And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
Amelia frowned. Lines fromThe Merchant of Venice.
How Phoebe’s father had died, she knew not, but perhaps the circumstances had been suspicious. Was the bird a metaphor for someone? Did Mr Cadwalader suspect Ross Thornton had been murdered? Was he the one seeking revenge?
She closed the drawer, re-locked it and stabbed the pins into her cascading hair.
But naught traitorous.
So, with the lantern lending its illumination from the desk, she turned her eye to the rest of the study.
Unfastening a bureau, she lowered the front to settle on its stays, but solely paper, wax and quills were stored within.
This study also seemed to serve as the sole library of the house and she perused the eclectic selection of books – from dour philosophy to scandalous novels.
Lying atop one row was a slender volume – more verses by the poet Byrne – and she swiftly flicked the pages, for many acovert scrap of document could be found within the thumbed leaves of a book.
Yet naught.
Just poems of other people’s love and passion.
And that was it, nothing else.
All his official mission documents must be behind that locked end door on the second floor, so Amelia dashed back to the desk to retrieve her lanter–
Shadow engulfed her.
Flattened her to the desk, breasts crushed to the leather, paper fluttering to the floor.
She scrabbled to lift but a relentless pressure held her; she kicked back but met thin air.
Her wrists were wrenched behind her and shackled with something silken.
She flailed, knew better than to scream until her assailant revealed himself, but she was hauled to standing, a forearm beneath her breasts imprisoning her, and…
Cinnamon cologne.
A fire pressed to her back, tied hands and derriere, her thighs rammed to the desk edge.
Amelia turned her head.
To meet the eyes of Mr Cadwalader.
That blueness which held the warmth and solace of spring when he spoke with his aunt or shone with merriment when he told a tale to his ward were…
As ice.
Impenetrable. Cold.
This dangerous warrior wore no shirt, scars ripping across him, arms bare, trapping her.
She ought to be afraid.
She ought to be frozen with terror.
Yet…
That cursed flare of flame lit within as his muscled hold tightened, keeping her crushed against his hard body. Her breath had surely ceased, yet her breasts rose and fell in rapidity above his implacable forearm.
