by Lauren Royal
"Highwaymen."
"Whatever. Tell me, please."
Those eyes. "As you wish. Go get ready for bed, and I'll come up in a while and tell you the story."
"Can Hugh hear it, too?"
Jewel's brother Hugh was a strapping boy of four who followed his father around like a shadow. The next Earl of Greystone.
And then, of course, there was Aidan. Colin glanced at the sleeping child snuggled in the corner of the workshop. At six months, he still needed Amy near. And he would learn his trade here; his future was here.
"Papa…" His gaze moved from the cradle back to Jewel. "Please, Papa. Hugh loves your stories—you know he does."
"Very well, sweetheart." Emerald eyes sparkled again, and Colin's heart melted a bit more. Would he never get over the wonder of these precious beings entrusted to his care? "Now, go. I'll be along directly," he told her with a sigh.
She went, skipping out into the kitchen as though she hadn't a care in the world. Which was true. And Colin hoped he could keep it that way for a long, long time.
Closing the door, he turned to his wife. "Did you see how ingenious that was?" he asked, amazed at his daughter's creativity. "Look how she connected the bucket's handle to the door latch with a rope, so it wouldn't hit me on the head when it fell off the top of the door. Brilliant. Just brilliant." He shook his head slowly in admiration. "Our daughter is so incredible."
Trust Colin to equate intelligence with a well executed practical joke, Amy mused, rising from her workbench. She too was convinced their daughter was a genius, but her opinion stemmed from Jewel's reading ability and thirst for knowledge.
"I know what she did." Amy pushed the wet hair off Colin's face and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I was here, working."
"And you let her do it, anyway."
"Of course—you deserved it after the lemonade. Besides, she thinks she went unnoticed. She was quiet as a mouse, and I kept my back to her the whole time."
"So you're an accessory to the crime," Colin accused, with that devastating smile that made Amy's heart turn over, even after all these years.
"I suppose one could conclude that."
"Which reminds me: How did she manage that hay trick? You must know."
Amy did know. Jewel and Benchley, whom she'd long ago charmed into acting as her willing accomplice, had placed a board against the open wardrobe and stuffed hay behind it, then closed the door most of the way, pulled the board, and slammed the wardrobe shut. When Colin opened it to hang his shirt on a peg, he'd turned into a human haystack.
Watching from their bed, Amy had laughed herself sick. Jewel had run in, crowing with delight, prompting Colin to initiate a wrestling match that resulted in an explosion of sweet-smelling hay spread all about the chamber. And after Jewel returned to bed, Colin had picked the strands of hay from Amy's hair, one by one, running them over her body…
Amy shook her head to clear it. No, she hadn't the right to give away Jewel's secrets. "I have no idea," she said coyly. "Jewel doesn't confide in me."
But Benchley does, she amended to herself. Benchley was forever boasting about Lady Jewel's accomplishments. To everyone but Jewel's father, that was.
Benchley was loyal to a fault.
"Are you quite certain?" Colin asked, his mouth against hers.
"Quite."
His arms tightened around her, and his lips pressed closer, warm and demanding. Her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue plunged deep, exploring possessively. Amy's knees turned to pudding, and she felt the blood coursing through her veins, spreading the familiar tingling weakness to every part of her body, but most especially the part that was reserved for Colin.
His hand reached down to tug at her skirts, and then it was under them and his fingers were cupping her. She throbbed, unbearably so, and if Colin's arms weren't supporting her, she would surely have slipped to the floor.
His kiss intensified, claiming her as his alone.
Her senses whirled, and her heart pounded so loud she was certain he could hear it. She vaguely wondered how she could feel this way—she, a grown lady of twenty-nine, with three children. But inside, she felt no older than when Colin first kissed her, so many years ago. And his kisses still affected her the same way, only more so.
"Amy…" Colin murmured into her mouth.
"Hmm?"
His hand stilled, and he pulled his lips from hers. But he pressed her even tighter to his hard body, his other hand in the small of her back. "How did Jewel pull off the hay trick?"
His lips brushed hers teasingly, his hand a warm promise beneath her skirts.
