chapter eight

Matt ended it. No sooner had Amanda relaxed fully against him, surrendering herself without words to anything he might demand of her, than he jerked his mouth from hers with a muttered oath. His hand tightened momentarily on her breast, and then it too was removed, leaving Amanda feeling oddly bereft as she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her, a restless glitter deep in the silvery eyes.

“Matt?” she breathed, unconsciously clinging. His eyes blazed as they moved from her eyes to her mouth, and then he was pushing her away from him, his hands hard on her waist as he held her at arm’s length.

“For God’s sake, Amanda, don’t,” he said harshly. A little muscle jumped convulsively in his jaw. Amanda stared up at him, her eyes dazed with a passion she could barely put a name to. She felt totally unlike the girl she had been scant minutes ago. Impossible that he didn’t feel the same. But he was looking down at her with eyes that were now as hard as agates, and his voice was hard, too, as he said her name again.

Amanda flushed. Suddenly she realized that she was clinging to him like a limpet, her eyes dreamy on his face, her mouth soft and trembling with his kisses. Her nails were embedded in the skin of his nape; as she became aware of that her flush deepened until she was the color of a wild rose, and her arms dropped to her sides. Her eyes dropped, too, and she would have pulled away from him but his fingers dug hurtfully into her waist as he refused to let her go.

“You’re supposed to slap my face, not burst into flames in my arms.” The humorous overtone to the voice that was still slightly husky with passion was the last straw. Laugh at her, would he? The temper that matched the bright heat of her hair burst into flaming life. Eyes flashing, she drew back her hand and slapped him across the cheek with all her might. His head rocked back with the force of the blow. He clapped one hand to his abused cheek, releasing his hold on her waist, and regained his equilibrium to regard her with astonishment.

“Satisfied?” She practically snarled the word, her mouth taut and her eyes blazing with temper. To add to her fury, as he took in the full extent of her outrage he began to look amused.

“Don’t you dare to laugh at me.” Boiling over with anger fueled by rising humiliation, she drew back her hand for another assault.

“Whoa, there.” He grabbed for her, ducking to miss the blow she aimed at him, catching her around the waist and pinning her to his side with one hard arm. Her arms were clamped to her sides so that she could only wriggle furiously, glaring at him.

“For such a little girl you have a remarkable wallop.” He grinned as he rubbed his cheek with a rueful hand. “Stop squirming, Amanda. I was only teasing you.”

“Let me go.” The words were spoken with such deadly menace that Matt’s grin widened. “Let me go, you . . .” Amanda couldn’t bring to mind words bad enough.

“Temper, temper.” Matt was openly laughing now. Amanda twisted so furiously in his hold that he used his other arm to lift her clear off her feet. Infuriated by the physical superiority that allowed him so easily to subdue her, Amanda was spluttering with rage as he sat down on a rock, setting her on her feet again. Her back was to him as he pulled her between his spread legs, his arms locking hers to her sides.

“Let me go,” she spat again, rigid with fury. The way he was holding her, there was no hope of escape.

“Not until you calm down and listen to me,” he said into her ear. She flinched from the feel of his warm breath against her skin. “Are you listening? ”

As she said nothing his arms tightened fractionally around her waist. The feel of his big body pressed so intimately against her back was evoking sensations that even her anger couldn’t blind her to.

“Amanda?”

Defeated, she nodded jerkily. The first hot blaze of her temper was beginning to drain away, letting the shame that had been the cause of its start to surface.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, Amanda.” The soft drawl was more pronounced than she had ever heard it. “I was laughing at myself. I never meant to kiss you—I’ve been fighting the inclination ever since I woke up and found you leaning over me on the beach. But you looked so sad just now, and so sweet, you confounded all my good intentions.”

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” Amanda said stiffly, feeling her face flame. She was supremely conscious of the feel of his big body all around her as he held her enfolded against him. His arms were like iron bands constricting her own arms and waist, and she could feel the moist heat of his bare chest burning through her dress to the skin of her back. His thighs were hard as they held her legs still, and her head was tucked neatly under his chin. She couldn’t have moved if she tried.

