Amanda Rose (11 page)
Matt lay back on the feather tick as he spoke, folding his arms under his head and surveying her from beneath raised brows. Amanda was all too conscious of his gaze as she knelt on the stone floor some few feet away. She had to force herself to meet those too-knowing eyes.
“Almost eighteen.” Her voice sounded strangled.
“And shy with it, hmm?” He laughed, but the sound was comforting rather than mocking. “Don’t worry about it, Amanda. You’ll outgrow it soon enough. All you need is a little more experience of men. Don’t you have a father, brothers?”
“My father died almost five years ago. I have a half brother, who inherited his title.”
“Title?”
Amanda nodded. Her embarrassment was fading somewhat as the subject changed. “My father was the fifth Duke of Brookshire. My half brother is the sixth.”
His eyes widened, and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
“So you’re ‘milady,’ are you? You should have told me at the outset—I would have been more polite.”
“You weren’t polite at
all,
” she retorted, meeting his eyes without discomfort now.
“I wasn’t, was I? You’ll have to excuse me on the grounds that I’ve never met a titled lady before. In America, where I’m from, we don’t have such things.”
“What part of America?”
“New Orleans. That’s in Louisiana, in case you don’t know, milady.”
She gave him a look designed to tell him what she thought of his mocking use of her title. “And Louisiana’s in the South, I know. I’m not ignorant. And even if I were, I’d be able to tell where you’re from by the way you talk. That slow drawl is very … distinctive.”
“So are your clipped English vowels, milady, believe me. Tell me something: if your brother is a duke, why are you buried in this godforsaken place? It’s not exactly the hub of English high society.”
“My brother hates me.” Amanda tried to make a joke out of it, but she could not quite prevent the forlorn thread of truth that laced her words. Matt’s eyebrows lifted questioningly.
“Does he indeed? The man must be insane—you’re the most eminently lovable person I’ve ever met.”
Amanda smiled at him. It was a nice thing to say, even if he didn’t mean it. With a shock she realized how very few people had thought her lovable since her father died …
“Tell me about it, Amanda,” Matt commanded softly. Amanda looked at him for a moment, hesitating. Keeping her troubles to herself was second nature to her, partly because there was only Susan who was really interested in hearing about them, partly because of her innate pride. But Matt’s eyes were kind as they met hers, and she suddenly found herself craving that kindness. So she crept closer to the fearsome murderer who had practically terrified the life out of her scant hours before, and soon she had poured out to him everything that had happened from the time of her father’s death to Edward’s recent plan to marry her to Lord Robert Turnbull. By the time she had finished she was sitting on a corner of the mattress near his head, and he had taken her hand in his. She was vaguely conscious of the warmth and strength of that big hand cradling hers, and comforted by it.
“Poor little angel,” he said softly. His hand tightened around hers and then he lifted it to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of it briefly before releasing it. “And what do you plan to do if you do manage to avoid being married off to this Lord Robert?”
Amanda made a face. Her hand tingled slightly where he had kissed it and she pressed it absently against her skirt. “That’s the thing: I don’t know. My father left me some money, but Edward controls it until I marry—with his consent. And then it will pass directly to my husband. I could stay here, I suppose. I know Mother Superior would let me, but I’d almost rather be married to Lord Robert than become a nun.”
“The lesser of two evils, hmm? I wonder. You don’t know very much about men or marriage, do you, Amanda?”
“No.”
He shook his head. “I must tell you about it sometime. You should at least know what you’re getting into before you make up your mind. Amanda …”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“Could you pass me that blanket? I’m getting cold.”
She saw that he was beginning to shiver again. All the time she had been talking, he had been lying in the cool, damp air with no cover. Contrite, she fetched the blanket she had brought, then shook it out and smoothed that and the other one over him. He was shivering in earnest by the time she had finished. She sat beside him until the spasm passed, not speaking. Although talking about her situation had not changed it one iota, she felt much better, lighter almost, as though some of the burden had passed from her shoulders to his broad ones.
“Thank you, Matt,” she said softly when he was still again. His eyes opened, the expression curiously brooding.
“There’s something you haven’t asked me, you know,” he said abruptly. Those silvery eyes beneath the thick black brows were almost accusing. “Something that I would have thought you would have wanted to know before anything else.”