And she almost told him…
"Lord Greystone?" A sharp knock came at the door.
Colin jumped away with a groan. "Yes?"
Lydia opened the door and stuck her head in just as Amy smoothed down her skirts, her cheeks hot with arousal and embarrassment.
"Lady Jewel says you were supposed to tell her a story?"
"Oh…yes…I did promise her a story…didn't I?"
Though Lydia kept a straight face, Amy hid a smile. She knew she and Colin shared an unconventional marriage. Colin laid down the law with each new servant: One didn't just open a closed door when Lord and Lady Greystone were in residence. It didn't matter whether the door led to the bedchamber or the buttery, one knocked first—or risked being sorry later.
When Lydia hurried back to her charge, Colin groaned again. Amy knew he would follow—he'd never disappoint his precious Jewel.
A Chase promise was not given lightly.
"This will be continued," Colin vowed before going to his daughter. His deep, husky voice held a challenge, and Amy knew he was referring to the hay episode and what he doubtless considered an ingenious, delicious new method of inducing her to confess what she knew about it.
But, her body still tingling, she chose to interpret his words in an entirely different context.
This will be continued. For a long, long, long time.
Forever.
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BONUS MATERIAL
Author's Note
Books by Lauren Royal
Contest
Excerpt from EMERALD
A Gift for You
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Contact Information
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Dear Reader,
When I read a historical novel, I always find myself wondering what and who (besides obvious people like the king and queen) might actually be real. In case any of my readers share this curiosity, I thought a bit of information might be welcome.
The king's mistress, Barbara Villiers Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine (and later, after this story takes place, the Duchess of Cleveland), was indeed real. As King Charles's mistress on and off for at least ten years, she bore him four sons—all of which he created dukes—and a daughter. Charles granted lifetime annuities of £6000 a year for Barbara and £3000 for each of their sons. These were amazing sums at the time and more than he granted any other mistresses or children, yet he must have known Barbara had other lovers—a vast string of them, including not only many English and French courtiers, but also actors, a playwright, a Groom of the King's Bedchamber, and even a rope dancer!
I tried my best to recreate Barbara's vibrant personality from contemporary accounts of her life. I'll never forget the first time I read one of her early biographies, as a college student in the library at UC Irvine. The book, almost 300 years old, was much too valuable and brittle for them to lend out, but (unbelievably!) they did let me touch and read it. I remember my hands shaking—I found it so inc
redible that someone's words had come down to me through all that time. Years have passed, and I now have several very old books in my own library, but I still touch them reverently—such is the power and endurance of the written word.
Though Barbara Palmer presented Charles with more children than any of his other mistresses, many other women shared his bed. He eventually acknowledged nine sons and five daughters, and it's assumed that he had more. Sadly, Queen Catharine never did present him with legitimate offspring, but at long last a descendent of his is poised to sit on the throne, since Princess Diana's sons are descended from Charles II and Barbara, through their son Charles Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, born in 1663.
As for Frances Stewart, the gorgeous but empty-headed courtier that Barbara and Colin were gossiping about, Charles did decide to forgive her for marrying the Duke of Richmond and eventually succeeded in wooing her as well. Unfortunately, shortly thereafter she fell ill of smallpox, and the resulting facial disfigurement seems to have cooled Charles's passions. But Charles was ever kindhearted, so she remained his friend. Before Frances succumbed to the dreaded disease, Charles's sister described her as "the prettiest girl in the world," and Charles immortalized that famous beauty when he had her pose as Britannia: Frances's face and torso still grace English coins.
Cainewood Castle is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It has been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their family, the Fitzalan Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors and more than worth a detour, should you ever find yourself in the area.
Greystone was inspired by Amberley Castle, also in West Sussex. Charles II visited the castle in 1651 and 1685. The then tenant, Sir John Brisco, commemorated the second visit by commissioning a mural of Charles and Queen Catharine, which can still be seen in the Queen's Room, now a gourmet restaurant. The castle has passed through many hands and is now run as a luxurious country house hotel. The walls exude the spirit of dreams and legends, and a stay there is the stuff memories are made of, well worth the splurge.
