Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3)

by Royal, Lauren

  "Dear God." Kendra released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Words from the devil himself. Can you blame your mother for wanting to walk away?"

  He shrugged uncomfortably. "Father refused at first. He'd fought well and bravely in support of Charles, but when Cromwell opened fire...well, I was inside." He drew a sharp, shuddering breath, obviously remembering.

  Kendra was horrified. "He opened fire with a child inside?"

  "Aye. The bombardment destroyed the east parapet and tore a large cavity in the stonework—did you not see it as we came in?"

  "I wasn't looking."

  "At my mother's behest, Father sent word to the Lord Protector that he saw the point, and he walked away, taking me with him and never looking back."

  She folded the bed's simple white coverlet back and lowered herself to the plain sheets below. "She wanted to save you."

  "She wanted to save her family's castle." He turned in the chair to face her. "If she'd cared for me, she would have come along with us."

  "Maybe your father wouldn't allow her."

  "Maybe," Trick conceded. "He was certainly mum on the subject." He shoved the paper into the desk and slammed the drawer. "And I wouldn't blame him if he did leave her that coldly. She was no mother or wife to be proud of. Besides being a Covenanter, she was an adulteress, and—"

  "You judge her harshly."

  A momentary look of self-doubt crossed his face, then disappeared so fast, she wondered if she'd imagined it. "I've told you how I feel about infidelity."

  She'd told him how she felt about infidelity as well, but she knew better than to bring that up. Living with three brothers had taught her how to deal with men's moods. Gingerly. "Do you remember her as being that terrible?"

  "Nay, but I was only a child."

  Kendra glanced down and smoothed her cranberry-colored skirts, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. "If your father and she were at odds, why do you believe everything he told you about her?"

  "For the longest time, I didn't want to," he admitted. "But then so much time passed and she never, ever came for me..."

  "There are two sides to every story, Trick."

  If his sudden silence wasn't agreement, at least he was man enough to consider she had a point. The only sound in the chamber was that of the flames that danced in the fireplace, until at last he said, "But I'll never hear her side of it, will I?"

  The pain radiated off him in waves, but she knew that now was not the time to talk about that. It was too fresh. "What is a Covenanter?" she asked instead. "I know English history by rote, and Greek and Roman, but I'm afraid I was never taught much of Scotland's past."

  "I cannot say that I'm surprised," Trick said dryly, but the remark didn't sound at all disparaging, merely resigned. He leaned back in the chair and began untying his cravat. "Many men, including my mother's father, signed a document known as the National Covenant. When the Civil War broke out, the Covenanters sided with the English Parliament against the king, in return for Cromwell's promise of a religious reformation in England and Ireland, based on the Scottish Kirk."

  "And Cromwell never followed through."

  "Nay, he did not. But it took a long time for the Scots to realize they'd been duped."

  "They'd thrown their lot in with the devil."

  Nodding, he slowly drew off the cravat. "I'm afraid this castle was instrumental in Cromwell's victory. My father never forgave my mother for that."

  With a flick of his wrist, the cravat landed on the desk in a flurry of frothy white. She stared at it. He was undressing. Whether or not he'd spent the whole day thinking about it, she was sure he expected to make love with her tonight.

  A little ball of anxiety lodged in her middle.

  She tore her gaze from the lace-trimmed linen. "My father fought with King Charles, too. And died, along with my mother. He would have sympathized with your father's stance."

  His expression hardened. "Father was no saint, believe me. I liked him no more than I did my mother. I'm well rid of them both."

  "Trick—" She bit her tongue. Disparaging her husband's feelings was no way to fortify their shaky relationship. She forced a gentle smile. "How does it feel having a brother?"

  He smiled in return—perhaps the first smile she'd seen from him that wasn't tainted with a touch of cynicism. "He's quite nice, isn't he?" His eyes softened as his fingers worked to loosen the laces on his shirt. "I find it hard to believe he came from my mother, and—and that man."

