Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3) (13 page)

"Neither am I."

Kendra's heart beat double-time when he took her face between his hands. His fingers were warm, and so was his breath as he leaned close, bringing his mouth down to hers.

"Amberley!"

Trick's hands dropped from her cheeks, and they both looked up to see a carriage approaching. A florid man stuck his head out the open window. "We've come to pay our respects," the man called. "To you and your lovely bride."

"Garrick," Trick muttered under his breath. "And Fielding, Faraday, and Milner, I'm guessing." The carriage rolled to a stop, and sure enough, four men climbed out.

Kendra recognized all of them—minor aristocrats who lived in the vicinity. Though they weren't important enough to have been on her brothers' list of potential husbands, country life was insular, and she'd met them at various entertainments over the years. Just last summer she'd danced with Fielding and Milner at Jason and Cait's wedding celebration ball. She'd found Fielding rather charming in a bumbling sort of way, but Milner's breath had smelled like overaged cheese.

"Good day, gentlemen," Trick said. "Welcome."

He didn't sound like he meant it.

Garrick walked over to pump Trick's hand. "Congratulations, congratulations."

He had a big round head and a belly to match. Apparently he needed to fill it, because when he took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, his flabby lips broke into a grin.

"We're just in time for supper, are we not?"

"Trick?" Kendra murmured, awakened by the soft sounds of her husband moving about the bedchamber. Her eyes fluttered open to glimpse his gold hair haloed by the morning sun that streamed through the window.

Turning, he smiled and came close, leaning down to brush a delicate kiss across her lips. "You fell asleep on me last night," he accused, straightening and disappearing into the dressing room.

"Did I?" She stretched beneath the covers. "I don't remember a thing past supper."

"You nodded into your chicken cullis." His voice sounded muffled, then stronger as he strode back into the room, carrying a pair of boots and a surcoat. "And I'd thought you were enjoying our impromptu party."

"And the cullis was so good," she recalled.

He grinned. "You only liked it so much because it was sweet."

"I don't expect I made a good impression. Are those men really your friends?"

"Aye, and your brothers' friends, too." He sat on a tufted velvet chair to pull on the boots. "We all play whist once a month."

"The mysterious weekend house parties." More secrets. This man was so evasive, she wondered if she'd ever truly come to know him. "Why do men have to be so secretive?" she said more darkly than she intended.

But he didn't seem to notice. "Harmless games," he answered with a shrug. "Did you not like the fellows?"

"Faraday is a terrible flirt, especially given he's married. Fielding is agreeable enough, but never quite seems to know what he's about. Garrick is rather strange, is he not? He couldn't seem to stay seated, always seemed to be poking around. I wonder what he could have been looking for? And Milner wears entirely too much scent. He should think about taking a bath instead."

His gaze on her, Trick rose. "You're very astute. I couldn't have summed them up so succinctly, and I've socialized with them for months. You were with them naught but a couple of hours."

"It was enough." She watched him shrug into the surcoat. "What do you see in those men?"

"Money. They always lose." He grinned as he slid his sword into his belt, then took a pistol from atop the dressing table, hefting it before arming himself with it as well. "I'll see you this afternoon." He came to her, bending for one more kiss, soft and lingering. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before he straightened once again. "Rest up,
leannan
."

With a muted click, the door closed behind him, and she listened to his footsteps retreat down the corridor. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when she replayed his words—and his kisses—in her mind, that she realized he'd been wearing all black.

He was getting close. With any luck, this would be the last time.

He'd pulled two robberies this week while Kendra was reading to the children at Caldwell Manor. He wished he'd escaped unseen today, but she'd lain abed late, and it had been necessary to leave.

He'd seen a pattern occurring, every third day mid-morning, and today was day number three. He could only hope his wife had been sleepy enough that she hadn't noticed what he'd been about.

She'd been losing sleep. Over him? The thought made him smile.

He was making subtle progress, in more areas than one.

Her pulse pounding, Kendra dismounted and tethered Pandora to a tree, then made her way on foot to the hill.

As she neared the crest, she dropped to her knees. One hand snaked out and snatched a hat, a handsome brown one with a bright yellow plume. She perched it on her head and slithered forward on her belly, tossing the wooden block behind her and lying low, hopefully at the same level as the other hats. Maneuvering a pipe before her, she propped her chin on it and focused on the road below.

Oh, God, Trick had someone already. Mounted on Chaucer, he aimed his pistol into the gaping blackness of an open coach door. Her heart thundered in her chest as a gray-garbed man emerged and climbed reluctantly to the road.

"Oh, aye?" Trick's drawl floated up to her. "You may want to reconsider. My
friends
would think it great sport to put a bullet through your chest. Or a dozen, maybe. Ah, a contest. Target practice on your sorry hide."

The man would have been quaking in his boots, except he was wearing ugly thick shoes with dull silver buckles. His eyes flicked nervously up toward Kendra, and she held her breath when Trick's gaze followed. It took every ounce of her will to keep from flinching or ducking as her husband squinted in her direction.

The victim's eyes narrowed. In seeming slow motion, Kendra watched as the man backed away, one hand deliberately rising. He stared at Trick with a tight expression that made a cold knot form in Kendra's stomach, especially because her husband's concentration remained fixed on the place where she hid.

