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A multitude of pedestrians milled around them, though many steered clear due to Tim, who towered over everyone and guarded his charges with an eagle eye.
“Tim.” Amelia lifted her hand and pointed at the carriage, which continued to move farther away. “Montoya is in that black travel coach. We must move swiftly or we shall lose him.”
The sensation of something precious sifting through her fingers caused a sort of anxiety she had never felt before. She grabbed her skirts and followed at a near run.
A hackney discharged its passengers a few yards up the street. Amelia hurried toward it with one hand lifted in a frantic wave.
Realizing her intent, Tim cursed under his breath, grabbed her elbow, and dragged her along. “Halt!” he roared as the driver raised his whip.
The man turned his head and froze at the sight of Tim. Swallowing hard, he nodded. When they reached the coach, Tim yanked the door open and thrust her up into it. He looked at the two lackeys who followed them. “Go back with the others and find Mrs. St. John. Tell her what happened.”
Sam, a red-haired man who had been in St. John’s employ for years, gave a jerky nod. “Aye. Be careful.”
Tim lunged into the coach, forcing Amelia back into the interior. “I don’t like this,” he said gruffly.
“Hurry!” she urged. “You can chastise me on the way.” He glowered and cursed again, then yelled instructions to the driver.
The hackney lurched into motion, pulling away from the milling pedestrians and into the traffic of the street.
The doorbells were still chiming when Maria came to an abrupt halt just inside the door of the shop.
A tall, elegantly attired gentleman blocked her way to the deeper interior. At his side, a lovely blonde was wearing the very latest in French fashion. Maria’s gaze moved from one to the other, noting what a handsome couple they made.
“Simon!” Maria gaped in startled recognition.
“Mhuirnín.” As he captured her hand and lifted it to his lips, the tender affection in the beloved voice was palpable. “You look ravishing, as always.”
Simon Quinn stood before her looking more sinfully delicious than any man had a right to. Dressed in buff-colored breeches and a dark green coat, his powerful frame drew the eye of every woman within viewing distance. He bore the form of a laborer, while clad in superbly tailored garments fit for the king himself.
“I was not aware that you had returned to London,” she chastised gently. “And I admit I am more than slightly piqued that you did not seek me out immediately.”
The Frenchwoman smiled a smile that never reached her cold, blue eyes. “Quinn . . .” She shook her head, setting the festive ribbons that adorned it to swaying. “It appears your poor treatment of women is an unfortunate recurring trait in you.”
“Hush,” he snapped.
Maria frowned, unaccustomed to Simon being curt to lovely females.
The bells chimed again, and she attempted to step out of the way when her arm was caught by a grasping hand. Taken aback, she pivoted in a swirl of deep rose-colored skirts and found Sam looking far too anxious beside her.
“Miss Amelia saw ’is coach,” the lackey blurted out, “and ran after ’im. Tim’s with ’er, but—”
“Amelia?” It was then that Maria realized her sister was not beside her. She rushed back out the door and onto the crowded street.
“There,” Sam said, pointing at a hackney moving down the street.
“She saw Montoya?” Maria asked, her gut knotting with apprehension. Lifting her skirts, she pushed her way through the milling pedestrians. Simon and the blonde came fast on her heels, and more of St. John’s men barreled through directly after them. They were causing somewhat of a melee, but she did not care. Reaching Amelia was her only concern.
When it became apparent that there was no hope of catching up to them on foot, she stopped. “I need my carriage.”
“I sent for it,” Sam assured from his position at her side.
“Seek out St. John and explain.” Her mind rushed ahead, planning out the possibilities of the next few hours. “I will take the rest of the men with me. Once we find Amelia, someone will be sent back with our direction.”
Sam nodded his agreement and departed to collect his mount.
“What the devil is going on?” Simon asked, a frown marring the space between his brilliant blue eyes. The blonde, for her part, looked only vaguely interested.
Maria sighed. “My sister has become enamored of a masked stranger she met at a ball several nights ago, and she is chasing him.”
The sudden tension that gripped Simon’s frame increased her anxiety. If he sensed some danger from the situation, she knew it must be more than worry for a sibling that drove her.
“I have been fretting over it ever since,” she continued, “but she cannot be swayed. I attempted to reason with her, but she is determined to find him. As is St. John. I offered to assist Amelia in her search as a way to control at least a part of the whole affair, but apparently she spotted him on the street a few moments ago and is now giving chase.”
“Good God!” Simon cried, eyes wide.
“Oh, this is delightful!” Miss Rousseau said, her eyes finally showing some signs of life.
“I will come with you,” Simon said briskly, gesturing to his footman who waited nearby. The boy rushed off to fetch Simon’s carriage.
“You do not have to become involved,” Maria said, heaving out her breath. “You are presently engaged. Enjoy your day.”
“You are upset, mhuirnín. And perhaps I can help. We were on our way out of Town for holiday, as it was. Miss Rousseau does not mind the alteration of our destination.”
“No, no indeed,” the Frenchwoman said, smiling. “In fact, I should like to come along. Foolish young lovers are always so diverting.”
Simon growled, the sound so edgy that Maria reconsidered her continuing protests and held her silence instead. Simon had been her lieutenant for many years, and his assistance would be tremendously valuable. Whatever the situation was between him and Miss Rousseau, it was for them alone to work out. She had enough trouble of her own to manage.
It was a few moments longer before the gleam of highly polished black lacquer heralded the approach of the St. John town coach. Maria hoped that the distance to be traveled was not one that would need the sturdier travel carriage.
Simon’s equipage drew up behind hers, and with laudable haste they were all in hot pursuit.
Colin vaulted down from his travel coach with relief, his long legs cramped from t
he many hours spent traveling from London to the small posting inn just past Reading. He stood in the courtyard a moment and surveyed his moonlit surroundings. Jacques alighted behind him, and together they entered the inn to secure their lodging for the night.
The dim interior was quiet. Only a few patrons remained in the main room; the rest had retired. The necessary arrangements were quickly dealt with, and shortly, Colin found himself in a small, sparsely furnished room that was clean and comfortable.
As soon as he was alone, melancholy descended in a cold, weighty mantle. He was a day’s ride away from Amelia, with the morrow bringing even more distance between them. Frustrated by the progression of events, he prayed sleep would offer him a brief respite, but after years of dreaming of Amelia, he did not hold out much hope.
He was reaching to close the curtains when the door opened behind him. Gripping the hilt of the dagger hidden in his coat, he canted his torso to make himself a smaller target.
“Montoya.”
Amelia’s sweetly feminine voice caused him to freeze in midturn. He had hoped to be followed, but not by her. Now the danger that stalked him shadowed her as well.
“I had to see you,” she murmured. “Your carriage passed me in the street, and I could not allow you to go.”
Only years of training and living by his wits leashed his surprise, preventing him from ruining everything by facing her. Instead he closed the drapes, dimming the gentle light of the moon before turning toward her. If he was fortunate, the banked fire in the grate would keep his face mostly in shadow, lessening the possibility of recognition.
Mentally prepared only for her reaction to him, Colin was completely vulnerable to his own reaction to her. The sight of her by the door—and near a bed—hit him like a blow, freeing a possessive, primitive growl from his tightened throat. She shivered at the sound, her lips parting with quickened breaths.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Did she know what she did to him?
She stood proud and undaunted before the door, a beribboned hat tied at a jaunty angle, her slender body encased in a gown of shimmering satin and delicate white lace. The innocent cut of the dress made the years fall away, made him hard as a rock and hot to claim her. He loved her deeply and completely with lingering traces of his boyish adoration, but he also lusted for her with every drop of the wild Gypsy blood in his veins.
