Amanda Rose

by Karen Robards

  “Edward was telling me that he has come to fetch me home,” she put in hurriedly, before Edward could reply provocatively. “I . . . it would be best, Matt.”

  He looked down at her then, his eyes gentle for just a moment. Amanda was dazzled as she stared up into that lean, dark face. It had been a long time since he had looked at her like that.

  “Never fear, Amanda. I heard what your half brother had to say—nearly every word, I imagine. And you’re not going with him.”

  “If you think that, you must have missed one very important point, Grayson,” Edward said, his narrow face insolent. “I shall go to the authorities and tell them where they can find you if Amanda doesn’t do as I say.”

  Matt smiled that ferocious smile again. “No, I did hear that. And I meant what I said: Amanda isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Matt, he will do it,” Amanda said urgently. Her nails dug into his arm with the force of her agitation.

  “I have no doubt that he will.” Matt was looking down at her with that same dizzying expression in his eyes. “But it doesn’t make any difference, actually. This morning I received an interesting message. Van Horn, the man I sent to England, found the necessary witness. And she’s been persuaded to tell her story to the authorities there. The charges against me will, of course, be dropped.”

  “Oh, Matt, that’s wonderful.”

  Matt smiled at her, then his attention moved back to Edward. “You owe your sister an apology.” There was a steely edge to his voice, but Amanda was no longer worried. Matt wouldn’t actually kill Edward, and Edward did deserve a thrashing.

  “Apologize to Amanda?” Edward, realizing that his hold over Matt, and through him Amanda, was now substantially weakened, began to bluster. “Whatever for?”

  “For threatening her.” Matt’s voice was mild. “And for calling her a whore. As well as for all the other insults.”

  “You heard all that?” Amanda couldn’t believe her good fortune. If Matt had heard Edward’s insults, he had also heard Edward boasting about being responsible for the soldiers on the beach that morning. Which meant that Matt could no longer believe she had betrayed him . . .

  “I heard.” Matt looked at Edward. “Well, Culver?”

  “And if I choose not to apologize?”

  “I think you’re too intelligent not to.” Every word Matt had uttered had been perfectly civil, but Amanda could see that Edward was sweating. Perspiration beaded the high, pale forehead and dampened the edges of the fair hair.

  “Very well.” Edward gave in with poor grace. “Amanda, I apologize. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  He took a few tentative steps toward the door, then stopped when it became obvious that Matt had no intention of moving out of his way.

  “There’s just one point more.” Matt’s voice was still soft, but the gleam in his eyes was deadly as he straightened to balance on the balls of his feet. “Amanda, leave us, please.”

  She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”

  “Because I told you to. Now, go on.”

  Amanda bit her lip. She did not want to leave the two men alone, but neither did she want to argue with Matt in front of Edward. Those silvery eyes flicked a warning look down at her. Reluctantly she went. But no farther than just outside the door, where she could hear everything that took place in the parlor.

  There was a brief silence, as if Matt were waiting for her to be out of earshot.

  “What do you want?” Edward sounded uneasy.

  “As I said, we have one more thing to discuss: the matter of a very painful, swollen bruise you inflicted not so long ago on your sister’s cheek.”

  “I never—”

  “Oh, yes, you did. I saw her. And I mean to give it back to you—with interest.”

  There was a sudden flurry of movement, a cry, and then the sickening sound of a fist thudding into flesh. Amanda ran back into the room in time to see Matt deliver a hard blow to Edward’s abdomen. Edward doubled over, gasping. Matt jerked him upright by his collar and held him that way just long enough to repeat the action.

  Edward was groaning, his face pasty white beneath the blood from Matt’s first punch. Matt grinned, a savage flash of white teeth in his dark face. Then his fist again slammed into Edward.

