by Lauren Royal
As she'd done a hundred times this day already. And it wasn't even noon yet.
She sat abruptly on the top step. It was a good thing Colin had refused her help today, because she seemed wholly unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds before she started remembering again. Before she started wanting him again, truth be told.
Her gaze lit on her trunk downstairs, still sitting against the wall where Colin had shoved it. What was left of her family lay locked inside.
She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. God in heaven, what would her parents think of her after last night? If they were here today and she confessed her wanton ways, would they turn disapproving eyes on her? Or enfold her in their arms and say they loved her…even though she wasn't one bit sorry for what she'd done…
"Oh, Papa!" Her hoarse whisper filled the entry as she lifted her skirts and bolted downstairs for the trunk, then dragged it scraping along the stone floor to the bedchamber. She reached to pull the key from her hem even as she shut the door behind her.
Falling to her knees, she worked the lock with unsteady fingers, then threw open the lid. The tray on top was lifted and dropped to the floor, the box of loose gemstones discarded without a thought. For underneath lay the real treasure: bits of her father wrapped in small squares of white flannel, pieces of his soul etched forever in his exquisite works of art.
She thrust her hands into the trunk, filled both fists with jewelry, then moved to the bed and allowed the pieces to sift through her open fingers…remembering.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
With a heavy sigh, Colin dropped his head into his hands. His desk was piled high with receipts, his ledgers lined with numbers he'd spent the morning staring at with unfocused eyes.
In fact, he'd found himself unable to focus on anything this morning—anything except Amethyst Goldsmith.
He twisted the heavy gold ring on his finger distractedly. It was obvious he wasn't going to accomplish anything today. A glance out the window convinced him he wouldn't be delivering his distraction to the docks today, either.
The storm was waning, but the snow still fell steadily and the drifts were deep. His rumbling stomach reminded him it was past noon and Amy had promised to prepare dinner.
Leaving the study without bothering to don a cloak, Colin briefly poked his head into each of the empty downstairs chambers, then dashed through the freezing great hall and into the kitchen. He'd laid a fire for her earlier, hoping she'd be inspired to prepare something hot.
But she was nowhere to be found. Quick glances into the pantry and buttery also failed to reveal her presence. There was nothing bubbling in the stew pot nor any other evidence she'd been at work.
Was she lost? No, Greystone was too small to be confusing. Hurt, perhaps? That was a possibility. Despite years and money spent on restorations, the structure was still in bad shape; she could have tripped and twisted her ankle, or even worse.
He set out grimly to find her, back through the great hall and the ceaseless snow.
Once in the entry, his gaze swept up the stairs, and he remembered the library. Of course, he thought, relieved. Ford had told him of the countless hours she'd spent in Cainewood's library. She must have discovered his library and lost track of the time, forgetting about dinner altogether.
He took the steps two at a time, ran to the back of the upper level, and burst through the library door.
No—she wasn't here. Nor had she been here. Not a speck of the considerable dust was displaced; the titles on the neatly rowed books were as obscured by grime as ever.
Amy couldn't have found this room and left it undisturbed. It was completely against her nature to ignore a room full of books, regardless of its filth and neglect.
She wasn't in any of the other upstairs chambers, either. His heart started pounding as he once again imagined her stuck somewhere, arms or legs broken, perhaps lying in the freezing snow or at the bottom of the oubliette. He should have toured her around the castle and offered to help her prepare dinner.
What had he been thinking?
He'd been thinking about getting away from her for a while, that was what. He'd been pretending she had no effect on his life, that he could set to work as usual, regardless of her presence. He'd been hoping that a few hours of separation would break the spell she'd woven so expertly around him.
It had all been for naught—he was as spellbound as ever, and now she might be hurt, thanks to his negligence. He cursed at himself. She was in his care, and at the very least he should have asked her to stay in the bedchamber with a book while he worked.
