Mine Till Midnight (7 page)

Her attention was caught by a minor commotion farther afield … two men emerging from behind a small wooden shelter … they were shouting and waving their arms at her.

Amelia instantly realized she had stumbled into danger, even before she saw the smoldering trail of sparks move, snakelike, along the ground toward the metal chute.

A
fuse?

Although she didn’t know much about explosive devices, she was aware that once a fuse had been lit, nothing could be done to stop it. Dropping to the sun-warmed grass, Amelia covered her head with her arms, having every expectation of being blown to bits. A few heartbeats passed, and she let out a startled cry as she felt a large, heavy body fall on hers … no, not fall,
pounce.
He covered her completely, his knees digging into the ground on either side of her as he made a shelter of his body.

At the same moment, a deafening explosion pierced the air, and there was a violent
whoosh
over their heads, and a shock went through the ground beneath them. Too stunned to move, Amelia tried to gather her wits. Her ears were filled with a high-pitched buzz.

Her companion remained motionless over her, breathing heavily in her hair. The air was sharp with smoke, but even so, Amelia was aware of a pleasant masculine scent, skin-salt and soap and an intimate spice she couldn’t quite identify. The noise in her ears faded. Raising up on her elbows, feeling the solid wall of his chest against her back, she saw shirtsleeves rolled up over forearms cabled with muscle … and there was something else …

Her eyes widened at the sight of a small, stylized design inked on his arm. A tattoo of a black winged horse with eyes the color of brimstone. It was an Irish design, of a nightmare horse called a pooka: a malevolent mythical creature that spoke in a human voice and carried people away at midnight.

Her heart stopped as she saw the heavy rounded band of a thumb ring.

Wriggling beneath him, Amelia tried to turn over.

The strong hand curved around her shoulder, helping her. His voice was low and familiar. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry. You were in the way of—”

He stopped as Amelia rolled to her back. The front of her hair had come loose, pulled free of a strategically anchored pin. The lock fanned over her face, obscuring her vision. Before she could reach up to push it away, he did it for her, and the brush of his fingertips sent ripples of liquid fire along intimate pathways of her body.

“You,”
he said softly.

Cam Rohan.

It can’t be,
she thought dazedly. Here, in Hampshire? But there were the unmistakable eyes, gold and hazel and heavy lashed, the midnight hair, the wicked mouth. And the pagan glitter of a diamond at his ear.

His expression was perturbed, as if he’d been reminded of something he had wanted to forget. But as his gaze slid over her bewildered face, his mouth curved a little, and he settled into the cradle of her body with an insolent familiarity that temporarily robbed her of breath.

“Mr. Rohan … how … why … what are you doing here?”

He replied without moving, as if he were planning to lie there and converse all day. His infinitely polite tone was an unsettling contrast to the intimacy of their position. “Miss Hathaway. What a pleasant surprise. As it happens, I’m visiting friends. And you?”

“I live here.”

“I don’t think so. This is Lord Westcliff’s estate.”

Her heart thundered in her breast as her body absorbed the details of him. “I didn’t mean
precisely
here, I meant over there, on the other side of the woods. The Ramsay estate. We’ve just taken up residence.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from chattering in the aftermath of nerves and fright. “What was that noise? What were you doing? Why do you have that tattoo on your arm? It’s a pooka—an Irish creature—isn’t it?”

That last question earned her an arrested stare. Before Rohan could reply, the other two men approached. From her prone position, Amelia had an upside-down view of them. Like Rohan, they were in their shirtsleeves, with waistcoats left unbuttoned.

One of them was a portly old gentleman with a shock of silver hair. He held a small wood-and-metal sextant, which had been strung around his neck on a lanyard. The other, black-haired man looked to be in his late thirties. He wasn’t as tall as Rohan, but he had an air of authority tempered with aristocratic arrogance.

Amelia made a helpless movement, and Rohan lifted away from her with fluid ease. He helped her stand, his arm steadying her. “How far did it go?” he asked the men.

“Devil take the rocket,” came a gravelly reply. “What is the woman’s condition?”

“Unharmed.”

The silver-haired gentleman remarked, “Impressive, Rohan. You covered a distance of fifty yards in no more than five or six seconds.”

