The Unicorn's Tail (The Artifact Hunters) (4 page)

"You have worked a wonder, Amy." Loki entered the room behind her and admired her work.

"Thank you, Lachlan." She fought to keep from blushing at the unexpected praise. "And thank you for the prancing pink sheep, although they have broken free and rearranged themselves."

He gave a bow. "A touch of whimsy to put a smile on your lovely face."

She blinked, and then again. There he went again, calling her
lovely
. No one had ever done that before. Unsure how to respond, she headed to the buffet and hid behind a tall floral display. Men didn't show interest in her, especially not handsome men with dashing reputations who could have their pick of beauties. Everyone said how lucky she was when John asked to court her. Until then her dance card had remained as untouched as her. Her father's reputation and fortune caused far more of a reaction in men than her form or face.

On the buffet she found a small oriental tea pot in a blue and white willow pattern. She lifted the delicate lid and inhaled the scent of green tea with a touch of ginger. Her favourite way to start the day, however did the staff know? It was her one act of rebellion, her daring stance to drink a type of tea other than the breakfast blend supped by everyone else. She poured a cup and her mood lightened.

Lady Morton, Cara's grandmother, appeared along with her friend Nessy, and the room burst into life with chatter and laughter. She admired the way the two older women flirted outrageously with Captain Hawke. The ability to handle men ran in that family.

Eventually Cara arrived, looking very dishevelled for a woman who'd just dressed. The expression of joy on her friend's face made Amy's heart soar.

"You like it?"

"Oh Amy, it's gorgeous. Well done."

After Cara opened her pile of presents and had a raucous breakfast, they retired to the parlour. The crates from Liberty's waited, and she sat on the floor and pulled out the contents until they sprawled about like treasures dragged from Aladdin's Cave.

Wallpaper, fabric swatches, and beaded tassels were crammed into three large trunks like someone had packed up a harem in a hurry. Colours mixed and rioted with one another. The women sat on the floor, matching paper to fabric and trying different combinations. Amy stroked a rose-coloured chintz with a faraway look in her eye.

Cara gave her a nudge. "Penny for your thoughts."

Amy chewed her lip for a moment and then dove into a trunk and emerged with a pale rose curtain tassel to match the chintz. She pulled at the edge of the braid. Where to start? "You must think me frightfully boring."

Cara looked up from collection of deep greens. They were musing over more masculine choices for Nate's study. "Whatever do you mean?"

Her fingernails dug into the trim, seeking a weak spot in the stitching. She had never opened up to anyone about the uncertainly plaguing her heart. "Look at all you have done in the last six months, without even touching on whatever it was you got up to in Texas. I don't have your fortitude for adventure. I like a cracking yarn and nail-biting adventures in my novels, but I have no desire to live such a life."

Cara flicked over a tartan sample to the striped pattern beneath. "Well, it's not like society gave me any choice after what Clayton did to me."

She gave a snort and tossed the tassel at her friend, hitting her square in the face. "Oh please. You were like that long before then. Who ran away from home dressed as a cabin boy and made it to France? And it's not as if that was even the first incident. I was forever being hauled into our parlour to
please explain to Lord Devon where he might find his daughter
." She mimicked her father's deep husky tone with the last few words. "You always sought adventure, while I stayed at home and tried to cover it up for you."

Cara rested the heavy sample book on her lap. "My life isn't all fun and excitement, you know."

Amy sighed. "You got to see Russia."

Cara laughed. "I got shot with a cross bow and was left pinned to a tree in the Siberian forest. Life with Nate seems to involve being on the sharp end of pointy things rather often."

"But you have him." Amy's smile softened to something sad and wistful. "The way he looks at you gives me chills. I would settle for just a fraction of what you have. A warm fire, children laughing at my feet and someone to share it with me. I guess that makes me boring."

Cara reached out and took her hand. "No, you're not boring, you just need to find your purpose in life. You have a generous soul and you will find what you want. John Burke wasn't the right man."

But society said he was the right choice, and in turning her back on their opinion her whole world crumbled. How to find her way in this new land of choices and opportunity? "I just want someone to love me as I am, whoever I may be." Her problem was far deeper than finding her way; first she had to find herself.

Cara folded her in a hug. "You really don't know, do you?"

She didn't mean to cry, tried hard not to, but a tear still escaped. "I did everything they expected of me. I became the perfect doll, but I buried my true self in the process."

"You stay here as long as you need, and anything you require is yours. Take time, Amy." Cara pulled back and tapped the side of her head. "I know how smart you are — don't be scared to use that brain of yours. The world is yours now. Look inside and find the path you want to take."

She gave a smile and wiped away her tears. "It's hard, to go against everything you were ever told."

"I know," Cara whispered. "That is how the
ton
has existed for so long, how it holds sway over all of us. We are taught the only opinion that matters is theirs. Whispers hold us captive and words have power. That's why I frequently throw a dictionary at Jackson, to show him how forceful words are."

She burst out laughing and Cara joined in, the joke easing some of the tension gnawing away at her. "There are days I question calling it off with John. Everyone said he was the best I could ever hope for." She gave one last sniff.

"They're wrong." Cara gave her a squeeze. "There's a difference between needing any man in your life and wanting a very particular one to share it with you. Figure out the difference."

Amy sat back and stared at her friend. "Look at you, dispensing philosophical advice about men. Who would have thought it?"

"Perhaps my married state has given me a deeper insight into these things." Cara rose from her position on the floor.

