by Lauren Royal
"What's that?" Amy asked in some alarm.
"Pickled snails."
"Pickled snails? Surely you jest."
"I do not. They're delicious."
"I guess 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 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 men, given this land, would 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 suddenly silent.
Setting the basket and bottle of wine on the stone floor, he turned to lock the door. "God 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. Handsome, yes, he'd have to be deaf not to have heard the ladies extolling his physical virtues. He liked to think he was a good lover and he embodied many other worthy traits. But romantic? Never.
He searched her amethyst eyes, scarcely believing she could be serious. 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. "Insane, 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…
God help him, he wanted to kiss her. He stepped forward.
She licked her lips. "Are those pickled snails really edible?"
He shook his head to clear 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." A gleam came into her eyes. "After all, I'm naught but a simple merchant's daughter."
Having delivered her jab, Amy leaned down to pick up the wine bottle. Colin frowned at her back. How did she know he thought of her that way? Kendra, most likely—the meddler in the family.
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The keep was built of lavender stone, cut in perfect rectangular bricks, set together seamlessly to form the tallest tower in the world. Arched windows graced each landing, and as Amy wound up the spiral staircase she paused to look out.
Ferocious, fire-breathing, terrifying…the dragon lumbered relentlessly 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 already on fire. A skeleton he was, reclining in a chair, holding an oval-framed picture, his feet bones resting on a bolster. Flames shot from his skeleton eye sockets and between his bare skeleton ribs. Black smoke rose in a column from the bony structure to the sky.
Gray ash rained down on the lavender stone. The dragon's roar shook the tower. Its glittering eyes looked straight into hers before it bent its head and breathed fire into the stairwell. Red and yellow and orange flames rushed up the steps straight at her, burning 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.
Her hand had turned into a skeleton hand; the flesh was burning off her arm, the flames working their way to her shoulder. She screamed at the top of her lungs…
It sounded as though someone were in the castle, attacking Amy in the bedchamber next door.
His heart pounding, Colin leapt from the couch, threw his breeches over an arm, 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 pulled on his breeches, hopping on one foot and then the other as he made his way across the room. Tugging on the laces, he 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."
A concerned voice floated up the winding staircase. Someone was coming to rescue her. Someone was coming, after all.
"Wake up! You're all right."
The voice was closer, right in her ear. Someone's hand was on her burning shoulder. Wait—no, it wasn't burning…
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 through her thin 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 knife, ready to defend you, wearing absolutely nothing. 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 shimme
ring firelight. Her eyes widened as she suddenly realized he wasn't wearing much more than nothing now.
His tanned upper body was clad in naught but a thin white scar, long since healed, a diagonal slash across his left upper arm. She wondered fleetingly what had caused it, but was too distracted to give it much thought. Her gaze dropped to his bare feet. Why, he wore nothing at all, it seemed, other than a pair of unfashionably tight breeches, and those—she couldn't help noticing—only partially laced.
In an instant, she forgot her dream. Her cheeks flushed, and she tugged down the hem of her chemise, which had ridden up as she'd thrashed about. But she could tell from Colin's face it was an ineffective attempt at best, serving mainly to make him more aware of her dishabille.
She shifted as his gaze wandered from her face to her bare limbs. He swallowed hard.
"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 caress 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 cuddled 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."
"Would you like to talk about how much you like pickled snails?" he suggested with a teasing grin.
"I did like them," she protested, although they both knew that wasn't true. She'd tasted one bravely, even swallowed it without gagging, but her appetite had fallen off afterward.
Her stomach was grumbling now. "Are there any apples left?" she asked.
Colin's smile was too knowing. "I believe there are."
He left, returning from the study with a shiny red apple. When she sat up and reached for it, he pulled it back playfully. "Hungry, are you?" Grinning, he handed it to her and stepped over to the windows.
Amy took a bite and slowly chewed. She watched him peer out into the night, his legs spread, hands linked behind his back.
"It's still snowing hard," he told her. "I reckon we may be stuck here through tomorrow."
"Mmm-hmm," she replied around a mouthful of juicy apple. The fruit was sweet, she was cozy, and she could think of worse fates than being stuck with Colin Chase another day and night.
"I should do bookwork tomorrow, so long as I'm here."
"Mmm-hmm." She took another crunching bite.
"What will you do?" He turned from the windows to face her.
Amy chewed and swallowed before answering. "I can read. Try my hand at preparing dinner. Help you with your bookwork." She took another big bite.
"I don't need any help."
She shrugged again. "I'll explore your castle, then."
"I'm afraid there's not much to discover." He walked over to the fire, added a log from the basket, and stirred up the embers with a wooden-handled poker. "It's small. And cold and damp."
"None of that will stop me."
Colin crossed back to her bedside and stood looking down at her with a wry smile, his teeth as white as the snow outside. "I suppose a bit of cold and damp are unlikely to deter the likes of you. So long as there's not a horse involved."
Grinning, she held out the apple core and slid down under the covers.
He put the core on the table next to the bed. "Better?"
"Much." She wiggled under the quilt, getting comfortable.
"Good." Offering her a distracted nod, he turned to the door.
"No, don't leave yet." She patted the bed beside her. "You said you'd stay as long as I liked."
With seeming reluctance, he turned back and slowly sat down. Amy reached over and took his hand. He tensed; she saw the muscles go rigid beneath his bronzed skin.