“I would hardly miss a chance to leap on a beautiful woman,” Rohan said, causing the older man to chuckle.

Rohan’s hand remained at the small of Amelia’s back, the light pressure causing her blood to simmer.

Easing away from his distracting touch, Amelia raised her hands to the dangling front locks of her hair, tucking them behind her ears. “Why are you shooting rockets? And more to the point, why are you shooting them at my property?”

The stranger nearby gave her a sharp, assessing glance. “
Your
property?”

Rohan interceded. “Lord Westcliff, this is Miss Amelia Hathaway. Lord Ramsay’s sister.”

Frowning, Westcliff executed a precise bow. “Miss Hathaway. I was not informed about your arrival. Had I been aware of your presence, I would have notified you about our rocketry experiments, as I have everyone else in the vicinity.”

It was clear that Westcliff was a man who expected to be informed about everything. He looked annoyed that the new neighbors had dared to move into their own residence without telling him first.

“We arrived only yesterday, my lord,” Amelia replied. “I had intended to call on you after we settled in.” Under ordinary circumstances, she would have left it at that. But she was still off balance, and there was no stopping the flow of comments from her own mouth. “Well. I must say the guidebook didn’t warn adequately about the occurrence of rocket fire amid the peaceful Hampshire scenery.” She reached down and whacked at the dust and bits of leaf that clung to her skirts. “I’m sure you don’t know the Hathaways well enough to shoot at us. Yet. When we become better acquainted, however, I have no doubt you’ll find ample reason to bring out the artillery.”

Over her head, she heard Rohan laugh. “Considering our issues with aim and accuracy, you have nothing to fear, Miss Hathaway.”

The silver-haired gentleman spoke then. “Rohan, if you wouldn’t mind finding out where that rocket landed—”

“Of course.” Rohan took off at an easy lope.

“Agile fellow,” the older man said approvingly. “Fast as a leopard. Not to mention steady of hands and nerves. What a sapper he’d make.”

Introducing himself as Captain Swansea, formerly of the Royal Engineers, the elderly gentleman explained to Amelia that he was a rocketry enthusiast who was continuing his scientific work in a civil capacity. As a friend of Lord Westcliff, who shared his interest in engineering science, Swansea had come to experiment with a new rocket design in the country, where there was sufficient land to do so. Lord Westcliff had enlisted Cam Rohan to help with the flight equations and other mathematical calculations necessary to evaluate the performances of the rockets. “Quite extraordinary, really, his facility with numbers,” Swansea said. “You’d never expect it to look at him.”

Amelia couldn’t help but agree. In her experience scholarly men such as her father were pale from spending much of their time indoors, and they had paunches and spectacles and rumpled, tweedy appearances. They were not exotic young men who looked like pagan princes and had gold rings and tattoos.

“Miss Hathaway,” Lord Westcliff said, “to my knowledge, there hasn’t been a Ramsay in residence in nearly a decade. I find it difficult to believe the house is habitable.”

“Oh, it’s in fine condition,” Amelia lied brightly, her pride rising to the fore. “Of course, some dusting is needed—and a few minor repairs—but we are quite comfortable.”

She thought she had spoken convincingly, but Westcliff looked skeptical. “We are having a large supper at Stony Cross Manor this evening,” he said. “You will bring your family. It will be an excellent opportunity for you to meet some local residents, including the vicar.”

A supper with Lord and Lady Westcliff. Heaven help her.

Had the Hathaway family been well-rested, had Leo been a bit further along on the path of sobriety, had they all possessed suitable formal attire, had they been given enough time to study etiquette … Amelia might have considered accepting the invitation. But as things were, it was impossible. “You are very kind, my lord, but I must decline. We’ve only just arrived in Hampshire, and most of our clothes are still packed away—”

“The occasion is informal.”

Amelia doubted his definition of “informal” matched hers. “It’s not merely a matter of attire, my lord. One of my sisters is somewhat frail, and it would be too taxing for her. She needs a great deal of rest after the long journey from London.”

“Tomorrow night, then. It will be a much smaller affair, and not at all taxing.”