The bedchamber. He hadn't even looked there. Maybe she was in the bedchamber with a book. As he hurried down the stairs, he pictured her curled on the bed, lost in the world of literature or perhaps even napping—it had been a short night for them both. He could hardly blame her for losing track of time.
He knocked softly on the door, half afraid he'd wake her up, half afraid she wouldn't be there at all.
No answer.
"Amy?" he called, his voice muffled by the thick oak. "Amy? Are you in there?"
He knocked louder. "Amy?"
On the faint hope she was inside, sound asleep, he eased open the door.
His jaw went slack at the sight that greeted him.
The room was strewn with glittering jewels. She knelt on the floor beside her trunk—that damned heavy trunk that she'd insisted go with her everywhere. And no wonder. The bloody thing was heaped with gold and gems and God knew what else.
He swore under his breath. "Why didn't you answer me?"
"I—I don't know. You surprised me."
"I was worried sick about you, Amy. You were supposed to be preparing dinner, and I couldn't find you."
"I'm sorry. I…forgot." She glanced out the window, but the sun was hidden behind snow clouds and gave no indication of the time. "Is it very late?"
"It doesn't signify," he muttered, his anger beginning to ebb as the shock wore off and the implications of her deception dawned on him. "God's blood, I suggested you leave that trunk on carriages overnight. Why didn't you tell me what was in there?"
"I…was taught never to trust anyone." She hung her head as tears filled her eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I've treated you badly when you've always been honest with me."
Colin knelt beside her, wracked with guilt for being the cause of yet more distress, knowing he'd been much less than honest with her—hell, he wasn't even honest with himself where she was concerned.
"I understand," he said softly.
When she looked up at him, her amethyst eyes bright with hope and unshed tears, his heart turned over.
She was still fragile emotionally, in a way that made him want to gather her into his arms and protect her from the world. He touched her instead, just lightly on the arm, and smiled at her, a smile of forgiveness that widened as they reached a silent understanding and he saw her eyes clear.
He ran his fingers down her arm, and her cheeks flushed pink. She looked away, flustered, and began gathering the jewelry.
He grasped her hand, halting her frenzied efforts. "May I see some of your things?"
She glanced at him in surprise. "Of course." Her face lit with pleasure as she gave him the piece she was holding, a large diamond stomacher brooch.
"This is breathtaking." An enormous, rectangular step-cut diamond rested in the center, surrounded by round diamonds set into a spray of gold leaves. He turned his hand to admire how the gems caught the light.
"Papa bought the center stone from a dealer in Antwerp, then saved it for almost a decade before mounting it." She wasn't flustered now; her words flowed easily. She missed her craft, Colin realized. "He rarely showed this to anyone. I don't think he really wanted to part with it."
"It's a shame it's never been worn and enjoyed."
"I made some bodkins to go with it." She rummaged in the trunk for a few seconds and came out with a half-dozen long gold pins, each topped with a gol
d leaf set with a rose-cut diamond. She dropped them into his other palm. "They would have been so pretty in a lady's hair, with the matching brooch. I always thought that someday, someone very important would own them."
"Someone important owns them now," Colin said, half-teasing.
But her heart leapt into her eyes. He'd best be more careful.
Mindful not to stick her with the pins, he handed the jewelry back to her and watched her wrap it up in two of the many pieces of flannel that were scattered about.
She'd gone quiet again. He moved to sit on the bed, where a pile of trinkets glittered. "Is there anything here that you made?"
"Oh, many things." She jumped up to sit beside him, sifting through the jewels until she found an oval, coral-colored cameo and handed it to him shyly.
He smiled down at it. Set into a braided gold bezel, the intricate carving was a profile of a beautiful young woman. She wore a little necklace of twisted gold wire with a tiny diamond pendant attached, as though it were dangling in her cleavage.
Suddenly Colin narrowed his eyes and looked more closely. "She looks like you," he said in surprise, and she giggled a little.
"Papa said the same thing. I didn't hold with that at the time, but then Mama agreed, and others, and I finally decided she must be me after all. Although I swear I hadn't intended to carve a likeness of myself. See, her hair is loose, and I never used to wear my hair that way."