The nightmare had left her completely. The apple rested comfortably in her stomach, the room was warm, the bed was soft, and her hand tingled in Colin's. As she gazed at his profile in the wavering firelight, she wanted him to kiss her in the worst way. Just one more time. Just once more before he put her on a ship and she sailed out of his life forever.
She squeezed his hand, and he turned to meet her gaze.
Her heart beat faster. His eyes searched her face, and his free hand rose to wipe a bit of apple juice from the corner of her mouth. His hand lingered; his knuckles grazed her cheek.
He was going to kiss her, she knew it.
"Holy Christ," Colin murmured. Amy's skin was petal soft, her eyes dark liquid pools of desire. He couldn't help himself.
He'd kiss her just once—a goodnight kiss—and then he'd leave.
When she closed her eyes, he brushed her lips with his, a mere whisper of sensation. A little sound escaped her throat, and her arms came up and around his neck, dragging his mouth back to hers. She twined her fingers in his hair, her lips sweet and urgent.
"Amy," he moaned, giving in, his mouth demanding a response she seemed only too happy to give. His tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips, seeking entry. When she let him in, his blood surged in response to her sweet, velvety mouth. He would swear she stopped breathing.
He broke contact, and her eyes fluttered open, deep purple in the low light. She drew a long, shuddering breath. Using every ounce of his willpower, he pulled back.
"I cannot do this," he grated out.
She ran her hands over the muscles of his back and lifted herself to place a warm, moist kiss in the hollow of his neck. Her eyes questioning, she fell back to the pillows.
She was seducing him, the little witch!
"Amy," he said, sitting up fully, "this isn't right."
"Is it not?" Amy asked dizzily. Her senses still swirling, she impulsively ran a hand down his chest, surprising herself. She'd never touched a man's bare chest. Colin's was warm and firm, with a light sprinkling of crisp black hair. Defined muscles twitched under her questing fingers. "I like kissing you. What's wrong with that?"
"I cannot just kiss you." He pushed her hand away. "You're half-naked in my bed, for God's sake. I want you, all of you."
Shocked to the tips of her toes, she stared at him, tongue-tied. Never, in all her musings on the subject, had she imagined that Colin wanted to make love to her.
He hated her, didn't he? Or at least he didn't like her—she was naught but a bother to him, and inconvenience he needed to rid himself of. He seemed to enjoy kissing her, for some inexplicable reason, but…
"I'm sorry, Amy."
That loosened her tongue. She struggled up on her elbows. "Would you please stop saying you're sorry every time you kiss me!"
"I'm sorry." He smiled innocently, and she burst into helpless giggles.
Seconds later, his smile reversed to a frown. "Amy?"
She sobered instantly. "What?"
"You understand what I'm telling you?"
Relieved that the semidarkness hid her blush, she nodded.
"And you agree it would be wrong?"
She hesitated, then hoped he hadn't noticed. She knew what he wanted to hear, which was the same thing she'd been raised to believe.
"Yes, it would be wrong."
Colin had noticed, all right. He shook his head, amazed she'd taken so long to answer. "Then you'll understand why I cannot kiss you again," he said, intending to clarify his position once and for all. But when the sparkle left her eyes, he found himself rushing to reassure her. "Though it's God's own truth I was never once really sorry I did."
With another nod, her head fell back to the pillows. He rose and tucked the blanket about her in a businesslike way. "Good night, then," he said, heading for the door.
"Stay. Please." Something in her voice made him turn around. "I won't even touch you, I promise. Just sleep in here tonight. I-I'm afraid I'll have the nightmare again."
&nb
sp; Colin wasn't sure he could stand another night sleeping beside Amethyst Goldsmith. Or rather, he was sure he couldn't.
"You won't dream it again. And if you do, I'll be right next door."
"You cannot know I won't dream it! I will, I'm sure of it. Please."
She seemed genuinely frightened; her pleading went straight to his heart.
Damn.
Perhaps he could lie next to her just until she fell asleep. If he left then, she'd never know the difference. "Very well. Just don't touch me," he warned with a teasing glare.
"I promise," she said with a sweet smile—so sweet he immediately had second thoughts. Against his better judgment, he walked around the bed and slipped in on the other side, as close to the edge as he could manage without falling off, his back turned to her.
"Good night," she called out agreeably.
"Good night," he returned on a sigh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Colin must be asleep, Amy thought half an hour later. He hadn't budged in all that time. She could move over, not enough to touch him—she wouldn't break her promise—but just a little closer, and then maybe she could fall asleep.
She eased to the middle of the bed, and Colin didn't stir. His breathing stayed deep and even. A warmth emanated from his body, a warmth that drew her, tantalized her. A ripple of excitement flowed through her at the thought of touching him after all.
He was sleeping—he'd never know—and it would feel so comforting.
She rolled over, a smidgen at a time, until at last she brushed against his motionless form. His skin felt hotter than she'd imagined, and his nearness wasn't as comforting as she'd thought it would be. It made the little hairs raise on her arms instead.
She was touching him, but not really. Not enough. She couldn't resist molding the front of her body to the back of his. He felt so very good. When he remained motionless, her arm slowly sneaked up and around his middle—
She felt his sharp intake of breath. Oh, God, he was awake.
"Ammmmy…" he growled in warning.