“Forgive, oh, forgive, my lady,” he intoned wickedly.
At his teasing, Amanda felt her temper shoot through the roof.
“Go to hell, you . . . you . . .” she spat, and just managed to stop herself from stamping her foot before she whirled and stalked away. Behind her, he gave a shout of laughter, and she sensed rather than saw him get to his feet. But he made no move to come after her.
By the time she reached the kitchen again, she was still flushed with anger, so much so that Sister Patrick looked at her in concern and asked if she felt feverish. It was all Amanda could do to return a civil answer, and she received a sharp look from the kindly sister for her pains.
“And did Mrs. Morell like the soup?” Sister Patrick prompted. Amanda, already halfway through the kitchen door, looked around guiltily.
“Oh, yes, she . . . appreciated it very much. They hadn’t anything else for supper.” The memory of Laura Morell’s pale face as she had thanked her so fervently for the half tureen of soup flashed before Amanda’s eyes. Barely thirty, with one babe still at her breast and another under her apron while seven more under the age of twelve crammed the tiny cottage, Mrs. Morell was one of the most pitiful—and deserving—of the poor the convent had taken under its wing. Mr. Morell was a sailor, and he came home perhaps once a year to drop a few dollars on the table and plant a new babe in his wife’s belly. To support herself and the children, Mrs. Morell took in washing and did whatever other odd jobs she could get. But this last pregnancy had made her ill, and now she was unable to work. Amanda had felt a severe twinge of conscience as she had delivered the half portion of soup and bread, barely enough to make a good supper for two and yet fallen upon so thankfully by the seven hungry children. Amanda doubted that Laura Morell, who needed it more than her youngsters, would get more than a spoonful. If she hadn’t already separated Matt’s portion from the rest, hiding it in a separate tureen under the Morells’ stoop until she could smuggle it down to the cave, she would probably have given in to pity and left the whole. But Matt was hungry, too, and there would have been nothing left for him . . .
I’ll take them some of the vegetables from the cellar tomorrow, she told herself, somewhat quieting her conscience, and a cheese, too. How she would explain distributing such largesse to Sister Patrick she had no idea. Oh, well, maybe she wouldn’t tell her. She already had the sin of theft on her conscience, to say nothing of all the lies she had told lately. What were a few vegetables and a cheese?
“And my dish?” Sister Patrick sounded faintly put out. Wisps of iron-gray hair peeked out from under the wilted and somewhat askew wimple that framed the nun’s perspiring face. She eyed Amanda with a trace of exasperation, her hands emerging from the large pan within which she had been washing the last of the supper dishes. “Really, Amanda, where is your mind tonight? That’s the third time I’ve asked you.”
“I’m sorry, Sister, I wasn’t attending,”Amanda murmured desperately. “I left the dish. I’ll collect it in the morning.” Interpreting Sister Patrick’s scarcely mollified sniff as dismissal, Amanda turned and practically fled, all the while praying that Sister wouldn’t discover that yet another tureen was missing before she could restore them both, one discreetly washed and put away, in the morning. Sister Patrick was extremely careful of the convent’s supplies . . .
As was their custom, the girls were gathered in the back parlor to gossip and giggle. Amanda almost pleaded another headache so that she could escape to her room—it wouldn’t have been far from the truth—but she was afraid that a headache for the second time in a week, when she was never ill, might give rise to the curiosity she was at such pains to avoid. Besides, to tell the truth, she really didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. As much as she tried to prevent it, they seemed to be concerned with that black-haired devil’s mockery—and his kisses . . . Later that night, when she was alone in her narrow bed and the convent was quiet, she gave it up. Her breast still burned where he had held it, and her mouth seemed to be permanently branded from the touch of his. When her eyes were closed he seemed to be beside her; she could almost taste him, touch him, smell him . . . Furious at herself, her eyes popping open, she got up, abandoning all attempts to sleep. Now her head did ache, so she carefully unbound the single plait, running her fingers through the long strands in an effort to ease the niggling pain. Which was a waste of time, she knew. The source of her discomfort was not a too-tight plait, but a living, breathing annoyance who was too handsome for his own good and too aware of it for hers. Picking up her hairbrush, she went to stand in front of the window. More for something to do than in any real hope it would soothe her headache, she began to stroke the brush rhythmically through her hair.
