Mischief

by Amanda Quick

  “Where did you gain that peculiar notion?”

  “From your articles on ancient Zamar. I concluded from the thrilling accounts of your travels and explorations that you had actually lived through those adventures.” She gave him a scornful smile. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “Miss Waterstone, are you implying that I base my articles on secondhand researches, as that damnable I. A. Stone does?”

  “I. A. Stone is entirely honest about the sources of his information, sir. He does not claim to have observed firsthand all that he writes about. You do. You pass yourself off as a man of action, but now it seems that you are not that sort of man at all.”

  “I do not pass myself off as anything but what I am, you exasperating little—”

  “Apparently you write fiction rather than fact, sir. Bad enough that I thought you to be a clever, resourceful gentleman given to feats of daring. I have also been laboring under the equally mistaken assumption that you are a man who would put matters of honor ahead of petty considerations of inconvenience.”

  “Are you calling my honor as well as my manhood into question?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You are clearly indebted to me, sir, yet you obviously wish to avoid making payment on that debt.”

  “I was indebted to your uncle, not to you.”

  “I have explained to you that I inherited the debt,” she retorted.

  Matthias took another gliding step into the grim chamber. “Miss Waterstone, you try my patience.”

  “I would not dream of doing so,” she said, her voice dangerously sweet. “I have concluded that you will not do at all as an associate in my scheme. I hereby release you from your promise. Begone, sir.”

  “Bloody hell, woman. You are not going to get rid of me so easily.” Matthias crossed the remaining distance between them with two long strides and clamped his hands around her shoulders.

  Touching her was a mistake. Anger metamorphosed into desire in the wink of an eye.

  For an instant he could not move. His insides seemed to have been seized by a powerful fist. Matthias tried to breathe, but Imogen’s scent filled his head, clouding his brain. He looked down into the bottomless depths of her blue-green eyes and wondered if he would drown. He opened his mouth to conclude the argument with a suitably repressive remark, but the words died in his throat.

  The outrage vanished from Imogen’s gaze. It was replaced by sudden concern. “My lord? Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.” It was all he could do to get the word past his teeth.

  “What is it?” She began to look alarmed. “Are you ill?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Good heavens. I had not realized. That no doubt explains your odd behavior.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Would you care to lie down on the bed for a few minutes?”

  “I do not think that would be a wise move at this juncture.” She was so soft. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the sleeves of her prim, practical gown. He realized that he longed to discover if she made love with the same impassioned spirit she displayed in an argument. He forced himself to remove his hands from her shoulders. “We had best finish this discussion at some other time.”

  “Nonsense,” she said bracingly. “I do not believe in putting matters off, my lord.”

  Matthias shut his eyes for the space of two or three seconds and took a deep breath. When he lifted his lashes he saw that Imogen was watching him with a fascinated expression. “Miss Waterstone,” he began with grim determination. “I am trying to employ reason here.”

  “You’re going to help me, aren’t you?” She started to smile.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you? Your sense of honor has won out.” Her eyes glowed. “Thank you, my lord. I knew you would assist me in my plans.” She gave him an approving little pat on the arm. “And you must not concern yourself with the other matter.”

  “What other matter?”

  “Why, your lack of direct experience with bold feats and daring adventure. I quite understand. You need not be embarrassed by the fact that you are not a man of action, sir.”

  “Miss Waterstone—”

  “Not everyone can be an intrepid sort, after all,” she continued blithely. “You need have no fear. If anything dangerous occurs in the course of my scheme, I shall deal with it.”

  “The very thought of you taking charge of a dangerous situation is enough to freeze the marrow in my bones.”

  “Obviously you suffer from a certain weakness of the nerves. But we shall contrive to muddle through. Try not to succumb to the terrors of the imagination, my lord. I know you must be extremely anxious about what lies ahead, but I assure you, I will be at your side every step of the way.”

  “Will you, indeed?” He felt dazed.