  She wasn't surprised to find he didn't care for Hamish, either. "Niall looks just like you."

  "I know. It's bloody amazing." Leaning forward, he pulled off a boot. "I wish I could stay longer and get to know him. Maybe he'll come visit us at Amberley."

  "That would be nice." The more of Trick's clothes that came off, the more her stomach quaked at the thought of what she'd promised last night. Too nervous to just sit there and watch, she stood and wandered over to a small arched door. "Where does this lead?"

  "To another staircase, if I remember right." In stockinged feet, he padded over and unlatched the iron bar that secured the door, poking his head into the darkness beyond. His voice echoed back. "Aye, another winding stairwell. To the roof above. Prisoner's Leap."

  "Prisoner's what?"

  "Prisoner's Leap." He turned to her, the stairwell gaping blackly behind him. "In the old days, prisoners were brought up from the dungeons once a year and allowed a chance to gain their freedom by successfully jumping from one tower to the other. Twelve feet, with their hands tied behind their backs and a hundred-foot drop to the bottom. And no running start."

  "My God. Did any of them make it?"

  "I expect not." His lips turned up in a half-smile. "Maybe that's why the villagers were practicing their long jumps today."

  A little shiver ran through her. "I'm not sure I like this place, Trick."

  "Why? Because I had barbaric ancestors?" Although reserved, his grin did seem to lighten the room somewhat. "There's no one in the dungeons today, so far as I know."

  "So far as—"

  "I'm jesting." He shut the door to the stairwell, and she relaxed a little. "Come here."

  "Not until you bar that door."

  With a strangled laugh, he did so. "There, we're safe. Come here, Kendra. I need you tonight."

  No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and they were certainly words to melt a woman's heart. Frightened as she was, she walked into his arms.

  When his mouth met hers, her reservations faded away. If her head didn't remember what had made her decide she wanted him last night, her body certainly did. She knew what he could make her feel now, and she wanted that again, and more. Much more. The tinge of fear in her stomach transformed to a rush of anticipation.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers in his short, silky hair. Her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue swept inside, soft and sweet, flavored with the faintest trace of the whisky he'd sipped downstairs.

  He eased back to plant little kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and finally the sensitive hollow of her neck. He lingered there, suckling gently while his hands went to work on the front of her gown. Her own hands streaked between their bodies to tug the bottom of his shirt from his breeches.

  Her stomacher dropped to the floor as she worked the shirt up his torso, his bare flesh warm against her questing palms. She yanked the shirt over his head, and he gave a frustrated laugh when his arms tangled in the full-blown sleeves.

  Soon their clothes were gone, and she plastered herself against him. Ah, the give and the take, the heat and the scent, the pure pleasure of his skin touching hers. He bent his head to take her mouth, running his hands down her sides and around to cup her bottom and pull her closer still.

  At the intimate contact, she felt a jolt, a flood of excitement that at the same time made her feel heavy and lethargic. Her body trembled. He smelled of soap and sandalwood, and she couldn't tell where he stop
ped and she started. If he wasn't holding her up, surely she'd melt to the floor in a puddle of sensation.

  Slowly he backed her up and eased her onto the bed, coming down beside her. He hesitated, levering up on an elbow, his head hovering above hers. Beneath his shining gold hair, his eyes caught and held her gaze. The faint blond stubble on his chin glistened in the candlelight.

  Her heart pounded, and her breath came ragged and uneven. Every fiber of her being ached for his touch, screamed for release. She turned, reaching to pull him close.

  The air was rent by a strangled groan.

  "I cannot do this," he gritted out and rolled away. "I cannot do this. I cannot do this with my mother lying in a box downstairs."

  She felt an instant of stunned disappointment before her head cleared and her arms went around him anyway. She squeezed tight. "It's all right. I understand."

  "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just cannot—"

  "Hush," she said. Slowly she drew air into her lungs, giving herself time to adjust, time for her body to recover. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

  She sat and pulled the coverlet over them both, then lay back down. With a regretful sigh, he turned to face her and gathered her close, his hand warm against her bare back, his head heavy against her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered once more.