The sea and sky were dark, barely lit by a sliver of moon. From her vantage point high in the convent, Amanda could see the white tips of the waves as they rolled toward the beach. The thick black clouds blowing in from the ocean reminded her, against her will, of the near-dawn when she had found Matt . . .
She had liked him almost from the first. Even when he was searing her half to death—and now that she had come to know him better she guessed that his role of vicious murderer must have amused him mightily—she had felt a kind of sympathy for him. When she could have turned him in, she hadn’t, but steered in the opposite direction the man who would have solved all her problems. Although she was generally softhearted, she was not, despite anything Matt might say to the contrary, generally softheaded. There had been something about him that had touched her heart . . .
Much as she hated to admit it, there was some basis for his warning her not to lose her heart to him. It would be all too easy to do. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen, but even when he had been bearded and dirty, when she had felt not the slightest bit attracted to him, she had liked him. He had made her feel safe, as if she had at last come across a calm port in the midst of a stormy sea. She had confided in him things she had never told anyone before, not even Susan, and that worried her.
He was right: she mustn’t fall in love with him. Because he would soon be gone, and she would be left behind with nothing but hurtful memories. And he was much better now. He seemed to be over the fever that had racked him with alternate periods of raging heat and chills, and his wound seemed to be troubling him less, too. At least, he appeared to have little trouble moving about, and he had lifted her clear off her feet with no sign of strain. It was inevitable that he should leave. She couldn’t even wish otherwise. The longer he stayed in one place, the greater the likelihood that he would be caught. Sooner or later he would venture outside the cave and someone would see him, or Sister Patrick would notice the inexplicable depletion of her carefully husbanded larder, or . . . There were a dozen possibilities, but they all had the same ending: he would be caught and hanged. Her always too-vivid imagination conjured up a picture of that long body dangling at the end of a rope, that handsome face blackened and twisted, and she winced as a pain stabbed her heart.
Something glimmered far out in the bay. Amanda saw it out of the corner of her eye, but it took some seconds to penetrate to her absorbed brain. Then she snapped to sudden attention, staring anxiously out at the dark sea. After a moment it came again—a quick flash of light against the blackness. This time it was answered by another. She blinked, disbelieving the conclusion her mind had jumped to even as she could find no other explanation. Despite the increased surveillance along the coast, the smugglers were out in the bay.
She had to get to Matt, she thought, dropping the brush and speeding silently to the door. If the smugglers were in the bay, it was a definite possibility that they were making for the cave, where they sometimes stored their cargo . . . They mustn’t find Matt. She had no idea what their reaction would be, but she didn’t want to find out. Big Matt might be, and strong, but he was no match for half a dozen armed men.
She was panting as she wrenched open the trapdoor and leaped down the stairs. There was no time to be lost if Matt was to be got sa
fely away and the cave cleared of all traces of his presence.
He was sitting on the feather tick with his back against the wall, frowning as he carved a piece of driftwood. He must have heard her coming because he didn’t even glance up as she stopped just inside the cavern, her hand pressed to her heart as she tried to catch her breath.
“Over your tantrum already?” he asked, looking up at last, his voice mocking. As he saw her standing there clad only in her thin white night rail, her hair unbound and tumbling around her face and shoulders to her hips in thick, glinting red waves, his teasing expression altered dramatically.
“What has happened?” he demanded in a totally different tone, surging to his feet and coming to stand in front of her, his hands reaching out to grasp her shoulders.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with urgency. “Smugglers,” she gasped. “The smugglers are in the bay, and they’ll probably come here. You must get out of the cave.”
