The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Amy gazed into the secret space, partially concealed by a light blanket of freshly fallen snow. Come springtime, when the winter cold subsided, it would contain a beautiful garden. Placing her elbows on the wide stone windowsill, she rested her chin in her hands and stared out dreamily. Having grown up in crowded London, the thought of a private walled garden was blissful.

  “I would call it Hidden Court,” she said softly.

  A low chuckle came from the doorway. “That’s exactly what I do call it, to myself.”

  Amy wasn’t surprised. It was the perfect name for this most perfect place. “How do you get to it?”

  “Through my study, next door.”

  Leaving the window, she followed him down the corridor. His study contained a large scarred wooden desk with a comfortable chair; a long, plain upholstered couch with a low table before it; and some rough shelving stuffed with a few books and a lot of ledgers and piles of paper.

  “Benchley sleeps here,” he said, indicating the couch.

  But Amy had eyes only for the glass-inset double doors in the exact center of the back wall. She went straight to throw them open and stepped into the courtyard beyond, heedless of the frosty air and falling snow.

  Colin turned to start a fire, slanting a glance now and then to watch her. He laughed when she brushed snow off the plants to see what lay beneath. What a marvelous creature she was, quick to anger, but even more easily pleased. Now that she’d emerged from the cocoon of her grief, she was like a beautiful butterfly, and his heart ached with the knowledge that he could never capture her.

  Finished with the fire, he turned to warm his back near the flames, watching Amy flit around his private courtyard…the courtyard Priscilla had failed to even notice on her one visit to her future home.

  He shook himself. Priscilla embodied everything he required in a wife. He wasn’t the sort who let fleeting emotions rule his life—he never had, and he had no intention of starting now.

  That wouldn’t be rational.

  His betrothal was an ideal, sensible arrangement. And not only was he bound by a formal promise, but he’d spent part of Priscilla’s dowry on the restorations. He saw no way out of it, and he’d be a fool to consider it at all.

  Amy was right: the two of them were unsuited, and the matter was no more simple or complicated than that.

  He poked his head out the door to let Amy know he was going to settle the horse and would be right back. By the time she shook off the snow and came in from the courtyard, red cheeked and shivering, he’d not only returned, but emptied Kendra’s basket and laid out their dinner—cold chicken, bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine.

  Everything was neatly divided and set on cloth napkins, his on his desk, hers on the low table in front of the couch. He closed the doors behind Amy and took his place behind the desk.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Yes, famished, although it must be early still.” Amy picked up her food and carried it to the carpet before the hearth. She looked over at Colin, up through her thick eyelashes, where drops of melted snow sparkled in the firelight. “It’s much warmer here. Will you join me in a picnic?”

  Colin knew that if he joined her, it would be for more than a simple picnic. He felt much safer behind the desk. “I’m accustomed to dining here, and Benchley there,” he said with a wave toward the table.

  “I’m not Benchley,” she pointed out.

  He gave her a considered look. “I’ve noticed.”

  A blush crept into her cheeks, and his whole being was aware of how pretty she looked framed by the light of his fire, magical in the flickering hues. He tensed.

  “Do you suppose he’ll return soon?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  Her eyes narrowed, regarding him uncertainly. “Benchley.”

  “Oh, him. I certainly hope so,” he said, glancing out the window.

  The accursed storm was building. Benchley had better return soon. Colin shuddered to think what might happen if he and Amy were left alone here for a whole night. When he’d kissed her yesterday, he’d felt as if he’d lost control, of his mind, of his body, of everything. He’d betrayed his intended bride—again—and was wracked with guilt—again.

  What was happening to him? He wasn’t that sort of man…at least, he hadn’t thought he was.

  He could only pray that he’d learned his lesson this time. And stay on his guard.

  He wouldn’t be kissing her again.

  He looked back to her with a sigh. “I’m miserable at preparing anything to eat. I assume you can cook?”

  “I’ve never tried. We always had a housekeeper who cooked. You do have food?”

  “Of course,” he answered crossly. “I live here, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  Amy grinned, suddenly realizing how happy she was. Colin’s plan to deliver her to Dover was foiled for now. Despite his hope that Benchley would return soon, that wasn’t likely to happen, given the weather. She’d survived the ride on horseback, and now she was alone with Colin in his enchanting castle, possibly overnight…

  She felt like she’d just received a stay of execution.

  Maybe he’d even kiss her again.

  TWENTY-NINE

  COLIN UNWOUND himself from his cross-legged position on the floor, where he’d faced Amy across the low table and whiled away the past hours playing piquet. “So, what’s the verdict?”

  Amy scribbled for a few more seconds before looking up. “I won…but by less than a hundred points.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” He smiled at the concerned look on her face. “You won all three parties.”

  “You won five hands.”

  There were six hands in each partie, which meant he’d won five hands out of eighteen.

  Well, at least he hadn’t been completely humiliated. He’d proven himself a sharp card player in the past. He was out of practice; he didn’t have the time to spend hours—not to mention money—playing cards like many courtiers.

  He was not distracted by her close proximity, her quick intelligence, her joyous laugh, the soft curves that weren’t hidden by that modest old lavender gown.

