Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3)

by Royal, Lauren

Tossed on the roiling firth, Niall's head swung wildly in search, but she'd already slipped beneath the waves. He disappeared after her. Bracing between two chests, Trick grimaced and hung on to Gregor, holding his breath until his brother's blond head broke the surface, the woman draped limp on his back.

  Niall fought his way to the vessel's outer ladder, shoving her aboard before clambering up himself, fighting the wind and the rain.

  Gregor wrenched from Trick's grasp and threw himself on his wife while Niall lay on deck, panting, water washing over him and into his open mouth.

  "We've got to move another one!" Trick yelled. "She's still taking water!"

  Niall nodded and pushed himself up.

  "Trick!" Kendra's panicked voice came thready through the storm. "It's slipping!"

  He rushed to the other side of the ship. Tossing wildly, the smaller boat had drifted yards away. Though she strained against it with both hands and a shoulder, the chest he'd loaded was inching toward one end, threatening to overbalance the boat.

  Threatening to drown Kendra.

  Faster than the wind, Niall flew past him and into the water. Priming to follow, Trick found himself smashed to the deck by an enormous, roaring wave.

  He gasped for air, the deck awash, the rush sucking him over the side.

  Freezing black water covered his head.

  He fought his way to the surface, only to be blindsided by a plunging chest.

  Woozy, he flailed in the lashing surf, battered by waves and debris. Chunks of broken timber, lengths of rigging, thick hunks of rope. He took water into his lungs, and it burned like the fires of hell. His ribs screamed with pain, and he couldn't lift his arms, couldn't swim, couldn't keep his head above the pitching seas that seemed determined to send him to a watery grave.

  His last thought was of Kendra, struggling against that chest. Stubborn, willful, beautiful Kendra. Kendra, who put orphans above riches...Kendra, who'd accepted his own family before he did....Kendra, who could make his heart pound with a single glance...

  Damn, but he loved her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  He was freezing.

  He wasn't dead, then. Hell was supposed to be hot. And heaven—not that he expected to go there—was supposed to be like floating on a warm, comfortable cloud. Yet he shivered with a bone-deep cold, so cold it felt as though he'd never be warm again. And he was far from comfortable.

  A teeth-rattling jounce drove home that last point. Even hell would be better than this, he thought with a groan.

  "He's coming around!" The voice was heavenly, the warm lips pressed to his face more heavenly still. "Oh, Trick, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

  "Cold," he murmured.

  "Just a minute. I'm almost finished."

  A tug against his side sent such pain spiraling through him, he decided he must be halfway dead, at least. "Hurts," he grated out.

  "I know. This bandage should help."

  He forced his eyes open and lifted his head, which felt entirely too heavy—so heavy it dropped back with a skull-jarring bang. But he'd seen her. Kendra. Sweet Kendra. She hadn't drowned, after all.

  His heart wanted to fly, but the rest of him insisted on staying earthbound. "Bandage?" he wondered.

  "My chemise. Or part of it, anyway."

  A bump sent his body into the air and back down with a wracking jolt. Not earthbound. Wagon-bound. He was in a wagon. And his precious wife was wrapping his ribs in a bandage ripped from her chemise.

  His brain struggled to put the pieces together. How had he been hurt, but even more intriguing, how had she torn the bandage from the chemise? He pictured her lifting her skirts, her lovely, shapely legs coming into view as she rent the ivory fabric.

  Wishing he'd been able to watch that, he realized he must not be half-dead, after all. Parts of him were far from dead, although other parts made him long for that peace. Then she raised her gaze to his, and he was glad, oh, so glad he was still alive.

  "He's awake, Niall!" Her hair was a tangled mess, her face smeared with dirt, but her smile enough to brighten the cloudy day. Then her expression fell. "Oh, God, Trick, I'm so sorry." Tears sprang to her eyes.

  He wanted to tell her not to cry, but the words were stuck in his throat.

  "Brother!" Elated, Niall's voice floated to his ears from somewhere above his head. "How do you feel?"

  "Throat hurts," he croaked, still staring at his wife. Even red-rimmed, her eyes looked the most beautiful green.

