Amethyst (23 page)

She sighed. Nothing had changed there, either.

She quickly bathed from the washstand, taking a mental inventory as she rinsed away all evidence of last night. In spite of a nagging feeling that something should be different, she felt exactly the same. Her only souvenir seemed to be a slight but persistent soreness between her legs.

A delicious soreness….a soreness that began to tingle, radiating throughout her body. Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered exactly how Colin had touched her last night, every little thing he had done to make her feel so wonderful. She felt her face heat, though no one was there to see it. Shaking herself, she dug under the bedclothes for her chemise.

The sheets were stained. God in heaven, she couldn't just leave them like that. She slipped the chemise over her head and looked around for where bedclothes might be stored. The chamber held no cupboard, only the chest at the foot of the bed. She lifted its heavy wooden lid, and Colin's scent wafted out.

She breathed deeply, a smile teasing at her lips. Inside, his clothes were neatly folded. The suits were darker colors than were currently in fashion—hunter green, deep blue, rich brown—the fabrics fine, the decorations simple and tasteful.

One was black velvet with glinting gold braid…was it the same one he'd worn for the coronation procession? His shirts were very white, sewn of gossamer cambric that felt smooth and expensive beneath her fingertips. She shook one out and held it up to herself, giggling when it fell well below her knees.

Carefully she folded and replaced it, then delved beneath lace-edged cravats, tall boot stockings, and more handkerchiefs than a man could possibly use in a lifetime. To her vast relief, she found extra sheets in the bottom. And atop them, a small leather-bound book.

Gold lettering on the red cover identified it as
Hesperides, or The Works Both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq.
Inside, the front page was inscribed in beautiful, flowing script.

"March 1649. Poetry, for my son the dreamer. Your loving Mother."

Colin, a dreamer? Amy's lips curved at the thought.

She opened the book to a random page. "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." Well, the title wasn't fitting after last night—she blushed to think it—but…

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Times is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.

Words to live by, were they not? Smiling, she replaced the book and changed the sheets, folding the stained ones and leaving them atop the chest. Anxious to explore the castle, she hurried to finish dressing.

A survey of the ground floor revealed nothing of interest. Narrow slits through the curtain wall let in little light, rendering the unrestored chambers dank and dark. What was left of the furniture was draped in cloth, encrusted with layers of dust sufficient to discourage her from peeking underneath.

She paused at the closed door to Colin's study, picturing him inside hacking away at his ledgers. She hoped he was suffering mightily, although in truth she had no idea whether he had an aptitude for such work. There was a lot she didn't know about him, she admitted to herself.

And a lot she
did
know.

Weak-kneed at that thought, she leaned against the door, half-embarrassed, half-brazen for thinking such things. It was shocking and wicked and wonderful, all at the same time.

Squaring her shoulders, she made her way to the entry, where the beautifully restored oak staircase renewed her hopes of finding something more intriguing upstairs. As she trudged slowly up, her muscles ached in places she hadn't known she had. She wasn't sure whether those muscles protested at being forced to ride a horse or from unaccustomed exertion in Colin's bed…but she blushed again as her sore body bade her to recall the latter.

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.

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 gold 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.