Chapter Fourteen
A s the carriage rumbled away from the decrepit pub Helen used as her hideaway, her words echoed through Amelia’s thoughts.
You see, Amelia—he entrusted the treasure to you.
Why would Helen have uttered such a blatant untruth? It did not feel as if she was lying. Her tone had not held even a trace of deception. It seemed Helen believed what she’d said.
How very peculiar.
A dreadful suspicion gnawed at Amelia. Had she been wrong to trust Paul? She’d known he had his secrets, but she had never imagined he would deceive her. Had he used her faith in him to his own advantage?
Pressing her head back against the carriage’s upholstered seat, she closed her eyes and pictured the delicate Fashion Lady he’d brought back to her from Paris. How she cherished the heartfelt gift. Had the elegant doll meant nothing more to Paul than a means to an end, a means of concealing a stolen gem?
Now, as the watch in her reticule ticked well past the midnight hour, she would retrieve it before anyone connected with Hawk realized its significance. Time was of the essence. Logan understood that just as she did. A stranger would destroy the doll without a moment’s thought.
And then they would come for her.
Just as the intruder had that dismal night when Heathy’s sharp teeth and Logan’s courage had protected her.
Logan broke the silence. “Ye truly think yer brother stashed a gem in a blasted doll?”
Opening her eyes, she met his gaze. “It is a logical theory. The man who attacked me spoke of a diamond. Paul gave me the doll after he’d returned from Paris... after the murdered collector’s jewels were stolen.”
“To my mind, it’d be too damned much trouble. If I wanted to conceal a stone worth a bloody fortune, I wouldn’t waste time fiddling about with a blasted doll.”
“I disagree,” she countered. “No one would think to look there.”
“I knew yer brother well, lass. If he’d needed to stash a stolen gem, I’d wager my last shilling that he would not have chosen a method that would require carefully concealed alterations. He would not have had the skill, nor the time. But if I’m wrong—if the stone is there—we will find it.”
*
Oh, dear.
A moment—perhaps two—after Amelia lit the sconce on the wall and light beamed through the library, she heard herself gasp. Good heavens. Her heart sank. They were too late. Someone had invaded the place she viewed as a haven. Someone intent not merely on searching the library, but on destruction and havoc. Reaching the rumpled carpet near the circulation desk, she scanned the chaos.
Chairs upended and drawers in her cabinets hanging ajar.
Books strewn about the floor like so much refuse.
A vase, or what was left of it, lay in pieces on the floor beside her desk. The single rose it had held was surrounded by a small puddle of water and shards of crystal. Anger and grief welled in her chest. Years earlier, her favorite aunt had given her the vase as a cherished gift. Now, it lay hopelessly shattered.
“Bloody bastards,” Logan said, his voice hard as he inspected the space for intruders. “They will pay for this, Amelia. That, I promise ye.”
Bracing herself with a hand pressed against her desk, she surveyed the damage. The stuffing of a plump wing chair had been torn out through a slash in the upholstery and now lay loose upon the seat. Ruined. Utterly ruined.
Her attention settled on the now-vacant space on the shelf where she’d kept the doll. Her pulse raced. Had the intruder made off with it? Could they have known that Paul obtained the doll while he was in Paris? Or had they indiscriminately snatched up anything that might have been used to hide a jewel?
She glanced toward Logan. He stood rather still, his expression grim as he looked down at something on the floor.
Her gaze trailed his. A surge of grief blended with raw anger. Oh, my beautiful doll.
Ruined.
The intruder had not stolen the Fashion Lady. No, this was far worse. The despicable lout had torn her cherished keepsake to pieces.
She went to Logan’s side and began to gather up what was left of the doll. The head with its lovely painted face was still intact. That was some comfort. But its elegant silk gown had been torn away, cast aside like a scrap of rubbish. Stuffing oozed out of its leather body through a crude rip down the middle. Goodness, even its tiny limbs had been sliced open and pitched to the floor.
Crouching beside her, Logan retrieved several mutilated pieces. “Blast it, Amelia. I know how much this meant to ye.”
