The coarse word shocked her, he could tell, but it was the right word for how he liked his bedsport, and it was best she know that now. There would be no brief groping and grunting in the darkness. There would be illumination, flushed and sweaty skin, and many hours.
“Is that what passion in the bedroom is?” she asked, with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. “Animal urges given free rein? Is there nothing more involved in the process?”
It took him a moment to comprehend the question. “Are you referring to the glances your sister shares with St. John? Or how the Westfields look at one another?”
“Yes. They are…indecent, yet romantic.”
“You are not the only one to see such affection and covet it.” The inquisitiveness in her gaze made him smile.
“Do you?”
Ware shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his hip into the railing. “On occasion. But I do not pine for it or suffer from its lack. I think, however, that you do.”
As honest as ever, she nodded.
“I begin to see that my straightforward approach to wooing you was not the best,” he mused aloud. “I assumed that the miserable end to your first love affair would make you inclined to appreciate a more…grounded relationship. But you want the opposite, do you not?”
She pushed away and began to pace, which was her wont when agitated. At times like this, she reminded him of a caged cat prowling in its boredom. “I do not know what I want, that is the problem.” The look she gave him pinned him in his place.
“I am content. There is nothing more that I need.”
“Are you truly content?” she challenged. “Or do you simply accept that friendship is all that one can hope for in your position?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Who would you wed, if not for me?”
“I’ve no notion, nor do I care to think about it until absolutely necessary. Are you suggesting I consider alternatives to you?”
Coming to a halt, Amelia released a sound that reminded him endearingly of a kitten’s growl. “I want to be mad for you! Why is the choice not mine to make?”
“Perhaps you suffer from bad taste?” He laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him. Then he lowered his voice and stared at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “If it’s the mask that arouses you, I can wear one to bed. Such games can be fun.”
When her eyes went big as saucers, he winked.
Her hands went to her hips as she bristled; then her head tilted to the side. “Perhaps it is the mystery that intrigues me so? Is that what you are suggesting, my lord?”
“It is a possibility.” Ware’s smile faded. “I intend to make inquiries about your admirer. Let us see if we can unmask him.”
“Why?”
“Because he is not for you, Amelia. A foreign count? You have always longed for a family. You would not move away from your sister now that you are reunited, so what future do you have with this man? And let us not discount the fact that he may seek to wound me through you.”
She began pacing again, and he watched, admiring the inherent grace in her movements and the way her skirts swirled enchantingly around her long legs. “Everyone appears to believe that Montoya has no interest in me as an individual, only in the people connected to me. I admit I find it rather insulting to learn that those who claim to love me find it impossible to imagine a man desiring me for myself.”
“I can more than imagine it, Amelia. I feel it. Do not take my courtesy as a lack of desire for you. You would be wrong.”
Heaving out her breath, she said, “St. John is also attempting to find him.”
He expected as much. “If the man is hiding in the rookeries, St. John might succeed. But you said the count was finely dressed and cultured. He sounds as if he is a denizen of my social circles, rather than the pirate’s. My search may prove more fruitful.”
Amelia paused again. “What will you do if you find him?” There was more than a small measure of suspicion in her voice.
“Are you asking me if I will hurt him?” The question was not frivolous, as he was a swordsman of some renown. “I might.”
Her beautiful features crumbled. “I should not have said anything to you.”
Straightening, Ware moved toward her. “I am pleased you spoke the truth. Our relationship would have been irreparably damaged if you had presented a lie to hide your guilt.” As he reached her, he breathed deeply, inhaling the innocent scent of honeysuckle. He had long suspected that her body resembled the flower she favored, fragrant and sweet as honey upon the lips.
He cupped her face in both hands and tilted her gaze upward to lock with his. Something new swirled in the emerald depths and he found himself falling into them. “But that does not change the fact that the man knew you were mine and took liberties regardless. A grave insult to me, love. I can forgive you, but I cannot forgive him.”
“Ware…” Her lips parted, the seam glistening in the soft afternoon light.
Leaning over her, he bent to take her mouth. Her breath caught as she recognized his intent.
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
They sprung apart as Amelia’s sister and her husband joined them on the terrace, followed shortly by a maid bearing a new tea service.
“It is a lovely day,” the pirate said in his distinctive raspy voice. “We thought we would join you in the sunshine.”
Ware understood the warning. With a slight bow of his head, he stepped back farther. The former Lady Winter smiled at his perceptiveness. It was a bedroom smile, the one a woman shared with her lover after a bout of great sex. For Mrs. St. John, it was her only smile, and it was a lauded part of her appeal.
“We would enjoy the company,” Ware said, leading Amelia back to their table.
He spent the rest of the afternoon trading inanities with the St. Johns and, later, with those he and Amelia passed during their drive through the park. But part of his mind was actively occupied with the logistics of his hunts-the one for Amelia’s favor and the other for the masked man who sought to steal it from him.
“Are you certain the man’s name is Simon Quinn?”
“Aye,” the tavern keep said, setting another pint on the bar.
“Thank you.” Colin accepted the ale and moved to a table in the corner. The report of a man searching for him was disturbing, even more so because the one making the inquiries was using Quinn’s name. It could be Cartland, or one of the men with him, though the owner of the tavern was fairly certain the man did not have a French accent.
There was nothing Colin could do aside from settling in to wait, using techniques of concealment in which he was well versed. A man of his size could never hide completely, but he could make himself less noticeable by sprawling low to disguise his height and breadth of shoulder. He also left his hair unrestrained, which roughened his overall appearance.
The establishment itself made it easy to lose oneself among the crowd. The lighting was kept low to hide a multitude of faults and dirt. The dark-stained walnut furnishings-round tables and spindle-backed chairs-only added to the dimness of the interior. The air was filled with the smells of old and new ale and crackling grease from the kitchen. Patrons wandered in and out. Several were regulars whom Colin had spoken to previously.
Long ago, in his past life, he had frequented such places with his uncle, Pietro. Those lazy afternoons off had been spent listening to the imparted wisdom of a good and decent man. Colin missed him, thought of him often, and wondered how he was faring. Pietro had instilled strength of character in him and a belief in honor that had stood him in good stead these many years.