Amethyst (Jewel Trilogy, Book 1)

by Lauren Royal

  Sighing, Elizabeth stood up. "You can have everything, if you'll but listen to your heart. You need only speak with Colin—"

  "About this? He's already told me—"

  "He's not your father. Talk to him. You can live up to your vow—perhaps not literally, but the spirit, child. You can live up to the spirit of your vow, if you'll only approach your husband with open trust. He deserves that much, Amy."

  She walked around the desk and leaned to kiss Amy on both cheeks. "Think about it. Now, I'm an old woman who has traveled many miles, and I think I need a nap."

  Sniffling, Amy ventured a shaky smile. "God in heaven, Auntie. An old woman, indeed!"

  Another cramp shot through Amy, but that didn't mean the baby was coming. He couldn't be coming—Colin had left to spend the whole day inspecting the estate.

  Besides, she'd been having cramps for almost eight weeks now, and they'd never meant anything before.

  Greystone hummed with productivity. Colin rode toward the fields at the far end of the property, certain the sheep and crops would prove as well maintained as the lumber operation and quarry already had. Amy was a hell of an estate manager. Almost as good as she'd been a jeweler.

  A jeweler…

  He looked down to his hands on Ebony's reins, at the band of white skin that marked where his signet ring used to rest. After all these months, he felt almost naked without it. And Amy…

  Amy could make him another.

  He smiled to himself, remembering her pride in her craft, the glow in her eyes when she shared the treasures in her trunk. Her joy at discovering the origin of her wedding ring. Her fingers absently caressing the necklace she'd worn to Whitehall Palace.

  For certain, she'd enjoy making him another ring.

  He reined in as the realization stole his breath away.

  Bloody hell, what an idiot he'd been! She missed her craft—it was in her blood, as much a part of her as her amethyst eyes and her quick smile. She'd make him another ring, and then…

  Holy Christ, he knew how to make her happy.

  Colin wheeled Ebony toward the castle and dug in his heels. The rest of the estate could wait for an inspection. He couldn't wait to see Amy's face when he told her.

  The distracted, sad look would leave her eyes. She'd throw her arms around him, kissing him all over his face in that exuberant way of hers, and he'd return every kiss, every caress.

  Tonight be damned. If he rode hard, he could have her in his bed within an hour or two. Perhaps she was still there, resting. Waiting.

  Damn, he hoped he could find a way around the mound of their child.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  "My lady," Lydia called from the study door. "Dinner is ready."

  With a fierce effort, Amy opened her eyes and unclenched her fists.

  "Milady?" Lydia's eyes widened until they were round blue circles. "Is it the baby?"

  "No." Amy leaned against the desk. "It's only another one of those little cramps I've been having."

  "Are you quite certain?" Lydia walked closer. "This looks…rather different."

  "Yes, I'm quite certain," Amy snapped, her face impassive although her middle knotted in the most painful cramp yet.

  God in heaven, it felt like a steel band were squeezing the very life out of her.

  "I'm quite certain," she repeated through gritted teeth. "But I believe I'll take dinner in my bedchamber. I could use a nap." She began to walk from the chamber.

  "Milady," Lydia called, alarm in her voice. "You're waddling."

  Amy whirled around. "I am not waddling. There's nothing wrong with my legs. Waddling is for pitiful pregnant ninnies who want to draw sympathetic attention to themselves."

  She was glad no one was in the corridor to see her, because it was rather impossible to make it to the bedchamber without waddling. She fell awkwardly onto the bed, but before she could get comfortable, a pale straw-colored, sweetish fluid gushed out of her.

  She knew what that meant. Lydia had related every detail of her previous five ladies' birth experiences with maximum drama, leaving Amy in a wild state of alarm. Then, last night, Aunt Elizabeth had explained everything in a very calm, informative manner. Amy didn't quite know what to believe, but one thing was clear: When the bag of waters burst, the babe was coming.

  No question about that.

  Hot tears squeezed from beneath her closed lids as she curled herself into a ball. The babe couldn't come now. Colin wouldn't be here for hours. And she hadn't talked to him yet; Aunt Elizabeth was right—she had to talk to him. She had to trust him.

  She wasn't ready for this baby.

