It was probably a quarter to ten by then. He surely remained in the library. In any case, she should swiftly cross the hall and go downstairs, before taking the east staircase to her bedroom. She should not wonder-or even care-where he was.

Amelia started down the corridor. But her pace did not increase as she approached his door-only her heart rate did. Instead, as if of their own volition, her steps slowed.

And she heard a movement from within his rooms, a thump of some sort, and her heart lurched wildly. He was in his apartments.

She hesitated, and then realized what she was doing-she was standing outside his door, straining to hear!

Just as she started forward, he cried out harshly.

The sound was rough, as if he had been hurt. Amelia seized the doork.n.o.b. "Grenville?"

"d.a.m.n you," he cried.

She froze, thinking he was cursing her. Sounding as if he choked on a sob, he cried, "Lafleur!"

He was dreaming. Amelia barged inside.

"Prtez-moi!" he shouted.

He was speaking French!

She rushed through the suite. No lights were on in the sitting room. Directly ahead was the open door to his bedchamber. The king-size canopied bed was front and center. Of ebony wood, with red-and-gold hangings, it dominated the room. Several candles flickered from one bedside table and she saw Simon instantly.

He was on his back in the bed, asleep, one arm flung over his face. He had shed his coat, but was otherwise dressed. Clearly he had lain down for a moment.

He muttered something and thrashed out. Amelia hurried forward. She set her taper down and grasped his shoulder to shake him. "Simon."

And before the word was even out of her mouth he had seized her, thrown her down on the bed and had the barrel of a pistol grinding into her temple. His body covered hers.

Fear exploded as their gazes met. "Simon, it is I!"

His dark eyes were wide and burning with fury; his face was a mask of ruthless rage. "Btard!"

"Don't shoot," she gasped, terrified now. "Don't shoot! It is I-Amelia!"

And she saw the comprehension flood his gaze. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" he demanded, and he shuddered, removing the gun from her temple.

She began to breathe, hard and fast, sweat pouring down her body. He was on his hands and knees above her. "I heard you crying out," she answered, gasping.

He sat up on the bed beside her, and set the gun in the drawer of the bedside table, which remained open. He had reacted so swiftly to her that she hadn't even seen him open it or seize the pistol. Amelia also sat up, and then she collapsed against the half-dozen pillows on his bed, trembling wildly.

Simon stared at her, as if torn between shock and revulsion. Their gazes locked.

He had drawn a gun on her. He slept with a pistol beside his bed.

She could not stop shaking. She could not look away from him. She was never going to forget the look she had just witnessed-the rage, the fury, the burning determination. If she had been a stranger, she would now be dead.

Oh, G.o.d.

But he was trembling, too. She saw that he was covered in perspiration. His lawn shirt clung to the hard planes and flat surface of his chest and torso. He was breathing hard, as if he had just been in a foot race.

"Are you all right?" he asked roughly.

She touched her temple, where he had jammed the pistol against it. Who had he thought her to be? "Is it loaded?"

He stared at her, not answering-which was answer enough.

She realized she was feeling ill. He slept with a loaded pistol by his bed; he was afraid of intruders in the middle of the night; he was afflicted with terrible nightmares.

If he was not involved in clandestine war activities, he was involved in something equally horrible.

"Did I hurt you?"

She flinched and met his dark, probing eyes. "Not very much."

He cursed. Then his regard moved from her eyes to her mouth and down her bodice to her waist. It instantly lifted. "Does...your head hurt?"

Amelia tensed impossibly-differently. She was in Simon's bed. "A little."

He stood up. "You shouldn't have come in here!" he exclaimed. "What the h.e.l.l did you think you were doing? These are my private rooms!"

"You were having another nightmare. You sounded hurt!" she cried, shuddering. But she hugged herself. How did one get out of the middle of a king-size bed without looking like a coward-without evincing that she was afraid of being seduced? And then, how did she get past him?

He flushed. "We both know what happened the last time I had a dream and you dared to interfere."

She did not move from her position in the middle of his vast bed. She tried not to notice the way his shirt molded to his muscular chest and shoulders, how his breeches outlined his hard, powerful legs. Other than the candles that burned from the bedside table, the room was in darkness.

Amelia leaned forward, about to throw her legs over the side of the bed. His hand slammed down on the mattress by her hip, preventing her from moving. "You shouldn't have come in here."

She sank slowly back against the pillows. It was a moment before she spoke. "You were shouting in your sleep."

Still leaning toward her, his eyes blazed. "Was I?" Then his lashes lowered. She took a moment to notice the flush on his high cheekbones.

They lifted. A new light was smoldering there. "Did the boys enjoy the story?"

She ignored his question. "Who is Lafleur? You even spoke in French. What were you dreaming about?"

His expression never changed, although his mouth curled slightly. "La fleur means the flower. I doubt you heard me speaking of flowers, Amelia."

"I think it was someone's name, like Danton."

His face hardened, but the slight curve of his lips never changed. He spoke very softly. And as he did, he leaned ever so slightly closer. "d.a.m.n it, Amelia, I hired you to take care of my children, not to pry." His gaze slithered over her bodice again.

She was wearing a drab gray gown with a rounded neckline and three-quarter sleeves. But she felt as if she were in an impossibly daring, low-cut evening dress, or worse, not wearing anything at all.

Amelia felt her cheeks flame. She knew she should get up and get out of that bed but she did not dare move. His arm and his body were in her way. "Were you dreaming about the war?"

For one moment, he stared, his gaze predatory. "Why would I dream about the war, when I don't give a d.a.m.n what happens over there?"

"I am not sure I believe you," Amelia whispered, still hugging herself. Somewhere she heard Lucille crying.

