Mine Till Midnight (The Hathaways #1)(41)

No response.

Amelia shook him, pushed hard at his chest, took his stiff face in her hands. As she did so, she felt some invisible force pulling at her. She held on doggedly, knotting her fists in the loose folds of his shirt. "Leo, wake up!"

To her infinite relief, he stirred and gasped, and his lashes flickered upward. The irises of his eyes were as pale as ice. His palms came to her shoulders, and he muttered groggily, "I'm awake. I'm awake. Jesus. Don't scream. You're making enough noise to wake the dead."

"For a moment I thought that was exactly what I was doing." Amelia half collapsed onto the arm of the chair, her nerves thrilling unpleasantly. The chill was receding now. "Oh, Leo, you were so still and pale. I've seen livelier-looking corpses."

Her brother rubbed his eyes. "I'm only a bit tap-hackled. Not dead."

"You wouldn't wake up."

"I didn't want to. I? He paused, looking troubled. His tone was soft and wondering. "I was dreaming. Such vivid dreams?

"About what?"

He wouldn't answer.

"About Laura?" Amelia persisted.

His face closed, deep lines weathering the surface like fissures made by the expansion of ice inside rock. "I told you never to mention her name to me."

"Yes, because you didn't want to be reminded of her. But it doesn't matter, Leo. You never stop thinking about her whether you hear her name or not."

"I'm not going to talk about her."

"Well, it's fairly obvious that avoidance isn't working." Her mind spun desperately with the question of what tack to take, how best to reach him. She tried determination. "I won't let you fall to pieces, Leo."

The look he gave her made it clear that determination had been a bad choice. "Someday," he said with cold pleasantness, "you may be forced to acknowledge there are some things beyond your control. If I want to go to pieces, I'll do it without asking your bloody permission."

She tried sympathy next. "Leo... I know what you've gone through since Laura died. But other people have recovered from loss, and they've gone on to find happiness again?

"There's no more happiness," Leo said roughly. "There's no peace in any damn corner of my life. She took it all with her. For pity's sake, Amelia... go meddle in someone else's affairs, and leave me the hell alone."

Chapter Eleven

The morning after Amelia Hathaway's visit, Cam went to visit Lord Westcliff 's private study, pausing at the open doorway. "My lord."

He suppressed a smile as he noticed a child's porcelain-head doll under the mahogany desk, propped in a sitting position against one of the legs, and the remains of what appeared to be a honey tart. Knowing of the earl's adoration for his daughter, Cam guessed he found it impossible to defend against Merritt's invasions.

Looking up from the desk, Westcliff gestured for Cam to enter. "Is it Brishen's tribe?" he asked without prelude.

Cam took the chair he indicated. "No—it's headed by a man named Danior. They saw the marks on the trees."

That morning, one of Westcliff's tenants had reported that a Romany camp had been set up by the river. Unlike other landowners in Hampshire, Westcliff tolerated the presence of Gypsies at his estate, as long as they made no mischief and didn't outstay their welcome.

On past occasions the earl had sent food and wine to visiting Romas. In return, they had carved marks on trees by the river to indicate this was friendly territory. They usually stayed only a matter of days, and left without causing damage to the estate.

Upon learning of the Gypsy camp, Cam had volunteered to go talk to the newcomers and ask about their plans. Westcliff had agreed at once, welcoming the opportunity of sending an intermediary who spoke Romany.

It had been a good visit. The tribe was a small one, its leader an affable man who had assured Cam they would make no trouble.

"They intend to stay a week, no more," Cam told Westcliff.

"Good."

The earl's decisive reply caused Cam to smile. "You don't like being visited by the Rom."

"It's not something I would wish for," Westcliff admitted. "Their presence makes the villagers and my tenants nervous."

"But you allow them to stay. Why?"

"For one thing, proximity makes it easier to know what they're doing. For another?Westcliff paused, seeming to choose his words with unusual care. "Many view the Romany people as bands of wanderers and itinerants, and at worst, beggars and thieves. But others recognize them as possessing their own authentic culture. If one subscribes to the latter view, one can't punish them for living as men of nature."

Cam raised his brows, impressed. It was rare for anyone, let alone an aristocrat, to deal with Gypsies in a fair manner. "And you subscribe to the latter view?"

"I am leaning toward it"—Westcliff smiled wryly as he added?while at the same time acknowledging that men of nature can be, on occasion, a bit light-fingered."

Cam grinned. "The Rom believe no one owns the land or the life it sustains. Technically, one can't steal something that belongs to all people."

"My tenant farmers tend to disagree," Westcliff said dryly.

Cam leaned back, resting one hand on the arm of the chair. His gold rings glinted against the rich mahogany.