Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3)

by Royal, Lauren

  One of his fingers traced a lazy line on her jaw. "Then you'll understand why I wasn't in a hurry to return."

  Her skin tingling under his fingertips, she nodded. But it wasn't only this place, these people, that contributed to her unease. Although she was physically drawn to her husband, and more so by the moment, he remained emotionally distant. Still a stranger, his essence far from her grasp.

  Her hands rubbed up and down the plaid wool, and she swallowed hard, imagining the bareness beneath. He'd made a start, confiding a little bit about his childhood. If she trusted him with her body, would he perhaps return the favor by trusting her with his heart?

  There was only one way to find out.

  "Come upstairs," she whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  "Good evening, dearies." When Kendra and Trick stepped into their chamber, Mrs. Ross came forward, two goblets in her hands. "I thought you might be wanting a wee sack posset to help you sleep."

  Kendra knew that sleep was the last thing on Trick's mind. Or hers, truth be told. She took one of the cups and sipped the warm, thick liquid, sweet and fragrant with the scents of cream and wine. Gazing at Trick over the rim, she watched as he removed the roll of papers from the front of his kilt and tucked it into his trunk.

  "We thank you." He nodded and smiled at Mrs. Ross. "And we wish you a good night," he added pointedly.

  Kendra sagged against the door after he closed it. "How strange that she would be waiting here for us."

  "She was my old nurse." He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the desk. "I reckon she saw us together earlier and figured it wouldn't be long until we were for bed." When she blushed, he pulled her close. "I don't want to be thinking about Mrs. Ross now."

  His eyes burned into hers, making heat pool in her middle. She sipped some more of the posset, hoping the wine would bring her strength. And courage. She still wasn't sure he would fit.

  Her heart skittered at the thought, along with a rush of warmth low in her belly.

  Without another word, Trick pried the cup from her fingers and set it down beside his own. He pulled the shawl from her shoulders, balled it up, and tossed it into a corner. Lowering his head, he teased his lips over her cleavage. "I much prefer these delightful English dresses," he murmured.

  The words felt warm against her skin. Until today, she'd never thought twice about the low necklines that had been in fashion since King Charles was restored to the throne. Trends were driven by Charles's love for everything French, which meant she'd worn gowns like this all her life, even as a young girl exiled on the Continent.

  But, thanks to her exasperating, overprotective brothers, never before had anyone taken advantage of all the skin such dresses revealed. A shame, she thought now, enjoying the sensation of Trick's mouth against her flesh.

  "I like this dress, too," she said breathlessly.

  "I'd like it even better on the floor." He licked a shivery line up her throat, all the way to her lips. Just as she'd fantasized all day, she reached beneath the hem of his kilt, her hand making contact with the warmth of his legs and the springy softness of the hair that covered them. So different from her own, so very, very male. Feeling very daring, she reached up, up, until her fingers wrapped around steel encased in warm velvet.

  God, she hoped he would fit.

  She moved her hand experimentally. He stiffened, then sighed, and a thrill raced through her, that her simple touch could affect him so much.

  "Aye," he murmured. "I'll definitely be asking Niall if I can keep this kilt." Then his hands went to work undressing her while he kissed the very breath out of her body.

  She pulled her hand from beneath the kilt and reached for his shoulders, pushing the wool tartan off and behind. Under the draped front, she felt for the buckle on the thick leather belt, working it loose with frantic fingers. At last the kilt fell off, all of it, dropping to the wooden planks at his feet, the heavy buckle landing with a satisfying thunk.

  He spread her bodice and worked the gown down her body to pool on the floor as well. And there was nothing left between them except his thin lawn shirt and her even thinner chemise.

  His hands came around her back, and she leaned in, pressing her breasts against his hard chest and her hips against his hardness below. A hot rush of desire weakened her knees, and she wrapped her arms around him to hold herself up, wantonly reaching beneath the tail of his shirt to clutch his buttocks and press herself even closer.

  "Sweet Mary," he breathed, clearly liking it.

  But for her, it still wasn't nearly close enough.

