Mine Till Midnight (35 page)

“If you believe that was all he wanted, you’re more naïve than I thought.”

“I am
not
naïve,” she said indignantly. “And there’s no reason to be jealous. Nothing improper was said or done.”

His eyes held dangerous heat. “Were you alone in the room with him?”

Amelia was amazed by his intensity. No man had ever regarded her with such possessive fury. She wasn’t certain whether she was flattered, annoyed, or alarmed. Or perhaps all three. “Yes, we were alone,” she said, “with the door open. All very conventional.”

“For
gadjos,
perhaps. But not for Romas.” He lifted her until her weight was balanced precariously on her toes. “You are never to be alone with him, or any man, except your brother or Merripen. Unless I give my permission.”

Amelia’s mouth fell open.
“Permission?”

“Never,” he repeated grimly.

Her own temper flared, but she managed to keep her voice even. “You see,
this
is why I’m not going to marry you. I will not be dictated to. I will not—”

Cam lowered his head and silenced her with his mouth, clenching his hand in her hair as she tried to turn her face away. She felt him press her lips open, delving inside, and her will to resist was undermined by a shock of pleasure. Since she had no hope of freeing herself, she tried to remain cold and still beneath the passionate assault. Feeling her lack of response, he lifted his head and glared at her.

Amelia glared back at him. “It’s not your house, and I’m not your—”

He kissed her again, taking her head in his hands, concentrating on her mouth until she was pulsing everywhere. She moaned and went weak against him. Muttering in Romany, he pulled her to the trunk of the largest beech, its smooth gray bark knobbed and time-scarred. The branches had been weighted by their own mass until they touched the earth and reached upward again, as if the tree were a lazy giant resting on ancient elbows.

Untying Amelia’s bonnet ribbons, Cam tossed the garment to the ground. His mouth covered hers, his tongue stabbing inside her in rough, delicious strokes. He pushed her against the trunk where a huge branch diverged in a bulky joist, and dug his knee into her skirts to keep her there. Beechnut husks crackled beneath their feet with each shift of their weight. With every kiss, Cam found a new angle, a deeper taste, making love to her mouth with blatant sensuality.

The pale gold leaves blurred overhead. “Cam, no,” Amelia whispered as his lips traveled down to her throat.

Ignoring her, he unfastened the front of her bodice and untied it with a roughness that made her gasp. He bent to a cool, tight nipple, heating it with his mouth, biting tenderly at the tip.

“Not here,” she managed.

Cam kissed his way up the taut column of her neck. “Here,” he said thickly. “Where we are no different than any wild creature in the wood.” Taking her hand, he pulled it to the straining hardness of his sex. Her eyes half closed as she felt the hardness and heat of him even through the fabric of his trousers. And she realized she wanted him so badly that she was shaking. Her fingers worked helplessly against the heavy shaft while he dragged up her skirts in great handfuls.

He tugged at the tapes of her drawers, loosening them until the garment dropped to her knees. His hand slipped insistently between her thighs, pushing them apart. He touched inside her, seducing her with unbearably intimate caresses. Withdrawing, he used a fingertip to make slippery-soft circles around the sensitive bud. He kissed and whispered against her mouth, tightening his arm around her squirming body.

The wind caused the tree branches to whip and flail overhead, leaves falling in a dark flurry. Evening settled outside the wood, seeping inward through the trees. Cam turned Amelia away from him, guiding her down until her front was supported by the gigantic beech branch, and her hands, one gloved, one bare, were clutched on the paper-flat bark. He shoved the mass of her skirts upward, heaped them at her waist, and drew his palms over her hips.

The head of his shaft brushed the wet entrance of her body. She couldn’t help cocking her hips upward, inviting more. She strained back into the satiny pressure as he gripped his sex and used it to tease her, circling, crossing, entering briefly and sliding back, until the beech bark was wet beneath her bare palm, and all she could do was wait, trembling, with her head lowered. She didn’t dare speak for fear she would cry out like one of the wild creatures he had spoken of. But a groan did leave her as he finally pushed forward in a long, aggressive slide, filling her exquisitely.

Cam’s hand slid to her front, between her thighs, and he played with her as he thrust steadily, rooting out spasms of white-hot delight. She sensed the wild hunger in him, but he disciplined it for her, for her pleasure, and her body responded with violent throbbing convulsions. Pulling out with a groan, he urged his slick length against the smooth skin of her buttocks, letting the hot fluid spill.

