by Lauren Royal
“Dear heavens,” she whispered.
It was the first human connection she’d felt since she saw her father disappear into the raging inferno that used to be her home.
Suddenly, here in Lord Greystone’s arms, she was far away, removed from her hostile reality, and she wished she could stay here in his arms forever. He stroked her hair, and she let him, lulled by the gentle tug of his fingers working slowly, patiently through her tangled curls. Some of the tension drained from her body. She was only half-aware of her arms snaking around him, her chin settling snugly in the crook of his neck.
Dimly realizing that his attempts at comfort were edging too far toward impropriety, Colin tried to pull back. But Amy came off the wall with him, sliding down his front until her feet came to rest on the grass, her face pressed into his shirt, her tears soaking the thin linen.
Criminy. Despite her gut-wrenching misery, he couldn’t help but think how good she felt in his arms. It was absolutely…flustering.
In fact, with Amy pressed up against him, he could hardly think at all.
When she wiped her eyes and tilted her head back to look up at him, he pulled her even closer and touched his lips to hers.
The travelers rumbling by in the background, the crickets in the hills, the wind blowing past…all faded away. Like magic.
Amy was so surprised, she kept her eyes open instead of squeezing them tight as she always had against Robert’s kisses. But then, this was nothing like Robert’s kisses. This kiss was soft and sure, warm and welcoming. It was like a potion—she couldn’t remember who she was or whether she had any problems. Lord Greystone smelled smoky and salty but tasted like the ale they’d had at dinner, only sweeter, and he was just as beautiful up close, especially when he opened his startling emerald eyes and looked straight into hers—
Colin wrenched away, his arms falling to his sides. His breathing was sharp, his nerves jangling. What was he doing?
Kissing a girl who wasn’t his betrothed, that’s what.
And even worse, he was taking advantage of Amy’s grief, her vulnerability, her overwhelming loneliness. What on earth had come over him? He wasn’t that kind of person. He’d always thought of himself as cool and rational, never carried away by impulse.
And certainly never anything less than a gentleman.
He was thoroughly disgusted with himself.
Amy stared at him, dazed, her legs wobbly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
He didn’t sound like Lord Greystone, Amy thought. His voice was rough, and he did look sorry—ashamed, even.
“Sorry?” Amy’s senses were still spinning. She wasn’t sorry, not one bit. She’d never imagined any person could make her feel like someone else, in a different time and place, and she’d wanted that feeling to go on forever.
And, unless she was mistaken, he’d felt much the same. Surely he couldn’t have kissed her like that if he hadn’t. Or could he? She realized she had no idea.
“You’re sorry?” she pressed.
“Well, not sorry exactly,” he said in that unfamiliar rough voice, fumbling for the words. “It’s just…I shouldn’t have done that…taken advantage of you like that. Not that I didn’t want to—oh, a pox on this!” He took a step toward her and put his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length, clearly exasperated. “You’re a proper young merchant girl, and you’ve suffered a frightful tragedy, and I mean to protect you, not—not ruin you.” The flush rising up his neck was visible even in the dark.
His words sounded sensible enough. The girl Amy was yesterday surely would have agreed. But today, battered and bruised and alone in the world, she wasn’t sure of anything.
Except that she’d like to kiss Lord Greystone again.
“My lord—” she began.
“Colin,” he interrupted. “I imagine once you’ve kissed a fellow, you’re allowed to call him by his Christian name.”
Amy blushed furiously. Still, she tried the name in her head. Colin. She’d never called a nobleman by his given name, and it should feel wrong. But now she thought Colin, and it made her feel warm all over.
“And if you were about to tell me it doesn’t matter,” he continued, “you’re wrong. It matters a lot.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He shook his head. “It’s late, and we’re both very tired. We have a long ride to Cainewood in the morning. Let’s get some sleep.”
He took her good hand and pulled her toward the inn. She followed reluctantly. There was no arguing with him, it seemed.
Her hand tingled where his bare skin touched hers. She’d held hands with Robert and never felt anything at all. Even with her limited experience, she knew this couldn’t be normal.
Was it not the same for him?
ELEVEN
IT WAS.
And Colin was quite certain this wasn’t one jot normal. But it was absurd. He was betrothed, and Amy was a commoner, a girl who, as of this morning, had nothing whatsoever to her name.
He was tired; that must be it. He was very, very tired.
If his body felt like it were vibrating, that was only because he was tired.
After a good night’s sleep, he’d feel differently. He’d be more himself, back in control. They’d go on to Cainewood, wait a couple of days until the roads were clear, then he’d take her to Dover and buy her passage across the Channel. They’d never see each other again.
His pride would remain intact, not to mention his future and her reputation.
They arrived back at the inn and trudged wearily upstairs, to find four little bodies bundled in each of the two beds, crosswise, and Davis curled in the only chair, snoring softly.
Colin’s mouth fell open.
“You expected what?” Amy whispered. “That they’d all lie down on the floor and leave the beds to us? I’d say they settled themselves quite fairly.”
“I thought they’d leave part of each bed to us,” he complained loudly. “Greedy little monsters, aren’t they?”