  At a noise on the stairs, she stilled, her heart beating double-time. "Do you hear something?"

  Trick nuzzled her neck. "Something like what?"

  "Like footsteps." His muscles tightened beneath her fingers, striking a spark of hungry desire. She arched in pleasure, then froze again. "In the stairwell—can't you hear it?"

  "Nay." He raised his head. "Wait. Maybe I can." The sound was faint, muffled, so soft the beat of her heart and her heavy, uneven breaths nearly drowned it out.

  Nearly.

  She bit her lip. "There are people in there, I'm sure."

  "Don't you worry about it." He hooked a finger in the top of her chemise and drew it down, fitting his palms to her breasts. Her nipples puckered in response, sending a hot streak of sensation down lower.

  His lips grazed hers, then his tongue flicked out and teased the seam where they met, slick and sweet with the flavor of creamy sack posset. "It must be the ghosts of men going up to Prisoner's Leap," he murmured against her mouth, and she couldn't tell if he was jesting or not. "They won't bother us in here."

  "D-do you believe in ghosts?"

  His shrug conveyed a mixture of amusement and frustration. "Right now I believe in finishing what we've started."

  She twisted away from his kiss. "What if it isn't ghosts on those stairs, but someone much more real and frightening?"

  With a strangled groan, he stepped from the kilt at his feet, then bodily picked her up. He walked to the bed and plopped down, sitting her on his lap. "Like who?"

  Fear mingled with bawdy thoughts of what she felt against her thigh. "Mrs. Ross, maybe? What if she only used the sack posset as an excuse, and she was really up here as part of a plot, but we surprised her—"

  "A plot?" He shook his head decisively. "Mrs. Ross wouldn't hurt a midge." He reached to the bedside for his goblet of sack posset, taking a healthy gulp as though to prove he was sure it wasn't poisoned. "She cared for me as a bairn. Why should she want to do me harm?"

  "She cared for your mother more, and she's less than happy with the way you ignored her all those years."

  "She was, true enough. But she knows now that it wasn't my fault. I cannot believe she still holds a grudge."

  "How about Annag and Duncan? They surely do."

  Trick's clever fingers pulled the pins from what remained of her bun. "I seriously doubt Annag and Duncan are hovering behind that door." The gray day had delivered on its promise, and rain slashed against the small window set deep into the wall. "It's the storm you're hearing, leannan."

  "Niall, then? He's been passed off as the duke's younger son. If something were to happen to you, he'd inherit it all. The dukedom, Amberley, Duncraven..."

  In the midst of combing his fingers through her loosened hair, Trick stopped and stared at her, his jaw slack with disbelief.

  "No, I don't believe that, either," she admitted with a sigh.

  A flash of lightning brightened the window, and he smiled. "Listen." His gaze captured hers as the answering thunder rumbled. "It's naught but the storm. And a storm I'm feeling inside, right now."

  He claimed her mouth once again, and in seconds she forgot the mysterious footsteps, caught up in a storm herself.

  His lips opened, his tongue meeting hers, circling hers in a way that drove her wild. She tasted the tiny chip on his tooth, her hands on the sides of his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. One of his h
ands cradled the back of her neck while the other crept under her chemise, caressing her legs with a skill that sent a shudder ricocheting through her.

  He worked the chemise out from under her, and she wiggled farther onto his lap, loving the feel of his skin against hers, reveling in the heat of the hard length of him beneath her bottom. She shoved a hand into the placket of his shirt, gripping his shoulder. The warm skin felt good, but she wanted more. One-handed, she loosened the laces, breaking their kiss to pull the shirt over his head.

  With a sigh of contentment, she smoothed a palm across his bare chest. He groaned in return, urging her legs apart with his fingers. One hand delved between them while his other arm curved around her shoulders and he cupped a breast. Above and below, he played her body, his fingers doing an intimate dance that made her quiver and squirm on his lap. Closing her eyes, she threw back her head and surrendered herself to the feelings.