  The fact that her son was ready, that Aunt Elizabeth had said he'd come this week or next, was beside the point entirely.

  When another white-hot spasm clenched her insides, she moaned in pain and frustration. All at once, Lydia barged into the bedchamber, a dinner tray in her hands.

  "I knew it!" she exclaimed, staring at the sopping mass of sheets. She dropped the tray forthwith, and Amy would have laughed had she been able.

  But her womb tightened more. "He isn't coming out now," she forced through clenched teeth. "I won't let him. I'll keep my legs stuck together."

  "But, my lady—"

  "My body wouldn't betray me this way," Amy snapped. She'd never felt so out of control. Determined to put an end to this madness, she struggled halfway up as the pain subsided.

  Then the truth dawned in a burst of anger and inevitability, and she fell back to the pillows.

  "This child is coming whether I want him to or not," she wailed. "There's nothing I can do to stop him. Nothing!"

  Lydia's face looked blurry through Amy's fresh onslaught of burning tears. "Send Benchley to find Colin," she said weakly, closing her eyes. "And wake Aunt Elizabeth from her nap. Wake her now."

  "I already did," Lydia said, kneeling to gather everything back onto the tray. When Amy forced her heavy eyelids open, Lydia amended with, "Wake your aunt, I mean."

  Aunt Elizabeth arrived then, stepping over the broken crockery and taking charge.

  "I'm hot and sweaty," Amy complained, and Aunt Elizabeth peeled back the covers.

  "I'm chilled," she said, shivering, and Aunt Elizabeth piled them back on.

  Amy felt nauseated, certain she was going to vomit, then she forgot her queasy stomach as waves of drowsiness overwhelmed her. She jerked awake when the next pain seized her, and the cycle started again. Through it all, Aunt Elizabeth kept up a knowledgeable, reassuring patter.

  "You're so nice and helpful, Mrs. Talbot," Lydia said frantically. "Lady Greystone is lucky."

  Amy opened her eyes long enough to glare at her.

  "Oh, heavens," Lydia breathed, her eyes widening. "Milady, I can see it!" She moved closer and stared between Amy's thighs, but Amy didn't care enough to be embarrassed. "It's a shilling-size circle, covered with slimy black hair."

  Amy grimaced, half in pain, half because she'd never heard anything sound quite so disgusting.

  "Hush, Lydia!" Aunt Elizabeth admonished. She craned her neck to see Amy's face over the mound of her belly. "It's your baby's head, dear. He's ready to be born."

  Aunt Elizabeth signaled Lydia closer and instructed her to hold Amy's hand.

  "Push now, Amy," she encouraged. "Push as hard as you can."

  Amy took her words to heart. She pushed with all the might she could muster, wanting nothing more than to get this horrible business over with.

  "Ouch!" Lydia tried to jerk her hand away, but Amy tightened her grip.

  When the pain ended and Lydia reclaimed and massaged her fingers, Amy felt guilty. Then it started again, and Lydia leaned over her, sweeping the hair off her forehead and clucking sympathetically.

  "Will you stop touching me," Amy spat. She seemed trapped on a seesaw of emotions, unable to control herself. As the pain peaked, she squeezed Lydia's hand again, and she couldn't care less if she were hurting her. A tiny part of her was shocked at her behavior, but not enough to change it.<
br />
  She rested, panting, then pushed, then rested and pushed again. She pushed until she was certain her insides would spill out onto the sheets, but still her son remained stubbornly stuck in her womb.

  When the urge to push subsided, she closed her eyes, but the tears were leaking out all over again.

  "Push, Amy, push," Elizabeth yelled.

  Oh, no, it was coming again, so soon. Amy's frustrated tears flowed faster. This was so unfair! Her nails dug into the palm of her hand that wasn't clenching Lydia's.

  "This isn't the place for you," she heard Elizabeth say firmly. "Pour yourself a brandy and wait in the study."

  The words were more than confusing, but Amy's eyes were shut tight, and she was concentrating on the pushing.

  "No," a deep, masculine voice countered. "I must speak with Amy."

  Her eyes flew open. "Colin?" she moaned through the pain.

  He hesitated, his breath coming heavy as though he'd been running. He glanced from Amy to Elizabeth and back again.