“Shhh! You’ll wake them.”
“I wish they would waken, so I could rearrange them. But you’re not well acquainted with children, are you? Nothing short of a cannon blast would wake them.”
Despite the sleeping evidence, Amy still couldn’t bring herself to talk out loud. “I have no brothers or sisters. How should I know how children sleep?”
“I’ll go downstairs and fetch some more blankets,” he said, turning on his heel.
He stopped short of slamming the door behind him. Amy slumped against the wall, wondering what had made his mood change so suddenly.
She slid down to the floor and waited, her knees to her chest. Alone, the grief started creeping back. She wouldn’t think about it. She’d think about the kiss…
Her lips seemed to burn at the memory.
At last he returned, two threadbare blankets in hand. “It was like negotiating a treaty,” he declared, “and they cost me a pretty penny. I’d be willing to wager they’re her own personal blankets.” He sniffed at them suspiciously. “They smell as bad as she does.”
Amy wrinkled her nose, remembering the stout, flushed innkeeper’s wife and her greasy hair.
Colin began to hand her the smaller blanket, then glanced at Davis uncovered in his chair.
“A pox on him,” he muttered to himself.
There was nothing for it; he was going to have to share a blanket with Amy. Why? What had he done to deserve all this struggle?
He covered Davis and gently tucked him in.
“Sorry.” He spread the other blanket on the floor and sat on it to pull off his boots. “This is what I was afraid of.”
“Afraid of?”
“We’ll have to share this blanket,” he explained crossly.
“Is that what you were so vexed about?” Amy’s features lost some of their tightness. “Strangers sleep together all the time when inns are full. Of course, they generally have a bed,” she reflected.
“They’re ge
nerally the same gender,” he said pointedly.
“Oh.”
“Yes. Well, come then, take off your shoes.” He shrugged off his surcoat and rolled it up to make a pillow. “If they’re anything like normal, the children will be up at first light.”
He lay down. Amy slowly removed her shoes, then joined him at the edge of the blanket and arranged herself on her side, carefully separated from him. He threw the other half of the blanket over them both.
Her tears were silent, but Colin could feel the blanket tug slightly when her shoulders began shaking. “A pox on everything,” he murmured under his breath. He turned toward her and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.
“Hush,” he whispered, although she wasn’t making a sound. “Hush. It’s all right. I’m here.”
TWELVE
AMY TRAILED listlessly behind Colin as he hustled the children to the wagon. Leaning against the side, she watched them clamber into the back, wondering where she’d find the energy to climb up herself. She felt like she hadn’t slept a wink last night; barring some catnaps Monday evening and her uneasy slumber in the jostling wagon yesterday, she’d been awake for nearly three days.
“Keep an eye on them, will you?” Colin asked.
She nodded, watching his easy stride as he headed into the inn. Thank heavens he was here…
Closing her eyes, she shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it. She had to think straight, figure out a plan. While it was easier to let him take care of her, she couldn’t rely on Colin. He was a tempting comfort, but a false one. She meant nothing to him.
Her thoughts drifted to last night. How could she have asked him about himself and his past as though everything were normal, as though Papa hadn’t just died? And dear heavens, had she actually kissed him? And enjoyed it? Her face flamed at the memory. What kind of a daughter was she? She didn’t deserve to enjoy anything, ever again.
She opened her eyes to see Colin returning, her trunk balanced on one straining shoulder.
“What on earth is in here?” He set it in the wagon with a decided clunk.
“Everything I own,” she said in a broken whisper, her gaze riveted to the wooden slats, the leather straps, the brass fittings.
Papa’s life’s work was in there.
Colin pushed the trunk under the bench, making a hideous scraping noise. Suddenly her throat constricted and she seemed unable to breathe. The grief was bubbling up inside her. A weight settled in her stomach; a fist closed around her heart. Her eyes filled with hot, blinding tears.
It was rising, threatening to overwhelm her, and this time she couldn’t stop it.
She stumbled up to the bench, but she couldn’t sit upright, so she sank to the boards and covered her face with her hands. Then she let it rise up and out, the pain and the tears and the great, tearing sobs.
Her breath came in hysterical gulps. Colin stroked her hair, but she shook off his hand, though she knew it might hurt his feelings. The children were silent; she could feel their pitying gazes. She didn’t care. Papa was dead. She would never see him, never hug him, never hear his voice again.
She was jostled when the wagon started moving, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Wordlessly, Colin stuffed a handkerchief into her fist. Before long it was sopping wet and twisted in her hands.
The world retreated until she was a mass of wretched pain. Papa was dead; her home was gone; she had no father, no mother, no family at all except one aunt in a foreign country.
It was all Papa’s fault. When he’d gone back inside their burning house, he’d robbed her of both her father and her life.
How dare he? she thought. I hate him!
Bolting upright, she gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth as though she’d said the words out loud.
She felt Colin’s gaze, his compassion, but it didn’t help at all.
When he drew her hand away from her mouth and threaded her fingers through his, she levered herself up to the bench and leaned against him, closing her eyes. The tears leaked slowly, tracing new paths down her raw cheeks. Her head throbbed; her eyes burned, hot and swollen. But no physical pain could match the anguish in her heart.
