Amanda Rose

by Karen Robards

  She made a quick stop in the kitchen, daring to light a candle as she hurriedly washed the tureen and put it away, all the while praying that no chink of light would show beyond the closed kitchen door. When she was at last able to blow out the candle, she let out a sigh of relief. Thank goodness no one had awakened. Matt had been sitting at the scrubbed pine table, watching her. He stood as darkness descended upon them once more. Amanda groped her way to him, grasping his arm and secretly marveling at the hardness of the muscle beneath her hand, and steered him toward the stairs. By the time they had negotiated the remaining three flights of stairs to her room, he was limping and leaning reluctantly on her shoulder.

  Amanda was panting now, as out of breath as if she had run every step of the way. When at last she eased them both through the door of her bedroom, which, she was thankful, was illuminated by moonlight, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered, anxiously looking up at Matt, who was resting wearily against the closed door.

  “Yes.” The word was clipped. Amanda bit her lip, but she knew Matt well enough by now to say nothing.

  “You take the bed. I’ll curl up with a blanket and pillow on the floor.” He looked so exhausted she had to make the offer, although she guessed that it was not likely to be well received. She was right.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll sleep on the floor—I’m used to it. Believe me, it won’t be any more uncomfortable than many of the places I’ve slept recently, and it’s certainly a damned sight cleaner. Get into bed, Amanda.”

  This last was tacked on so abruptly that Amanda looked up at him in some surprise. She saw how his eyes, their silvery glitter restless, were once again moving down her body, and she realized that the streaming moonlight affected the material of her night rail in much the same way that the candlelight had earlier. She started to say something, thought better of it, then obediently crossed to the bed and climbed between the sheets. He followed her, more slowly, coming to stand between her bed and the window, looking down at her with his face in shadow so that she could not read his expression.

  chapter ten

  For a long moment he remained motionless, saying nothing. Amanda returned his look gravely, wishing she could see his face, thinking how tall and broad he seemed with the moonlight pouring in around the dark shape that was his body, silvering the outline of him. He looked like something from her worst nightmare—or darkest fantasy. If she had awakened to find him looming over her bed as he was now, not knowing him, she knew that her scream would have roused the dead—if, indeed, she had screamed at all.

  Finally he spoke.

  “Sleep well, Amanda,” he said, turning away. His voice was husky; the words were almost inaudible.

  “Good night, Matt.” Her voice was husky, too. Strangely, she felt almost on the verge of tears. With every fiber of her being she suddenly realized that she wanted this man; not just his kisses or his lovemaking, but his arms around her to hold her, his voice to soothe her, his very presence to cherish and protect her as she had longed to be cherished and protected for years. She felt so safe in his arms, so warm and secure . . . She wanted him; it was as simple as that. And there wasn’t any hope that she could have him. He would be in her life for only a few brief days, and then he would be gone, like the dream figure he resembled. And no one except herself would ever know how he had affected her.

  At the thought of his going, she was horribly afraid that she would start to cry in earnest. Hearing her, he would probably, with his despicable conceit, imagine that she was trying to lure him into her bed. Indignation stiffened her spine and effectively banished her tears. He was settling himself on the floor near the bed, sitting with his back against the wall and his knees bent so that his arms could clasp them loosely. His black head rested against the whitewashed wall just a foot from where the simple, carved-wood headboard of her bed ended. His face, still veiled by shadow, turned toward hers. Silently she offered him a blanket and pillow. He rejected both with a gesture. Then he chuckled.

  “Your eyes shine like a cat’s in the dark. Very unnerving. Go to sleep, Amanda.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Unlike you, I’m used to getting by on very little sleep. And at the moment I’m not feeling particularly sleepy.”

  “Neither am I. Talk to me, Matt.”

  “About what?” His voice was indulgent, as if he were humoring a child. Amanda knew she should feel indignant, but she didn’t. She liked having him near.

  “In the cave, when I told you about the smugglers, you said that you were expecting someone,” she said, suddenly remembering. Her eyes widened as she stared at him, wishing she could read his expression in the darkness. “Who, Matt?”

  He was silent for so long that she began to think he wasn’t going to answer. When at last he did, his voice was low, and he turned his head toward the window. Amanda didn’t mind because with the moon illuminating his profile, she had a better view of his face. She thought he looked wary.

  “Some friends of mine.”

  The clipped answer made her stiffen. “I see. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  He sighed, turning his head so that he was looking at her again. The moon silhouetted a quarter view of his face, painting a silvery wash over his chiseled cheekbone and down the flat plane of his cheek to his jaw.

  “I’m sorry, Amanda. I’m so used to not trusting anyone that I occasionally forget you’re not a treacherous mortal like the rest of us. As my personal guardian angel, you have the right to know anything you like.” His voice was whimsical, but his continued allusions to her as an angel disturbed her for some reason. She was as much flesh and blood as he.

  “I’m not an angel, Matt.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that, if you please. And don’t argue—it could get you in trouble with the rest of the angels. I’m sure arguing is against the rules . . . Have you decided that ignorance is bliss, or do you want to know whom I’m expecting?”