Amelia wanted him inside her. She had wanted to pull him as deep as possible in that final moment. Instead she lay passively over the beech wood. Her legs were so weak, she doubted they would take her all the way back to the manor. Cam restored her clothing slowly, his strong hands lifting her from the beech. Crushing her close, he muttered something incomprehensible against her hair. Another spell to bind her, she thought hazily, her cheek pressed to his smooth, hard chest. “You’re speaking in Romany,” she mumbled.

Cam switched to English. “Amelia, I—” He stopped, as if the right words eluded him. “I can’t stop myself from being jealous, any more than I can stop being half Roma. But I’ll try not to be overbearing. Just say you’ll be my wife.”

“Please,” Amelia whispered, her wits still scattered, “let me answer later. When I can think clearly.”

“You do too much thinking.” He kissed the top of her head. “I can’t promise you a perfect life. But I can promise that no matter what happens, I’ll give you everything I have. We’ll be together. You inside me … me inside you.” He held her close and sighed shortly. “All right. Give me an answer later. But remember … a dragon has only so much patience.”

*   *   *

Mr. Dashiell and his assistant stayed in Hampshire one more day, visiting Ramsay House to make additional sketches of the structure and the surrounding land. The assistant, Mr. Barksby, would take initial survey measurements and gather information. At Dashiell’s invitation, Amelia accompanied them, pleased by the opportunity to watch them work.

Cam, meanwhile, was forced to remain at the manor to meet with an estate manager, Mr. Gerald Pym. The manager worked for a Portsmouth firm that held a longstanding contract to supervise the Ramsay estate. Pym had been hastily dispatched after news of the fire to compile an initial report of the damage and take stock of the situation. Rents, repairs, and development of the estate land would be discussed, as well as the contracts with John Dashiell. Much would have to be decided in short order, to keep the few existing Ramsay tenants from fleeing. Hopefully in the future, with good management, more tenants might be attracted to the estate, providing badly needed income for the Hathaways.

All of that was conditional, of course, on how long Leo would remain alive.

Since meeting with Mr. Pym was the responsibility of the current Lord Ramsay, Cam bullied Leo into attending the meeting with him. Not because Leo would have anything sensible to contribute, but merely as a symbolic gesture.

“Besides,” Cam had told Amelia grimly, “if I have to be bored witless talking about
gadjo
affairs, there’s no reason Leo should be spared.” He had swept a proprietary glance over her, taking in the green wool walking dress and fur-trimmed black cloak. “I shouldn’t let you go with Dashiell and Barksby,” he said. “You’ll be the only woman there. I don’t like it.”

“Oh, it’s all very circumspect. They’re both gentlemen, and I’m—”

“Spoken for,” he had said curtly. “By me.”

Her heart beat a little faster. “Yes, I know,” she admitted without looking at him.

The small concession seemed to please him. He pushed the door closed with his foot, and reached beneath her cloak with importunate hands. He kissed her as if he could breathe her in. Fierce kisses, hard ones, teasingly articulate ones, soft enticing ones, kisses to light bonfires and fill the sky and hold the stars aloft.

When Cam finally relented and eased her away from the door to open it, he said one word in her scarlet ear before she fled. The word went down to the marrow of her bones.

“Tonight.”

*   *   *

Walking around the ragged exterior of Ramsay House, Amelia talked animatedly with John Dashiell, asking about his past projects, his ambitions, and whether there were difficulties in working with one’s brother.

“We knock heads quite often, I’m afraid,” Dashiell replied, squinting against the afternoon sun. A quick grin illuminated his face. “We both hate to compromise. I accuse him of being set in his ways, and he accuses me of arrogance. The pity of it is, we’re both right.”

Amelia laughed. “But the job gets done.”

“Yes, we’re inspired to reach a compromise by the necessity of paying the bills. Here, take my arm. The ground is uneven.”

His arm was firm and steady beneath her gloved hand. She felt a rush of liking for him. “I’m very glad you came to Hampshire, Mr. Dashiell. I know Lord Ramsay appreciates your efforts on our behalf.”

“Does he?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure he would have said so, except that he’s had a great deal hanging on his mind of late.”