She’d been furious with Papa, to the point of hating him—and for one split second, she had really felt that.
THIRTEEN
STANDING BESIDE the wagon with one hand resting possessively on her trunk, Amy watched, dazed, as Lady Kendra led two children by the hand toward Cainewood’s immense double oak doors.
The raked gravel of the drive crunched beneath their feet. “I cannot believe you did this, Colin.” Lady Kendra turned on the steps to count the young ones. “Nine children! You must have had your hands full.” She paused on the threshold, eyeing Amy speculatively. “Though it looks as though you had help.”
Colin didn’t respond, but Amy slipped him a guilty sidewise glance. She bit her lip, knowing she’d been less than helpful. She hadn’t even been decent company. They’d been on the road for the better part of the day, and she’d strung no more than five words together the entire time.
But she had no time to dwell on herself now, not with Cainewood Castle before her in all its ancient glory.
The living quarters formed a U around the quadrangle’s groomed lawn. She looked up, and up. Four stories.
“More than a hundred rooms,” Colin said beside her, as though he’d read her mind. “Most of them closed up. Jason has years of restoration ahead.” He pointed out the marks of cannonballs in the high, crenelated wall. “Cromwell sacked the place twice.”
Beyond the smooth green grass of the quadrangle, a tall, timeworn tower rose majestically. “The original keep,” he explained. “I believe it dates from 1138. Cainewood’s been in our family, save during the Commonwealth, since 1243.”
“Oh…” Blinking, she turned and stared up at him, his bold features shadowed by the turreted curtain wall. An enormous castle’s wall. Other than Whitehall Palace, it was the largest structure she’d ever seen.
And his family lived here…
The thought was amazing. Nearly inconceivable. Back in her shop and at the inn, Colin had seemed almost ordinary.
He shifted under her stare, and she glanced away, embarrassed.
He pointed again. “Beyond the keep, that’s the tilting yard. Obsolete, these centuries past. Jason doesn’t bother caring for it.”
His wave indicated the vegetation, untamed and ankle high. Still, a tilting yard…she could picture knights of old, mounted on glittering steeds, jousting, their lances held aloft. She’d been reading an Arthurian collection—she’d left it on her bedside table. It must have burned—
“Come, Amy.” His concerned voice rescued her from those thoughts. “I know you’re tired. Come inside and you can rest.”
He shooed the last of the children up the steps and motioned her after them, through the massive doors. The sun was setting, and she expected the entry would be dim. But a chandelier dangled from the vaulted ceiling, blazing with candles that flooded the cream-colored stone chamber with light.
In awe she moved toward the slim columns that marched two-by-two down the center of the three-story hall. An intricate stone staircase loomed ahead. At intervals along the gray marble handrail, carved heraldic beasts held shields sporting different quarterings of…
“The Chase family crest,” Amy said softly.
“How did you…?” Colin set down the trunk and blinked at her. “Oh, you carved those symbols on the sides of my ring.”
She smiled to herself, admiring the ornate iron treasure chests that sat against the stone walls, alternating with heavy chairs carved of walnut. Tapestries enriched and softened the effect.
“It’s…impressive, no?” Colin cleared his throat. “We, uh, used to have somewhat of a fortune,” he said, rather sheepishly. “Before the war, that is.”
Amy looked up to the balcony that spanned the width of the hall. “I’ve never seen the likes of it,” she admitted. “It’s magnificent. The workmansh
ip…”
“My home, Greystone, is nothing like this—take my word for it.”
She didn’t reply, mainly because her gaze had wandered back down the stairs and settled on Lady Kendra. From the top of her coiffed head, with her striking dark-red ringlets wired out on the sides, to the quilted slippers that peeked from beneath her mint-green satin skirts, Lady Kendra was the picture of perfection.
Amy glanced down, mortified. Her own wrinkled, smoke-stained skirts had started out lavender on Monday, but now looked a grubby gray. She could only imagine what her face and hair looked like, all dirty and disheveled. She wanted to drop into the floor.
“Kendra, you’ll remember Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith?” Colin’s words prompted a small smile from Amy. Only harlots and pre-adolescent girls were called “Miss,” and in light of her behavior last night, she considered herself lucky that Colin considered her neither.
A frown wrinkled Lady Kendra’s forehead. “I’m not certain…”
“You met Mrs. Goldsmith last month in London,” Colin reminded his sister. “She made your locket.”
“Oh, of course!” Lady Kendra’s face lit up at the memory. She scrutinized Amy more closely, then smiled. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Considering it was more likely that Colin’s sister hadn’t recognized her under all the filth, Amy warmed to her immediately. “That makes two of us, Lady Kendra. I didn’t expect to be here myself.”
Lady Kendra’s laughter tinkled through the hall. “I suppose you didn’t, at that,” she conceded. “And please, call me Kendra—just Kendra. May I call you Amethyst?”
“My friends call me Amy,” Amy returned hopefully. She badly needed a friend right now.
“Amy, then. Um…might I guess you’d like a bath?”