  “Matt, don’t. No more.” Despite her feelings toward Edward, Amanda was sickened by the violence, and the sight of blood dripping from Edward’s nose onto the polished floor made her feel ill. Matt looked at her, clearly debating with himself, but when he saw her white face, he made a sound of disgust and let go of Edward’s collar. Edward collapsed to the floor, his knees coming up to his chest as he gasped and groaned.

  “I thought I told you to leave.” Matt’s voice still had an angry rasp.

  “I did, but . . . oh, have you killed him?” This last came as Edward groaned loudly and tried unsuccessfully to lift his bloodied face from the floor. There was so much blood he was almost unrecognizable.

  “No, I haven’t killed him.”

  He looked up then, saw the small army of servants that had congregated in the doorway and beyond, and frowned.

  “George, Malcolm,” he said to the butler and yardboy, “remove this man and take him to his hotel.”

  “Yes, sir.” The two spoke in unison, and moved forward to catch Edward under the arms and hoist him upright.

  “As for you,” Matt said to Edward, the deadly edge back in his voice, “if I ever set eyes on you again, or if Amanda does, I shall finish the job. Do you understand?”

  Edward managed to nod. Matt gestured to the men, and they carried out the still-groaning Edward.

  “The rest of you, go back to work. Lalanni, bring me a bottle of brandy and two glasses.”

  The servants dispersed like leaves in a whirlwind. Lalanni brought the brandy and glasses, then left the room.

  “Drink this.” Matt poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass and held it out to Amanda. He had already seated her on the chaise longue. Standing beside her chair, looking down at her with an abstracted expression on his dark face, he seemed very remote.

  “I don’t like brandy.”

  “Drink it.” He pushed the glass into her hand and watched as she drained it. He took the empty glass from her, set it on a nearby table, poured himself a large measure of brandy, then drank it in a single gulp. Having refilled the glass, he came to stand over her again.

  “Feel better?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. His eyes were brooding as he stared out the window at the lush garden.

  “Matt . . .”

  “Amanda,” he said at the same time. He paused, frowning down at her. She had no way of knowing how very beautiful she looked, with her cascades of hair confined in an elegantly simple knot on the top of her head while curling tendrils escaped to frame her small face in a cloud of ruby silk. She was very pale from shock, and her eyes were huge and almost purple beneath their frame of thick black lashes as she looked up at him. Her mouth was soft and defenseless, the color of the roses in the garden and twice as enchanting. Her skin was dewy, glowing like the finest pearl. The neckline of her dress was very low, allowing him, from his vantage point above her, to see the shadowy valley between the swelling mounds of her breasts. In the unadorned white dress she wore, she looked very young and very innocent. All at once the magnitude of what he had done to her struck Matt like a blow between the eyes, and he winced.

  “Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head, unsmiling. He seemed to want to say something, without quite being able to force the words past his lips.

  “Edward didn’t hit you, did he?” She looked at him anxiously. He had such a strange look on his face.

  “Not likely.” One side of his mouth twisted up sardonically. “I grew up in the toughest alleys in one of the toughest ports in the world. Your dandified brother didn’t touch me.”

  “Your hand is bleeding,” Amanda said suddenly, observing the hand raising the glass of brandy t
o his lips. He swallowed the liquid quickly, as if he needed it.

  “Is it?” He sounded unconcerned as his eyes flicked indifferently over the smear of blood on his knuckles. Setting the glass on a nearby table, he extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and twisted it around the cut. “I must have caught his tooth.”

  Amanda eyed him, puzzled. He looked strange and he sounded strange, as if he had an unpleasant duty to perform and he was nerving himself for it. Matt didn’t speak again for several minutes, merely stood beside her chair with his bandaged hand resting on the apple-green upholstery near her head as he stared out at the garden.

  “I made your brother apologize to you,” he said finally, looking down at her with a wry twist to his lips. “But I owe you an apology more than he did. I am sorry, Amanda. I should be shot at sunrise for what I’ve done to you.”

