Amethyst (8 page)

"SHE'S TOUCHING
me."

Rubbing his dry, burning eyes, Colin glanced over his shoulder at the children in the wagon bed.

"He's looking at me oddly."

Colin clenched his teeth and turned his attention back to the road, where it seemed every inhabitant of London was ahead of him. A leisurely carriage ride from London to Cainewood Castle normally took about five hours, but the sun was setting, and after six hours they weren't even a quarter of the way there.

They could walk to Cainewood faster than they were moving, he thought irritably.

"She won't stop humming."

"Ouch!"

He had to find somewhere to stay before major warfare broke out. For the past hour, he'd stopped at every inn along the way and sent Davis to inquire about available lodging. Colin was beginning to believe every room in the kingdom was taken.

When Davis came out of the last one, shaking his head, Colin had briefly considered bedding outdoors for the night. But although it was warm, there was a persistent wind, and he shuddered at the thought of trying to make nine children comfortable with not so much as a blanket.

Nine children and Amy Goldsmith.

He glanced down at her grimy face. Amethyst Goldsmith—whoever would have thought? He'd left her shop two weeks ago with no intention of ever going back, ever purchasing another piece of jewelry, ever seeing her again. And now here she was, dropped—literally—right in his lap.

God's blood, it was incredible! What had he done to deserve this?

She'd moved up in her sleep, and her head now rested on his thigh. He'd warrant she'd turn red with embarrassment if she knew. She was so different from the women in his circle, and it was more than a lack of sophistication. It was a freshness, an optimism in those clear, innocent eyes—untouched by the Civil War, the years of the Commonwealth, the Restoration—all the calamities that had such a large part in the shaping of Colin and all of his acquaintances.

For the dozenth time, he allowed himself to touch her, thanking God she was alive. He ran the backs of his fingers over her delicate jawline and down her graceful neck, then slid his palm along her arm. He lifted her hand, lightly encircling her slender wrist. When she stirred he hastily replaced it, setting it back on her curving hip.

Murmuring something incoherent, Amy flexed her lithe body a bit, then settled back into sleep. Her long black lashes looked like feathery crescents on her tear-streaked cheeks.

Colin tore his gaze away and stared straight ahead at the congested road. Why did an innocent touch leave him so…disturbed? His betrothed, Priscilla, was the perfect woman for him, yet when he touched her—or made love to her, for that matter—he never felt like this.

He was more familiar with Priscilla, he decided, more comfortable. He wasn't
supposed
to touch Amy this way—indeed, he wouldn't dare if she were awake. It was the excitement of the forbidden, that was all.

Besides, he wasn't looking for passion in his marriage. He'd told his sister as much just last night.

God's blood, had it been but a day since his family's visit to Greystone? He felt ages removed from the lighthearted man who had pulled that prank. It seemed as though he hadn't slept in a week.

He pulled up before another inn and sent Davis to investigate. Scuffling sounds and a high-pitched shriek came from the back of the wagon. Colin's empty stomach complained loudly, and he came to a decision.

They were stopping here. To eat, if nothing else.

They were in luck—of sorts. Davis came running back to report that there was room in the inn. One room, to be precise. With two beds. For eleven people.

Well, it was shelter, and Colin was inclined to think there might be nothing else available between here and Cainewood. He sent Davis to claim it before someone else pulled off the road.

Amy washed down a bite of meat pie with ale, allowing the children's anxious chatter to lull her. Wedged on the bench between a girl of five and a boy of six, she kept her gaze on her plate and avoided Lord Greystone's eyes across the table.

She had no wish to talk—given her choice, she wouldn't even be awake. She'd managed to spend the past few hours in oblivion, casting the time away. Dreaming…warm hands caressing her…comforting. Now that she was conscious, she felt guilty for having such a dream when her father was dead.

A sudden sharp pain of loss overwhelmed her, and she struggled to force it back inside. She couldn't think about it now—it was too fresh, and she was too broken.

"Bread, Amy?" Lord Greystone's rich voice cut through her thoughts.

She slowly brought her gaze to his. "No, thank you."

"Cheese?"

"I'm really not hungry." She could see Lord Greystone eyeing her barely eaten pie, so she stuck her spoon in it.

"You have to eat." The statement was matter-of-fact, but his voice was filled with concern. "You'll fall ill."

When she dropped her spoon and lowered her eyes again, Lord Greystone cleared his throat and rose. "I'll take the children upstairs. You stay for a bit and finish your supper. Will you wait for me here?"

Amy raised her chin and nodded up at him.

"I'll come back down for you," he promised, and took himself off, the children trailing in his wake.

She toyed with her food for the next quarter-hour, breaking up her pie, the spoon awkward in her left hand. She attempted a couple of bites, but the meat had turned cold and stuck in her throat, nearly making her gag. Gulping more ale, she pushed her plate away; she hadn't been hungry in the first place, but Lord Greystone had insisted on setting it in front of her.