He gave her a slight shake. “Honey, you’re not listening. You didn’t embarrass me. You excited me—quite madly. I wanted you, Amanda, in the way a man wants a woman and you’re probably too young to understand. I had to force myself to let you go. If I hadn’t . . . I’m many things, Amanda, and most of them not particularly nice, but I try to draw the line at seducing sweet young virgins I’ve grown rather fond of.”

Amanda stood very still.

“Are you saying . . . you’re fond of me, Matt?” she asked at last in a small voice. His arms tightened around her waist in a quick hug.

“Very fond,” he said huskily against her ear. “You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen—and I want to keep you that way. If I’d gone on kissing you, Amanda, pretty soon kissing wouldn’t have been enough. I’m a man, not a boy, and while kissing may thrill you right down to your little pink toes, it merely whets my appetite for the main dish. And you don’t want to be a meal for me, Amanda. I’d gobble you up just as I’ve gobbled up dozens of females before you, and then I’d go on about my business. But you’d be shattered. I don’t think you could give your body without giving your heart, Amanda, and you don’t want to give your heart to me. I’d break it, honey, and that’s the truth.”

Amanda felt her cheeks burning as his words sank in. No matter how he phrased it, he was warning her against falling in love with him. The conceit of him. With that face, no doubt he’d had females swooning over him in his pram. And he thought she was in danger of joining the queue. When pigs fly, she told herself stiffening.

“Please let me go. I have to get back before Sister Patrick sends someone to look for me. I’ve been gone far too long already.” Her voice was carefully even. She knew her cheeks had to be hectic with color, but she hoped he couldn’t see them from where he sat behind her. Not that she was embarrassed any longer, mind. She was angry.

“Damn it, Amanda, I’m telling you this for your own good. Don’t you think I want to kiss you, make love to you? You’re a beautiful girl, and I have all the normal instincts. But I like you too much to take advantage of your innocence. Believe me, I could make you want me so much you wouldn’t care what was happening until it was all over. Then you’d be sorry, but it would be too late. You’re only a virgin once, honey. Don’t be in such a hurry to lose it.”

“You think an awful lot of yourself, don’t you?” Her voice was rigid with fury. Impatient with being held captive in his arms, she twisted violently. To her surprise he let her go. And she was under no illusion that “let” was not the operative word. He could have kept her captive until doomsday if he’d wanted. The knowledge didn’t mitigate her anger one scrap; if anything, it increased it. She whirled to glare at him, skirts flying, hands on hips. He remained where he was, watching her, his long legs in the loose black trousers casually apart, his hands braced against the surface of the rock on which he sat. His unbuttoned shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, baring a considerable expanse of black-furred chest. A dawning exasperation mingled with the amusement that still twisted his mouth and gleamed in his eyes. The candlelight gilded the hard planes of his face, adding a touch of gold to the silver-gray eyes. Just looking at him fueled Amanda’s outrage. He was, in a word, beautiful. The knowledge that his warning might be just the tiniest bit justified maddened her.

“Are you so conceited that you mistake simple kindness for . . . for something else entirely?” Her eyes shot violet fire at him. He looked mildly intrigued as he observed the effect. His refusal to be angered maddened her as much as his dazzling good looks. Her voice quivered with temper as she continued to hurl words at him. “You kissed me, you oaf, not the other way around, remember. And contrary to what you may think, it wasn’t so marvelous that I’m in danger of losing my heart as well as my . . . well, anything else to you. In fact, I’m surprised that you had the nerve to touch me. I know in America things may be a little more democratic, but here in England a lady is usually safe from that type of vulgar advance.”

He lifted his eyebrows at that, then slid off the rock and onto one knee, lifting his clasped hands toward her in a gesture of entreaty. Laughter danced like twin demons in his eyes.

“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 safely 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.