  She wanted more, more. A finger worked its way inside her, teasing her to madness, and still it wasn't enough.

  "Now," she whispered. "I want you now."

  "Look at me, lass."

  Her eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze. She'd never seen anything so intense and compelling in her life. "I want you," she breathed again.

  He ripped the chemise over her head and, in one smooth motion, twisted her off his lap and onto the mattress. Then he was lying atop her, skin to skin, heavy and warm and exciting beyond anything she'd ever imagined. Instinctively, her legs came up to cradle his hips, and he raised himself, poised to enter her. She felt him there, against her, and let out a little mewling sound of need.

  "Now?" he asked.

  "Now." She held her breath, still uncertain yet wanting him more than she'd ever wanted anything. As he slid home, she braced for the pain.

  Nothing.

  Well, not nothing exactly. She felt stretched, and filled, and where their bodies were joined was a feeling so urgent that a whimper escaped her throat.

  "Are you all right?" he whispered.

  She nodded and arched against him, wanting more, needing more. It seemed an age passed while she held her breath and her eyes slid closed again. "Is there more?"

  "Aye, there's more," he said, beginning to move, slowly shifting in and out. Just a bit at first, and then more, and then more still. Little by little the tension built, until her entire world was centered on Trick and what he was making her feel. A glorious whirl of exquisite sensation, and still it wasn't enough.

  "Faster," she whispered, and he plunged into her faster and deeper, again and again, more and more, until she couldn't breathe and her body erupted and the world turned upside down.

  She heard his groan and felt the hot flood of his release while the tremors still wracked her body. Finally, spent, he collapsed against her, kissing her neck and cheeks and whispering her name over and over.

  "Dear God." She struggled to catch her breath. "I just—"

  "What?" Trick asked, his voice husky against her mouth. "What is it, leannan?"

  She sighed, a sound of regret from the deepest place in her heart. "I cannot believe I deprived myself of five weeks of that."

  His reply was a strangled laugh, and another groan, but he clutched her close and kissed her all over again.

  She felt languid and drained, and it was a long time before her heart slowed and her breathing quieted. A long time before she noticed the phantom footsteps again and flinched.

  "It's the rain," Trick reminded her. His voice sounded low and lazy, satisfied, content. It thrilled her to know she had made him that way. "We're alone here at the top of the tower. It cannot be anything else."

  "Annag and Duncan..."

  Taking her with him, he turned over and cuddled her against his chest. "Do you honestly think they've climbed up on the roof to come down these stairs and commit murder? On a stormy night like this?"

  She shrugged. "I wouldn't put anything past those two. It's obvious enough they don't like you...or me."

  "They're bitter. Odds are Niall has always been favored as the duke's son—Lord Niall while they were plain Duncan and Annag. Then their father left them to live here—although they were grown, that had to hurt."

  "And now you've returned to claim that father—"

  "A bit of his attention, maybe, but I've no claim on the man."

  Rain pounded on the roof above them, loud needles of it striking the small window. She met Trick's eyes, remembering other eyes that had looked familiar. Beneath his shining hair, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. Suddenly she pictured Hamish, that same expression on his face.

  And it all fell into place.

  She reached a hand to graze his cheek, the faint whiskers scratchy against her fingers. So very male. "Do you not see, Trick, how much you're like him?"

  "Niall? Aye, I've said how uncanny—"

  "Not Niall. Well, yes, Niall, but you must know there's a reason for that, for why you're so very alike." He needed to hear this; he couldn't deny the evidence any longer. "It's because you share not only the same mother, but the same father as well."

  "Do you think so?" Some of the puzzlement cleared, his amber eyes filling with a hesitant hope instead. "I suppose the timing makes it possible. Father was last here when I was ten, and Niall was born the next year...I wouldn't expect Mam would have willingly shared my father's bed again, but I wouldn't put rape past the man, either. Maybe Niall is my full brother." He managed to sound bitter and elated at the same time. "Wouldn't that be something?" he added before he suddenly frowned. "But why, then, would he say he's Hamish's son?"