  No. He was tired. He was unlucky. He was hungry.

  Oh yes, he was hungry. Where on earth was Benchley?

  Tired of waiting, Colin reached for his cloak.

  “I’ve been playing quite often,” Amy said, continuing her efforts to soothe his ego.

  “I thought you just learned?”

  “Well, I learned recently, but I’ve been playing quite often.”

  He shrugged into the cloak. “I see.” Actually, he saw plenty. For one thing, he saw Amy wasn’t the sort of girl who would let him win just to make him feel good. He liked that.

  “Bundle up, now,” he said, holding out the blanket. When she stood, he wrapped it around her shoulders, vexed at himself when he noticed the appealing rose scent that seemed to waft from her whenever she moved.

  Turning away, he took an oil lamp off the mantel and lit it.

  “We’re going outside?” she asked as she trailed after him down the corridor.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  He stopped to unlock the door to the great hall, and she followed him inside. Lighting the way, he led her along the wall, moving beneath the overhang created by the partial new roof. He took her elbow to guide her around a rusted cannonball.

  “I was hoping to have this roof finished before the cold set in,” he yelled over the wind. It was picking up, making a deuce of a racket. “Now, if it proves to be a snowy winter, I may as well stay at Cainewood much of the time. I won’t see much progress in this kind of weather.” A glance through the open roof had him shaking his head at the threatening clouds.

  They were forced to brave the snow to reach another door in the center of the end wall. Once they were inside, he shut it quickly, glad for the sudden quiet.

  “Storerooms,” he explained, leading Amy down the short corridor with two cellar
s on either side. They came out into his large kitchen.

  Amy looked suitably impressed. “My goodness, this is impeccably restored.”

  “It projects outside the curtain wall,” Colin pointed out. “I suppose it made the castle somewhat vulnerable at the time it was first built, but it was a sound decision as a precaution against fire damage.”

  Proud of all his improvements, Colin showed her the ovens, spitted fireplaces, and wash basins with bronze taps and spouts. After she’d expressed appropriate admiration for the kitchen, he took her down a long, unused passage to the left.

  “This was the original garderobe,” he explained. “It hung over the moat, a nice innovation at the time. Owing to the location, though, everyone had to go through the great hall and kitchen to use it.”

  Amy peeked into the rough wooden latrines. “I’m glad I’m visiting now instead of then.” She’d already made use of Colin’s new garderobe, twin latrines with all the modern comforts, and declared them the most luxurious cubbyholes she’d ever seen. They had water closets, newly imported from France—the first water closets she’d ever used—and pipes all the way to the River Caine.

  “I’ll stick with the one next to your study, thank you,” she said. “It’s cold over here.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Let’s take our supper and head back.”

  Backtracking through the kitchen and toward the great hall, Amy followed Colin into the vaulted cellar on the left, a pantry stocked with plenty of food, although not yet a great variety. Handing the lamp to her, Colin grabbed a basket and filled it with a small wheel of cheese, some carrots, apples, and a jar of—

  “What’s that?” Amy asked in some alarm.

  “Pickled snails.”

  “Pickled snails? Surely you jest.”

  “I do not. They’re delicious.”

  “I suppose I’ll try them,” she said dubiously, “but I have to say they look and sound disgusting.” She slanted him an assessing glance. “You gentry certainly eat some strange things.”

  Colin laughed and led her into the vault across the corridor. Walls lined with racks held but a few bottles of wine, one of which he hastily selected. Watching Amy look around, he tried to see the cellar through her eyes. Great empty barrels were scattered about, and two long, ancient wooden tables ran down the center of the arched chamber.

  “Let me guess,” Amy suggested, “the taproom?”

  “The buttery.”

  “A butter room?”

  “Well, it’s not where they kept the butter, but that’s what it was called. Your first guess was close—this room was dedicated to brewing and serving beverages. ‘Butt’ is an old word for bottle.”

  Amy followed him out of the buttery and back toward the great hall. “How do you come to know so much about old castles?”

  Colin shrugged. “They’ve always interested me. I spent my early years at Cainewood and the rest of my childhood in a succession of old, drafty castles on the Continent. I asked a lot of questions, read a lot of books.”

  He motioned with his head for her to open the door, then winced when she got a blast of cold snow in her face for her trouble. He ushered her ahead, and she held up the lamp to light their way back.

  “Most people, given this land, would choose to build a new house and leave the ruined castle as a relic for their children to play in,” he shouted from the swirling snow behind her. “It would probably cost less and certainly be easier to heat.”

  When they reached the other end, Amy opened the door and they stepped into the welcoming entry hall, warmed by the dancing fire. Colin shut the door against the wind, and the room went abruptly silent.

  Setting the basket and bottle of wine on the stone floor, he turned to lock the door. “Heaven knows why I’m restoring this place; it makes little sense.” Finished, he faced her. “But it’s three hundred years old, and it seems a shame to just let it crumble into ruin. The walls are thick and solid—it’s a good home…” He shrugged and smiled at her. “I like living here.”

  “That’s the romantic in you, Lord Greystone,” she said softly.