  "I just want you to be happy, love." His fingers drumming against one thigh, he looked to where Lydia's gaze was rooted. His eyes widened before he refocused on Amy's face. "I have something I need to ask you, tell you. This is important to me."

  When the pain waned, Amy nodded. "Come here. Tell me."

  "I miss my ring." He moved toward her, smiling, absently rubbing the spot where it used to be. "Do you suppose you could make me another one?"

  "Colin, not now," Aunt Elizabeth growled.

  Though the pain had ended for the moment, Amy feared her heart had stopped instead. "You…you want me to make you a ring?"

  "We can build a workshop. I was thinking by the kitchen—"

  "Oh, Colin!" Tears sprang to her eyes for the countless time that day. "How did you know? It's just—"

  A pain ripped through her, and she grabbed his hand, shutting her eyes, pushing, pushing, pushing. Her son was coming; she could feel his head stretching the entrance to her body.

  It was a miracle.

  "Will you teach our children your craft?" Colin asked. "Your blood—your jeweler's blood—it runs in this child's veins as much as mine."

  "Your blood will be running if you don't leave," Elizabeth warned.

  "No, don't leave!" Amy panted, squeezing his hand.

  "And if you don't mind living simply—"

  "I don't! I've told you that," she wailed as the pain subsided.

  "Then we'll save to replace your inheritance. And someday, a younger son who cannot inherit will open the finest shop in London. Goldsmithing would be a much better life than soldiering or preaching."

  "A younger son?" Lydia scoffed, mopping Amy's brow. "Cuds bobs, d'ye think she'll have another after going through this?"

  "If you can all shut up for one minute," Aunt Elizabeth interjected, "this baby is about to arrive."

  "Colin," Amy breathed.

  She had so much she wanted to say, but the urge to push distracted her.

  "Amy, it's time," Elizabeth encouraged. "Push."

  She pushed hard then, harder, harder still—and her babe slipped out into the world.

  "It's a miracle," she managed to choke out. "Everything." Then laughter bubbled up from her throat, even as tears flowed down her cheeks. And their babe's cries added the sweetest sound to the emotional confusion.

  Colin moved toward the foot of the bed, his eyes registering sheer disbelief as the child of his loins was wiped off and wrapped in a blanket. Aunt Elizabeth set the wriggling bundle on Amy's abdomen, opened the blanket halfway, and used clean linen strips to tie the cord in two places.

  Then Colin touched his offspring for the first time, holding the child still while the pulsing lifeline was severed.

  "It's a miracle," Amy whispered to herself. Her precious son. Colin's wonderful plan to assure Goldsmith & Sons would rise again. Her love for Colin and—the biggest miracle of all—his for her.

  All of it—a miracle.

  Colin handed her the warm bundle. She held her wailing babe snug to her chest, afraid to crush him, but afraid to let him go. Ever.

  She gazed into Colin's eyes, fresh tears of joy flowing from her own. "Would you mind very much," she said tremulously, "if we called him Hugh, after my father?"

  The warm sound of Colin's laughter brought a smile to her lips. "If it's very important to you, we will, love," he choked out, "but I'm afraid the other little girls might tease her."

  "The other little girls?" She blinked, confused. "This child is a girl? A girl? Impossible." She opened the blanket a bit, slipping Colin a sidelong glance. "It would be just like you to play a practical joke like this."

  But there she was, pink-toed and perfect. Amy tore off the blankets and cradled her sniffling daughter against her own skin, rocking her instinctively.

  "How could I ever have thought she was a boy?" she wondered of a sudden. "She's been a girl all along. This infinitely precious girl is mine."

  Her daughter quieted then, cuddled against Amy's familiar body, her ear on Amy's chest, listening to the heartbeat that had sustained her for nine long months.

  Elizabeth beckoned to Lydia, and they slipped from the room.

  "I can teach her to make jewelry?" Amy asked, gazing up at Colin.

  His answer was in his eyes. They bore into hers, unblinking.

  "Will it not appear…unseemly?"

  He smiled, that old devilish smile that made her heart turn over. "Are you trying to talk me out of it?"

  "No." She took a deep breath. "It's just…too good to be true. Papa said I couldn't have everything, but I do. I have everything."