  "Because he is," she said gently. "And so are you."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The breath left Trick's body in a rush. "That cannot be."

  "It is." Kendra's eyes searched his before she scooted up to sit against the headboard beside him, taking the coverlet with her. "No, I haven't asked Hamish about it, nor did he come to me. But I've eyes in my head, Trick, and I'm not as close to the situation as you are. You share his features, I'm telling you, and his manner, and then there's the way he looks at you."

  "The way he looks at me? How is that?"

  "With longing and pride. Were you the duke's son—a child gotten on his love by another—wouldn't he view you with resentment, instead? He's your father, I'm sure of it."

  He couldn't find the words to disagree, mostly because he wasn't sure whether he disagreed or not.

  "Isn't it wonderful?" Kendra pressed. "I know you don't hold him in much affection, but that will come, don't you think? Deep down, I believe he's a good man."

  "It's much to absorb," he admitted. "Finding a new brother, and now maybe a father, too."

  "We found a new brother last year." Looking down, Kendra moved the amber bracelet back and forth on her wrist. "Jason had a run-in with a man who turned out to be our half-brother, the spawn of our father before his marriage. But our brother turned out to be wicked. A murderer, nothing like Niall." She glanced up. "It was a horrible thing to accept."

  For a few moments he remained quiet, imagining. "That must have been very hard."

  "It was. Although I don't expect accepting Niall and Hamish is easy, either." The amber stones glimmered in the firelight as she slid them with a finger. "An instant family, as it were."

  "Niall felt like my brother right off. It's hard to explain." He stared at the bracelet, remembering when she first wore it on their wedding day. It had looked strange on her then, but tonight it seemed like it had belonged there all along. Just the way he felt with Niall. "But Hamish..." He met her gaze. "I feel nothing there. I hear what you're telling me, and it makes sense, but I'm not sure I believe it."

  She took their goblets from the bedside table and handed him his. "Just think about it," she said and drained her remaining sack posset.

  The drink was cold now, he was sure. The rain coming down sounded cold, too, but she felt warm wedged beside him. He wondered how she managed to smell like sunshine on a blustery night like this.

  "T
here's no need to rush into acceptance," she said softly.

  "He could be dying." Trick downed the last of his own drink, cold, yes, but thick and bracing nonetheless.

  "He could," she conceded. "But he seems to be getting better."

  He took her cup and set them both on the table. "This may have just been a good day."

  "Morning will tell." She yawned, then leaned over for a kiss, the sweet milkiness of the posset mingling on their tongues. With a soft smile, she lay down and curled tightly against him, like precious cargo carefully nestled in a ship's hold.

  She felt good there, a perfect fit. "It's odd," he said, his voice low, his breath fluttering the downy hairs on the nape of her neck where she'd swept aside her tresses. "They don't know me, really, and yet they seemed to accept me from the first."

  "They're family," she said simply. "They love you, Trick. Unconditionally."

  And now she was family, too.

  Unconditional love.

  The idea was so alien to him that he thought about it far into the night as he watched her sleep.

  "Wake up, you gaberlunzie." Mrs. Ross poked Trick's shoulder, and he moaned and rolled over. "Lord Niall is downstairs, pacing and waiting to take the two of you off somewhere, aye? So get your bones out of that bed."

  "I'll make sure he gets ready," Kendra told her, sitting down to pull on a stocking. Having been awake for an hour, she was getting tired again just watching Mrs. Ross bustle around the room on her morning duties. "Could you send Jane up to fix my hair?"

  "Aye. That I can do." With a smile, the wiry woman gathered the empty goblets they'd left on the night table. "Did you enjoy this, then?"

  "Very much." Kendra silently scolded herself for thinking the sack posset might have been poisoned. Trick was right; though she sometimes had a brusque manner about her, the old nurse wouldn't hurt a midge. "Do you know, Mrs. Ross, where that corner staircase leads?"

  The woman swiped her dust cloth over the table—not that it helped very much. The dirt just flew up and settled right back down. "That turret comes from the dungeons, lass. And goes to the roof above."