  And long minutes later, when her heart had calmed, for the second night in a row she fell asleep in his arms.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Still wide awake an hour later, Trick eased away from Kendra and slid from the bed. Quietly he drew on his breeches and pulled his shirt back over his head, then lit a candle and slipped from the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him.

  The stone steps felt cold and rough beneath his bare feet as he trod carefully down them. A low murmur of voices drifted up the stairwell. Arriving on the ground floor, he stopped and stared.

  Annag and Niall sat before his mother's coffin. Behind it, Duncan hid, manipulating a clever arrangement of twine and twigs. A deep, unearthly "Oooooooooh" issued from his throat as he twisted his hands. Elspeth's body jumped and twitched, and Annag jumped and screeched. Rising to his feet, Duncan burst into laughter and lifted a glass of whisky in a clearly drunken toast.

  Trick couldn't believe his eyes.

  Niall caught his gaze and offered a small smile. He rose and came to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. "Couldn't you sleep?"

  "I kept thinking of her lying down here. Cold, in a box." Trick ran a shaky hand back through his hair. "It seems so unreal. I thought I could just sneak down here and...convince myself, maybe. Sit here a while."

  Niall nodded slowly, then turned to his half-siblings and raised his voice. "Give us peace, will you? Go on to bed. We'll sit with Mam alone."

  Still laughing, they staggered out, taking a bottle of spirits and their glasses along with them.

  The candles surrounding Elspeth's casket flickered in their wake. "Why were they sitting with her?" Trick asked after they'd stumbled out of earshot. "It's plain as anything they held her in no esteem."

  "Da wouldn't like to hear they've been shirking their duty. Mam must never be left alone—they say that a corpse left alone will find the road to hell."

  Knowing his mother's history, Trick imagined Hamish and Niall would worry about her finding the road to hell. He went to the coffin and set the candle he was carrying beside the others, averting his gaze from his mother's waxen face. "I feel like I should be able to talk to her. I came all the way from England to talk to her."

  "Then talk to her," Niall said.

  Trick sighed, wishing he had some of his brother's calm confidence—wishing he knew where to start. Owing to Duncan's prank, Elspeth's hands were no longer neatly crossed on her chest. Wincing at the sight of the twine still attached, he began to reach, then stopped.

  "Fix her, will you?" he asked in a voice rough with frustration. "Get that off her."

  While Niall gently did as he asked, Trick dropped into a chair, staring blindly ahead. "I would think you'd rather sit by yourself than with those two. Especially considering they accord her no respect. I cannot believe what I saw when I walked in here."

  "I cannot sit alone—there must always be two on guard." Niall took the seat beside him. "And a good prank at a wake is often enjoyed, even encouraged. You don't know our ways here, Patrick. Even though you were born within these walls."

  "You've the right of it there." Trick sighed. He'd never felt very English, but he didn't feel Scottish, either. He only felt confused.

  "What did you want to say to her?" Niall asked. "You can say it, aye? Out loud, or in your head. Either way, she'll hear you."

  "Do you think so?" He turned to gaze at his brother. "You are young yet, but wise."

  Niall broke into a grin—straight, white, and as familiar as the one Trick saw in the mirror every morning when he was shaving, except none of his brother's teeth were chipped. "I don't think Annag would agree."

  "Nay, I expect she wouldn't. How do you put up with those two?"

  The younger man gave a sheepish shrug. "They're not as bad as they seem. I grew up with them, aye? It takes two to fight."

  "And you refuse to participate."

  "More or less. Of course, once in a while..." The engaging grin reappeared before he sobered. "Annag...well, her husband's dead these two years past. And her with three bairns on her own. She wasn't always so bitter."

  Trick hadn't realized she was widowed. "And Duncan?"

  "He's never wed—no sane woman would have the bastard." Niall scrubbed his hands hard over his face, then blinked and looked at Trick. "The three days of keening have passed, but if you've no words for Mam, perhaps the traditional ones would help."

