Amy was alone in the dining parlor with an assortment of biscuits, scones, and jams spread out across the table’s surface. She was famished, and the breakfast fare smelled ever so inviting, yet she contented herself with a cup of tea and mulled over the previous evening’s happenings in her mind.

Her bones still ached from the energy she’d exerted keeping the delirious Quincy from leaping through the opened window, but she was fit enough from her training as a dancer to weather the aches tolerably well. It was her thoughts that stirred the greatest distress in her belly: the memory of the scamp’s muscles slipping between her stiff fingers. If Edmund and James had not appeared in the room at that crucial moment…

Amy shuddered. She wrapped the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She was still chilled from the thorough soaking she’d received during last night’s storm. It was as if she wasn’t able to warm her blood, she was so icy inside. Even the hot, minty tea wasn’t a comfort.

She closed her eyes and imagined Edmund’s arms holding her tight. The shiver that touched her spine wasn’t from the cold. It stemmed from a warm place in her heart that rippled throughout her limbs. Tucked firmly in Edmund’s embrace, without a breath of space between them, was the most intimate she had ever been with a man…and she wondered if perhaps the chill she was feeling was the result of the loss of that intimacy.

The door opened and Captain James Hawkins entered the narrow room, filling the small space with his stout presence. She noted the bruises around his eyes; the discoloration didn’t negate his hard stare, though.

Amy quickly looked at the teacup nestled between her hands. She sensed the man’s piercing regard on her. Was he still furious with her for calling him a cur? She suspected that he was.

The distinct clip-clop of heavy footfalls resounded in the dining parlor. The chair’s legs scraped across the well-polished floor. He assumed a seat and reached for a biscuit, his meaty hand permeating her line of vision.

She twisted her lips, sifting through her thoughts, searching for something worthwhile to say to the man, but one indecorous question was all that pressed on her mind: Where did you get the bruises?

She didn’t ask him that, though; she didn’t dare.

At length, she reasoned it might be a better idea if she excused herself from the table and allowed him to eat his morning meal in solitude. She certainly didn’t mind being apart from him.

Amy set the earthenware on the surface, prepared to depart.

“Thank you, Miss Peel.”

She stiffened. What was he thanking her for? For preparing to leave the room so he could enjoy his food without her troubling presence?

She frowned at the assumption, so rude. However, she had learned her lesson from the previous evening’s disastrous confrontation with the man. She would not voice her conjectures aloud again.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“Thank you for saving Quincy’s life.”

The low timbre in his voice disarmed her. It was pleasant. There was no animosity or underlying sarcasm in the tone of his voice. She would have detected it otherwise, for she was accustomed to Madame Rafaramanjaka’s “sweet” smile and vicious taunts. The captain seemed genuinely grateful. She wasn’t sure how to respond to the civility.

“You’re welcome,” she returned quietly.

He resumed his meal and she reconsidered her earlier decision to depart from the room, reaching for a tasty-looking biscuit herself.

Sophia soon entered the dining parlor.

“Good morning, Miss Peel.”

Amy returned the convivial greeting. She watched as Sophia circled the table without wishing her husband the same felicitation. Amy wondered if perhaps the couple had quarreled, but she soon dismissed the thought from her mind as she observed the private gesture that passed between them.

Sophia slipped her fingers beneath the man’s queue and stroked the back of his neck before she assumed a seat. It was a simple, fleeting expression of solidarity, and it altered the surly captain’s entire visage. He seemed more at ease, comforted. The stiffness in his muscles loosened and his features relaxed…though a sensual fire burned bright in his eyes.

Amy was breathless. The silent communication intimated the couple’s deep bond, and she sensed a pang in her breast at the thought that she was alone in the world, that there was no one in her life to chase away the demons in her head with a loving touch.

“Excuse me, please.”

Amy set aside the half-eaten biscuit and quickly skirted from the room, mounted the steps at the end of the passageway, and headed for Edmund’s room. She failed to knock on the wood barrier. She pushed opened the bedroom door…and sighed.

Edmund’s long, muscular figure was slouched in a wing chair, his feet propped on the edge of the bed as he watched Quincy dream.

Slowly Edmund turned his head, his expression thoughtful, and observed her with a smoldering stare that warmed her belly and eased the pinching pressure on her airway.

“Is something the matter?” he murmured, his voice scratchy with sleep.

“No.” She closed the door. “I’ve come to see how Quincy’s faring, is all.”

“He’s doing well…thanks to you.”

The look he offered her smothered her like a woolly blanket, chased off the chill in her bones. She approached him, observed his puffy lips, his bruised cheek, and her good mood quickly soured, for his brother sported a similar set of injuries.

“I know what you’re thinking, Amy.”

Had the scoundrel broken his vow? Had he engaged in fisticuffs with his brother? She refrained from making the accusation, though, as both men had wrestled with Quincy last night. Perhaps they had been injured in the scuffle.

She pointed at his wounds. “Are those from the tussle with Quincy?”

“No.” He eyed her intently. “They’re from James.”

“He hit you?”

“I hit him first.”