  She met his eyes with a faint smile in her own. He looked very handsome, with his black hair tousled as a result of his encounter with Edward and his silvery eyes almost the color of smoke. His mouth was held in a taut, straight line, as if he were afraid that she would fling his apology in his teeth. Apologizing was new to him, Amanda surmised.

  “I never betrayed you,” she said, looking at him steadily. She wanted to make sure that point was understood.

  “I know . . . now.” He looked away from her, spots of dark color rising to stain his high cheekbones. “I’ve been every sort of scoundrel. You told me and Zeke told me. I almost bloodied his nose for him, he kept after me so much. I thought he was just blinded by you—you’re very blinding, Amanda,” he added with a flicker of a wry smile, looking down at her briefly before looking away again. “But it was I who was blind. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be as lovely and sweet and innocent as you seemed. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

  “I know, Matt.” She spoke softly; there was a sudden lump in her throat.

  “I always knew you were an angel,” he said with a strangled laugh. Amanda smiled at him and reached up to touch the battered hand that rested beside her head. He caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the slender fingers. “Say you forgive me,” he muttered against her fingers, the words almost an order. He was recovering his usual confidence, Amanda saw, noting the widening smile and the relaxing of his tense stance.

  “You are an arrogant, pig-headed swine,” she began severely, then smiled as his eyes narrowed. “But I forgive you.”

  Amanda moved her legs aside and patted the end of the chaise longue in silent invitation. Matt came around the chair and sat down, lifting her feet cozily into his lap. “I don’t deserve you, Amanda,” he said, his tone remorseful as he released her hand.

  “No, you don’t,” she agreed with a smile. He smiled back, his eyes laughing.

  “You don’t have to agree with me,” he complained.

  “I’m a dreadful liar,” Amanda reminded him demurely, and he laughed.

  “Let me make it up to you, Amanda,” he said, catching her hand and holding it tightly. “Marry me.”

  Amanda’s eyes were as big as saucers as she searched his face. He was smiling at her, but his eyes were grave. He looked so handsome, so dear, that he caught at her heart. The one thing she had wanted more than anything else on earth had finally happened: he was asking her to be his wife. And she wanted to. She wanted to love him and have him love her for the rest of their lives. Then a tiny frown pleated her brow. He had said nothing of love—perhaps he was shy. At the thought of Matt being shy the frown vanished and she smiled deliciously. She would give him plenty of encouragement . . .

  “You’re looking at me as a hungry little cat looks at a canary.” His smile widened. “Won’t you give me your answer, Amanda?”

  The tenderness of his voice was almost her undoing. She battled an urge to fling her arms around his neck and cry her acceptance to the world. But there was something she wanted to hear first.

  “Why, Matt?” She looked at him through the veil of her lashes.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you want to marry me?”

  His lips twisted, and her heart began to pound with hope. Now he would say it . . .

  “It’s the least I can do, under the circumstances—and as an amende honorable, if you will. What your brother said—though it enraged me at the time—is true. I have ruined your reputation, and with it your chances for the sort of life that is your due. I can’t give it back to you, but I can give you the protection of my name. And I’ll take good care of you, Amanda. You’ll never want for anything as my wife.”

  Amanda felt deflated, like a punctured balloon. He would marry her only to salve his conscience. She had known almost from the beginning that he was an honorable man. Why, then, did she hurt so much now? She ought to have known that would be his reason for proposing. Perhaps if she had not raised her hopes, she would not now feel as if she wanted to cry and never stop.

  “Well?” he demanded, impatient. From the look on his face, he was in no doubt of her answer. And she supposed he had every right to look that way. Under the circumstances, she was a fool not to jump at the chance.

  “No,” she said, lifting her legs from his lap and standing up. He stood, too, his face a study in contradictory emotions, and caught at her arm.

  “What do you mean, no?” He sounded dumbfounded.

  “No, I won’t marry you.” She tried to pull her arm from his grasp, but he refused to release her, his long fingers biting hurtfully into the soft flesh.