  “I shall protect you.” Without any warning, Imogen put her arms around him and gave him what was no doubt meant to be a quick, reassuring hug.

  The tattered leash Matthias was using to hold on to his self-control snapped. Before Imogen could pull away, he wrapped her close.

  “Sir?” Her eyes widened with surprise.

  “The only aspect of this situation that truly alarms me, Miss Waterstone,” he said roughly, “is the question of who will protect me from you.”

  Before she could reply, he crushed her mouth beneath his own.

  Chapter 3

  Imogen stilled. For an instant all her senses seemed to collide, producing a dazzling chaos. She had always prided herself on the strength of her nerves. She had never suffered from an attack of the vapors, never felt faint, never succumbed to light-headedness or a giddy sensation. But at that moment she felt utterly dazed.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Her palms were suddenly damp. Her thoughts, which had been quite lucid only a second before, were now in a shambles. Everything around her appeared to have gone suddenly askew. She shivered and then felt a delicious, almost feverish warmth spread through her.

  If she had not been positive that she enjoyed excellent health, she would have thought she was ill.

  Matthias groaned and deepened the kiss, crushing her closer to his hard, unyielding body. She felt his tongue trace her lips and realized with a shock that he wanted her to open her mouth for him. Intense curiosity swept over her. Tentatively, she parted her lips. Matthias’s tongue surged between them.

  Shocked by the intimate kiss, Imogen went weak at the knees. The world spun around her. She gripped Matthias’s shoulders very tightly, afraid that she would fall if he were to release her.

  But Matthias made no move to set her free. Instead, his arms tightened around her, pulling her so close that she could feel the alarming bulge in his snug breeches. She knew that he must surely be aware of her breasts pressed against his broad chest. He shifted slightly, bending her backward. One of his booted feet slid between her legs. She could feel the fierce strength in his thigh.

  Sensations flowed through Imogen, wild, turbulent feelings that were unlike any she had ever known. She was not entirely without experience, she reminded herself in a desperate bid for sanity. But there was no denying that not even Philippe D’Artois’s practiced kisses or Alastair Drake’s chaste embraces had tumbled her senses into such shimmering disarray.

  Passion. This was true passion at long last. A thrill of fiery excitement unfurled within Imogen.

  With a soft, wordless exclamation of delight that was somewhat muffled by the pressure of Matthias’s demanding mouth, she tightened her arms around his neck.

  “Imogen.” Matthias raised his head. His austere face was taut. His eyes were no longer an emotionless, ghostly gray. They burned. It was as though he looked into an oracle glass in search of answers to some unknown question. “What the devil am I doing?”

  Reality returned with a shattering effect. Imogen gazed at Matthias, aware that he regretted the rash impulse that had made him take her into his arms.

  Ruthlessly Imogen squelched
the keen sense of loss that welled up within her. She fought for composure while she desperately sought appropriate words for a most inappropriate situation.

  “Calm yourself, my lord.” She struggled to adjust her cap. “This was not your fault.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No, indeed,” she assured him breathlessly. “This sort of thing can happen when the darker passions are aroused. My parents had the very same problem. Any argument that flared between them always ended in this fashion.”

  “I see.”

  “You and I were quarreling a moment ago and I expect the emotions of the moment temporarily overcame your self-mastery.”

  “I knew I could depend upon you for an intelligent explanation, Miss Waterstone.” Matthias’s eyes gleamed. “Are you ever at a loss for words?”

  Uncertainty tingled deep within her. Surely he was not mocking her. “I expect there are occasions when even the most articulate person might be unable to find just the right word, my lord.”

  “And other occasions when only action will suffice.” He cradled the back of her head in one powerful hand, held her still, and slowly bent his head to kiss her again.

  This time the kiss was deliberate, calculated, and devastating. Imogen went limp in Matthias’s arms. She heard her cap fall to the carpet with a soft plop. Her hair tumbled free. Matthias buried one hand in it.