He frowned. “What exactly did you see?” he asked sharply.
Amanda shook her head, impatient that he was not immediately getting ready to leave.
“Smugglers,” she repeated, her tone anxious. “I saw their lights—I’m almost certain they’re on their way to the cave.”
“You saw lights in the bay?”
He was not normally obtuse. Amanda reached up to grip his forearms, her nails digging into his flesh beneath the sleeves of his shirt.
“Yes.”
His hands tightened briefly on her shoulders.
“Stay here,” he ordered, then he was releasing her to stride toward the entrance to the cave—the entrance that opened onto the beach.
“Where are you going?” she gasped, flying after him to catch urgently at his arm. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I heard you—and I told you to stay here. I want to see those lights for myself, and you’ll only be in the way.”
“But why?” Amanda practically wailed the question.
He frowned down at her, disengaging her hands from his arm and turning away.
“I’m expecting someone.” He threw the words over his shoulder. “Now do as I say and stay where you are. Whoever it is will be able to spot you a mile away if you come outside in that white thing.”
It was so true that Amanda stopped in her tracks. If he was insane enough to go out to meet the smugglers, she wasn’t going to go after him and give his presence away. Biting her lower lip, she watched despairingly as he disappeared toward the entrance. For a long moment she didn’t move, and then her common sense reasserted itself. At least she could clear the cave of all traces of his presence in hopes that he himself would have the good sense to stay out of the smugglers’ way.
He came back just as she returned from dragging the mattress and blanket to their old place in front of the steps leading to the trapdoor. To her knowledge, the smugglers had never penetrated that far into the cave.
“You’re right, they’re smugglers,” he said, throwing a quick glance around the now-cleared chamber as he came across to her with long strides, snatching up the candle on his way.
“I told you . . .”
“Hush,” he said, grasping her arm and blowing out the candle in the same breath. “They’re close behind me—luckily they’re carrying some barrels that seem pretty heavy. We’ll have to hide.”
“We can go through the trapdoor into the convent,” Amanda whispered, already moving toward the passage. Matt’s arm was around her waist as he followed her lead.
“There’s no time—they’ll hear it open. That damned thing squeaks.”
It was pitch black inside the cave. Amanda couldn’t see Matt, though he was scant inches away from her. Lucky she knew the way so well . . . She had no sooner had the thought than she heard muffled voices behind them, and a spreading beam of light reached from the cave’s entrance toward the cavern they had just left.
“Hurry—and be quiet. They mustn’t find us,” Matt breathed in her ear. Amanda nodded silently, forgetting he couldn’t see her. She didn’t like to contemplate the smugglers’ reaction if they should be discovered . . . The voices were louder behind them as her feet touched the hard edge of the steps that led up to the trapdoor.
“We can’t go any farther. But this should be all right. I don’t think they ever come back this far.”
“Let’s hope not.” His voice was a scant breath of sound. She felt him move, heard a faint clink, and guessed that he had set the candle in its brass holder on the floor.
Again she felt him move, then his hand was tightening on her waist.
“Come here,” he murmured. Obediently she let him pull her forward until she was resting against his body. One arm stayed around her waist while his other hand came up to press her face into the soft cloth that covered his chest. He was leaning back against the wall, letting it bear his weight. Amanda rested against him without protest. His arms seemed the safest place to be.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.” His voice was the merest whisper in her ear. Amanda nodded in silent reply, believing him. Whatever happened, she knew he would protect her if he could. Odd how much she trusted him, she thought, and her lips shaped a wry smile as she remembered that this man who cradled her so protectively against him was a convicted murderer—of a woman and children. Even if he hadn’t told her he was innocent, she thought that in this moment she would have known.