She examined the Fashion Lady’s unmarred face. “They tore it to pieces and took what they were looking for.”
“Or they came up empty-handed.” Logan lifted up the doll’s damaged body. “There’s one fresh slash by a blade, but no sign the doll had been cut before tonight. Paul could not have hidden anything inside it unless he’d opened it up.”
She examined the doll beneath the gas lamp. “You’re right. The stitching appears to be untouched. Unless Paul repaired the damaged seam.”
Logan touched the small of her back, the warmth of his hand offering unspoken comfort. “Not bloody likely. Yer brother couldn’t even mend a rip in his trousers.”
A smile tugged at Amelia’s mouth. “Mend a rip? Why, I doubt he could’ve threaded a needle.”
“Ye miss him.” Logan’s words sounded low and husky. “I can hear it in yer voice.”
“More than you can imagine. He always knew how to make me laugh.” She stared down at the delicate doll cradled in her palm. “He cared for me. And now his last gift has been torn to bits.”
Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She blinked them away, willing herself to stay strong. Still, a rebellious drop streamed down her cheek, then another.
Gently, Logan brushed them away. He drew the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “We will find the bastard who did this, Amelia. I’ll make it right.”
She gulped against a fresh wave of raw emotion. The past hours had been filled with stunning revelation, with secrets and deceit. Now, she wanted more than anything to believe him.
Lifting her eyes to meet his deep brown gaze, she felt a sudden racing of her pulse. A sudden boldness awakened within her.
Perhaps it was the way he looked at her, his gaze taking her in as if he found her rather fascinating.
Perhaps it was the rush of sensation that had nothing to do with fear.
If she were wise, she would retreat to her warm chamber in his spacious home, curl up with a piping hot cup of tea, and make it through this night without stirring a proper scandal.
Pity she didn’t give a fig about rumors and gossip and what few tatters were left of her good name.
Her eyes lingered over the contours of his cheek, trailing the line of his shadowed jaw. How she longed to draw her fingertips over the path.
If she dared to explore the texture of his skin, would he think her wanton?
Or would he find her touch far too chaste?
Giving in to instinct would be dangerous. She couldn’t afford to be vulnerable. Not even to him. She certainly knew better than to surrender to the temptation gleaming in a rogue’s eyes.
Drawing a calming breath, she folded her fingers against her palm and resisted this newly intense craving for contact. For a long, silent moment, she drank in his carved, masculine features, imagining the caress of his full, seductive mouth.
Heaven knew a woman could find herself lost in his kiss. A woman foolish enough to succumb to temptation, that is.
His mouth curved at the corners, an instinctive awareness darkening his eyes. Had he sensed her renegade thoughts?
For a heartbeat, she thought he’d draw her closer.
Thought he might be so brazen as to kiss her, right there and then, in the midst of the chaos.
But he did take her in his arms.
He held her then. The muscles in his arms were taut with restrained strength. Powerful. Yet so very gentle.
His eyes met her gaze, seeming to search for the answer to an unspoken question. He drew his thumb over the curve of her face. His touch was smooth. Gentle. Nearly reverent.
But he did not kiss her.
Ah, she had to keep her wits about her. She had to keep a level head. Meeting his gaze, she carefully schooled her features. She did not dare to betray her emotions, much less the twinge of disappointment she’d felt when he held back.
A respectable woman would not be disappointed.
A respectable woman would be relieved.
But with each beat of her heart, she wondered more and more if being a respectable woman was highly overrated.
Suddenly, the bells at the door jangled, tearing her thoughts back to reality. Logan’s hold fell away, and she turned to see Finn Caldwell navigating the cluttered floor, stepping around books and furniture in his path. “Looks like the fortune teller was telling the truth. The bastards are after something all right.”
Logan met his words with a scowl. “Blasted cowards, terrorizing a woman. Believe me, they will regret what they have done. I will see to that.”