  Imogen swayed. The world around her became fluid and began to dissolve. The only solid thing left in it was Matthias. And he was very solid, indeed. The strength in him at once overwhelmed and enthralled her. A sweet hunger swept through her. She locked her arms around Matthias’s neck again and held on with all her might.

  “You offer one surprise after another,” Matthias whispered against her mouth. “Not unlike Zamar.”

  “My lord.” She was dazzled by his words. To be compared to ancient Zamar was beyond anything. No one had ever paid her such a profound compliment.

  Matthias eased her back one step and then another. She came up against the wardrobe without any warning. Matthias captured her wrists in his hands and pinned then to the carved mahogany door behind her head. Holding her there, he freed her mouth to trace a scorching series of kisses down her throat. At the same time, he drew his thigh up between her legs. The skirts of her gown foamed over his breeches.

  “Good heavens.” Imogen sucked in her breath. Matthias’s leg moved higher between her thighs. “I cannot think—”

  “Neither can I at the moment.” He released her wrists. His powerful, elegant hands settled around her throat. He tipped her head back.

  Imogen grabbed awkwardly at the handle of the wardrobe to steady herself. But at that exact instant Matthias whirled her away toward the bed.

  Imogen forgot to let go of the handle. The wardrobe door came open with a jarring crash. The large object sitting on the middle shelf shuddered beneath the impact and started to topple forward.

  Matthias tore his mouth away from Imogen’s throat. “What the devil … ?”

  Imogen watched in horror as the bowl slipped over the edge of the shelf and plummeted downward. “Oh, no.”

  Matthias moved with startling, graceful speed. He released Imogen, stepped around her, and caught the bowl in a single lithe movement.

  “Bloody hell.” Matthias gazed at the bowl cradled in his hands.

  Imogen breathed a sigh of relief. “That was a very near thing, my lord. You move quite quickly.”

  “When there’s a good reason to do so.” He smiled slightly as he studied the bowl.

  His eyes still gleamed, Imogen noted, but not precisely the same way they had a moment earlier. She took a closer look at the bowl. It was delicately sculpted from a translucent blue-green stone. The stone was unique to Zamarian artifacts. Imogen had been told by one of her correspondents that the fashionable had labeled the color Zamarian green. The bowl was inscribed with words written in a flowing script that was as elegant as the vessel itself. Imogen recognized the language immediately.

  “Zamarian.” She gazed at the bowl with wonder. “Uncle Selwyn told me that he had some Zamarian artifacts, but I did not realize that he possessed anything so lovely.”

  “It probably came from a Zamarian tomb.”

  “Yes.” She leaned closer to examine the bowl. “This is a very fine piece, is it not? Look at the words. Informal script rather than formal. A personal offering left in the burial chamber of a loved one, if I am not mistaken.”

  Matthias tore his gaze away from the bowl long enough to give her an assessing glance. “You recognize the script?”

  “Yes, of course.” Gingerly she took the sea-green bowl from him and turned it slowly in her hands, marveling at the beautiful workmanship. “As Zamaris embraces Anizamara at day’s end, our two spirits shall be joined for all time. Isn’t that a lovely sentiment, my lord?”

  “Hell’s teeth.” Matthias stared at her with a dark intensity even greater than that with which he had gazed at the bowl. “There is only one person other than myself in all of England who could have translated that line of informal Zamarian script so quickly and so flawlessly.”

  Too late, Imogen realized what she had just done. “Oh, dear.”

  “I presume that I have just had the pleasure of kissing I. A. Stone?”

  “My lord, I assure you, I never intended to deceive you.”

  “No?”

  “Well, perhaps just a trifle. I was going to explain everything.”

  “Eventually?”

  “Yes. Eventually. At the proper time.” She tried to summon up what she hoped was a placating smile. “We have been so busy since you arrived, what with one thing and another, that there simply has not been an opportunity.”