“Come on, put the bloody thing down and go fetch another one. We ain’t got all night.” The rough voice came from the cavern they had so recently vacated. At the end of the twisted passageway Amanda could see the warm glow of a lantern. The smugglers were obviously stowing their cargo. She prayed that they would not feel a sudden urge to explore the rest of the cave. Instinctively she burrowed closer against Matt’s chest, and felt his arms tighten around her.
“I wish they’d catch that blasted convict,” said a different man, who seemed to be moving away from them. His last words were faint and indistinct. Amanda felt Matt stiffen against her.
“Bloody nuisance,” the first voice agreed. It seemed closer than the other, and she guessed that its possessor was staying in the cavern to oversee the bestowal of whatever they had carried in. “Turn him over to the law myself if I could catch him. Interferin’ with business.”
The reply was unintelligible. Amanda huddled against Matt’s hard form, listening to the tramp of booted feet and to the sometimes comprehensible mutter of gruff voices. No further mention was made of Matt, and as the minutes ticked past with no suggestion that the smugglers meant to do anything more than store their cargo in the cavern and leave, she felt him gradually relax. She relaxed, too, letting him bear the full weight of her body, growing more and more conscious of the feel of him against her. Despite her best intentions, she could not help but be affected by his nearness, by the solid strength of his body against hers, by the faintly musky smell of him that rose to tantalize her nostrils. She should step away from him, she knew. His arms had loosened their hold on her waist, and all she had to do was take a single step backward to be free of his touch. but she didn’t. She told herself that she didn’t want to make it obvious to him how much his closeness disturbed her, but deep inside she knew the simple truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to move. The very warmth of his body held her in thrall.
She could feel his muscles gradually stiffening against her, and her brow wrinkled as she puzzled at it. The smugglers seemed to be going about their business, with no hint of anything disturbing, and she could think of nothing else that would account for the growing tension she could sense in his body. Perhaps she was hurting his wound? She shifted slightly, though she didn’t think she had touched it. He tensed even more. Concerned now, Amanda pressed lightly against his chest with both hands, tilting her head to peer up at him. The darkness made it impossible for her to see his face.
“Matt?” she whispered, his name a question.
His hands clenched on her waist.
“Oh, hell,” he growled softly, and began to shake.
chapter nine
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” The word seemed to force itself out from between clenched teeth.
“Something must be the matter. You’re trembling.”
“Your perceptiveness is amazing.” His hoarse whisper did nothing to disguise the intentional sarcasm.
“Don’t be rude, Matt,” she reproached him in the same barely audible voice. “Are you ill again?”
“No, I’m damned well not ill again.” This time there was no doubt about the clenched teeth.
“Then what’s wrong with you?”
“You’ve felt me shake before. Figure it out.”
The terse comment made her eyes widen. Yes, she had felt him shake before—just a few hours before, to be exact.
“You want to kiss me.” It was more statement than question. Amanda didn’t know whether to feel frightened or elated. She knew she ought to step away from him now, do what she could to guard her vulnerable heart, but she couldn’t seem to move. And he wasn’t pushing her away.
“As I said, your perceptiveness is amazing.” His arms still cradled her waist despite his forbidding growl. She could feel the tremor that coursed through the encircling muscles—and the rest of him. Her fingers curled against his chest in involuntary response, the nails rasping against his chest hair through the linen shirt. He drew in his breath, the sound like a groan. His fingers clenched on her waist so hard they hurt her.
“Then, why don’t you?” Amanda couldn’t believe that sultry whisper was really her own voice. She hadn’t meant actually to say the words, although they had immediately jumped to the forefront of her mind. But now that they were out, she couldn’t take them back. She wanted him to kiss her . . .
“Are you hell-bent on suicide?” He sounded almost angry. But he still wasn’t pushing her away. Amanda could feel the heat of him burning through her night rail to her skin. Her breasts seemed to swell against his chest, separated from his hard flesh by only two thin layers of cloth. No matter the consequences, she wanted him to make her feel that strange, hot urgency again. She needed him to.
Amanda Rose Page 11
