Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3) (19 page)

She exploded, convulsing in wave after wave of pleasure so intense it was almost beyond bearing.

It seemed a long while before she could think straight, before Trick made his way up her body to place one last, gentle kiss on her lips.

"Tomorrow . . ." she whispered.

"Tomorrow is another day," he said. "And together we can make it a wonderful one."

"Wonderful," she breathed, meaning the glory of what had just happened.

"I know." A smile of pure male pride curved his lips. "Now sleep,
leannan
."

She inhaled deep of his distinctive scent, and another scent that was new to her, the seductive fragrance of spent passion. She sniffed again, smiling to herself, wanting nothing more than to lie awake and replay every moment, relive all the incredible new feelings.

But her earlier exhaustion overcame her, and wrapped in his arms, she drifted off.

It was pitch-black when Kendra awakened sometime in the night, the candle long since guttered out. In his sleep Trick was hugging her, his arms wrapped tightly. When she tried to wiggle free, they tightened more, holding her fast against his warm chest.

She felt smothered, trapped.

But she couldn't fight him, couldn't get away. She was too tired...she would try again later, after she got some more sleep...

Dawn was breaking when next she opened her eyes, feeling inexplicably lonely. Squinting in the faint gray light, she looked over to where Trick lay on his back, apart from her, snoring softly, his hands lax by his sides.

She scooted close, throwing an arm across his chest, but he snored on, still motionless. A stab of hurt, tiny but deep, took her by surprise. Tamping it down, she rolled to her back and stared at the beamed ceiling overhead, replaying last night in her mind.

Wonderful. Full of wonder. But something had been missing.

Everything he'd done had felt incredible, and she was certain she could do the same for him. But she wanted to be closer. Cait had said it wouldn't hurt. And maybe...maybe if she let Trick into her body, he would let her into his heart. Maybe she could start chipping away at the emotional wall he'd built.

And beyond those logical reasons, the naked truth was, she wanted him. Craved him. His body joined with hers, her heart joined with his.

"Trick?" she called softly.

No response.

She poked his shoulder. "Trick?"

"Hmm?" Without opening his eyes, he rolled toward her and flung an arm over her middle.

She snuggled happily into his warmth. "Tomorrow," she said, struggling to keep the tremble from her voice, "tomorrow night, I want to sleep with you."

"Sleeping now," he murmured.

"No. I want...I want..."

His eyes slid open and gazed into hers, so close. "Are you begging,
leannan
?" he whispered, a tentative note of hope in the words.

"I'm begging," she answered simply.

He raised up to give her a sleepy smile, and she kissed him, running her tongue across the chip in his tooth. When his head dropped back to the pillow, his arms tightened around her, holding her fast against his body.

And she drifted off to sleep again, not feeling smothered at all.

"There's the castle," Trick said after a long day spent on the road. "In the distance, atop that hill. Just as I remembered."

Kendra squinted through the half-light of dusk. "It looks...forbidding." At the end of a narrow, twisty path, twin square towers rose from the hill, thrusting gray and ugly into the leaden sky. "How old is it? Is there no manor house attached?"

"Thirteenth century. It's just the two connected keeps. They're large, though—the distance is deceiving."

"It must be very cold."

"There are fireplaces."

"I'm not talking about the temperature. It doesn't look like a friendly place."

"It isn't," he said shortly.

While two carriages and a luggage cart rolled slowly behind, attended by Trick's servants, they guided their mounts silently past a somber gray-stone church that stood at the edge of a small village. The simple homes seemed eerily empty, however. Though the rain had stopped, no children had come out to play, no women were hanging out wash, no men were at work.

The clip-clop of their horse's hooves sounded loud in the odd stillness.

"Where is everyone?" Kendra asked.

"I'm wondering myself." He glanced up the hill. "Do you hear laughter?"

"Maybe. Far away."

"Up at the castle." As they rode closer, he could hear it better. "They must be holding an entertainment that includes the whole village. Strange...I cannot remember anything like that from when I lived here. Mother doesn't strike me as the type."

"People change in eighteen years."

"I expect you're right." Lost in memories, Trick remained quiet as they made their way to the hill and started up it. The laughter grew louder. When they crested the rise, they saw athletic events in progress on the lawn that bordered the keeps. Five young men were lining up for a foot race while two other lads executed standing jumps and lassies poked fun at their results.

"Will you test your skills?" Kendra asked as they slid off their horses.

"Maybe later." Trick gave her a shaky smile, handing his reins to an Amberley outrider.

A few curious glances were focused their way, but no one made a move to greet them. Shrugging, Trick instructed his staff to find the stables and settle the horses, then took Kendra's elbow and headed inside. Worn stone steps rose to a landing and a small, arched door that stood open, allowing more laughter to drift out into the cool early-evening air.

Beyond the door, a short tunnel led through the twenty-foot-thick wall. At the far end of the passageway they stepped into the first towering keep.

It was every bit as dark and cold as he'd remembered. Iron chandeliers dripped with candles struggling vainly to brighten the great hall, a vaulted chamber of ancient gray stone.

He stood stock still while memories flooded back: having lessons at the old oak desk with his tutor; taking meals at the long trestle table with his mother; playing at her feet while she sat with her embroidery at the far end where flames roared in the immense canopied fireplace, his toy soldiers lined up on the scarred wooden floor. The Cavalier soldiers had always won, of course, since his father had been away fighting among them.