  "You tossed a heap of water," Niall explained. "Jesus, was it disgusting." Something was passed over Trick's head. A flask. "Kendra, give him this."

  She cradled his head in one hand, lifting the flask to his lips with the other. He drank greedily at first, then choked when the liquor burned his raw throat.

  "Usquebagh," Niall called. "Water of life. Whisky. Take more, it'll do you good."

  He did, gingerly this time, feeling the spirits burn a path to his belly. "Warm," he murmured.

  Drawing a shuddering breath, Kendra blinked back her tears. "I'll warm you in a minute."

  She tied off the makeshift bandage, a blessed tightness that seemed to pull him back together, both his body and his mind. Memory rushed back, and with it some of the anger at her for interfering. But, too, he remembered his thoughts as he'd sunk beneath the water. Thoughts of love, from a man who'd been certain he didn't believe.

  Later. He would think about all of this later.

  As she struggled to tug down his shirt, he levered up and found himself surrounded by horses. Niall had roped the four dray animals together to pull the wagon, and their own three mounts trotted behind. They were making good time.

  Trick's feet were braced against a chest—the single chest they'd wrestled off the doomed ship. One chest saved out of twenty-three. He dropped his head to a makeshift pillow fashioned from his soggy surcoat. The rain had stopped, and the sun was struggling valiantly to peek between broken clouds.

  "There." She drew up a blanket to cover him. It felt warm, then warmer still when she crawled beneath to cuddle up to his good side, sharing the heat of her body.

  Heavenly. He was in heaven, after all.

  "The ferryman gave it to me," she said.

  "Gave you what?"

  "The blanket."

  "After you puked all over his floor," Niall added from the driver's seat up front.

  "Nice of him." Trick laced his fingers with Kendra's. "Especially considering he lost his boat."

  Fresh, warm tears wetted his almost-dry shirt where her head nestled on his shoulder. "We lost them," she said, the words soft and regretful. "Gregor and Rhona and the treasure."

  "But we didn't lose each other." He squeezed her hand. "I think, leannan, we can thank God for that. And Niall."

  "Nay," his brother called back. "Thank her. She's the one who pulled you from the water."

  Stunned, he gasped. "How?" He was twice her weight, at least.

  He sensed rather than saw Niall's shrug. "I managed to get to the boat, was dealing with the shifting chest. The next thing I knew she was leaping over my head."

  "That wave." Kendra's voice shook with memory. "It was like a mountain. It came down, and you disappeared for a moment, then I saw you go over the side. It looked like you were riding a waterfall. I've never been more scared in my life."

  "I know the feeling," he soothed, remembering the sight of her with a knife at her throat. "Rhona and Gregor? Did you see them, too?"

  "No," she said. "We never saw them at all. They were there, they and the boat, and then they weren't. By the time I got you aboard, there was nothing where that ship had been but an eerie calm patch on the surface of the water, dotted with bits of debris."

  Slowly he nodded, feeling an overwhelming weariness suddenly swamp him. Sweet Mary, she'd saved his life. Because she'd disobeyed him—because, in spite of his protests, she'd flown into that boat like an avenging angel—she'd been there, and she'd saved his life....

  "I'm so sorry," she whispered
.

  But Trick was already asleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  It was nearing midnight by the time they arrived at Duncraven, cold, hungry, and—at least on Kendra's part—exhausted.

  Trick's long sleep in the wagon bed seemed to have gone an amazing way toward restoring his strength, and Niall clearly found his second wind as they neared the castle, itching to tell his father all about the adventure of a lifetime. But she hadn't slept a wink on the bumpy ride, too caught up in wonder that they were all alive, tempered by a wrenching regret that her own part in the day's events had led to its tragic end.

  While Trick and Niall went straight to fill Hamish in, she begged off and dragged herself upstairs, wanting nothing but a hot bath and a good night's sleep.

  She'd almost accomplished the first when Trick came in, a platter in one hand and two goblets in the other. Quickly she slid deeper into the water, crossing her arms over her breasts. No matter that he'd seen all of her before—no man had ever seen her bathe. It seemed different. Private somehow. And too intimate, considering what she'd put him through today.