When her ale was finished, she stared at the pattern in the oak table and blanked her mind until, out of a corner of her eye, she glimpsed Lord Greystone coming downstairs.

He'd cleaned up, neatly pulled back his hair, donned his surcoat. It was ripped a bit, but he'd brushed it clean of the ash and soot. His grayish shirt showed between the unbuttoned front. He needed a shave, but looked strong and male—and
there
.

Watching as he went through a swinging door into the kitchen, she ran her fingers through her own tangled hair. Earlier, she'd scrubbed the grime from her face and unraveled her disheveled plait, but found nothing with which to brush it out. Their tiny room had no mirror—she was sure she looked a sight.

Not that she cared.

COLIN BACKED THROUGH
the kitchen door with two bowls full of sloshing liquid in his hands, some strips of cloth draped over one arm, and a jar of honey wedged between chin and shoulder.

He put everything on the table and straddled the bench beside Amy, motioning his head toward her plate. "Finished eating?"

"Yes, I am."

"May I have a look at that hand? We really should clean it."

"I suppose so," she said, offering her hand.

Colin wondered if he were up to the task of drawing her out of this dreamlike state. He had to figure out something to do with her, but she wouldn't be much help if she persisted in answering him with three-word sentences.

He glanced at her hand and winced. "Ouch!" he said with a mock shudder.

"It's not so bad."

"Bad enough." He gently placed her hand in one bowl. "We'll soak it for a few minutes, shall we?"

Her long black lashes swept down as she squinted at the bowl. "What is it?"

He smiled distractedly. "Cream."

"Cream? You mean, from milk?" She gave a slight shake of her head, making her dark hair shimmer in the flickering light. The glossy waves tumbled to her waist, and throughout the entire supper, Colin had been quite unable to keep his eyes off it.

"Why cream?" she asked.

"Huh?" He shook himself. "Good question. Doesn't everyone put cream on burns?"

"I think not," she mused, drawing her eyebrows together. Then her face cleared. She lifted her left index finger and raised it as though to make a point. "Butter. In my family, we put butter on burns."

"We always use cream," he asserted. "As well as honey. I hear tell butter's no good."

"That's not what I've heard," she said dubiously.

"Well, how does it feel?"

She paused, considering, then tilted her head. "A little better, I guess."

"See?" His smile was triumphal.

Amy smiled back; the smile was shy and more than a little bit sad, but a smile nonetheless. Colin congratulated himself.

"That should do it." She started a little when he took her hand, but he pretended not to notice. While he held it over the bowl, watching the cream run off in tiny rivulets, the air between them crackled with unasked questions. Her hand stopped dripping, and he rinsed it in the bowl of water.

Her eyes closed, and he felt her relax, her hand limp as he swished it around, pulled it out and turned it over.

"Hmm…" He dabbed gingerly at her palm with one of the linen strips. "It's clean now, and a bit less red." He held it up for her to see. "What do you think?"

Her eyes popped open. "It's fine."

But she was grimacing, and the longer she looked at it, the more he felt her stiffen. Not that he could blame her. The puckered blisters were an angry hue.

"We need it perfectly dry." He dabbed at her hand again, trying not to hurt her. "There. Now the honey…" He opened the jar, dipped in a spoon, and drizzled the sweet thick substance onto her injured palm, spreading it gently with one finger.

She sat silent as he wound a fresh linen bandage around her hand, tucked in the end, and rinsed his fingers in the bowl.

"Davis is watching the young ones." Wiping his palms on his breeches, he rose. "Would you care to take a walk?"

Without waiting for her answer, he took her by the elbow.

THE ROAD OUT FRONT
was noisy, crammed with an endless stream of people fleeing London. A well-worn path in back of the inn led up into gently rolling hills, and it was here that Lord Greystone guided her.

It was a cloudless night, the wind having blown every wisp over the horizon, and Amy could just make out his profile, dark against the moonlight. Aided by what seemed a million stars, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. As the lines of his face became more distinct, she decided his features were so perfect, so symmetrical, that he straddled the line between handsome and beautiful.

Then, without warning, he stopped and turned to face her. His magnetic eyes burned into hers, searching, and she decided he wasn't beautiful after all.

He was much too intense to call him that.

Twisting the gold ring on his finger—the ring she had made—Lord Greystone cleared his throat and looked away.

"How is your hand?"

"Not too bad."

"Are you right-handed, or left?"

"Right."

"It will be a spell before you can write, then."

She shrugged. "I expect so."

Lord Greystone sighed, and the fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh. "Amy…"

His voice sounded serious. She didn't want to discuss it. Not yet, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or, if God was just, perhaps this was all a horrible dream, and tomorrow she'd wake up back in Cheapside.