  Matthias ignored the weak excuse. “The first initial is plain enough. And it’s obvious where the Stone came from, Miss Waterstone. But what does the middle initial stand for?”

  “Augusta,” Imogen confessed with a small sigh. “Sir, please understand. I have kept my identity a secret because I knew that the editors of the Review would never publish my researches if they learned that they had been written by a woman.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I intended to reveal the truth to you as soon as we were properly introduced. But you made it clear straight off that you considered I. A. Stone a rival. I did not want that view to cloud your perception of me or my scheme.”

  “A rival?” Matthias raised his brows. “Nonsense. I do not consider I. A. Stone a rival. The word rival implies someone who is on an equal footing. I. A. Stone is a presumptuous little scribbler who bases her ridiculous conclusions on my articles.”

  Imogen was stung. “May I remind you, sir, that good, solid interpretation of facts is every bit as important as firsthand experience.”

  “There is no substitute for firsthand knowledge of a subject.”

  “Rubbish. In the past you have leaped to a number of conclusions about Zamarian antiquities that were unwarranted by the evidence that you yourself discovered.”

  “Such as?”

  Imogen lifted her chin. “Such as those entirely unsupported assumptions concerning Zamarian wedding rituals that you detailed in your latest article in the Review.”

  “I never make unsupported assumptions. I arrive at logical conclusions based upon firsthand discovery and research.”

  “Indeed?” Imogen fixed him with a challenging glare. “You claimed that the bride had no say in her marriage contract, when it is obvious to even an amateur that Zamarian brides had a great many rights and privileges. A Zamarian lady could even dissolve her marriage if she wished.”

  “Only under extremely limited conditions.”

  Imogen smiled coolly. “She could do so if her husband proved to be either cruel or impotent. That covers a great deal of ground, my lord. Furthermore, she retained control of her own property and income after marriage. That certainly puts ancient Zamarian law well ahead of modern English law.”

  “Do not be too certain of that,” Matthias said. “When
it came to marriage, the Zamarians were not so vastly different from the English. The man was the master in his own home. His wife was expected to be an obedient, compliant companion who saw to the running of the household and to her husband’s comfort. He in turn assumed the responsibility of protecting his wife and children.”

  “There you go, making unwarranted assumptions again. After a thorough investigation of your writings, I have concluded that Zamarian marriages were based on mutual affection and intellectual respect.”

  “Only a fevered imagination and a complete lack of firsthand familiarity with your subject could lead you to make such an outrageous statement. Zamarian marriages were based on property, social standing, and business considerations, just as most English marriages are.”

  “That is not true,” Imogen shot back. “Mutual affection was the most important element in Zamarian marriages. What about the poetry you discovered in the ruins of the Zamarian library?”

  “Very well, so a few Zamarian poets wrote a few silly romantic verses.” Matthias ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of exasperated disgust. “That proves nothing. Marriage was a business matter in ancient Zamar, just as it is here in England.”

  “Are you claiming that the Zamarians did not believe in the power of love, my lord?”

  “Love is a fine word for lust, which I’ll wager was well known to the Zamarians. They were a very intelligent people, after all.”

  “Love is not the same thing as lust.”

  “But it is, Miss Waterstone.” Matthias’s jaw tightened. “I assure you, I have drawn that particular conclusion from firsthand observation, just as I draw all my conclusions. Unlike some people.”

  Imogen was outraged. “I am not entirely without some firsthand experience of the subject, sir, and I have drawn different conclusions.”

  Matthias’s smile was cold. “You’ve had firsthand experience of lust? Would you care to go into detail, Miss Waterstone?”

  “No, I would not. Such things are of a private nature.”

  “Indeed. Well, allow me to give you a few of my own firsthand observations on the subject of love and lust. I am the product of a union that began in the fires of a grand, lusty passion. But when that lust cooled, it left only bitterness, anger, and regret in its wake.”