"The infant is crying. Aren't you going to go help the nurse?"

"No. I am beginning to believe that you might care about the war after all. Simon, you can trust me."

He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. The gesture caused his biceps to bulge. An odd half smile formed on his face, but it was mirthless. His expression had a ruthless quality to it. "I think you should go tend the child. I do not care for this interrogation."

She tensed. "I would never interrogate you! But Julianne told me that Georges Danton was recently executed in Paris."

Surprise covered his face.

She had caught him, because it was a second before he rearranged his expression into pa.s.sivity and indifference. And that told her he knew all about Danton's execution; he just hadn't expected her to know about it or even mention it.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

He was lying. "I think you know very well what I am talking of. I heard you crying out for Danton, just as I heard you cry out for another Frenchman named Lafleur!" She inhaled, praying for calm, because there was no mistaking the anger filling his eyes. "I want to help."

Fury turned his gaze black. He leaned over her again, one hand on each side of her hip. "You know how you can help. I believe I made myself very clear last time. You entered these premises-my private rooms-at your own risk."

She was trapped between him and the pillows piled against the headboard of the bed. His face was so close that she felt his warm breath on her skin. "You are changing the subject."

He slowly smiled, some of the fury in his eyes fading. "Am I? Because the only subject I am cognizant of is that there is a lovely woman in my room." His smile vanished. "Amelia, you are in my bed."

His tone had become soft and seductive. Her heart leaped exultantly. "I know," she began helplessly. "I am not sure how to get past you."

He put his knee on the bed, as if to press her down and cover her body with his. "I am not sure I would let you flee, even if you wanted to," he murmured. "And I think you do not want to flee. You could have done so at any time."

Amelia bit her lip hard, because he was right. But even as their gazes locked, even as she knew he was going to kiss her, the same questions that had afflicted her last night arose. Could she really give him her body when she wanted to give him her love? What about her morals? What about the children? And what about her own future?

She freed her arm, which had been trapped between them, and cupped his jaw. "Will you ever let me help you? Will you ever tell me the truth?"

He closed his eyes and sighed. A shudder went through him as he turned his head and kissed the center of her palm, hard. She also shuddered, incipient waves of pleasure washing through her. "I don't remember.... I don't care. I only care about this, that you are here with me now." He kissed her palm again before placing it on his collarbone, beneath his wet shirt. His skin was damp and hot, but not as hot as his eyes, which were searing.

She slid her hand lower, over the slab of one chest muscle, his nipple instantly hard and taut beneath her hand. And she recalled touching him everywhere, in the shameless throes of pa.s.sion, ten years ago. His other knee came down on the bed and he straddled her. Simon bent, eyes closing, and he feathered his mouth over her jaw.

She sighed. "Do you always sleep with a loaded pistol by your bed?"

He lifted his head and looked at her. "It is an old habit, Amelia. Some habits die hard."

She reached for his face again. "Some old habits never die."

His eyes blazed and he claimed her mouth with his.

Amelia cried out as his mouth opened hers, settling his body on hers. She wrapped him in her arms, kissing him back urgently. But even as she kissed him and he kissed her, she kept thinking, this was an affair, not a marriage. What would happen to the children when it ended?

What would happen to her?

He lifted his face, breaking the kiss, and cupped her face in his hands. "What is it?"

She opened her mouth and then stopped herself from blurting out her feelings, I love you. Instead she managed to say, "I want you, Simon, very much. I care about you, very much."

His gaze roamed hers, his face anguished. "But it is not to be. It is not right. The children come first. And you deserve more than a few hours in my bed."

She nodded and she felt tears moistening her eyes. G.o.d, she deserved more and she wanted more.... Why didn't he offer her more?

He suddenly kissed her again, fiercely. Then he leaped up from the bed. "Lucille is still crying. Please attend her, Amelia." His back was to her.

For one moment, Amelia didn't move. Why did this feel like a terrible ending? She did not want anything to end, she wanted everything to begin!

"Amelia," he snapped.

She somehow scrambled from the bed and hurried from the room. He was right-Lucille was wailing. She must be colicky, she thought. And her worry for the infant finally pushed her need for Grenville back where it belonged, into the recesses of her heart and mind. Amelia rushed to Mrs. Murdock's door and knocked. She was told to immediately enter.

"Oh, this is the worst case of colic that she has had," the governess wailed.

"It will pa.s.s," Amelia said, aware that Mrs. Murdock was staring at her disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. She took the baby from her and began to pace the room, while rocking her and singing to her. She glanced at the governess, wondering if the secret she and Grenville shared was out.

It took some time, but eventually, Lucille quieted and fell asleep.

Amelia held her closely, thinking about Simon. What was she going to do? He was in danger-and she was dangerously in love.

And then she looked up.

Simon stood on the threshold of the nursery, clad in a simple caftan now. And he was staring at her and the baby.

Lucille had fallen asleep. It didn't matter. Amelia approached. "Do you want to hold her?" she asked, praying he would accept.

But he shook his head. His gaze hooded and dark, impossible to read, he bowed his head and left.

Amelia held the baby and watched him go.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

LLOYD HAD JUST INFORMED HER that she had a caller. It was Lucas.

Amelia hesitated, and not because she knew that they would have an argument over her position in Simon's household. She was the housekeeper. Where on earth would they converse?

"Miss Greystone, his lordship is out for the afternoon."

She smiled at Simon's butler. "Are you suggesting I entertain my brother in one of his rooms?"

"You were the mistress of Greystone Manor until recently. Had Lady Grenville not pa.s.sed, you would not have taken up the position that you have. If you wish to entertain Mr. Greystone, I would suggest you use the pink room. It is rarely used and I do not think his lordship would mind." He gave her a significant look.