Passion for the Game

Page 25

He straightened instantly, thrusting himself away from the building and the girl he ravished there.
Horrified, Amelia turned and ran the length of the shops, leaving her parasol behind. Her sobs echoed off the rear of the stores, but she heard him call ing out to her, regardless. That deep voice, so different from the boy she had known, the tone serrated and pleading as if he cared that he’d broken her.
Which he didn’t, she knew.
She ran faster, the thudding of her panicked boot steps lost in the sound of blood rushing in her ears.
But even running her fastest, she could not outrun the memory of what she had seen.
“Will you please all ow me to handle the matter?” Simon murmured, his head next to Maria’s as they both stared out the small traveling coach window.
“No, no,” she insisted, her foot tapping impatiently upon the floorboards. “It will be less messy all around if I do it.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “If you approach the man, you will end up in fisticuffs, which will draw attention. In order for this to succeed, we will need to depart as quietly as we arrived.”
He sighed audibly and fel back against the squabs with high drama, playing the part of the exasperated male to perfection. Maria laughed, then immediately fel silent as a large form appeared from the mews behind the St. John household. “Is that one of them?” she asked.
Simon looked out the window again. “Yes. But I suggest we wait for one of the small er ones.”
Maria considered that a moment, admitting to herself that she was quite intimidated by the man’s great size. He was a giant. His long, unkempt hair and black beard only added to the image of a large trol . He walked away from them with a heavy, lumbering stride that she was certain shook the very ground beneath him.
She took a deep breath and thought of her sister. Maria had already questioned all of the men who had been with her the night she failed to retrieve Amelia. Sadly, there was very little useful information to be gained from them. They had been too intent on saving her. Christopher’s men, on the other hand, might have been more inclined to absorb the whole scene. Therefore, she had to question at least one of them. Her sister needed her.
Somehow, she would find the strength required to abscond with a behemoth.
Thrusting open the door, Maria stepped down before she could come to her senses. She hurried after the man, call ing out for his assistance such as a helpless, needy female would.
The giant paused and turned with a scowl, which quickly turned to masculine appreciation, which in turn immediately grew into wariness as she pulled a pistol from behind her back.
“Hel o,” she greeted with a wide smile, aiming for his heart. “I would enjoy your company for a spel .”
His gaze narrowed. “Are ye daft?” he rumbled.
“Please don’t make me shoot you. I will , you know.” She widened her stance in preparation for the resulting kick of the discharging weapon. It was all for show, of course, but he couldn’t know that. “I would deeply regret putting a hole in you, as you helped to save my life recently and I do owe you a great deal for that.”
His eyes widened with recognition, then he cursed under his breath. “They’l tease me for the rest of my life for this,” he muttered.
“I am sorry about that.”
“No, yer not.” He stomped past her, proving her suspicion about the quaking earth. “Where?”
“My coach is around the corner.”
He reached it and yanked the door open, revealing a wide-eyed Simon.
“Good God!” Simon blinked. “That was too easily done.”
“I’d take ’er over my knee,” the giant rumbled, “but St. John would ’ave my ’ide.” He climbed into the carriage and took up an entire squab, causing the equipage to creak in protest. Crossing his arms, he griped, “Come on, then. Get on with it.”
Maria handed Simon the gun and stepped up unassisted. “Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, Mr.—?”
“Tim.”
“Mr. Tim.”
He glared. “Just Tim.”
She settled on the rear-facing seat next to Simon. She arranged her skirts as the coach lurched into motion and then beamed at her guest. “I hope you like Brighton, Tim.”
“The only thing I’l like is to know that you torment St. John the same,” he grumbled.
Bending over conspiratorial y, she whispered, “I am much worse with him.”
Tim grinned from the depths of his beard. “I like Brighton fine, then.”
The setting sun cast the ocean in a reddish glow that turned the water to molten fire. Hard, heavy waves pounded onto the shore, molding it into shape, the rhythmic roar soothing Christopher as it always had. He stood on the high cliff, his stance wide, his hands clasped at his back. The salty sea breeze gusted against him, chil ing his skin and tugging strands of his hair free of the queue that contained them.
Beyond the horizon one of his ships waited, its bel y ful of spirits and tobacco, rich materials and exotic spices. Once night fel , the vessel would draw closer, searching for the winking light his crew would use to signal them into the proper position.
