by Lauren Royal
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 stood with his mouth 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 devils, 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 his kiss…
She felt her lips burning 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.
"Hell," 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 temptation thrown in his path?
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 generally 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, these 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. "Damn," he murmured under his breath. He turned toward her and positioned himself against her back, like two spoons in a drawer.
"Hush," he whispered, although she wasn't making a sound. "Hush. It's all right. I'm here."
She fit him perfectly.
Presently her tears stopped, and she reached back for his hand and tucked it around her middle. She shuddered once more and was still.
His whole body was rock hard.
His last waking thought was that he was lucky he was so exhausted.
Damn lucky.
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 broad back and easy stride as he headed into the inn. Thank God 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 her father hadn't just died? And God in heaven, had she actually kissed him? 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 the devil's in here?" He set it on the floorboards 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.
Dear God, her father'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. Her father was dead. She would never see him, never touch 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. Her father was dead; her home was gone; she had no immediate family, 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.
Damn him, she thought. Damn him to hell!
Bolting upright, she gasped and covered 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 damned her father to hell, and for one split second, she had really meant it.
CHAPTER NINE
Standing beside the wagon, 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, 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.
"Ninety-eight 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. Almost 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 a medieval history—she'd left it on her bedside table. It must have burned—
"Come, Amy." His rich 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 workmanship…"
"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 positively 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?"
"Oh, yes," she breathed gratefully.
"And some supper," Colin interjected. "She hasn't eaten in two days," he explained to Kendra.
Amy shook her head slightly. She was certain she couldn't eat yet. "I really just want to sleep."
"Warm chocolate, then," Colin insisted.
Amy nodded acceptance.
"With brandy in it," he added decisively. "And some soup."
Amy sighed. "Perhaps some soup. The chocolate sounds nice."
The brandy sounded nice. The brandy and bed. She'd be willing to wager the beds in a place like this would be soft and comfortable.
"Well, up you go, then." Colin gestured toward the stairs. "Up you all go, in fact," he declared in a raised voice, striding over to the children huddled in the back of the hall, whispering amongst themselves. "Baths for everyone, first thing. Then supper, then bed."
There were audible groans at this announcement. "Could we not just wash up a bit?" Davis spoke for the group. "We won't really have to take baths, will we?"
Heading up the stairs, Amy smiled to herself. She knew that at home, Davis probably bathed twice a year, if that. Cleanliness was considered an invitation to infection.
"Oh yes, you will," Colin stated firmly. "Kendra, two at a time. And fresh hot water for each bath."
Behind her, Amy heard the children's startled breaths. Such lavish use of water was unheard of in the City. She met Kendra's amused eyes, then watched as her new friend's face took on a mock-serious expression.
"Tell Cook to prepare supper—lots of it," she called down toward her brother's dark head. "Then, for God's sake, come up and give me a hand. I'm not the one who volunteered to play nursemaid."
CHAPTER TEN
"The mews was over there," Colin said, pointing through the keep's glassless window.
The children clustered around him, craning their necks to see out. He felt a small tug on his breeches and looked down. Noon sunshine streamed into the ancient roofless tower, dancing on a small lad's red-gold mop of curls.
The child cocked his head. "What's a news?"
Colin smiled at his puzzled look. "A mews," he corrected gently. "A building where the lord kept his falcons. It was destroyed by the Roundheads in the siege of 1643."
"The same time the holes in the floor happened?" another boy asked.
"The same time," he told the child, a sturdy apple-cheeked lad. "But that only makes it more fun for hide-and-seek and treasure hunts, doesn't it?"
The boy and Colin shared a smile before the boy sobered. "When can we go home?"
"Yes, when?" another echoed.
"Today?" The smallest girl's blue eyes looked so hopeful in her angelic little face.
His heart aching for all of them, Colin brushed a golden ringlet off her tiny forehead. "Not today, Mary, but soon, I'm hoping." As a disappointed silence seemed to permeate the stone walls, he sighed, twisting his ring. "Very soon."
"Did you live in this keep when you were a little boy?"
Colin chuckled, gazing down into a girl's large brown eyes. "Heavens, no—how old do you think I am?" When the girl blushed, he reached to ruffle her straight flaxen hair. "No one's lived in here for centuries. The building was open to the sky long before my boyhood days. Would you like to see the wall walk?"
The sound of a clearing throat rang from the doorway. Colin turned, startled.
"'Dinnertime," Kendra announced.
He frowned. "How long have you been there?"
"We want to hear another story," piped up a chubby towhead. Davis's little brother, if Colin remembered right. After a good night's sleep and cleaned of the soot and ash, he appeared a different child.
"That wasn't a story," he told the boy, then looked up at Kendra. "I was just explaining
a bit of history."
"It's time for dinner now," Kendra said firmly. "Lord Greystone will tell you another story later."
"I will?"
"Yes, you will." Kendra shot him a mischievous grin. "You brought them here, you're responsible for their entertainment. You owe them a bedtime story, at least." She motioned to the children. "Come along, you all need to wash before eating."
"But I promised to show them the wall walk," Colin protested.
"Oh, very well, but quickly. You know how sulky Cook acts when her lovely meals grow cold."
Beckoning, Colin led them all into the stairtower and down the winding steps to the archway. The children ran out along the top of the crenelated wall, shrieking with delight.
"Not too far," he yelled after them, "and be careful!"
"Dunderhead," Kendra chided. "When did you ever know a child to be careful?"
"Never," he said with a sheepish smile.
They both turned and faced outward. Resting their forearms on top of the ledge, they gazed out over the River Caine and the fields and nearby woods. Like most medieval castles, the tower at Cainewood was built on a tall motte—a huge mound of earth. Up on the wall walk they could see for miles in all directions.
"You're wonderful with the children," Kendra said quietly.
"I remembered playing in the keep—it was so much fun. I just wanted to bring it to life a bit for them."
Kendra sighed wistfully. "I never got to play in the keep." The war had begun before she was born, and as well-known Royalists, the family had adjourned to less obvious lodgings. Sadly, even that had failed to stop Cromwell from bringing his wrath down upon their home.
"I know, Kendra." Colin placed a hand over hers where it rested on top of the ancient wall. It was peaceful up here. The days of war were long over, thank God.
"How is Amy?" Kendra asked suddenly.
"Still sleeping. Sixteen hours."
"She was exhausted." Kendra slanted him a glance. "I saw you shaking her when I walked by her chamber."
"To no avail. She'd rouse for a few seconds at most, then drop back into sleep." He shrugged. "I thought she'd be wanting some dinner. She'd eaten but a few spoonfuls of broth, though her chocolate cup was empty."