Oh, God, why had she come? Recognition lit Trick's eyes along with clear displeasure, and she knew he would kill her—if he didn't die first. As the stranger's hand inched beneath his coat, her fingers clenched on the pipe, vainly searching for the fake gun's nonexistent trigger.

Why wasn't Trick taking heed?

And why wasn't the Puritan afraid of Trick's "friends"? In her peripheral vision, she could see the hats and pipes lined up in a soldierlike array. An explicit threat to anyone below. But the stranger's edginess was obvious, his gaze glued to Trick, who in turn was still focused on her.

The victim wasn't thinking clearly, Kendra realized—distracted as he was, he couldn't be counted on to act rationally. Which made him dangerous. As his hand delved even deeper, she found it increasingly hard to hold still, and Trick, damn him, wasn't paying attention.

Silver flashed—a pistol or a knife? It happened so quickly, Kendra couldn't be sure. Her heart seemed to stop, and her mouth opened to cry out a warning. But before it could pass her lips, her husband burst into action.

A blur of flying arms and legs, Trick leapt from his horse. He landed and twisted the Puritan's hand up behind him, all in one smooth motion. The next thing Kendra knew, a gun had thudded to the ground, and the man was facedown in the dirt with a knee in the small of his back.

Her heart stuttered and restarted. Where on earth had Trick learned to do that? Most of the men she knew trained with pistols and swords, and quite a few were proficient in boxing, besides. But those were gentlemen's sports—nothing like the skills Trick had demonstrated here. She'd never seen such lightning-fast reactions.

Evidently, neither had the Puritan. Fear was etched on his face, and she could see his legs shaking when Trick finally allowed him to rise, still holding one arm twisted back and high.

Relief singing through her veins, she collapsed flat on her belly. The hat fell off, rolling a foot before it slipped over the edge and tumbled to the road below with a muted
plop
that made her grimace.

But her husband didn't spare it—or her—a glance. At his bidding, the man managed to empty both pockets with his one free hand, defeat evident as he hurried to comply. When Trick demanded his coat as well, he relinquished it without argument.

After a short glimpse into the cabin and a circuit around the coach seemed to convince Trick no more booty was forthcoming, he released the stranger and shoved him inside. Motionless, he held Chaucer's reins while the coach rumbled off down the road.

Dust puffed in its wake, settling slowly to earth as the carriage disappeared into the distance. Nothing but the calls of blackbirds filled the air when Trick finally turned to the hill.

His voice wafted to Kendra, calm, yet dangerous. "What the hell do you think you're doing up there?"

He led Chaucer forward, stopping to retrieve the victim's gun and the fallen hat before walking around and up the hill. He removed his mask as he went, then stood gazing down at her.

She dropped her head to the grass. Though her face was mashed into the springy blades, she felt his eyes boring into her back.

"Well?"

"I was spying on you," she squeaked.

His breath huffed out. "Sit up, Kendra. I cannot talk to you like this."

She pushed up and sat, her gaze on her hands clenched in her lap. Her pale yellow gown was damp, the area around the knees stained bright grass-green.

"Look at me," he said, unmistakably exasperated. "It's not like you to hide. Not how I envision you at all." As she glanced up, he flicked the long, crimped brown periwig hair over his shoulders.

"I came because I was afraid you'd get hurt," she said.

"What made you think I'd get hurt?" His eyes narrowed, appearing naked without the mask and their usual veil of blond hair. "Do you...care?" he asked slowly.

"Of course I care!" She couldn't remember ever having been more frightened in her life. "I saw him pull the pistol. He could have had a knife, too."

"He did." He drew a long, lethal blade from the man's coat and dropped both to the grass, moving closer. "But I can handle myself, aye? So long as you don't show up and interfere."

"I didn't—"

"Your very presence broke my concentration. And had he seen you up here...do you imagine he'd be put off by a pack of women?"

"Were it women with guns, I'd hope so!" she shot back.

Blinking, he reached a hand to help her rise. She was surprised to find her knees trembling.

His gaze searched hers. "Do not ever, ever do that again," he said very quietly. He moved closer, so close his breath whispered over her face. "You could have gotten me killed."

Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Never." She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. "You understand, aye? Never."

"Oh, Trick." Her arms came up and wrapped around his neck, of their own volition, it seemed. She buried her face in his shoulder, chagrined at her tears. For what? A man she barely knew, never mind that they were married? A man who kept secrets and mistresses? A man who lied to her?

None of it made any sense.

"Shh, lassie." His own arms stole around her and held her tight. "It's all right. No harm done." He kissed her hair. "You care, aye?"

"I don't want you to do it again, Trick. But the children—the children will suffer..."

His grip tightened. "I've yet to be hurt—"

"You've been lucky. And luck can change."

"Not luck." He pulled back and fixed her with a calculated grin. "Talent."

Having seen that talent demonstrated, she had to offer him a shaky smile.

"Maybe just a few more times," he said, "and then—"

"There will be enough to invest. And you can stop?"

"Something like that," he murmured.

His eyes searched hers, their amber depths holding her hostage. Summer sun glinted off the roughness on his unshaven cheeks. Her breath caught as his mouth came down on hers.