Amanda looked down at him blankly. “What?”
“Don’t you want to know if I did it?”
“Did what?” Amanda, befuddled by the unexpected change of topic, wondered momentarily if his mind was wandering again. She stared down at him, concern plain in her face. He made an angry sound that was almost a hiss.
“The murders, Amanda. Don’t you want to know if I committed the murders?”
Amanda flinched. For the last hour or so she had forgotten what he was, and she hated being reminded of it. He had been so kind, so gentle with her. It was hard to reconcile this facet of him with the ruthless, cold-blooded killer who she knew must lurk somewhere within.
“Please … don’t tell me about it, Matt. I don’t want to know. I don’t even want to think about it. You’ve been very kind to me, and that’s all that matters.”
He stared at her in silence for a moment. Amanda was surprised to see his eyes start to snap.
“Good God, you think I did it, don’t you?” he demanded furiously, sitting up so that he was scant inches away from her. “You actually think I murdered six people—slit the throats of a woman and four children—and you’re sitting here alone with me? You’re not safe to be let out.”
He sounded so angry that Amanda flinched away from him. The movement was involuntary, but his expression turned ugly as he observed it.
“A little late to be frightened of me, isn’t it, Amanda? What could you do if I decided to kill you, too? We’re all alone—I could throttle you in an instant.” He reached out to lay ungentle hands against the base of her throat. Amanda, eyes staring, looked at him with disbelief that rapidly turned to fear. He was so close, and so big … But his hands weren’t hurting her, and as she realized that, everything he’d said took on a clear meaning.
“Do you mean—are you telling me—you
didn’t
kill those people?”
“No, I didn’t,” he growled, removing his hands from her neck but looking angrier than ever. “It so happens that I’m as innocent of that particular crime as you are. But you had no way of knowing that. I thought you were helping me because you had decided that I was innocent. But you hadn’t, had you, Amanda? You thought I was guilty as hell—and yet here you are, totally at my mercy. Do you think you could stop me from doing anything I chose to you? Which might include murder but certainly not at first. Have you ever heard of rape, Amanda?” Her eyes widened at that, and her cheeks flushed a deep pink as he continued relentlessly. “Believe me, my girl, it’s not an experience you’d enjoy, and unless you want to experience it firsthand, I’d advise you to take more care in choosing your lame ducks. A soft heart is one thing, but a
soft head
is something else entirely.”
He flung himself back against the mattress as he finished, but his eyes continued to glare at her. Amanda returned his gaze with the first stirrings of indignation.
“You got over being grateful for my help pretty quickly, didn’t you?” she demanded. “Would you rather that I’d left you on the beach—or screamed when Mr. Llewellyn told us to come out? I imagine they’d have hanged you by now—which might have been a damned good thing but I was too
softheaded
to realize it at the time.”
Matt stared at her, his angry expression turning to one of surprise, then dawning amusement, as though a silky kitten had turned and bitten him.
“Don’t swear, Amanda,” he rebuked, his eyes beginning to dance as he took in the full extent of her loss of temper. “It’s not ladylike.”
“I’ll swear if I
want
to,” she shot back, jumping to her feet before he could put out a hand to stay her. “And since you’re not a murderer, there’s not a damned thing you can do to stop me.”
And with that Parthian shot and a final, killing glare, she flounced toward the passage.
“Tut, tut, milady, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to say good night?” he called after her retreating figure, and it was obvious from his tone that her anger had restored his own good humor. Stalking toward the trapdoor, Amanda quivered with fury at the laughter in his voice. After his insults and rank ingratitude, being the butt of his amusement was simply too much to be borne.
The next day, like the one before it, was excruciatingly long for Matt. Alone in the echoing quiet of the cave, both too weak and too wary to venture out on the beach, he occupied himself with getting his strength back—and with thoughts of the girl who had literally saved his life. The first was fairly straightforward, though painful and arduous. He forced himself to walk the length of the cave, over and over, until he was exhausted, but his muscles were becoming more reliable. Finally he collapsed on the feather tick, taking a hearty swig from the bottle of water that Amanda had left him. He was hungry—he always seemed to be hungry lately—but that didn’t bother him particularly. Hunger had been an almost constant companion for months; he was getting used to it. The thoughts of Amanda that he could no longer seem to keep at bay were far more troublesome than the gnawing in his empty belly.