  For a moment Amanda thought about insisting that he acknowledge that she was as much a human being as anyone else, as capable of petty and not-so-petty sins as he, but the tantalizing lure of his last question sidetracked her.

  “I want to know.”

  He smiled faintly. Amanda could see the twisted curve of his mouth in the pool of moonlight.

  “I thought you would. Very well, Miss Cat-Eyes, I’ll tell you: I’m expecting my ship and my men and my brother, anytime now.”

  It took her a moment to assimilate that. She stared at him, astonished.

  “But how on earth can they know where you are?”

  “Zeke—my brother—and I have been here before. We once took shelter in the bay from a storm. He was sailing with me then. Now he generally captains his own ship. The day after I escaped, I sent word to him to meet me here. I imagine my letter must have been quite a shock—he can’t have had the one I bribed a guard to send him while I was in prison or he would have been in London before the ink dried. It’s probably waiting for him in New Orleans. In any case, if he’s on schedule, he should have arrived at Le Havre ten days ago to deliver a load of cotton to a buyer there. He should get my message as soon as he lands or, to be precise, as soon as he visits a certain lady who keeps a house near the docks, which if I know Zeke will be his first port of call. I’ve been expecting him anytime for the last few days.”

  “You’ve been watching for a ship. That’s how you fell onto the beach and why you rushed outside tonight when I told you I’d seen lights in the bay.” Amanda spoke slowly. She was having trouble coming to terms with all he had told her. It was strange to think of him with a brother who cared what became of him. She was used to considering him as hers and no one else’s . . .

  “Tell me about your brother. Is he older than you or younger?”

  “Younger, by seven years, to be precise. Ezekiel Peter Grayson. Quite a mouthful but no worse than Matthew Zacharias, which is my full name, by the way. Our mother was fascinated by t
he Bible.” His mouth twisted wryly. Amanda was too absorbed to do more than vaguely register his expression.

  “Is your mother still alive? Do you have any other family?”

  “There are just my brother and me.” The words were faintly clipped.

  Amanda’s brows drew together. She was suddenly inordinately curious about him. Strange she had never given any thought to the life he must have led before he was arrested for murder. “And you’re both sea captains?”

  “Zeke is. He works for me. I’m more businessman than anything else these days, though I started out being hired to captain someone else’s ship. But I managed to persuade the owner—a New Orleans merchant with no stomach for the sea but a hard head for money—to pay me a percentage of the profit on each successful voyage. I saved everything I made, and it wasn’t too long before I was able to buy part interest in a ship of my own. Now I own half a dozen and spend more time securing business than I do sailing, although I occasionally take a cargo across just to keep my hand in.”

  “Matt, how did it happen? Your being arrested, I mean.”

  Even through the obscuring shadows she caught the teasing glimmer in his eyes.

  “I thought you didn’t want to know,” he reminded her softly.

  “That was when I thought you were guilty,” Amanda retorted. “Now that I know you’re not going to recount the gory details of your crime, I’m curious.”

  His teeth gleamed in the darkness.

  “Are you, now? All right, then, my curious cat, I’ll satisfy your curiosity: I was in London to see a gentleman about a contract for shipping molasses. I was alone. When it became obvious that it was going to take more time than I had expected to come to terms, I sent my ship on to Lisbon to deliver its cargo under the captainship of my first mate, who’s a very capable seaman himself. His instructions were to head for Morocco after he had delivered the cargo to Lisbon and pick up a load of silks at Rabat, which he was to take back to New Orleans. I planned to sail on one of my ships or to book commercial passage home. In either case, I should have arrived about a month ago. I imagine that Zeke was intending to make a detour by London to see what was detaining me when he finished his business in Le Havre.” He paused, frowning. “Considering the isolation in which I was held and the brevity of my trial, I could easily have been hanged before any of my people found out what had become of me.”

  Amanda’s brow wrinkled. “But why did they think you were the murderer?”

  Matt smiled mirthlessly. “Ah, there’s the rub. I was drinking with my prospective customer in a London inn near the docks when I pulled from my pocket a timepiece I had recently purchased. His eyes bulged as he watched me open it, and he excused himself and left the bar rather hastily. I assumed he had had too much to drink and thought no more about it. I was sitting there, finishing my drink, the only thoughts in my head concerning whether or not I would get the shipping contract, which was a rather large one, when a dragoon of soldiers burst in. They asked me if I was myself. I said yes. They searched me, removing my watch for ‘evidence,’ they said, and hustled me away with them.

  “The next day, I was charged with murdering Lord Farringdon and his family. I had heard of the crime, of course. Who hadn’t? But I had never, to my knowledge, set eyes on the fellow. Certainly I had no motive for murdering him. But that watch was one he was known to have possessed, and it was believed that he had had it in his pocket the night he was murdered. Not that mere possession of the watch was enough to convict me. Oh, no, after they found that, they searched the rooms where I had been staying and found another item I had purchased at the same time and in the same place: a jeweled dagger, a pretty toy, I thought. What I had no way of knowing at the time I bought it was that it had been used, most recently, to slit the throats of Lord Farringdon and his wife and children.”

