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How was it possible . . . ?
As her knees gave way, she grappled blindly for a nearby chair but missed. She crumpled to the rug, a loud gasp filling the highly charged air as her instincts rushed to the fore and forced her to breathe.
“Amelia.” He lunged toward her, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“Stay away!” she managed, through a throat clenched painfully tight.
The Colin Mitchell she knew and loved was dead.
Then, how is it, an insidious mental voice questioned, that he is here with you?
It can’t be him . . . It can’t be him . . .
She repeated that litany endlessly in her mind, unable to bear the thought of the years between them, the life he must have led, the days and nights, the smiles and laughter . . .
The betrayal was so complete, she could not credit that Colin was capable of it. Yet, as she stared at the dangerously handsome man who stood across from her, her heart whispered the agonizing truth.
I would know him anywhere, it said. My love.
How could she have missed the signs?
Because he was dead. Because I grieved long and deeply.
Freed from the confines of the mask, Colin’s exotic Gypsy features left no doubt that it was he. He was older, the lines of his face more angular, but the traces of the boy she had loved were there. The eyes, however, were Montoya’s—loving, hungry, knowing eyes.
The lover who’d shared her bed was Colin . . .
A wracking sob escaped her, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Amelia.”
The aching tone in which her name was spoken made her cry harder. The foreign accent was gone, leaving behind the voice she heard in her dreams. It was deeper, more mature, but it was Colin’s.
She looked away, unable to stand the sight of him.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked quietly. “No questions to ask? No insults to hurl?”
A hundred words struggled to leave her mouth, and three very precious ones, but she leashed them tightly, unwilling to bare the depth of her pain. She stared at a small, square painting of a lake that adorned the wall. Her lower lip quivered, and she bit it to hide the telltale movement.
“My body has been inside yours,” he said hoarsely. “My heart beats in your breast. Can you not at least look at me, if you will not speak to me?”
Her silent reply was the tears that flowed in a steady, endless stream.
He cursed and came toward her.
“No!” she cried, stilling him. “Do not come near me.”
Colin’s jaw clenched visibly, and she watched the muscle tic with an odd disconnection. How strange to see Montoya’s maturity and polish within her childhood love. He looked the same and yet different. He was bigger, stronger, more vital. He was stunningly attractive, blessed with a novel masculine appeal few could rival. She used to dream of the day they would be wed and she could call him her own.
But that dream had died when he had.
“I still dream of that,” he murmured, answering the words she had not realized she’d spoken aloud. “I still want that.”
“You allowed me to believe you were dead,” she whispered, unable to reconcile the Colin she remembered with the magnificently dressed man standing before her.
“I had no choice.”
“You could have come to me at any time; instead you have been absent for years!”
“I returned as soon as I was able.”
“As another man!” She shook her head violently, her mind filling with memories of the last weeks. “It was a cruel game you played with my affections, making me care for a man who does not exist.”
“I exist!” He stood tall and proud, his shoulders back, his chin lifted. “I played no role with you. Every word that left Montoya’s mouth, every touch, was from my heart. The same heart beats in both men. We are one and the same. Both madly in love with you.”
She dismissed his claim with a wave of her hand. “You affected an accent and allowed me to believe you were disfigured.”
“The accent was a façade, yes. A way to keep you from guessing the truth before I could tell you properly. The rest was a creation of your mind, not mine.”
“Do not blame this farce on me!” Amelia struggled to her feet. “You allowed me to grieve for you. Have you any notion of what I have suffered these last years? How I have suffered these last weeks, feeling as if I was betraying Colin by falling in love with Montoya?”
Torment shadowed his features, and she hated the vicious satisfaction she felt at the sight of it. “Your heart was never fooled,” he said roughly. “It always knew.”
“No, you—”
“Yes!” His dark eyes burned with an inner fire. “Do you recall whose name you cried at the height of orgasm? When I was deep inside you, clasped in the very heart of your body, do you remember which lover’s name came to your lips?”
Amelia swallowed hard, her mind shifting through the myriad of sensations that had assailed her untried body. She remembered the look of the bullet scar on his shoulder, the way the feel of it had plagued her in some fashion she could not pinpoint.
“You were driving me mad!” she accused.
“I wanted to tell you, Amelia. I tried.”
“Later, you could have. I nearly begged you!”
“And have this discussion directly after we made love?” he scoffed. “Never! Last night was the culmination of my deepest, most cherished fantasies. Nothing could have induced me to ruin that.”
“It is ruined!” she yelled, shaking. “I feel as if I have lost two loves, for the Colin I knew is dead, and Montoya was a lie.”
“He is not a lie!”
Colin came toward her, and she hastily caught the back of a chair and pulled it between them. The sturdy wooden seat was no deterrent, however, and he shoved it aside.
She turned to flee, but he caught her, and the feel of his arms around her trembling body was too much.
Amelia hung in his embrace, devastated.
“I love you,” he murmured, his lips to her temple. “I love you.”
For so long she’d prayed to hear those words from his lips, but they were too little now and far too late.
Chapter 13
As her coach pulled into the courtyard of the inn specified by the outriders, Maria collected her hat and gloves in preparation for alighting.
“It is a rare sight to see you so anxious,” Christopher murmured, his heavy-lidded gaze making him appear deceptively slumberous. She knew him too well to believe that.
“I am relieve
d we have found her and that she was of sound mind enough to drag Tim along with her, but there are still the matters of Montoya and Ware to address.” Maria sighed. “As miserable as my youth was, I am grateful to have been too busy to indulge in reckless love such as this.”
“You were waiting for me,” Christopher purred, catching her hand before she gloved it and kissing the back.
She cupped his cheek and smiled. “You were worth the wait.”
The coach rolled to a halt, and Christopher vaulted down. As she accepted his assistance, she said, “I am surprised that Tim is not out here to greet us.”
“As am I,” he agreed. He glanced up at the coachman. “Pietro, make arrangements for the horses, then unload Miss Benbridge’s valise.”
Pietro nodded and pulled away, taking the carriage to the stables several yards away.
“You think of everything,” Maria praised, wrapping her arm around his.
“No, I think of you,” he corrected, looking down at her with the melting intensity that had shattered her defenses so many years ago.
They waited for Simon and Mademoiselle Rousseau to join them. Then they all entered the quiet inn.
“I will inquire about Tim,” Christopher said, striding to the counter. A moment later, he gestured for one of the lackeys at her side to join him. Together, the two men followed the innkeeper out of the room.
“What is going on?” Mademoiselle Rousseau wondered aloud.
“Let us order food,” Simon said. “I am half-starved.”
“You are always half-starved,” she muttered.
“It requires a great deal of energy to tolerate you, mademoiselle,” he retorted.
The bickering duo walked away, leaving Maria waiting with a lackey. She frowned as Christopher reappeared with Tim in tow.
Maria noted the grim look on Tim’s face and moved forward to meet them. “Where is Amelia?”
“Apparently,” Christopher drawled, “her phantom admirer has decided to step out from behind the mask.”
“Oh.” She glanced at Tim, who looked both pained and furious. “What is it?”