Amy rounded the chair, tight-lipped. Keeping her footfalls light, so she didn’t spoil the scamp’s sleep, she crossed the room and settled beside the window.

He sighed at her backside. “He deserved the thrashing, Amy.”

“He’s your brother.”

The furniture’s joints creaked as he lifted from the chair. He joined her beside the window, frowning. “He’s an iron leg shackle—and last night I broke free of him.”

“I see,” she said stiffly. “Will you dishonor every promise you make if it suits you?”

He dropped his brows, his eyes shadowed. “I’ll see you settled in a proper post, Amy.”

She turned her head away. “Unless I’m a burden to you—another leg shackle—and you break free of me, too.”

“You don’t keep my head below water so I can’t breathe.” He tipped her chin with his forefinger, forcing her to meet his torrid gaze. “I don’t want to be free of you.”

She shivered at his smoky words, the firm touch of his finger. She turned her head away again, the sensitive underside of her chin skimming his hand, as she eyed the slumbering scamp, his features pale and twisted into a grimace.

“Is he in pain?”

“I don’t think so.” He dropped his hand away from her face. “I think he’s dreaming.”

The poor devil. It must be a frightful dream, she thought.

She looked through the window into the misty morning light. “I had a bad dream last night, too.”

“Oh?”

Amy pinched the shawl more firmly at her bust, but it was not the coolness in the air making her uneasy. It was the scoundrel’s expression: part dreamy, part incisive. He folded his thick arms across his chest, leaned a shoulder against the wall, and crossed his ankles.

She looked at his bare feet. She had dropped her eyes to avoid his scrutiny, but now she wondered if perhaps she had made a mistake, for she imagined slipping her toes over his sturdy feet in playful banter.

The unladylike reflection startled her and she quickly lifted her gaze. “I dreamed about my parents.”

He was watching her with keen interest. “And it was a bad dream?”

“I remembered the last time I saw them.” She peered through the glass at the distant structures. “They were preparing for a party at a friend’s house. My mother kissed me good night. My father tweaked my nose and told me to be good. I never saw either of them again.”

“How did they die?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

Amy munched on her bottom lip. She looked away from the window and confronted him. “I lied to you, Edmund.”

He frowned. “Amy?”

“I didn’t want to tell you the truth.”

“Why?”

The welter of feeling that welled in her breast was so profound, she needed a moment to gather her breath and retrieve her strangled voice. “I don’t like to think about that night.”

The man’s voice softened. “Tell me, Amy.”

At his encouraging words, she swallowed a deep mouthful of air and confessed: “My parents didn’t perish when I was six years old.” The truth seemed so heavy and she struggled with every word. “I haven’t seen them in about thirteen years, so perhaps they’re dead now, but they didn’t pass away on the night of the party.”

He brushed his fingers through his scruffy locks, combing the curls. “So how did you find yourself in the streets?”

“I was taken away,” she whispered weakly.

“What do you mean?”

Amy’s head hurt with the memories: the horses’ hooves, the burning torchlight, the dark, masked figures. There was chaos in her thoughts, and it ached to sort through the disjointed images. “I was kidnapped.”

He crunched the muscles at his brow. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I was taken from my bed one night.” She struggled with the maelstrom of emotions that stirred in her belly, making her ill. “I was carried away on horseback. The kidnappers took me into the rookeries.” The first foul smells and unsightly figures from the slums bubbled to the forefront of her thoughts. “I sensed I was in trouble.” She bunched her fingers into fists. “I evaded them; I jumped from the horse. I knew they would hurt me…kill me.” She shuddered. “The villains told me my parents had hired them to take me away; that they didn’t care for me anymore.”

“And you believed them?”

“I was a child. I believed them at first.” She shrugged. “I was a spoiled brat and their claim seemed truthful.”

“You will do as you’re told, Amy.”

“No, Papa!”

“You will do as you’re told or I will see to it that the goblins take you away and never bring you home.”

“But as I matured,” she said quietly, “I understood their deceit and I doubted their claim.”

“Have you looked for your parents?”

“No,” she returned firmly, tamping down the tears that brimmed in her eyes. “I didn’t know where to begin the search. And it’s been so many years; I’m sure they’ve forgotten about me now.”

Edmund eyed her intently. “Parents don’t forget about their children.”

“Perhaps not, but I don’t know their whereabouts. I don’t remember my home; I’m not even sure I know my real name.”

“Don’t you want to know the reason for your kidnapping? Don’t you want to know if your parents are still alive?”

Yes!

But…“Hope is dangerous,” she said softly. “I don’t want to chase after ghosts.”

After another thoughtful pause, he murmured, “You look pale, Amy. Did you have breakfast?”

She sniffed, feeling silly for allowing her emotions to overtake her good sense. “Yes, I had tea and biscuits with your brother James.”

He lifted a black brow. “And how did the cur treat you?”

She groaned. “You know?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I really am trying to be a lady, you know.”

He offered her a small smile. “I admire your spirit, Amy.”

She blushed at the compliment. She curled her hair behind her ear, feeling fidgety, as a profound want entered her breast and commanded her heart. She desired so much to connect with Edmund in that moment, yet she wasn’t sure how to go about it.

