Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3)

by Royal, Lauren

  If only she'd believed him when he'd said it wouldn't hurt.

  She licked her lips, and his eyes darkened. He bent his head, taking the peak of one breast in his mouth, suckling through her gossamer chemise. Her breath caught, and she plowed her fingers into his hair, holding him closer still.

  "Trick." His name hung in the air, not a protest this time, but an entreaty. He raised his head, measuring her and apparently liking what he saw. In the next moment, he dropped to his knees, and one hand found its way beneath her wet skirts.

  He worked it up, up, and before she knew what was happening, he'd plunged a finger into a place that was wetter still.

  Dear God. Her knees felt about as substantial as jellied fruit. Slowly, seductively, he worked his finger in and out, holding her gaze with his. It was shocking and probably wicked, but she couldn't focus on any of that, because something was happening to her. She started tingling and shaking all over.

  Just when she knew she would collapse to the floor, he drew away and rose to his feet. "Let's get you dry."

  Her breath came out in a rush. She nodded wordlessly, the only response she could manage—but it seemed to be enough for him.

  In no time at all he had her stripped, her hair wrapped in one towel while he briskly rubbed her with another. The rough strokes sent her blood coursing like a spring flood. When he was finished, her skin was dry and warm and sensitive beyond whatever she could remember. At his lightest touch, she felt pleasure spiraling through her.

  He raised one of her limp hands and ran his fingers over the amber stones that circled her wrist. "You're wearing it," he murmured.

  "I—it matched my dress."

  He glanced down to the gown on the floor. "Aye. Purple and amber—they go together so well."

  She blushed, but he only laughed, a warm sound that rippled right into her.

  He started ripping his own clothes off, his gaze on hers commanding her to watch. She backed away and sat on the edge of the bed, unwrapping her hair to towel it dry. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, tall, rangy and lean, with long, ropy muscles.

  When his breeches slid down, her gaze slid down along with them. He was still as big as ever. Bigger, even, she would swear. Her breath caught as a tremor of panic took her by surprise.

  What if Cait were wrong? What if it worked for most people, but in this case...what if he really wouldn't fit? She remembered the pain, and her lids slid closed.

  "Kendra?"

  He sounded so concerned. Trying to smile, she opened her eyes. But despite herself, she couldn't help where her anxious gaze was fastened.

  His own gaze followed. "I promise you, it won't hurt."

  "I know. Caithren told me."

  His eyes snapped back up to meet hers. "When?"

  "After you left." She bit her lip.

  "You didn't believe her, though, did you?"

  "Yes." She nodded frantically. "Yes, I did. And I came here wanting..."

  "But then..." he prompted, waiting expectantly.

  When she didn't continue, he sighed. "I knew this was too good to be true." His eyes slid closed momentarily, then opened and burned into hers. "Listen," he said, reaching to draw her up to stand before him. "The night before I left, you wanted me to touch you, aye?"

  Like a simpleton, she stood there with her arms dangling loose by her sides. "Yes, but—"

  "I wanted more than that. You know I did. I've thought of nothing but you since the moment I rode away."

  Heat rushed to her cheeks—and other parts of her body. She'd thought of him, too, and how he could make her feel. She wanted to feel that again. This fear was irrational, and she had to overcome it.

  But that was easier said than done.

  "Trick—"

  "Look at me."

  When she did, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I've told you I won't take you against your will, and I meant every word. But I'm finished playing games."

  Her heart skipped a beat at that, then began racing in her chest. "Trick—"

  "Nay. Hear me out." He tossed his head, clearing the hair from his eyes, and his arms tightened around her middle, arching her back, bringing her hips snug against him.

  She could feel how much he wanted her.

  "I'm done expecting you to beg," he said low. "I still want to take you, but I can wait until you're ready. In the meantime, there are other ways we can pleasure each other, without me entering your body."

  She flinched at the frank words, the mental picture. But relief flowed through her veins. And the idea he proposed was intriguing.

  "What sorts of ways?"

  "I'll show you, lass." His eyes darkened. "Like this."

  Her pulse skittered as he moved his hands to her shoulders, then eased her back until she tumbled onto the bed. He came down over her, settling his weight on his elbows. Against her melting softness, his body felt warm and hard as his lips descended to meet hers.

  With calculated skill, he kissed her breathless. Senseless. Her world tilted when he rolled to his side and began tracing his fingertips along her heated skin.

  "Like this, leannan," he murmured huskily. "We can make each other happy like this." And his mouth followed where his fingers had gone, over her breasts and down her arms and across her waist in a warm, damp dance.

  She heard little moans, and they were hers. She reached for his shoulders, tracing her fingers in a way that mimicked his, trying to pull him up so she could touch more of his body.

  He raised his head, his breath warm against her belly. "No, lass. Tonight just feel. Lie back and feel what I can do for you." As he talked, his hands caressed their way up her sides. "Then tomorrow," he said, "tomorrow, you'll learn what to do for me." He flicked his thumbs over her nipples, and a jolt of excitement streaked through her. "This can be good for us both."

  Rich as velvet, his voice was a sensuous promise, a heady invitation that made her emotions whirl. And while she was still reacting to that, he lifted her knees and moved between them.

  He kissed and licked and bit the tender skin of her inner thighs, and her fists clenched, bunching the sheets in her hands. A little cry escaped her lips when his tongue traced the crease where her legs met her body. Then it plunged into that place that was hot and aching, and she let out a gasp of stunned pleasure.

  Something was happening to her—something confusing and marvelous. As his tongue continued a rhythmic, sensual assault, every nerve in her body came alight with fiery sensations, sprinting throughout her until she thought she would scream unless something happened—

  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 whe
re 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  "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."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  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. Step
ping 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.