  Romantic? No one had ever accused Colin Chase of being romantic. Charming, perhaps; handsome, definitely—the ladies of Charles’s court had never been shy about telling him so. But romantic? Never.

  He searched her amethyst eyes for any trace of irony. But he could see she was sincere.

  She obviously didn’t know him very well.

  He cleared his throat, breaking the silence and tension between them. “The lunatic in me, is more like it.”

  She shook her head, smiling. Colin’s gaze moved to her cheeks, pink from the cold, and her lips, red and slightly wind-chapped. Her curls, arranged so carefully by Kendra’s maid that morning, were blown loose around her face…

  He wanted to kiss her. He stepped forward.

  She licked her lips. “Are those pickled snails really edible?”

  He shook his head to dispel those preposterous thoughts. “They’re the best. Although I’ve just realized I forgot to bring spoons from the kitchen.”

  “You needn’t brave the cold. I’m perfectly willing to share your knife with you.” She flashed him an odd little smile. “After all, I’m naught but a simple merchant’s daughter.”

  Amy leaned down to pick up the wine bottle. Colin frowned at her back.

  But it was as well that Amy had reminded him—for with all this talk of romance, he’d been on the edge of forgetting just who and what she was.

  Clutching their supper to his chest, he turned and hurried down the corridor, back to the relative safety of his desk.

  THIRTY

  THE KEEP WAS built of lavender stone, cut in perfect rectangular bricks, set together seamlessly to form the tallest tower in the world. As Amy wound up the spiral staircase she paused at an arched window to look out.

  Ferocious, fire-breathing, terrifying…the dragon lumbered closer, its heavy tread making the earth shudder. She ran up and up, a burning stitch in her side, but came no nearer the top.

  Papa was up there. She had to get to him.

  The dragon let out an earsplitting roar, breathing its red and yellow and blue fire through a window. She pressed herself against the wall as flames raced past her up the winding steps, in a thick burning line toward the top where Papa waited.

  When it seemed as though neither her legs nor her lungs would hold out for one more step, she finally reached the top—but Papa was gone. In his place sat a skeleton, and it was on fire. It reclined in Papa’s favorite chair, holding an oval-framed picture, its feet bones resting on a bolster. Flames shot from its skeleton eye sockets and between its bare skeleton ribs.

  The dragon’s roar shook the tower. Its glittering eyes looked straight into Amy’s before it bent its head and breathed fire into the stairwell. Red and yellow and orange flames burned a path all the way to her right hand. Her hand was on fire, burning brightly, and it started up her arm…

  She screamed for help, but nobody came.

  IT SOUNDED as though someone were in the castle, attacking Amy in the bedchamber next door.

  His heart pounding, Colin leapt from the couch, struggled into his breeches, grabbed his knife from the desk and his rapier off the floor. Blades at the ready, he burst into the bedchamber, where Amy thrashed wildly in his bed.

  Alone.

  He could scarcely imagine what demons could cause such a nightmare.

  He tossed the weapons into a corner and launched himself onto the bed with a force that nearly sent Amy over the other side.

  “Amy, wake up!” He shook her frantically. “It’s naught but a dream. Wake up! You’re all right.”

  AMY HEARD her own cries and struggled through her fog into reality, her screams turning into deep, wrenching sobs.

  “Hush, it’s over.” Colin pulled her into his arms. The quilt, which she’d thrown off during her nightmare, slid to the floor. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her wet face into his warm chest. He rubbed her back throug
h her chemise in a slow, soothing rhythm, murmuring to her all the while.

  At last she calmed enough to pull away. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she sat up and stared at her right hand in disbelief.

  “It was burning…”

  “Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head, remembering both the real pain from her old injury and the many-times-magnified pain of the dream. But the sensation now was just the fading tingle of memory, and the hand was fine, not the skeleton fingers she’d been half-expecting to see.

  “No, it doesn’t hurt at all.” She dropped her hand to the bed, still staring at it by the light of the dying fire. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “I thought you were being attacked.” He laughed shakily and stood up. “I ran in here with my sword, ready to defend you. I’m not sure I’d have been a very effective warrior.”

  “Oh.” She looked up, her gaze landing on his chest, which looked bronze in the shimmering firelight. A thin white scar, long since healed, made a diagonal slash across his left upper arm. She wondered fleetingly what had caused it. Her gaze dropped to his bare feet. Why, he was nearly bare, clad in naught but a pair of unfashionably snug breeches. And here she sat, wearing only her thin chemise…

  In an instant, she forgot her dream. Her cheeks flushed, and she shivered. She wished she hadn’t taken her gown off to sleep. Both of them were embarrassingly undressed.

  “Cold?” he asked. He walked around the bed to retrieve the quilt, made a great show of shaking it out, then let it drift down upon her. The blanket seemed to embrace her as it settled. She wished it were Colin’s hands instead.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. I don’t want to think on it at all.” She scooted down to lie flat and nestled into the covers. “Would you stay with me for a spell, though? We could talk of something else.”

  “I’ll stay as long as you like,” he assured her, taking her hand. “What would you like to talk about?”

  His hand felt warm and comforting. She shrugged. “Anything.”