Amy picked up a cushion and threw it. It smacked Cara in the back of the head. "I think you're showing off because you are so happy. Stop rubbing my face in it."

A cough interrupted their conversation, and Amy turned to find Jackson lurking by the doorway, his focus on Cara. "The boss is ready to take you for a walk to the cottage, doll, if you have the time."

His gaze lingered over Amy before he slipped back out the door and a shudder ran over her frame. "Why do you let that horrid man talk to you like that?"

Cara placed her book back in the trunk. "What do you mean?"

"He has no respect for your station, calling you
doll
. That's not how he should address you at all." A scowl settled on Amy's face.

"I don't mind what he calls me because it's all in how he says it. Jackson and I have a healthy dose of respect for each other, based on the fact I once shot him."

"He is horrid, I don't know how you bear having him around."

Cara waggled her finger. "Stop being like those small-minded gossips. You're treating him like they treated you. People are not photographs. There's more to them than the style of their hair or the cut of their clothes. Think of yourself as an explorer — you need to dig to unveil the person they are on the inside."

Amy gave a sigh. Cara's words made sense. John Burke presented a lovely photograph with his charming smile and dapper clothes. No one guessed at the mean streak rotting his core.

"I'll try, I promise, it's just—" her voice trailed off and she shuddered. The henchman made her nervous, so tall and broad and
rough
looking. He even had scars. Not like Captain Hawke, so refined and gallant. She sighed, thinking of how close she'd come to kissing him. There's an exterior she could explore under. Then, realising how scandalous the thought was, a flush crept over her skin.

*

They met over their evening poker game. "How goes your endeavour, made any progress?" Loki had that gleam in his eye, the one that said he knew he would win.

Jackson shrugged. "Coloured sheep? Did you just use the ones you were shagging last night?"

The pirate laughed. "Women love a grand gesture. I've thrown out my bait. The rose can't even look at me without the most divine blush running over her porcelain skin. All I have to do is reel her in."

Arrogant bastard. "You haven't won yet."

"Want to call it off? Admit you have no hope? I'll only feather you a little, perhaps give you a tail?"

He gave a grunt. The prick was so sure women found him irresistible. Surely not all females were short-sighted and stupid. "I have my ways."

The captain swirled brandy in a short tumbler. "What? Will you scowl at her until she is stupefied? You know it doesn't count if she's unconscious when you kiss her."

He picked his cards and played his hand, tuning out the pirate's attempt to rattle him. Like the cards, he kept his hand to himself. He played a quiet game, with the help of Helene. He couldn't compete with grand gestures, so he approached the problem from another direction. People in London found out about Amy Hamilton. Her favourite blend of tea, her love of the eerie witch hazel blooms, the books she liked to read and how she occupied her time. Little things that showed he paid attention.

Little things that showed him the real her, not the image she projected.

Thing was, he was starting to like what he glimpsed under that prim exterior. He planned to win and have that kiss, freely given, from those soft pink lips. He wondered if she would blush when he kissed her, and why it started to matter so much that he win. Not just to beat that jeering bastard opposite him. The thought of Loki with his hands on her lush body, sticking his tongue down her throat made him want to grab him by the neck and bash his head against the wall.

Chapter Four

31
st
December

The morning dawned bright and clear. The earth was covered in a fresh dusting of snow, although none ever settled on the black stone house. The ugly beasts crawling up the drainpipes kept the roof clear by some nefarious and unseen means.

The house buzzed with a whole new level of energy. The staff chattered and laughed louder than usual. People rushed back and forth, clutching scraps of paper like they relayed orders for an army. Amy stepped into the breakfast room as a maid darted out.

"What is going on?" she asked of Cara, who lounged on a chaise with her coffee and the newspaper.

Cara looked up over the top of the paper. "We're having a big celebration tonight. All the house staff and workers are invited. We thought it would be a great way to launch this venture and let the locals know the house is occupied again."

"Well it certainly seems to have the entire house excited." A party to ring in the changing of the year sounded lovely. Particularly if it lacked the stiff formality of such an event in London. "Will it be formal?" she dared to ask and hoped the answer would be negative.

Cara snorted. "Good lord, no. I suspect it will be a bit of an eye-opener, Amy. They do love a good party in Lowestoft apparently. Chef is even making marshmallows."

Amy screwed up her face. "What is a marshmallow?"

"A French confection made by whipping up sweetened mallow sap. Personally I think they sound horrid, I intend to skewer mine on a stick and incinerate it to get rid of the thing."

"Plant sap? Yuck." Amy contorted her face further as she dished up her breakfast.

*

As night fell they lit the bonfire to chase away the shadows. The timbers caught and roared and crackled, sending plumes of smoke and flame high into the air. Long tables groaned under the weight of food and drink on offer. The men dragged out an enormous clock with luminous hands to count down the time to the New Year.

Jackson watched the princess' cheeks flush with heat, excitement, and a little too much cider. Around her common men drank and laughed, and he checked none got too forward with the lass.

By eleven-thirty o'clock the party was in full swing. People laughed and sang out of tune. The dancing was frantic but joyous. Unlike London, the women teased the men and no one frowned at them. Some even hiked up their skirts and showed their ankles and knees while they twirled to the music.

Closer to the fire people tried chef's marshmallow, the sticky pink substance a type of sweet. Cara, as promised, fed hers to the flames, then pulled it out because of the divine aroma toasting released. They found the outside crunchy while the inside ran with a glorious gooeyness. After that everyone wanted to try and cook their marshmallow.

"You've started something," Nate said to his wife as people ran to the trees to break off twigs.