  "Well, I don't," he said flatly, failing to hide the humor in his voice.

  Amy didn't worry for a second. "You have me," she pointed out. "And our beautiful daughter. And Greystone—"

  She broke off as she saw his eyes turn that darkest green that melted her inside.

  "Every day we were apart," he said in the heart-wrenching husky voice she'd waited six long weeks to hear, "I dreamt of making love to you. It was the one thought that kept me going, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day. And now…"

  He shrugged, and that single expressive movement held all the pent-up frustration of a love that had gone unfulfilled.

  No, he couldn't make love to her, Amy thought, not right now.

  But soon…soon.

  And, "You can kiss me," she invited, her lips already tingling at the proposition of that talented, well-remembered mouth on hers.

  He did. Thoroughly.

  When he pulled away, their daughter opened her eyes to gaze unfocused at her parents for the very first time.

  Her emerald eyes mirrored Colin's own. He reached out to touch one little hand, his heart in his eyes as her tiny fingers wrapped around his big one.

  "What a precious jewel," he murmured.

  Amy met his gaze, her heart swelling in the shared moment. He was right. Of all the jewels she'd ever made, their daughter was the most precious.

  "Jewel," they whispered together.

  EPILOGUE

  Six years later

  Jewel climbed down the ladder and set it against the wall. Quietly, so her mother wouldn't hear. Then she squeezed through the door—carefully, carefully—since it was open only a tiny bit, just enough for a slip of a six-year-old pixie to fit through.

  She skipped through the kitchen, pausing to grab a warm tart from a fresh-baked pile, then across the great hall and down the corridor to the study. Hesitating, she wiped the crumbs from her rosebud mouth and swept the disheveled ebony hair back from her heart-shaped face. Then she placed a delicate hand on the latch and pushed, bursting into the chamber.

  "Papa, come quick! Mama's burned herself!"

  Colin jumped up from behind his desk. "Holy Jesus," he said under his breath. Jewel retraced her steps, this time at a run at her father's heels. She hurried to keep up.

  "Lord, let it not be bad," Colin whispered. The blast furnace in the workshop could rise to su
ch incredibly high temperatures. "Please let it not be bad."

  The workshop door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open—scrape, bang—and a deluge of frigid water poured down on him.

  Behind him, Jewel dissolved into hysterical giggles. His wife turned around from her workbench, a knife and wax ring model in her hands.

  "She got you," Amy said. "Again." Seeing Colin standing there, drenched, his hair plastered to his head and hanging to his shoulders in thick wet tendrils, she burst into laughter.

  Colin reached back to pull his still-giggling daughter into the room. With a violent shake of his head, he sprayed droplets of cold water onto her small head and shoulders. "Jewel Edith Chase," he said with mock severity, "this is getting way out of hand."

  "I owed you. For the lemonade."

  The previous week, Colin had promised Jewel a cool mug of lemonade after a vigorous fencing lesson, but the concoction he'd given her had been double-strength, no sugar. The pucker on her face had been priceless.

  He chuckled now, savoring the memory. "That was for the hay," he protested. "How did you do that hay thing, anyway?"

  "I'm not telling. We're even now."

  "Like hell we are."

  "Colin."

  Amy's gentle attempts to limit his blasphemy in their children's presence were mostly for naught, and she knew it. Colin smiled to himself, then narrowed his eyes at Jewel. "Is it not past your bedtime, young lady?"

  "Mama said I could cast my ring tonight."

  Amy laughed. "Good try, Jewel, but you spent the evening balancing a bucket of water."

  Colin knelt and hugged his daughter to his side. "You can cast your ring tomorrow."

  "If I go to bed now, will you tell me a story?"

  Colin groaned. "What is this, a negotiation?"

  "What's a negotayshun?"

  He ruffled her hair. "A negotiation is when—"

  "It's when you bat your pretty eyes at your father"—Amy's own eyes glittered with mischief—"and he gives you what you want."

  It was Colin's turn to protest. "Amy!"

  "Tell me a story, please," Jewel begged, her eyes sparkling with hope. Those emerald eyes that were exactly like his. Amy was right; he could never deny his daughter when she gazed at him like that. "Please, Papa. Tell me the one about when you were in France for the king, and your coach was stopped by hackneymen."