In light of his insistence, there was no way to refuse. Cursing herself for not staying at Ramsay House that morning, Amelia forced a smile to her lips. “Very well, my lord. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

Rohan returned, his breath quickened from exertion. A mist of sweat had accumulated on his skin until it gleamed like bronze. “Right on course,” he said to Westcliff and Swansea. “The stabilizing fins worked. It landed at a distance of approximately two thousand yards.”

“Excellent!” Swansea exclaimed. “But where is the rocket?”

Rohan’s white teeth flashed in a grin. “Buried in a deep, smoking hole. I’ll go back to dig it up later.”

“Yes, we’ll want to see the condition of the casing and the inner core.” Swansea was red-faced with satisfaction. He used a handkerchief to blot his steaming, wrinkled countenance. “It’s been an exciting morning, eh?”

“Perhaps it’s time to return to the manor, Captain,” Westcliff suggested.

“Yes, quite.” Swansea bowed to Amelia. “A pleasure, Miss Hathaway. And may I say, you took it rather well, being the target of a surprise attack.”

“The next time I visit, Captain,” she said, “I’ll remember to bring my white flag.”

He chuckled and bid her farewell.

Before turning to join the captain, Lord Westcliff glanced at Cam Rohan. “I’ll take Swansea back to the manor, if you’ll see to it that Miss Hathaway is delivered home safely.”

“Of course,” came the unhesitating reply.

“Thank you,” Amelia said, “but there’s no need. I know the way, and it isn’t far.”

Her protest was ignored. She was left to stare uneasily at Cam Rohan, while the other two men departed.

“I’m hardly some helpless female,” she said. “I don’t need to be delivered anywhere. Besides, in light of your past behavior, I’d be safer going alone.”

A brief silence. Rohan tilted his head and regarded her curiously. “Past behavior?”

“You know what I—” She broke off, flushing at the memory of the kiss in the darkness. “I’m referring to what happened in London.”

He gave her a look of polite perplexity. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“You’re not going to pretend you don’t remember,” she exclaimed. Perhaps he had kissed so many legions of women, he couldn’t possibly recollect them all. “Are you also going to deny that you stole one of my bonnet ribbons?”

“You have a vivid imagination, Miss Hathaway.” His tone was bland. But there was a flare of provoking laughter in his eyes.

“I have no such thing. The rest of my family is
steeped
in imagination—I’m the one who clings desperately to reality.” She turned and began to walk at a brisk pace. “I’m going home. There’s no need for you to accompany me.”

Ignoring her statement, Rohan fell easily into step beside her, his relaxed stride accounting for every two of hers. He let her set their pace. In the openness of their surroundings, he seemed even larger than she had remembered. “When you saw my arm,” he murmured, “the tattoo … how did you know it was a pooka?”

Amelia took her time about replying. As they walked, the shadows of nearby branches crossed their faces. A red-tailed hawk glided across the sky and disappeared into the heavy wood. “I’ve read some Irish folklore,” she finally said. “A wicked, dangerous creature, the pooka. Invented to give people nightmares. Why would you adorn yourself with such a design?”

“It was given to me as a child. I don’t remember when it was done.”

“For what purpose? What significance does it have?”

“My family would never explain.” Rohan shrugged. “Perhaps they might now. But it’s been years since I’ve seen them.”

“Could you ever find them again, if you wished?”

“Given enough time.” Casually he fastened his waistcoat and rolled down his sleeves, concealing the heathen symbol. “I remember my grandmother telling me about the pooka. She encouraged me to believe it was real—I think she half believed it herself. She practiced the old magic.”

“What is that? Do you mean fortune-telling?”

Rohan shook his head and slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “No,” he said, looking amused, “although she did tell fortunes to
gadjos
at times. The old magic is a belief that all of nature is connected and equal. Everything is alive. Even the trees have souls.”

Amelia was fascinated. It had always been impossible to coax Merripen to say anything about his past or his Romany beliefs, and here was a man who seemed willing to discuss anything. “Do you believe in the old magic?”

“No. But I like the idea of it.” Rohan reached for her elbow to guide her around a rough patch of ground. Before she could object to the gentle touch, it was gone. “The pooka isn’t always wicked,” he said. “Sometimes it acts out of mischief. Playfulness.”

She gave him a skeptical glance. “You call it playful for a creature to toss you on its back, fly up to the sky, and drop you into a ditch or bog?”