intensely fond of Merripen. The girls wouldn’t find it easy to forgive someone who had harmed him. Especially Win.
Glancing at her sister, Amelia began to say something consoling, when she realized that Win’s expression was not one of fear or helplessness.
Win was annoyed.
“Merripen has been injured,” Win said. “He should be resting, not chasing about after Mr. Rohan.”
“It’s not my fault he got out of his sickbed!” Amelia protested in an indignant whisper.
Win’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’ve done something to stir everyone up. And it’s fairly obvious that whatever you did, Mr. Rohan was involved.”
Poppy, who was listening avidly, couldn’t resist adding, “Intimately involved.”
The two older sisters glanced at her and said in unison, “Shut up, Poppy.”
Poppy frowned. “I’ve been waiting my entire life for Amelia to stray from the straight and narrow. Now that it’s happened, I’m going to enjoy it.”
“I’d enjoy it, too,” Beatrix said plaintively, “if I only knew what we’re talking about.”
* * *
Cam led the way along the yew hedge, going away from the manor until they reached a sunken lane stretching toward the wood. They stopped beside a thicket of Saint-John’s-wort, its golden flowers in full bloom, and sedge spiked with bottlebrush stems in leaf. Deceptively relaxed, Cam folded his arms loosely across his chest. He was puzzled by the large, irate chal, a Roma with the air of a loner. The mysterious Merripen had no affiliation with a Gypsy tribe, but had instead chosen to make himself the watchdog of a gadje family. Why? What did he owe to them? Perhaps Merripen was mahrime, designated by the Rom as one unworthy of trust. An outcast. If so, Cam wondered what Merripen had done to deserve such status.
“You took advantage of Amelia,” Merripen said.
“Not that it matters,” Cam said in Romany, “but how did you find out?”
Merripen’s huge hands flexed as if longing to rip him apart. Lucifer himself could not have had blacker, more burning eyes. “Speak in English,” he said harshly. “I don’t like the old language.”
Frowning in curiosity, Cam readily complied.
“The maids were talking about it,” Merripen replied. “I heard them standing outside my door. You dishonored one of my family.”
“Yes, I know,” Cam said quietly.
“You’re not good enough for her.”
“I know that, too.” Watching him intently, Cam asked, “Do you want her for yourself, chal?”
Merripen looked mortally offended. “She’s a sister to me.”
“That’s good. Because I want her for my wife. And as far as I can see”—Cam gestured wide with his hands—“there aren’t exactly queues forming to help the Hathaways. So I may be able to help the family.”
“They don’t need your money. Ramsay has an annuity.”
“Ramsay will be dead soon. We both know it. And after he turns up his toes, the title will go to the next poor bastard in line, and there’ll be four unmarried Hathaway sisters with few practical skills to speak of. What do you think will become of them? What about the invalid? She’ll need medical care—”
“She’s not an invalid!” Merripen made his face expressionless, but not before Cam had seen a flash of extraordinary emotion, something ferocious and tormented.
Apparently, Cam thought, not all of the Hathaways were like sisters to Merripen. Perhaps this was the key to him. Perhaps Merripen harbored a secret passion for a woman who was too innocent to realize it, and too frail ever to marry.
“Merripen,” Cam said slowly, “you’re going to have to find a way to tolerate me. Because there are things I can do for Amelia, and the rest of them, that you can’t.” He continued in a level tone despite the look on Merripen’s face, which would have terrified a lesser man. “And I don’t have the patience to battle you every step of the way. If you want what’s best for them, either leave, or accept this. I’m not going anywhere.”
As the huge chal glared at him, Cam could almost see the progression of his thoughts, the weighing of options, the violent desire to mow down his enemy, all of it overshadowed by the urge to do what was right for his family.
“Besides,” Cam said, “if Amelia doesn’t marry me, the gadjo will be after her again. And you know she’ll be better off with me.”
Merripen’s eyes narrowed. “Frost broke her heart. You took her innocence. Why does that make you any better?”
“Because I’m not going to leave her. Unlike the gadjos, the Rom are faithful to our women.” Cam paused and measured out five seconds before adding deliberately, “You probably know that better than I.”