For their London town house, the Chases have borrowed Lindsey House bordering Lincoln's Inn Fields. Attributed to the esteemed architect Inigo Jones, it is the only original house left in the square. The house takes its name from Robert, third Earl of Lindsey, who purchased the property in the 1660s from the family of Sir Theodore Mayerne, who had been doctor to James I and Charles I. There have been various distinguished occupants since, including James Whistler, who painted the famous portrait of his mother there.
To see pictures and learn more about the real places and real people featured in Amethyst, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find a recipe for the Rabbit Stew that Amy made for Colin. If you try the recipe, I hope you'll e-mail me at [email protected] and tell me what you think, because I love to hear from readers!
For a chance to revisit Amy and Colin, look for Emerald and Amber, the other books in my Jewel Trilogy. You'll find an Emerald excerpt in the back of this book. You can also read Clarice and Mary's story in my novella, Forevermore. (But don't read it before Emerald unless you don't mind spoilers!) And Ford's story is in Violet, the first book in my Flower Trilogy.
To hear about my upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter (@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!
I hope you enjoyed Amethyst—thank you for reading!
Till next time,
BOOKS BY LAUREN ROYAL
The Jewel Trilogy
Amethyst
Emerald
Amber
Forevermore (a Jewel Trilogy novella)
The Flower Trilogy
Violet
Lily
Rose
The Temptations Trilogy
Lost in Temptation
Tempting Juliana
The Art of Temptation
ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN
the sterling silver locket that Amy gives Mary in this book!*
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*Please note: Depending on when you enter, the prize may be another piece of jewelry associated with one of Lauren's books.
Excerpt from
EMERALD
Book Two of the
Jewel Trilogy
by Lauren Royal
Chichester, England
August 1, 1667
"Jason, you cannot mean to kill him."
Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched from the grasp his brother Ford had on his upper arm. "By God, no. But I'll learn why he did this and bring him to justice if it's the last thing I do."
"I've never seen you like this—"
"Because I've never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or her mother's torn clothes and bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard's name over and over." Trembling with rage, his hand came up to worry his narrow black mustache. "My villagers." He met Ford's gaze with his own. "My responsibility."
"You've plastered the kingdom with broadsides." Ford's blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. "The reward will bring him in."
"I'm bloody well satisfied to bring him in myself."
Jason turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester's vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. Carved from limestone, it was arguably the most elaborate structure in all of England…but the beauty of its intricate tracery was at odds with the evil that lurked inside.
An evil that Jason intended to deal with.
Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news beneath the dome, paused to glance his way. He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slim with a stance that bordered on elegant; Walter, shorter and rawboned.
Jason's footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following behind. In their wake, people seemed to stream from all four corners of town, rushing to catch the show.
Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit.
With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a furious gaze. "You'll come with me to the magistrate," he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.
Gothard merely stared at him. For a fleeting moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.
Jason's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "Now, Gothard."
The other man's gaze held hard and unwavering. "My nearest and dearest enemy," he drawled in an insolent tone.
A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn't uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut.
Confusion churned with the anger in Jason's stomach. "Why should you call me your enemy?"
Gothard's gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. "The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?"
"I am," Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his calm routine, back to his estate, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging him for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.
Blue eyes that might never open again.
And there stood the man who had battered her, shaded by the Gothic structure overhead.
"I've done nothing to draw your ire—we've never met." Jason squinted at the man in the shadows. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled with any exposure to the su
n—and it looked as though they'd seen much exposure of late. "Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest."
The man's blue eyes went stony with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.
Maybe they had crossed paths.
"To the devil with you, Cainewood."
Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. Honor. The questions could wait—for now.
He slowly counted to ten, focusing on the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. As responsibility weighed heavily on his mind, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Father would have expected this of him. To defend what was his, stand up for what was right—no matter the personal cost.
Deliberately he drew the rapier from its scabbard.
"Damn you to bloody hell." Gothard pulled his own sword with a quick screak that snapped the expectant silence. "We'll settle this here and now."
Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade's thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.
His free hand trembled at his side.
With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.
The vibrations shimmied up Jason's arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm's way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.
Like most men of his class, he'd been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.
Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.