  He shouldn't want to see her at all.

  "I can take over from here." He nodded a dismissal at Jane, and she left, quietly closing the door behind her. "Hungry?" he asked matter-of-factly.

  "Not really." Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry, Trick, for ruining your plan. If I hadn't arrived and tipped them off as to who you were, none of this would have happened."

  "You cannot know that; we cannot know what would have happened." He set the food on the desk, his gaze filled with concern. "Maybe you ruined our plan, but you also saved my life. I thank you for that, lass, from the bottom of my heart."

  Her own heart hurt. Oh, if only she could forgive herself as easily as he seemed to forgive her. Then he ran a hand back through his hair, and she blinked, staring, so stunned her own guilt fled her mind.

  "You cut it," she breathed. "Your hair."

  A wry grin twitched at his lips. "Mrs. Ross cut it. There I was, telling Hamish all about what happened, her fussing over Niall and me both. Moving chairs near the fire so we could warm, pushing hot drinks into our hands. As we talked, she removed Niall's damp coat and ran a comb through his hair. And the next thing I knew she was standing over me with scissors."

  "You didn't stop her."

  His only answer was a shrug. But he was no longer hiding, not from her. The heart that he'd spoken of thanking her from was right there in his amber eyes.

  He came close and knelt by the big wooden tub, setting the goblets on the floor beside him. "No more tears. I hold you blameless for anything that happened today. You must believe that."

  When he drew her hands from her body, she forgot to be embarrassed. She squeezed his fingers, gazing into those unguarded eyes. "You blame yourself instead, don't you?"

  "Aye," he admitted, toying with the amber on her wrist. "But Hamish—Da"—a fleeting smile curved his mouth—"did his best to set me straight."

  "What did he have to say?"

  He kissed her fingertips and sighed. "He thinks it's just as well that Niall and I didn't manage to keep his friends from drowning, since it saved him the trouble of having them hanged. As for the Royal plate, he believes it's fate...and only fitting that it ended up where it was thought to be all along."

  She heard very little conviction in those words. "You don't agree."

  "It's difficult to avoid feeling like a failure when you lose an immense fortune and two lives into the bargain. But I'm working on it."

  She'd been working on trying to better herself, too. "I wanted to stay here like you told me to—truly I did—but then when I realized they were murderers, and thought of you out there not knowing that...your lives at risk..." Remembering, she felt her heart pounding all over again. "I tried to obey, but I'm not made that way, Trick."

  "I know." He sighed theatrically, but the smile in his eyes told her it was only for show. "I expect I'll have to get used to that."

  "I'm so glad you're willing to try." Though she still didn't hold herself blameless, relief flowed through her in heady waves. He was accepting her for who she was. More than anyone ever had in her life. "I was only trying to warn you of their wicked ways, but it all went wrong."

  "Your heart was in the right place." His lips brushed her knuckles, and his breath on her hands warmed her somewhere deep inside. "I'm not used to anyone wanting to take care of me," he told her in a deep, husky voice, "but I do appreciate it. And I'm hoping we can make a fresh start, and that some day I'll prove myself deserving of your special sort of loyalty."

  Could they really begin anew and learn to trust each other? Her heart soared at the thought. She sent him a tremulous smile, and he dropped her hands, reaching down for a goblet.

  She took it, sipping the fortifying wine while he walked over to the desk.

  "Midnight supper." Carrying the platter, he dragged the chair over to sit by the tub. "Will you have some bread and cheese?"

  She nodded, surprised to find herself suddenly ravenous. "I'm worried, Trick. About Hamish and Niall."

  "Aye?" Balancing the platter on his knees, he cut a slice of pungent cheddar. "What makes you worry?" he asked, tearing a hunk of bread and handing them to her together.

  "Things haven't gone well here since your father—the duke—took you away." She nibbled on the bread. "Jane told me he cut off your mother's allowance, and she had to dismiss most of the servants."

  Taking a hearty bite of bread, he nodded as he chewed. "I guessed as much, noting the state of this place." He swallowed and washed it down with a gulp of wine. "I asked Niall about it on our long trek to Burntisland."