"Yet you've worn it loose since the fire. Why did you change it?"
"I never learned how to plait it myself." She thought a minute, frowning. "It seems to fit my life now; I feel like a different person." She shrugged. "I wore it plaited for practical reasons—I couldn't work with it billowing about, getting in the way. And I haven't made much jewelry the last few months, have I?"
"No, you surely haven't," he agreed with a wry smile. "I fancy it loose, anyway. At your shop…I wished I could unplait it."
"Did you really?"
Colin cleared his throat. Now, why had he let that slip? "She truly looks like you now, at any rate," he rushed to say, hoping to gloss over the thoughtless remark. He held the cameo between a finger and thumb, glancing back and forth between Amy and her likeness. The resemblance was unmistakable. "May I have it?" he asked, surprising himself.
Amy flushed with pleasure. "Oh, yes, I would love for you to have it. And anything else you want," she added, gesturing at the pile on the bed.
He laughed at that, pleased with her generosity, for he didn't know what he'd have said had she refused him.
He really wanted the cameo.
"No, this will do nicely. I thank you."
"My pleasure."
The underlying warmth in her voice captivated him. She seemed genuinely happy to give him the trinket. He wondered if she had any idea how much it meant to him.
The cameo was but one piece from a virtual treasure trove of jewelry. Looking over the pile on the bed, mentally adding it to the amount littering the floor and left in the trunk, he came to the conclusion the trunk had been nearly full. Why, it was a cache any pirate wouldn't hesitate to kill for!
He shook his head, berating himself for not realizing the contents of the trunk, and at the same time amazed at her skill in hiding it. The more he learned about her, the more he admired her. She had a streak of self-preservation that ran deep.
He set aside the cameo and sifted through the jewelry on the bed until something caught his eye—a brooch in the shape of a bow, encrusted with tiny rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. "This is a pretty piece. Did you make it also?"
Amy nodded. "There are many similar pieces here. Galants, they're called, and very popular. I think we could all make them in our sleep." She smiled at the memory. "Shall I give it to Kendra, do you think? And we should choose something for Jason and Ford, too." Her face lit up at the idea. "Everyone was so kind to me—why didn't I think of this before?"
"Because you would have shocked the hell out of us." When she laughed, Colin joined in. "Regardless, it's not necessary," he assured her. Chances were Amy would be living off this jewelry in the months and years to come; she shouldn't be giving things away.
"I want to do it." She dropped to the floor, already delving into the trunk for the perfect gifts.
"No." He put a hand on her arm.
She shook it off. "I insist." Gems flashed as she rummaged around, her attention wholly focused on the jewelry. "It was a terrible lack of manners on my part; I must thank them for their hospitality."
He gave up. She rivaled the Chases for stubbornness; he'd give her that.
After much searching and good-natured bickering, they settled on an aigrette for Ford. Of all the brothers, he liked to dandy-up a bit, and the fancy pin would make a smart statement on his hat.
Jason was another story. Amy insisted on giving him a large pocket watch with an enamelled face and an open-work lid set with one enormous oval sapphire and eight smaller ones.
"It's too much," Colin protested. "Besides, he has a pocket watch."
"I've seen it. It's small and has no lid. The Marquess of Cainewood should pull out an impressive watch to check the time. Papa had someone just like Jason in mind when he made this."
"Here's a nice, large watch." Colin pointed out a likely specimen with a solid, simply engraved lid.
"No. I want him to have this one. He opened up his home to me, Colin—"
"I didn't leave him much of a choice," he interrupted wryly.
"That doesn't signify. He was perfectly wonderful to me, and this is the least I can do. Besides, Robert made that one. I want him to have one my father made."
"Robert?"
"Robert Stanley. Our apprentice."
"Your apprentice?" Twisting his ring, he had a sudden vision of an insolent blunt-featured man leaning against the archway to Goldsmith & Son's back room. "You mean that red-haired fellow?"