It was then that his rivals would strike, disrupting the transport of contraband to the shore. Tonight they would receive what they had truly been spoiling for—a fight.
The anticipation for the confrontation ahead thrummed in Christopher’s veins, but he was neither anxious nor eager. This was a necessary task, nothing more.
“We stand at the ready,” said Sam, who took up position beside him.
Christopher’s men were scattering everywhere, some along the cliffs and beach, others in the caves and vil age. His hands unclasped, all owing his shirtsleeves to flutter violently in the wind. He gripped the hilt of his foil and inhaled sea air deep into his lungs.
“Right,” he murmured. “Let’s go down, then.”
He led the way to the beach below, his gaze directly meeting the eyes of his many men as he passed them. It was such a simple thing, those fleeting glances, yet they said so much to the men who risked their lives in service to him.
I see you. You are someone to me.
Over the years he’d watched others in command and noted how they walked the gauntlet with eyes set straight ahead, puffed up with pride as if they were too good to acknowledge their underlings. The only loyalty such men inspired was built on fear or love of coin. A shaky foundation, easily destroyed.
Christopher stepped behind a large boulder that rested partly in the water and waited. The sky darkened; the roaring waves lessened their fury. The lander moved into place to begin the well -organized task of hauling cargo from the ship to the shore.
The knowledge of what was to come coiled tightly inside Christopher. He watched the beach from his hiding place, emotionless, as he would need to be to survive the long night. Shadows flowed down from the vil age like smoke, betraying those who wished to usurp him. As he gestured for the lantern that was hidden to the side, the clash of steel and shouts of warning could be heard. The air changed, became charged, the scent of fear fil ing his nostrils. Christopher revealed himself, holding a lantern aloft to cast il umination upon his features.
“Ho, there!” he call ed out, his tone fil ed with such command that the battling men on the shore faltered. As he expected, one man separated himself from the many.
“About time you showed yer cowardly face!” the cretin shouted.
Arching a brow, Christopher drawled, “Next time you desire my company, might I suggest a handwritten invitation?”
“Quit yer riddles and fight like a man.”
Christopher smiled coldly. “Ah, but I prefer to fight like a heathen.”
A grouping of men rushed toward him and he tossed the lantern at their feet, spraying oil and flames, which quickly engulfed the lot of them and lit up the beach. Their screams of agony tore through the night, sending a ripple of terror and unease outward to engulf anyone within hearing
distance.
Yanking his foil free of its scabbard, Christopher tossed up his left arm for balance and lunged into the ensuing fracas.
The night was long, the carnage plenty.
“Are you going to see Mr. Field?” Amelia inquired from her seat on Miss Pool’s bed.
The pretty governess lifted her blue eyes to meet Amelia’s in the vanity mirror’s reflection. “Are you playing matchmaker?”
Amelia wished she could smile, but she hadn’t managed that feat in days. “You look as lovely as a china dol ,” she said instead.
Miss Pool turned in her seat to study her for the umpteenth time. “Are you certain you won’t come with me? You always love a trip into the vil age.”
Painful memories flashed through her mind, and Amelia shook her head violently to rid herself of them. She would not cry in front of Miss Pool.
“Please know that you can talk to me about anything,” the governess coaxed. “I kept your secret about your sister. I can keep others, too.”
Pursing her lips, Amelia tried to keep her thoughts to herself but found herself blurting, “Have you ever been in love?”
The blue eyes widened, then Miss Pool admitted, “I fancied that I was. It ended badly, I’m afraid.”
“Did you stil love him? When it ended?”
“Yes.”
Rising to her feet, Amelia moved to the window. It looked out toward the stream and away from the stables, so it was an innocuous view. “How did you recover?”
“I’m not sure that I did, until I met Mr. Field.”
Amelia turned back at that. “How does he signify?”
“I am no expert, so I hesitate to speak about this, but I think perhaps a new romance can fil the void left by an old one.” Miss Pool stood and crossed to her. “You will never have to worry about that. You are far too wonderful a person to ever lose your love.”
“How I wish that were true,” Amelia whispered.
A commiserating smile spread across the governess’s delicate features. She set her hands gently atop Amelia’s shoulders and asked, “You speak of first loves, yes? Those always end with heartache, Amelia. It is a rite of passage. The signal that you have grown beyond youthful fancy into the deeper knowledge of yourself. It is painful proof that you have left the tiny concerns of childhood behind and have grown into a woman’s awareness.”