*
The moon hung low in the sky as Logan escorted Amelia to his home. With Finn at the reins and Amelia comfortable within the coach, Logan sat on the driver’s bench, scanning for threats, weapon at the ready. A keen alertness surged through him. Despite a weariness that went bone-deep, his senses were tuned for any sign of danger in the night. Fortunately, their route proved uneventful while the horses clopped a steady path to his townhouse.
Upon their arrival, they were met by a visibly relieved Mrs. Langford at the door. After seeing for herself that they’d returned unscathed from their covert meeting, she poured Amelia a cup of hot chamomile tea and saw her to her bedchamber. Making no secret of his need for sleep, Finn took to another room for a few hours’ rest, while Logan retired to his study.
Retreating to his quiet sanctuary, Logan stripped off his waistcoat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and poured himself a drink. He leaned against his desk, stretching out his legs as he downed the whisky and stared up at the shadows on the ceiling. A peculiar energy set his mind racing. How in blazes could he protect Amelia against a ruthless cur who operated like an unseen puppet master, pulling the strings of men who did his bidding without revealing his true identity?
Paul’s letters had warned of a clear danger to his sister. But Logan had not expected that Paul would have gotten himself mixed up with brutal thieves and cheats. The web of treachery he’d become trapped within now threatened Amelia.
By hellfire, he’d get to the truth.
He would find the elusive Mr. Hawk. The bastard would pay for what he’d done to Paul. And to Amelia.
The pain on her fairy-delicate features when she’d found her doll torn to pieces had been like a bareknuckle blow to the gut. The curs who’d invaded her library had not merely searched for some blasted hidden treasure. They had inflicted deliberate destruction and chaos. They had wanted to cause fear.
But why? What could the bastard think to gain from terrorizing Amelia?
If Mr. Hawk and the cowards working for him thought Amelia was vulnerable, they’d soon discover she was under his protection. They would learn an ugly lesson, indeed.
Logan took another drink. By hellfire, he would stand by her. He would not—could not—let her down.
When he’d held her in his arms, her irises had darkened to the hue of sapphires fit for a queen’s crown. He’d seen the flicker of heat, an elemental fire she could not entirely hide. But there had been more. Something far more rare had glimmered in the depths of her gaze. Without a trace of guile or a hint of an ulterior motive, she had looked at him as a man who would stand at her side, come hell or high water.
In those beautiful blue eyes, he’d seen trust.
In the years since the lass he’d planned to wed had cast aside his love in favor of land and a title, he had realized an ugly truth. Maeve’s pretty words of devotion had suited her purposes. In the end, she’d left his heart battered. Now, he knew better. If a man was smart, he wouldn’t give a damn if a woman—or anyone else for that matter—looked upon him as anything other than a rogue.
But now, Amelia had put her faith in him.
The realization stirred a conviction deep within him. He wanted her to believe in him, to know that he would be there for her. And he would do whatever it took to justify her trust, no matter the cost.
A light tap upon the door tore him from his thoughts. Amelia stood in the entry. “I see you are still awake. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Of course not,” he said. “I thought you’d gone to sleep.”
She shook her head, her unpinned tresses cascading over her shoulders. Tugging on the sash of her deep blue dressing gown, she seemed suddenly self-conscious. “My mind is rather stubborn tonight, I’m afraid. I simply cannot clear my thoughts and drift off.”
“Ye can rest now, Amelia,” he said. “Ye’re safe here.”
“It is not a matter of fear.” She padded over the carpet until she stood not quite within arm’s length. “I have searched my mind, again and again, for some hint Paul might’ve given me, something I may have missed. How could he have kept such a devastating secret? It must have been sheer torment.”
Logan set the tumbler on the desk. “He wanted to protect you.”
“He should’ve trusted me.” Pain gave her voice a smoky tone. “He should have told me he was in a fix. We would have found a way to make it through... before he got himself in too deep.”
“I don’t think he knew yer true strength, Amelia. Ye’re a woman of honesty, of courage.”
Emotion glistened in her eyes. “I would like to believe that’s true.”