  “Why the hell not?” He was both angry and affronted. Amanda reflected bitterly that it must be quite a jolt to nerve oneself to make a proposal of marriage that one really did not want to make and then have it thrown back in one’s face. The sense of relief, she suspected, would come later.

  “Because, to be frank, it doesn’t sound like a very good proposition.” Suddenly she was consumed with a need to hurt him as he had hurt her. Not that she could, of course. Her ridiculous love for him gave him an unfair advantage. But she could prick his vanity. She managed a silvery laugh. “You’re very attractive, of course, but . . . marriage. When I marry, it will have to be to someone of my own social class. If I didn’t, if I married someone like you, my father and all my ancestors would turn in their graves.”

  His face blanched. “Why, you snobbish little . . .”

  Amanda smiled tauntingly as she watched him suffer. Not that anything could make up for the pain in her own heart.

  “I’m sorry, Matt,” she said very gently. “But I felt that it was best to be honest.” He stared at her as she gently disengaged her arm from his slackened fingers. Then she turned on her heel and left the room.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He was behind her, and he sounded ugly. Amanda smiled. She hoped that his damaged pride was paining him as much as her damaged heart was her. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, surprised to find him so close.

  “To my room. To pack. I’m leaving, Matt.” They were in the front hall by then, and Amanda headed for the beautiful carved mahogany staircase that lifted gracefully into the upper regions of the house.

  “The hell you are.” He caught her arm again, swinging her around. Amanda glared at him, feeling fury flare and die as she saw his face. He looked half out of his mind. His mouth was contorted with rage, and his eyes glittered wildly down at her.

  “You can’t stop me, Matt,” she said almost gently. He let out his breath with a sound like a snarl.

  “Can’t I, my fine lady?” He was looking at her as if he hated her. “We’ll see about that.”

  Amanda turned away without replying, jerking her arm from his grasp. Behind her she heard him swear violently. Glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes widened as she saw that he was coming up the stairs after her, vengeance in every line of that dark face.

  chapter twenty-three

  He caught her on the second-floor landing. Breathless, Amanda had picked up her skirts to run, hoping to reach her bedroom so that she could bolt her door
against him. She didn’t think that he would go so far as to burst through a locked door, not with the servants in the house. But Matt was too fast for her. Even as she had gathered up her skirts his hand closed over her arm roughly, swinging her around to face him. Amanda looked up at him, her heart pounding wildly at what she saw in his face. Then he bent and scooped her up in his arms, holding her struggling body hard against his chest as he strode down the hallway.

  “Let me go, Matt.” Suddenly he terrified her, this tall, dark man who was both lover and stranger. He looked like a man who had reached the end of his rope; his silver eyes burned with an unholy fire, and that handsome mouth was set in a harsh, almost cruel line.

  “Like hell.” He looked down at her as he spoke. One corner of his mouth twisted up in a travesty of a smile, frightening Amanda almost more than the glitter of his eyes. Matt had shed his civilized skin like a snake, and she was left facing a primitive, untamed male.

  “Matt . . .” She tried again to make him see reason, only to fall silent as he snarled.

  “You always say my name so prettily.” His tone was savage. “Do you do it deliberately, I wonder, or is it your feminine camouflage that gives you a voice like silk when underneath you’re as hard and cold as a knife?”

  “Matt, this won’t stop me from leaving.” She hoped to penetrate the angry bitterness that flamed so furiously in his eyes. As soon as she spoke, she knew that reminding him of her plans was a mistake. His jaw clenched, and his arms tightened around her, crushing her against his chest.

  “Won’t it?” He smiled down at her. Amanda shrank from the violence she saw in that smile. “I think it will. You’re mine, Amanda, and this time I won’t let you out of my bed until you know it, too. You belong to me—I’ll never let you go.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “If I am, you’re the cause.”