“I met him once, actually,” Dashiell said. “Two years ago, when he was still articled to Rowland Temple. Though your brother doesn’t seem to recollect the meeting. I was very much impressed with him at the time—he was a pleasant and prepossessing man, full of plans.”

Amelia lowered her gaze. “I’m sure he is greatly altered from the time you saw him last.”

“He seems a different man altogether.”

“He hasn’t yet recovered from his fiancée’s death.” Amelia’s voice dropped to a near-whisper as she confided, “Sometimes I fear he never will.”

Dashiell stopped and turned her to face him. Compassion flickered in his eyes. “Ah. That is the price of love, I’m afraid—the pain one suffers from its loss. I’m not convinced it’s worth it. Perhaps if one must love, one should do so in moderation.”

That sounded sensible. But as Amelia opened her mouth to agree, the words stuck in her throat. And what finally came out was an unsteady laugh. “Moderation in love,” she mused aloud. “It’s not something that would inspire a poet, is it?”

“A poet’s view of the world would make for an uncomfortable life, wouldn’t it? Everyone at the mercy of his or her passions, all of us tearing our hair out for the sake of love…”

“Or riding off at midnight,” Amelia said. “Living out one’s dreams and fantasies…”

“Exactly. It has all the makings of disaster.”

“Or romance,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the slight catch in her voice.

“Spoken like a woman.”

Amelia laughed. “Yes, Mr. Dashiell, I’ll confess that I am not immune to the idea of romance. I hope that doesn’t lessen your opinion of me.”

“Not in the slightest. In fact…” His voice gentled. “I hope that I will be able to visit you as the work on Ramsay House progresses. I would greatly enjoy the company of such a charming and lovely woman, with an obviously sensible disposition.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, the color in her cheeks rising. But as she stared at the well-dressed gentleman before her, her mind summoned the image of a handsome face with wicked golden eyes and the mouth of a fallen angel, his head silhouetted against a sky flooded with midnight stars. Exotic, unpredictable, a man who would never be quite tame.

You inside me, me inside you …

“I would enjoy your company as well, sir,” she heard herself say. She blushed as she added, “But you should know that I have an understanding with Mr. Rohan.”

Thankfully, her companion was quick to grasp her meaning. He did not seem surprised. “I was afraid that might be the case. I couldn’t help but notice Rohan’s regard for you. He gives a decided impression of wanting you all to himself.” Dashiell smiled ruefully. “One can hardly blame him.”

Flattered, uncertain how to reply, Amelia returned her attention to the house. She was not accustomed to men making such comments about her. Her gaze traveled along the uneven roofline. The house looked so shipwrecked, so weary, the windows like wounds in the side of a fallen beast. The windows … she saw movement in one of them, a shimmer, something that looked like a tangle of moonbeams and shadows.

A face.

She must have made a sound, for Mr. Dashiell looked at her closely, and his gaze followed hers to the house. “What is it?” he asked at once.

“I thought…” She found herself clutching a fold of his sleeve like a frightened child. Her thoughts were in chaos. “I thought I saw someone at the window.”

“Perhaps it was Barksby.”

But Mr. Barksby was coming round the corner of the house, and the face had been at a second-floor window.

“Shall I go in to have a look?” Dashiell asked quietly, his eyes narrowed with concern.

“No,” Amelia said at once, managing a shallow smile. She let go of his sleeve. “It must have been a curtain moving. I’m sure no one is there.”

*   *   *

After Dashiell and Mr. Barksby had departed for London, Cam returned to the study with Mr. Pym to discuss a few last items of business. Having had enough of estate management, Leo abandoned all pretense of interest in Pym’s concerns, and disappeared up to his room. Although Cam had sardonically assured Amelia that she was welcome to participate in the meeting with Mr. Pym, she declined hastily, suspecting that she would not be able to endure the tedious discussion with any more grace than her brother had.

Instead, she went to find Win.

Her sister was in a private family parlor upstairs, curled in the corner of a settee with a book in her lap. Win turned a page without seeming to read it, looking up with evident relief as Amelia came to her.

“I’ve wanted to talk with you all day.” Win moved her feet to make room for Amelia. “You seemed so distracted after the visit to Ramsay House. Was it seeing the house?… Did it make you melancholy? Or was it Mr. Dashiell? Did he try to flirt with you?”