The chamber was teeming with people, and two children chased around him, but he barely took notice even when one bumped his knees. "I remembered it larger," he murmured to Kendra. "It's not nearly the size of Cainewood's great hall."

"It's large enough."

"I recall thinking as a child that it was so big and high a man on horseback could turn a spear in it with all the ease imaginable."

"He'd have to get through the door first," she said with a grin.

Indeed, the entrance they'd just ducked through was shorter than himself by a head or more—precisely to stop raiders on horseback from entering. Even on foot, a grown man couldn't enter without stooping, therefore hampering his ability to attack. He remembered asking about that short doorway as a child, over and over, as children were wont to do.

Kendra's lips moved, but he cocked his head, unable to hear her through the din. "You look pale," she repeated loudly.

"Memories." He shrugged, looking around. "I believe there is a painting of Queen Mary of Scots under there," he said, indicating a rectangle draped in black.

"Why is it covered?"

"To prevent the spirit going in the wrong direction."

He blinked, wondering who had answered.

"You look oddly familiar," he heard Kendra say, and turned to see the man she was addressing.

He could only stare. Several heartbeats passed while all around them people cheered on their favorite of two men playing jump-the-stick.

"I'm Niall," the blond young man introduced himself, bewilderment clouding his golden eyes. "And I thank you for attending my dear mother's wake." He paused expectantly and then added, "Whoever you may be."

"Patrick Caldwell, the Duke of Amberley," Trick replied. "And my wife, the Duchess. And I'm looking for
my
mother."

"Holy Christ." Niall visibly paled. "I should have guessed. She always said we looked like twins." And he launched himself at Trick, wrapping his arms around him and letting loose a deep, shuddering sob. "You came," he blubbered. "You're a wee bit late, but you came, after all. I told her you would."

At a loss, Trick let the young man hang on his body, wetting his surcoat with heartfelt tears. Hesitantly he placed his hands on the lad's back and gave him a couple of awkward pats. His mind swimming in confusion, he looked to Kendra, sending her a silent plea for help.

She tapped Niall on the shoulder. "Who are you?" she asked.

The young man stilled and pulled back a bit, a frown creasing the forehead above his red-rimmed eyes. He turned to Kendra and blinked hard, swiping a hand under his nose. "I'm your husband's brother," he said slowly.

Feeling blank-headed, Trick gingerly extricated himself. "I have no brother."

"Aye, you do." Niall's gaze trailed to the center of the chamber. "And our mother is in that coffin."

Robbed of breath, Trick woodenly followed Niall to the open coffin. He wanted to protest—in his head, he was screaming this couldn't be his brother, it couldn't be his mother in that box—but words wouldn't come. Words were beyond him just now. Stepping closer, he peered inside.

It was she.

She appeared older than he remembered, though her gown looked as though it would befit a younger woman. Her
deid-claes
, he realized—the first duty of a new Scottish wife was to sew the funeral clothes for herself and her husband. She'd obviously followed the custom. Beneath the gown, her legs were encased in the traditional white woolen stockings, and upon her feet were sturdy shoes, symbolic of the thorny path she was about to journey.

He'd traveled all the way here to make his peace with his mother, but that was never to be. His mother was dead.

It seemed impossible.

Her serene appearance sat at odds with the churning in Trick's stomach. Why had she written to him? What would have been said between them had he arrived in time? Questions raced in his head, and he wished mightily that she would open her eyes and answer them.

But there were coins on her lids to keep them closed—it was feared that if one looked a corpse in the eye, it would take you as a companion. And he knew that, coins or not, she wouldn't be answering him, anyway.

His mother was dead, and he seemed rooted to the floor.

"Touch her," Niall urged, doing so himself, his fingers gentle on their mother's cheek. "They say it will banish the ghosts of her from your mind."

Trick reached out, then pulled back. "I cannot."

It had been too long since he'd touched her in life. Eighteen years of loneliness, eighteen years of resentment. This journey had been a pilgrimage of sorts, his chance to mend old wounds, reconcile his past so he could start life anew with his wife.

But inside him, the wounds seemed to gape open fresh.

His mother had always failed him, and this time was no different.

He turned and stared into his brother's golden eyes. His own eyes, it seemed. Niall's hair was longer, shoulder-length, but the same shining straight blond as Trick's, and though Niall was quite a bit younger—seventeen, Trick guessed him at—they were of a height.

His brother. He'd never had a sibling. His heart swelling with sudden emotion, Trick gathered Niall close, and Niall hugged him back, hard. Then they pulled apart and looked each other over.

"I have a brother," Trick said, and a small smile ghosted Niall's grief-ravaged face to match the larger smile on Trick's. "Who is your father?" Trick asked.

"Hamish Munroe. His wife died shortly after you left, and he and Mam...well, they'd always..." The younger man drew a shuddering breath. "I'll take you to him."

Niall motioned Trick and Kendra to a turret attached to a corner of the great hall.

They followed him single file up a narrow, twisting stone staircase lit by dangerous, old-fashioned torches set at intervals. The rocks looked ancient, and when Kendra put her hand to the wall for balance, she half-expected it to crumble beneath her fingers. But her hand just came away dirty.