He stepped closer, a single footfall, near enough to touch her. Near enough to pull her closer. Near enough to enfold Amelia in his arms and kiss her until any thought of what had happened in the library had been banished to the back of her mind.
“I see yer gentleness... yer vulnerability.” He reached for her, taking his time as he drew tiny circles against her palm. “Yer skin is soft. Smooth as silk. Some might look at that flawlessness and think ye fragile.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before he lifted his gaze to hers. “But I know better. Ye’re a strong woman, Amelia.”
The most subtle of smiles curved her mouth. “You do believe that, don’t you?”
“Aye. Ye’ve a backbone of steel, lass,” he said, releasing her. “Do not ever forget it.”
“I do hope you’re right.”
Her deep blue eyes flashed with what seemed a subtle challenge. In a heartbeat, Amelia veiled her gaze with her lashes, as if she’d revealed more than she had intended.
But he had seen a truth she could not deny. She enjoyed his touch, the fleeting, not-quite-innocent contact, just as she’d savored the moment they’d given into temptation at the tavern.
Wickedness does possess a certain allure. But in my experience, it is rather overrated.
When Amelia had spoken the words, he’d sensed a hint of a dare in her tone. But then, his impulsive kiss had turned into more.
Her lips had tasted of desire. Of passion. And yet, there had been an innocence about her sweet response that confounded him. She was a widow. No doubt she’d learned the ways of men and women. But she had reacted to their caress as if the experience of seduction was very new.
God above, how he wanted to teach her true pleasure. Skin to skin. Heat kindling with each touch. With each kiss.
Amelia would respond to him. She would mirror his passion. Deep within, he knew that much to be true.
But he knew better than to risk the alliance they were building. She trusted him to protect her. To defend her. To tell her the truth. For now, that would have to be enough.
Or so he’d thought until she reached for him.
Dancing her fingertips along the line of his jaw, hunger flickered in her gaze. “I want you to do something for me.” Her voice had gone low. Sultry.
Curiosity warred with the instinct to taste her lips. “And what might that be?”
The tips of her fingers danced idly over him. Gently touching his hair. Skimming the skin above his collar where his overly long strands grazed his neck. Trailing the angle of his jaw.
God above, was this some bittersweet torment she had devised for reasons only she could fathom?
“Promise me you will not take foolish risks,” she said. “I could not bear it if you were harmed.”
“I’ve outgrown foolish risks,” he said, even as he contemplated taking one. If he kissed her again—truly kissed her—would she welcome the caress?
Or would he shatter the fragile connection they had forged?
She studied him. Her mouth curved slightly at the corners, as though she’d read his thoughts. “But only foolish risks, I take it.”
Holding himself still, he nodded. For the span of several breaths, he watched her. Allowing her time to make her wants clear. Time to retreat if she needed to pull back from this moment. Time to retire to her own room.
Her own bed.
A soft sigh escaped her. She edged closer, closing the space between them.
Again, she nibbled her lower lip. “Some risks are worth taking, are they not?” Her voice was silky, softly confident.
He curved his arms around her, bringing her closer. “Indeed.”
She did not ease away. If anything, she intensified the contact. “At times, I wonder if I still have the courage to take a risk.”
He drank in her beauty. “If ye didn’t, ye wouldn’t be here... here with me.”
“As I recall, you were rather confident that I would appreciate... oh, how did you phrase it?” She flashed a sly grin. “Oh, that’s it—a taste of sin.”
Blast it, she was intent on driving him to madness. But he held his voice steady. Casual, even. “I do recall that conversation. And I stand by my words.”
“Is that so, Logan MacLain?”
Much more of this, and he would call her bluff. Ah, his name would be on her lips. But uttered with need. With passion. Rather than the challenge that now flavored her tone.
“Could you have any doubt, Amelia?” He spoke her name as a caress.
Her eyes widened, ever so slightly, as color rose to her cheeks. A lush smile tempted him beyond all rational thought.
“Very well, then,” she said softly. “Shall we put your theory to the test?”