Merripen fixed his furious gaze at a point in the distance. “If you hurt her in any way…” he finally said, “I’m going to kill you.”
“Fair enough.”
“I may kill you anyway.”
Cam smiled slightly. “You’d be surprised how many people have said that to me before.”
“No,” Merripen said, “I wouldn’t.”
* * *
Amelia paused nervously at the door of Cam’s room. There were sounds of movement within, drawers opening and closing, objects being moved. She realized he must be preparing to leave for London.
The residents and guests of Stony Cross Manor had discreetly left the back terrace before Cam and Merripen had returned. Amelia had just caught sight of Merripen returning to his room, his ferocious scowl deepening as he had glanced at her. She had opened her mouth to ask something, apologize, she wasn’t certain what, but he had cut her off. “Your choice,” he muttered. “And it affects all of us. Don’t forget that.” He had closed the door before she could say a word.
Glancing up and down the hallway, Amelia made certain she was unobserved before she gave a feather-light rap at the door and let herself into the room.
Cam pushed a stack of neatly folded garments into a small gentleman’s trunk at the foot of the bed. He looked up at her, a spill of black silk falling down to his eyes. He was so vibrant, so dark and beautiful, his skin like polished rosewood.
Amelia’s voice came unevenly from her constricted throat. “I was afraid Merripen would bring you back in pieces.”
Stepping away from the bed, toward her, Cam smiled. “All still here.”
As Amelia glanced at the lean, fascinating contours of his body, she felt her temperature rise. She turned to the side and spoke rapidly.
“I’ve considered everything you said earlier. I’ve made a decision. But first I’d like to explain that it has nothing to do with your personal endowments, which are quite considerable. It’s just that—”
“My personal endowments?”
“Yes. Your intelligence. Your attractiveness.”
“Oh.”
Wondering why his voice sounded odd, Amelia darted a questioning glance at him. The amber eyes were bright with laughter. What had she said to amuse him? “Are you paying attention?”
“Believe me, when my personal endowments are being discussed, I always pay attention. Go on.”
She frowned. “Mr. Rohan, although I consider your offer a great compliment, and present circumstances being what they—”
“Let’s get to the point, Amelia.” His hands closed over her shoulders. “Are you going to marry me?”
“I can’t,” she said weakly. “I just can’t. We don’t suit. It’s obvious we’re not at all alike. You�
��re impetuous. You make life-altering decisions in the blink of an eye. Whereas I choose one course and I don’t stray from it.”
“You strayed last night. And look how well it turned out.” He grinned at her expression. “I’m not impetuous, love. It’s just that I know when something is too important to be decided according to logic.”
“And marriage is one of those things?”
“Of course.” Cam settled a hand high on her chest, over the wild pounding of her heart. “You have to decide it in here.”
Amelia’s chest felt tight beneath the warmth of his hand. “I’ve only known you for a matter of days. We’re still strangers. I can’t entrust the future of my entire family to a man I don’t even know.”
“A couple can be married fifty years and never know each other. Besides, you know the important things about me already.”
Amelia heard an annoying drumming sound, and she thought at first it was the wild percussion of her heart. But as Cam’s leg intruded gently among the folds of her borrowed dress and touched hers, she realized she was doing her blasted foot-tapping again. With an effort, she went still.
Sliding one arm around her, Cam picked up her left hand, bringing it to his mouth. His lips brushed over the chafed red patch on her knuckle, where she had tried to pull the ring off.
“It’s stuck,” she grumbled. “It’s too small.”
“It’s not too small. Just relax your hand and it will come off.”
“My hand is relaxed.”
“Gadjis,” he said. “You’re all as stiff as amaranth wood. It must be your corsets.” His head bent, his mouth finding hers. He explored slowly, enticing her to open for him, hunting for the shy tip of her tongue. She stirred in dismay as she realized he was unfastening the back of her gown. The bodice loosened in front, sagging away from her neatly confined breasts.
“Cam … no…”
“Shhh…” The hot, exciting waft of his breath filled her mouth. “I’m helping you remove the ring. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Removing this ring has nothing to do with pulling my corset str—oh, no—” The web of stays had split open to expose a lush display of flesh. “This isn’t helping.” She tried to pull up her disassembled clothing with the clumsiness of someone moving underwater.