She shot him an appraising glance. "You remember him?"
Distrustful pale blue eyes. He remembered, all right.
That settled it. Not only was Amy intractable, but Colin didn't want anyone in his family to own anything made by that apprentice. He felt uneasy just thinking about the man.
Amy was already wrapping up the remaining jewelry. He set the pocket watch with their other choices and began to help her. "Whatever happened to him? Do you know?"
"Who?"
"The apprentice. Robert." He disliked even saying his name.
Her hands stilled for a moment. "I have no idea. He went off to fight the fire, and I never saw him again." She toyed with a flannel square. "I was supposed to marry him."
"Were you, now?" No wonder Robert had acted so hostile. An imagined scenario popped into Colin's mind, of Amy kissing the freckled, carrot-topped man. It made him sick in his gut, and the question came out of his mouth before he could catch himself. "Do you love him?"
"No." Amy tensed visibly as she folded the flannel around a bracelet. "My father arranged the marriage. Lacking a son, he needed someone to run the shop, and he'd known the Stanleys forever." She moved to the trunk to set the bracelet inside, then returned to the bed. "My betrothal papers burned in the fire. It was the only good thing that came of it."
Colin released his breath, which he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Just because he couldn't have Amy didn't mean he wanted some dolt like Robert to get her.
Yet she had to marry…a woman had to marry. "Isn't he still expecting you to wed him?"
"It doesn't signify." She slipped a topaz ring on her finger and pulled it off again. "I would never have wed him of my own free will."
"What of the church records?" he reminded her. "He may think to use those to hold you to the betrothal."
She shrugged, still gazing at the ring. "We were betrothed during the Commonwealth."
Colin nodded. The Puritans considered marriage solely a matter between the couple and the state, not involving God. During Cromwell's rule, weddings had been performed by a Justice of the Peace, and betrothals had t
aken place without ceremony.
He lifted a torsade of pearls. "Still, you must wed, Amy. With these jewels you could buy a title—"
"And marry a nobleman?" The topaz ring fell from her hand to the bed, and her eyes burned into his. "No. I'd never be able to reestablish Goldsmith & Sons."
"No, of course you wouldn't." Absently, he fingered the heavy twisted ropes of pearls. "But you'll be in France, not London."
"I'll open a shop there. Not right away, but eventually."
"But—"
"No buts, Colin." She smiled at her use of his words, then turned serious. "Yes, I'm female. And a jeweler. I promised my father I wouldn't let Goldsmith & Sons die with me. No, it was more than a promise—a vow. And our last real conversation."
It was a ridiculous plan.
It was…none of his business.
Consumed by disturbing thoughts, he toyed with the necklace, admiring the way the creamy colors matched and the pearl sizes graduated along the strands. The little clicks of the pearls sounded loud in the silence.
"This must be worth a fortune," he said at last.
She nodded her head. "Pearls have doubled in price in my lifetime, and they're still rising. Would you like it? The clasp is beautiful, but I don't know who made it, so it has no particular value to me."
Colin glanced at the clasp, delicate filigree encrusted with sapphires and diamonds. He wanted nothing except the cameo. "I wouldn't dream of taking this from you. I know King Charles and his cronies drape themselves in such jewels, but no man in my family would be caught dead wearing ropes of pearls."
He couldn't give it to Priscilla—he'd never feel right giving her anything he'd taken from Amy.
"Besides…" He couldn't believe he was about to say this—to lend credence to her ludicrous plans. "You'll need to sell it to open your shop. Such an undertaking will be quite expensive—"
She shrugged. "I have the gold."
"The gold?"
"In the bottom." She waved at the trunk. "My family has been accumulating coins forever. It was"—she hesitated—"a secret. There. Now you know." Her sudden disarming smile enchanted him. "It's why my father never worried when business fell off during the Commonwealth. There are a few gold bars as well—for fabrication, you understand. We never melted coins."