Sylvia Day: Passion for Him

Quiet as a mouse, he lifted the door just enough to look through the strands of straw that covered it. The stable was still, though the perceptive beasts it housed shifted restlessly in response to his agitation. Throwing the hatch wide, he climbed out and sealed the door again. Colin grabbed the nearest bridle and horse, then opened the stable doors.

He walked his mount outside, eyes wide and ears open as he searched for those who might be hunting him.

“You, there! Halt!” cried a voice coming from the left.

Grabbing two fistfuls of silky mane, Colin pulled himself up and onto the horse’s bare back.

“Go!” he urged with a kick of his heels, and they burst out to the mew.

The early morning wind whipped the queue from his hair. He was hunched low over his mount’s neck, as they raced through the streets, breathing heavily in unison. Colin’s gut knotted with anxiety. If he made it to the ship without incident, it would be a miracle. He was so close to leaving this life behind, damn it. So close.

Colin galloped as near to the wharf as he dared, then dismounted. He freed his horse, then traversed the remaining distance on foot, moving in and out among the various crates and barrels. Sweat coated his skin despite the chill of the ocean breeze and his lack of outerwear.

So close.

Later, he would not remember the climb up the gangplank or the journey from the deck to his cabin. He would, however, never forget what he found inside.

The door swung open, and he entered, gasping at the sight that greeted him.

“Ah, there you are,” purred the unctuous voice of a stranger.

Pausing on the threshold, Colin stared at the tall, thin man who held a knife to his valet’s throat. One of Cartland’s lackeys or perhaps one working for the French.

Regardless, he was caught.

His valet stared at him with wide horrified eyes above a cravat tied around his mouth as a gag. Bound to a chair, the servant was visibly trembling, and the acrid smell of urine betrayed just how frightened he was.

“What do you want?” Colin asked, holding both hands up to display his willingness to cooperate.

“You are to come with me.”

His heart sank. Amelia. In his mind, she was retreating. Fading.

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Excellent.”

Before he could blink, the man moved, shoving his valet’s head back and slitting his throat.

“No!” Colin lunged forward, but it was too late. “Dear God, why?” he cried, his eyes stung by frustrated, hopeless tears.

“Why not?” the man retorted, shrugging. His eyes were small and pale blue, like ice. Swarthy skin and late-night bristle on his jaw made him look dirty, although his simple garments appeared to be clean. “After you.”

Colin stumbled back out the cabin door, inwardly certain that he would die this night. The deep sadness he felt was not due so much to the loss of his life, such as it was. It was mourning for the life he had dreamt of sharing with Amelia.

His hands were shaking as he gripped the railings that supported the stairs leading back up to the deck. A sickening thud and low groan behind him made him jump and turn too quickly. He tripped and landed on his arse on the second-to-bottom step.

There at his feet lay his captor, facedown with a rapidly swelling lump protruding from the back of his head.

Colin’s gaze lifted from the prone body and found the man who had fought with Cartland in the courtyard earlier. He was short of stature and stocky, his body heavily muscled and clothed in nondescript attire of various shades of gray. The man’s features were blunt, his dark eyes wizened and jaded.

“You saved my life,” the man said. “I owed you.”

“Who are you?” Colin asked.

“Jacques.”

Just the one name, no more than that.

“Thank you, Jacques. How did you find me?”

“I followed this man.” He kicked at the fallen body with the tip of his boot. “It is not safe for you to remain in France, monsieur.”

“I know.”

The man bowed. “If you have something of value, I would suggest you offer it to the captain as enticement to set sail immediately. I will manage the bodies.”

Colin heaved out a weary breath, fighting the flickering hope inside him. The chances of him actually making it to English soil were negligible.

“Go,” Jacques urged.

“I will help you.” He pushed heavily to his feet. “Then you should disembark before you are associated with me.”

“Too late for that,” the Frenchman said, his gaze direct. “I will remain with you until you are settled and this matter of my master’s death is resolved.”

“Why?” Colin asked simply, too weary to argue.

“Arrange our departure now,” Jacques said. “We will have plenty of time to talk on the journey.”

Unbelievably, within the hour they were out to sea. But the Colin Mitchell who stood at the mist-covered bow was not the same one who had shared a farewell dinner with Quinn.

This Colin had a price on his head, and the cost to pay it could be his life.

The fence was directly ahead. After making certain that the guard was still far enough away to miss seeing her, Amelia hurried toward it. She did not see the man hidden on the other side of a large tree. When a steely arm caught her and a large hand covered her mouth, she was terrified, her scream smothered by a warm palm.

“Hush,” Colin whispered, his hard body pinning hers to the trunk.

Her heart racing in her chest, Amelia beat at him with her fists, furious that he had given her such a fright.

“Stop it,” he ordered, pulling her away from the tree to shake her, his dark eyes boring into hers. “I’m sorry I scared you, but you left me no choice. You won’t see me, won’t talk to me-”

She ceased struggling when he pulled her into a tight embrace, the powerful length of his frame completely unfamiliar to her.

“I’m removing my hand. Hold your tongue or you’ll bring the guards over here.”

He released her, backing away from her quickly as if she were malodorous or something else similarly unpleasant. As for her, she immediately missed the scent of horses and the hard-working male that clung to Colin.

Dappled sunlight kissed his black hair and handsome features. She hated that her stomach knotted at the sight and her heart hurt anew until it throbbed in her chest. Dressed in an oatmeal-colored sweater and brown breeches, he was all male. Dangerously so.

“I want to tell you I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse and gravelly.

She glared.

He exhaled harshly and ran both hands through his hair. “She doesn’t mean anything.”

Amelia realized then that he was not apologizing for scaring the wits from her. “How lovely,” she said, unable to hide her bitterness. “I am so relieved to hear that what broke my heart meant nothing to you.”

He winced and held out his work-roughened hands. “Amelia. You don’t understand. You’re too young, too sheltered.”

“Yes, well, you found someone older and less sheltered to understand you.” She walked past him. “I found someone older who understands me. We are all happy, so-”

“What?”

His low, ominous tone startled her, and she cried out when he caught her roughly. “Who?” His face was so tight, she was frightened again. “That boy by the stream? Benny?”

“Why do you care?” she threw at him. “You have her.”

“Is that why you’re dressed this way?” His heated gaze swept up and down her body. “Is that why you wear your hair up now? For him?”