My Lord Immortality (Immortal Rogues #3)(31)

"I do not think you are nearly so dull and tedious as you desire others to believe," she murmured in tones less steady than she would have desired.

His fingers paused and Amelia could physically feel the frustrated desire that raced through his blood. It scared through him with the same intensity that burned within her. And yet, while the need was almost tangible, beneath the ache was a fierce tenderness that tugged at her heart. How could any woman resist such a combination?

Unfortunately, she was also aware that through it all was the thread of finely honed steel that was his de-termination. For whatever reason, he was battling to keep his emotions in check.

She swallowed her disappointment as he reluctantly turned his attention back toward the shelves.

"Let me see, what else can I tempt you with?" He touched a thick, ornately bound book. "Ah, the Kitah al-Fawa'id."

It took a considerable effort to clear her clouded thoughts. Dear heavens, she must be bewitched, she thought inanely. That could be the only explanation for the utter certainty that she was connected to this man to her very soul.

"What is that?" she managed to question in doggedly light tones.

"A book on nautical technology written in 1490 by Ibn Majid, an Arab sailor."

"Ugh." She did not have to pretend her distaste. Her interest shifted toward a more intriguing book bound in handsome red leather. "What of that one?"

He lifted his brows, taking the book from the shelf and carefully opening it for her inspection.

"Very fine taste, my dear. That is the Institutio Oratoria. It speaks of the fundamentals essential to educate the citizens of the Roman Empire."

The subject held little more appeal than nautical technology. Perhaps even less. It was the realization that the script was not in English that captured her attention.

Her own father had considered himself somewhat of a scholar. He kept a decent library, and possessed a handful of rare documents. He was even well respected for his speeches in the House of Lords. But for all hit admired cleverness he could not hope to achieve the skilled intelligence of this master. She wondered if any gentleman in all of England could do so.

A hint of uncertainty shadowed her heart. Who was this Sebastian St. Ives?

"Precisely how many languages do you speak?" she demanded with a faint frown.

His smile remained but Amelia was certain there was a guarded quality to his beautiful eyes.

"No more than any well-studied gentleman."

"That is no answer."

He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. In the process he managed to hide his expression.

"Does it truly matter?"

"It is yet another mystery that surrounds you." She regarded his profile with a searching gaze.

"I know nothing of you. You do not speak of your family, or your past. I do not even know where you come from or why you settled in London."

"Perhaps we should return downstairs and ensure that William is still occupied with his kittens."

Her disquiet only increased at his obvious attempt to deflect her interest.

"What is it you hide from me, Sebastian?" she demanded in low tones.

"Only what is necessary," he retorted, slowly turning to face her. The silver eyes held a hint of regret, but the alabaster features were set in lines that prevented any argument. "Shall we return to William?"

Amelia wanted to protest. This man fascinated her like no other. He touched her heart and stirred her passions. He invaded her soul like a conqueror of old. And yet, she knew nothing of him.

He asked for her trust, yet did not offer his own.

With a frustrated sigh she placed her fingers on his arm and allowed him to lead her from the room. She knew enough of men to realize she could not force his confidences. Until he was prepared to lower his guard and share his secrets she could do no more than stew in silence.

Walking through the shadowed hall, Amelia stewed.

Chapter Eight

The sound from the garden was faint, but distinct enough to wrench Amelia from her light sleep. With a groan she pulled the covers over her head and willed herself to return to the decidedly pleasant dream that included Sebastian St. Ives. For once there was not a nagging, strange Gypsy in sight and she intended to enjoy the fantasy.

It was, of course, a hopeless task.

She had no more than closed her eyes when the muffled squeak once again floated through the air. Aggravated beyond bearing, Amelia tossed aside the covers and stumbled from the bed.

Just one night, she grumbled beneath her breath. Just one night she desired to sleep through until morning.

Pulling on her robe, she left the darkened bedchamber and made her way downstairs. More out of habit than concern, she dodged the squeaking steps and the perilous tables as she made her way to the kitchen. Once there, she readily pulled open the door and stepped into the thick night air.

Almost absently, she sensed that it was closer to dawn than dusk, although the inky darkness still clung tenaciously. Dark enough to make her pause as she listened carefully for the noise that had awakened her.

Could it be Sebastian? Although she did not have the familiar feeling of awareness that usually warned of his presence, he had made it obvious he intended to keep a close watch upon the house. A startling, comforting knowledge for a maiden who had been determined to forge a life of independence.

A faint smile touched her lips. She hoped it was he. She would not protest another romantic interlude in the garden, with or without the moon. The magic that had flowed through her blood like honey had nothing to do with gods of the moon. It had been a bewitchment created by Sebastian alone.