She was beautiful. He had known—in every sense of the word—many women over the years, but Amanda had somehow managed to catch his fancy to a degree he previously would have said was impossible. His imagination dwelled pleasurably on the madonnalike loveliness of her features: the great, black-fringed eyes set aslant like a pair of sparkling amethysts against the magnolia-blossom texture of her skin, the still-childish line of her cheeks, her small, straight nose and rosy lips—sweet Jesus, yes, her lips. Lips clearly made for kissing … Their tender fullness fascinated him almost more than the glorious color of her hair. Before he had set eyes on Amanda’s rubyhued mane, he would have said that he preferred females whose locks were as pale as his own were dark. But Amanda’s tumbling masses of fire-shot-with-gold silk lured him like a moth to the flame it resembled. Even the prim coronet of braids she had worn when she had come to him the night before had not lessened the almost irresistible compulsion he felt to bury his face in it, to see if it could possibly be as soft as his fingers remembered …
His thoughts wandered to the enticingly curved shape of her. She was slender as a young girl is slender, but there was a hint of fullness about her breasts that held out tantalizing promise of the woman she would one day become. Her breasts would be soft to the touch, like her hair … He felt his loins begin to heat. Thoroughly annoyed at himself, he wrenched his mind away from the further delights of her body. She was very young and very vulnerable, although she didn’t seem to realize it, and he would not repay her for her care of him by rutting after her like a stag after a doe. He felt a curious urge to protect her, had done since he had opened his eyes on the beach to look into hers, huge with fright. Protectiveness was not something he usually felt toward women; desire, yes, liking, sometimes, but not this overwhelming urge to stand between her and anything that might threaten her, including the base stirrings of his own passion. He supposed he could ascribe it to a very natural gratitude—not many others would have put themselves at risk for a dangerous stranger, as she had done—or even to his instinctive recognition of an innate goodness in her that transcended mere physical beauty and transformed her into something quite outside his ken.
He wanted her, of course. He would have to be a eunuch not to. Her budding womanhood enticed him while the lusher charms of more experienced members of her sex had begun to pall. It would be enjoyable to teach her what it meant to be a woman … But the shining innocence that was so plain in her eyes stopped him cold. No matter what else he might have become, he was not that big a cad.
The trouble was, he told himself, that he hadn’t had a woman in almost half a year. Not since two nights before they had arrested him … For him, who hadn’t been celibate since a friend of his mother’s had initiated him at the tender age of fourteen, that was almost unbelievable. Certainly it must be that which intensified his very natural interest in an indisputably lovely girl into this hot, raging desire that gnawed at his vitals like a starving rat.
To take his mind off the increasing tumescence between his legs, Matt stood up and began to pace restlessly back and forth. He winced as every movement of his right leg sent a knifelike pain plunging through his body, but he persevered. By the time exhaustion once again compelled him to sink down on the feather tick, his thoughts weren’t on the girl but on the pain …
After he had rested for a while, the pain receded and Amanda’s face and form returned to torment him despite his best intentions. In pure self-defense, Matt finally decided to shave. Scraping nearly four months’ worth of whiskers from his face with nothing more than a knife and cold water should be a sobering enough experience to keep his thoughts where they belonged, he told himself. Picking up the knife, he grimaced at its dullness and proceeded to sharpen it as best he could on a stone. When the blade was honed to as near razor sharpness as he could get it, he found the small, chipped mirror Amanda had brought and propped it on a rocky protrusion that jutted shelflike from the wall. Then he positioned the candle strategically, poured a little water into the bowl, stripped to the waist, and set to work. As he turned the blade this way and that, he grimaced at the marks Amanda’s nails had left on his skin. They were fading, but he still looked as though he’d been tangling with a wildcat, which he supposed was as good an analogy as any … Just as he scraped the last trace of stubble from his throat, wincing at the abrasiveness of the dulling blade, he heard the soft swish of skirts coming down the passage. Amanda. He would recognize that sound in a dark hole in China.