  "And?"

  "Hamish does well for himself in the cloth trade. But other than allowing him to make up back pay for the servants, Mam refused to take his money when he moved in." In three big bites, he polished off a slab of cheese. "Stubborn woman. She may not have been as bad as the duke had convinced me, but she was far from perfect."

  "None of us are," Kendra reminded him. "Will they be all right here, then, do you think?"

  "Aye, with Hamish's help. And Niall is planning to visit Amberley later this year and learn some more progressive farming. Scotland is behindhand, it seems. I thought maybe you could help him with that."

  His steady confidence did much to make her trust in this fresh start of which he'd spoken. And Hamish and Niall would be fine. She sagged with relief, draining the rest of her wine.

  "Feel better now?" he asked.

  "Immensely." Everything was working out perfectly.

  "Good." He rose and took the goblet from her hands. Was that a gleam she saw in his eyes, she wondered, or was it only that she wasn't used to seeing them so clearly?

  She got her answer when he started ripping off his clothes.

  "Wh-what are you doing?"

  "Joining you, leannan. I'm grubby as hell."

  "B-but...together?" She half rose out of the tub.

  With a hand on her shoulder, he pushed her back down. "Together."

  "You're jesting," she said. "And you're hurt."

  But as his gaze held hers, his words that first night in Scotland slipped through her thoughts: I'd like to see all of you wet.

  And she knew he wasn't jesting at all.

  "Aye, I hurt a bit," he admitted. "But I trust you'll be gentle." Opposite her, he stepped into the water.

  "Your bandage!"

  "Stop being such a worrywart, lass. I'm more comfortable with it on." As he lowered himself, he nodded toward her tattered chemise. "There's another where this one came from."

  She sat motionless as his legs slid beneath her own, then gasped when he grasped her by the waist to bring her up and onto his lap. But his small grunt of pain didn't seem to signal any loss of enthusiasm. His lips went to hers immediately, the kiss deepening while he reached back to arrange her legs around his body.

  Lulled by his mouth and his hands roaming her wet skin, she pressed closer. Below, where her
body met his, a hot stab of desire took her by surprise.

  Dear God, he was right there, almost inside her.

  He smiled against her lips. "Not yet, leannan. We haven't washed."

  "I've washed already."

  He reached for the soap behind her head. "Then you can wash me," he suggested, holding it out.

  At the silky tone of his voice, her heart pounded wildly, and when she took the soap, it slipped from her fingers and plunged to the bottom. His knowing smile only flustered her further while she fished in the water for the hard-milled ball. But when she brought it up and its scent wafted to her nose—her lavender fragrance, not his sandalwood—a wicked idea took hold in her mind.

  Languidly, she passed the soap back and forth in her hands. "I'll wash you," she told him, "but only if you promise not to move. Not your arms, not your legs, not anything."

  "Not even my head?" He lurched forward and stole a kiss.

  Her lips tingled as she firmly pushed him back. "Not even. Not even one inch."

  Contemplating that, he ran his tongue over the chip in his tooth, and she wished it were her tongue, instead. "Why?" he asked.

  "You're injured. You mustn't strain yourself. And besides..." Her lips curved in a calculating smile. "I wish to play Poseidon and rule these waters. Because I owe you. For the dungeon."

  "Sweet Mary," he breathed as she lathered her hands. Dropping the soap on purpose this time, she smoothed her palms over his shoulders, tracing circles down his back until her fingers met the binding around his ribs. Then up again, slowly, slowly, as his eyes slid shut and his head tilted back.

  "Don't move," she reminded him, a little breathless. Feeling daring, she ran her hands down his chest, skimming the bandage until they met warm skin below. And down. All the way down.

  That part of him moved—more than an inch—before his eyes flew open. "Are you sure I didn't drown?" he husked out.

  "Hmm?" She brought one hand out of the water, smiling to herself at the glazed expression in those newly unshielded eyes. Dear God, they were beautiful. Moistening a finger in her mouth, she wet his bottom lip, right there in the center where she always thought of touching it.