  Amanda made an inarticulate sound of horror.

  “My reaction exactly. Well, to continue, I told them I had purchased the items from a young girl who had offered to sell them to me so she could buy milk for her child. She had the babe with her, and it cried the whole time and looked extremely undernourished. Like a fool, I had felt sorry for her and so paid her a good price for the watch and knife. The soldiers were unable to find a trace of her, although I was assured they had tried. Then came the decisive factor: aside from being in possession of a personal item belonging to the victim, as well as the murder weapon itself, I didn’t have a shred of an alibi for the night in question. I was in bed asleep. Alone. The officers in charge of the investigation seemed to find that almost impossible to believe. I pointed out to them that if I had really committed the murder, I would have taken good care to arrange an alibi. They were not impressed. Within three months of being arrested, I was tried, found guilty, and brought to the very brink of the gallows before fate intervened. And I may hang yet. I have no doubt that they’ll string me up without ceremony if ever they get their hands on me again.”

  Amanda was silent for some time after he had finished.

  “What will you do? Now, I mean.” Her voice was troubled.

  “Go home, first of all. They’ll manage to trace me there eventually, but I think they’ll find that arresting me in New Orleans, where I’m well known, is a very different kettle of fish from arresting me in London. And in the meantime I plan to send someone over here to try to find that blasted girl. Without her my story falls apart.”

  “What if whomever you send doesn’t find her?”

  “Then I’ll take good care never to come to England again. Which would be no great hardship. I haven’t found your country to be particularly hospitable. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  He was staring at the opposite wall, his expression brooding. Amanda impulsively reached out to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her, his face once again shadowed so that she could not see his expression. Then he lifted a hand to cover hers, pressing it to his shoulder for a moment before lifting it carefully and carrying it with infinite tenderness to his mouth. Amanda felt her breath catch in her throat as he placed a deliberate kiss on the very tip of each of her slender fingers. When at last he turned her hand over to press his mouth to her palm, heat seemed to radiate from the spot. Amanda was conscious of a sudden wild desire to leave the shelter of the bed and join him, to wrap her arms around him and soothe his hurts with soft words and softer kisses. But she knew he would only push her away . . .

  “Is your curiosity satisfied now, my cat-eyed angel?” He pressed a last brief kiss on her knuckles before returning her hand to her, tucking it gently beneath the blanket as though to put it safely out of harm’s way. Amanda caught her breath in a deep, shuddering sigh and cradled the hand against her breasts.

  “Yes. Thank you.” The words were indistinct. She hardly knew what she was saying.

  “Then I suggest you try to get some sleep. I’m relying on you to keep the wolves at bay tomorrow. I really don’t relish having to spend the day under the bed.” A brief smile glimmered.

  “I don’t think you’ll have to.” Her voice was soft, dreamy.

  “Good. Go to sleep, Amanda.”

  “Yes, all right. Good night, Matt.”

  His reply was little more than a grunt. Amanda obediently shut her eyes, hugging the feel of his mouth on her hand to her. Just thinking of his mouth inevitably brought to mind the occasions when he had kissed her. Twice now . . . She shivered at the memory.

  “Matt.” Her eyes opened to find him. He hadn’t moved.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m sorry I slapped you.”

  He turned to look at her. His teeth shone white in a slow smile.

  “Think nothing of it. Go to sleep, Amanda.”

  “You keep saying that.” The words were plaintive.

  “Because I mean it. Go to sleep.”

  “Oh, all right.” Crossly she turned so that she was facing away from him and closed her eyes. She thought she heard him chuckle, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of look
ing at him so that she could be sure. But she would never go to sleep . . .

  His hand gently shaking her shoulder woke her. When she felt that unmistakably masculine touch, her eyes flew open and she rolled onto her back with a startled gasp. Just for a moment she could not imagine who on earth . . . Then she looked up into silver-gray eyes and a lean, handsome face roughened by a day’s growth of beard, and she smiled. The silvery eyes darkened to the color of gun metal as they observed her flushed with sleep, her unbound hair tousled and vivid against the virginal night rail and equally virginal sheets. She had kicked the covers off during the night; the hem of her night rail had ridden up around her thighs, baring legs that were slender and shapely and the color of warm cream amid that cocoon of white . . . Amanda followed the direction of his glance and flushed as she realized how much of herself was unveiled for him. But her movements were almost languid as she pushed the offending garment down. It startled her to realize that she liked having him look at her. It was Matt who moodily turned away.

  “You’d better get up.” His voice was harsh, and Amanda could see him clenching and unclenching his fists. “A bell rang a few minutes ago.”

  Reminded now of their situation, Amanda sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. After one hard glance at her Matt turned his back and moved to the window, where he stood looking out at the sky and the sea.

  “I have to get dressed.” As the last remnants of sleep fled, her sense of propriety returned—and with it came consternation. She could not simply remove her night rail and get dressed as he stood not five feet away. But what else could she do? He couldn’t leave—and she couldn’t remain in her night clothes all day.