“James treated me well,” she said at length. “I think he’s forgiven me for calling him a cur. He thanked me for assisting with Quincy.”

“He did?”

She nodded. “Madame Rafaramanjaka would never have pardoned such insolence. She would have thrashed me, then fired me from the club.”

“I don’t think the queen would have fired you—ever.”

“What?”

“You’re too good a dancer,” he said quietly.

She shuddered at the heat in his words. “But you offered me protection because you said I was destitute.”

“No, you assumed you were destitute. I didn’t contest the matter. I wanted you to quit the Pleasure Palace. It’s dangerous for you to work there. It’s too dangerous for you to be Zarsitti anymore.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Madame Rafaramanjaka threatened me. She said she would fire me if I ever disobeyed her.”

“She threatened you to keep you in line, to control you.”

Amy looked through the window and mulled over the epiphany. Was it true? Would the wretched queen have employed her services even if there had been a scandal? She wasn’t so sure about that. But the matter was moot. She had an opportunity to better her circumstances with Edmund’s help, and she intended to take advantage of the fortuity.

The man’s eyes darkened. “I understand what it’s like to be controlled.”

She glanced at his brooding features. “I think you’ve misjudged your brother, Edmund.”

He lowered his head. The morning light caressed his strong and handsome profile, making her heart flutter.

“I don’t think so; I think I’ve pegged him right.” He paused, then: “You and I are not so very different, Amy. There’s always someone in our lives trying to keep us from rising too high.” He looked back at her with intense purpose. “But we don’t need anyone. We can go it alone, don’t you think?”

Alone? That didn’t sound so appealing. However, the thought of going it together sounded strangely…wonderful.

The smarting in Amy’s breast was profound. She thought of only one balm that would soothe the deep-rooted ache.

She stepped into the light cascading through the window and the soft drapery. On spiked toes, she bussed Edmund’s mouth, the tissue plump, swollen. She sucked at the tender flesh, so warm, the touch and taste of him making her giddy.

He stiffened, the kiss hard, and she hesitated, but soon the surprise in his bones passed away and his taut muscles softened…the kiss softened, too.

She sighed as he parted his lips and took her mouth in a more passionate gesture. She wanted him to guide her through the unfamiliar movements, to take possession of her body. And he did. The man’s strapping arms circled her midriff and squeezed her ribs. His mouth moved over her lips with greater pressure, an urgent, almost hungry appeal for more, and she gave him more. She matched his hard thrusts, kissing him with zeal. She raked her fingers over his shoulders and wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight hold.

In his embrace, the world seemed at right. But it was unwise to find succor with him, a scoundrel; she knew that in the rational part of her mind…yet he teased her senses with such sensual pleasure she needed to let him inside her being, if only to restore the joy that had died there so many years ago.

I want you.

He growled low in his throat. She was moaning softly, too, so unladylike. But she wanted the scoundrel in a very unladylike way. She cleaved to him, burrowed her fingernails into his stout neck. She demanded more from him than tenderness. She demanded passion. She wanted to feel. She wanted to keep the hot blood flowing through her veins, for it washed away the years of torment.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Amy staggered, her footfalls fumbled. Had Edmund pushed her away? No. He looked as winded as she was. She had pushed him away. And with reason. She glanced at the bed, where the ignominious remark had stemmed from, and witnessed Quincy as he rolled over the feather tick’s edge and retched into the chamber pot.

She closed her eyes and sighed, trembling, weak. It wasn’t the sight of them kissing that had sickened him, but the opium. She was still flustered, though, as Edmund dutifully treaded across the room to attend his brother’s needs.

Quincy yowled as he rested again. “I hate being sick.”

Edmund poured him a glass of water. “Here,” he said hoarsely. “Drink this.”

Quincy complied. With his brother’s support, he downed the tonic.

“Ouch.” Quincy massaged his arms, his midriff. “What the devil happened to me?”

“We wrestled you to the ground last night.” He set the empty glass aside. “You tried to jump from the window.”

Quincy looked confused. “I did?”

“You were hallucinating.” Edmund glanced at her hotly. “If it hadn’t been for Amy, you would’ve leaped to your death. You might even have taken her with you to your doom if she hadn’t the strength and wherewithal to keep you secured until James and I had entered the room.”

The scamp paled. He looked at Amy with a welter of pain. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she was quick to assure him. “I’m fine.”

But Quincy still seemed gloomy, distraught. She, too, trembled, her nerves still frazzled. She reckoned it might be a good idea if she tiptoed from the room and composed herself, allowed the brothers some privacy, as well.

She headed for the door, casting Edmund one last, furtive look, but he had sensed her ogling and had matched her expression with a fiery one of his own.

I want you, too, Amy.

She rushed from the room, stifled. In the cool passageway, she stilled and placed her hand on the wall for support. She touched her mouth, the flesh swelling with blood.

She had kissed Edmund.

She had kissed him!

And she’d aroused the scoundrel. The sentiment had pulsed through his taut muscles, in his sensual stare, his raspy voice…

She quickly skirted off. She had embroiled herself in a tight fix. How was she going to disentangle herself from it now?

“Bullocks.”