"Yes, of course," she said with a regretful smile. "Forgive me."
His countenance swiftly softened at her apology, his hand reaching up to cover the fingers that still lay upon his arm.
"There is nothing to forgive."
"But there is," she insisted, determined to have the air cleared between them. "I have not been entirely myself lately and I fear that my concerns have made me strike out at even those who have shown me only kindness."
He stepped closer, easily trapping her in the molten silver of his eyes. "If we are confessing, then I suppose I must also admit that I can at times be unfortunately highhanded. It was not my intent to drive you away."
Her heart flip-flopped as she felt the warmth feather over her skin. Yes, he could be highhanded, but at the moment she thought she could forgive him anything as long as he promised to continue gazing at her in precisely that manner.
With an effort she attempted to collect her disappearing wits. She could not continue to simply gape at him like a looby.
"Well, now that we have that out of the way, I wish to know if you have been injured elsewhere."
"I am well." A rather strange glint of humor simmered in his eyes. "I heal remarkably quickly."
She tilted her head to one side. "I hope that your attacker was suitably punished?"
His rueful chuckle tingled down her spine. "No. To be honest, I did not give a good accounting of my-self. In my defense, however, I was taken by surprise. On the next occasion I shall be better prepared."
Her breath caught. No. She could not even consider the thought of this gentleman being harmed.
"I pray there is no next time."
"As do I."
"Still, you must take better care."
His brows rose at her fierce command. "Lectures from the daring Amelia Hadwell?"
In spite of herself, Amelia felt a renegade tug of amusement at her lips. It was perhaps a bit hypocritical to command him to keep himself safe when she had blatantly announced she was going to hunt for a murderer.
"I am not the one nursing cuts and bruises, sir."
The silver eyes widened before he gave a swift laugh. "I suppose I walked straight into that one?"
Her smile widened in enjoyment at his teasing. "As a matter of fact, you did."
He became still as he gazed down at her upturned face. Then he slowly shook his head.
"Amazing."
The breathless sensation returned as she battled to slow the sudden charge of her heart.
"What?"
His hand lifted to gently touch the corner of her mouth, seemingly unaware that he was making her knees so weak she could barely stand.
"I did not realize how extraordinarily charming dimples could be."
"You are being absurd," she breathed.
He heaved a barely perceptible sigh. "It appears to be my fate when you are near."
"Sebastian..."
The desire to confess that he managed to confuse and befuddle her with equal force was abruptly snatched away as Mrs. Benson entered the room with a beaming smile.
"Here we are. Some nice hot tea and fresh muffins."
Chapter Six
The Gypsy stood in the darkness, her lined face wreathed in concern. "You must not falter.
The danger is close, far closer than you know."
Amelia struggled to reach the woman, a sense of panic fluttering in her stomach. "What danger? Where is it?"
"It follows you. Close. So close."
"But.. . what can I do? "
The woman was fading into mist as she held out a gnarled hand. "Trust in the Guardian."
"Guardian? There is no guardian."
The Gypsy smiled. "He is watching you."
"Please, tell me of the danger."
"Protect the amulet." The voice was barely able to reach Amelia's straining ears. "You must keep it safe."
"No, do not leave. I need to know..."
Amelia awakened with a jerk.
Blast. Struggling to untangle from the covers that threatened to smother her, Amelia groaned in annoyance. The dream haunted her without mercy. No matter how tired she might be, at some point during the night she was destined to be visited by the relentless Gypsy.
At last able to sit upright, Amelia instinctively reached up to touch the amulet about her neck.
She should simply toss away the necklace and be done with it, she thought with a weary yawn.
Perhaps then she would be allowed a night without the disturbing presence of the old Gypsy.
Oddly, however, she knew that she would do no such thing. There was something comforting about the heavy weight of the amulet as it nestled against her skin. Almost as if it belonged there in some indefinable manner.
With a shake of her head at her fuzzy thoughts, Amelia prepared to return beneath the covers when a familiar tingle of excitement drifted down her spine.
On this occasion she did not dismiss the vague warning. She knew precisely what it meant.
Not giving herself time for second thoughts, she slipped from the bed and grabbed her nightrail from a nearby chair. Pulling it over her gown, she quietly left her room and made her way through the sleeping house.
Using the experience that she had gained during her past forays in the dark, she managed to avoid the occasional steps that creaked and the tables that littered the hall. She even kept the number of times she banged her toes to less than a dozen.
All the time the tingles grew more pronounced and warmth began to flood through her blood.
She was growing nearer, she acknowledged with a twitch of her heart. Much nearer.
At last slipping through the kitchen door, Amelia paused only a moment before moving through the small garden toward a large oak tree.
"Sebastian," she called softly.
"I am here." There was only a moment of hesitation before a darker shadow detached from the low wall about the garden and stepped into the bright, silver moonlight. "I thought you would be sleeping."
Amelia discovered her gaze clinging to the chiseled lines of his features and the broad width of his shoulders, as if she had not seen him only yesterday. She knew she could stand there and simply drink in his male beauty for hours if it would not make her appear noddy.
"I was," she finally forced out in husky tones.
He moved toward her with a slow, fluid grace, almost as if afraid a sudden movement might send her into flight.
"Surely I was not so clumsy as to waken you?"
"No." She breathed in deeply, taking pleasure in that warm scent of male skin and the faint hint of spice. "It is odd. Somehow I seemed to sense you were here."
"Perhaps not so odd."
She tilted her head back to meet his silver gaze squarely. "What are you doing here?"
He lifted his slender, elegant hands. "Admiring the beauty of the night."
"You could not admire the beauty of the night from your own garden?" she teased gently.
He gave a rueful shrug. "It seemed prudent to ensure that William had not decided upon a midnight stroll."
She had known precisely why he was there, but his confession still sent a warmth flooding her heart. She was unaccustomed to anyone taking such concern for her brother, or herself. Not even her parents.
Her hand reached out of its own accord to touch his arm. "That is very thoughtful, Sebastian, but you should not feel obligated to keep a watch upon William. He is my responsibility."
"I do not feel obligated, Amelia." He searched her face bathed in moonlight. "I am here because I desire to be."
"Oh."
His lips twitched at her obvious bemusement. "I do regret, however, that I awakened you, no matter how unintentionally."
Amelia did not. Standing in the silvered darkness of the garden and surrounded by the pungent aroma of roses, she thought that she must still be dreaming.
A handsome, charming gentleman. A moonlit night. The seductive privacy of a garden.
It was all far too romantic for an aging, nearly-upon-the-shelf spinster.
"I do not mind." She offered him a tentative smile. "It is a lovely night."
He nodded slowly but his gaze never left her.
"A magical night."
"Magical?"
His hand lifted to lightly touch the raven curls that tumbled about her shoulders.
"The moon is full and there is bewitchment in the air."
There was certainly bewitchment, but Amelia was quite certain it had more to do with the tall gentleman standing before her than the moon.
"You surely do not believe in such nonsense?"
His brows lifted. "Why do you condemn it as nonsense? Civilizations have honored the power of the moon for centuries. Indeed, most cultures worshipped it as a god."
"Or goddess," she readily pointed out.
"Certainly." He smiled deep into her eyes. "I have always presumed the moon's seductive lure must be that of a female. Still, in the old days Hindus believed that it was a very male god of the moon who would ride through the sky in a chariot pulled by white horses." His low chuckle echoed through the still air. "And, of course, they thought the moon itself a storehouse of elixir that the gods would drink, causing it to become smaller with every passing night."