  Trick knew little of this land's traditions. "I'm listening."

  Now that the rowdy mourners had gone home to bed, the great hall seemed larger, yawning huge and dark, much more like Trick had remembered. Niall took a deep breath before his voice rose in song—not the mournful, haunting wail that Trick had imagined a keening would be, but a heartfelt, melodic lament that echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling.

  "Oh, Mother, ye have left us! Ochone!"

  He paused and looked at Trick, his golden eyes expectant.

  "Ochone? Is that some pagan god?"

  "Nay, it's Gaelic. Nothing more than an expression of sorrow or regret."

  "Ochone," Trick said softly, expecting to feel silly. But he didn't. Sharing the sitting duty with his brother, keening their mother together, felt right.

  "Why did ye leave us? Ochone! What did we do to ye? Ochone! That ye went away from us?"

  "Ochone!" Trick sang for him.

  "'Tis ye that had plenty!"

  "Ochone!"

  "And why did ye leave us?"

  "Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!" The ancient syllables slipped through Trick's lips, and some of the pain along with them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  When dawn had broken, Trick made his way upstairs to find a gray-garbed woman in his room, her back to him as she stoked the fire on the ancient, blackened stone hearth. At the sound of him entering, she slowly straightened and turned.

  He gasped. "Mrs. Ross?"

  "Aye, it be me," the tiny woman said in a reedy voice, coming closer. She was shorter than he remembered, but of course he'd last seen her through the eyes of a child. Her face was even more wrinkled, if that were possible, her blue eyes faded but glittering the same as they always had. "Why, I'd recognize you anywhere, even after all these years. Patrick, dear, how fare you?"

  "I'm well." The door banged louder than he would have liked when he shut it behind him, and in the bed, Kendra stirred. "How are you?" he asked Mrs. Ross. Sweet Mary, the woman must be eighty years old.

  "No complaints. But your mam..." The blue eyes flooded with tears. "I don't know what happened. She went so fast..."

  "Trick?" Kendra blinked herself awake. At the sight of a stranger in the room, she clutched the blanket over her naked shoulders and tucked it
under her chin.

  "My wife, the Duchess of Amberley," Trick introduced her. Smiling to himself, he walked over to smooth her sleep-mussed hair. "Good morning, leannan. No need to blush—it's only Mrs. Ross, my old nurse."

  "And his mam's before him," the older woman added.

  "I haven't thought of her as Mam in eighteen years," he murmured. "She's Mother to me now."

  Mrs. Ross's thin, bluish lips straightened into a disapproving line. "She was never Mother to you, and well you know it. She was much warmer than that. And why did you not write her, aye?" Her expression hardening, the bird-like woman came near and whacked him on the shoulder, although not without a modicum of affection. "Eighteen years and you never once answered one of that poor woman's letters."

  Trick rubbed his shoulder. "What the hell are you talking about? She never sent me a letter."

  "The devil she didn't. She cried for weeks after your father dragged you away. Then she started writing the letters—"

  "I never received any letters," Trick insisted.

  But Mrs. Ross wasn't listening. "—every week at first, then every month, and then, when she never heard back, once a year. Until finally she gave up. You broke her heart, Patrick Iain. I knew you were a bairn yet, but I thought I'd taught you better—"

  "Mrs. Ross!"

  The woman jumped and started twittering, and Kendra clapped her hands over her ears, her eyes wide as round portholes.

  He waited until his old nurse quieted before continuing. "I never received her letters. Did you hear me, Mrs. Ross? I never received her letters. Not one."

  She stilled, studying him for a long moment. "Did he keep them from you, then?" she whispered and burst into tears.

  He gathered her fragile frame into his arms. "There, Mrs. Ross. I know you miss her." Patting her on the back, he silently cursed his father—the blackguard—for hiding the mail. And himself for never considering the possibility. "Mother wouldn't want you to be sad."