by Lauren Royal
"Far enough." Clarice leaned across the cabin and took Mary's hands in hers. "Can you believe we're going to a wedding at the castle?"
Though Mary smiled, it was clear she wasn't overly impressed. "I lived at the castle before." Last year, after Lord Cainewood's brother had swept her from the fire and brought her to Cainewood. "For a whole month."
"Well, I've only been in the great hall for Christmas dinner once a year," Clarice said. "I've never seen any of the other rooms."
"I'll show you around," her daughter proclaimed, displaying nary a hint of the awe that made Clarice's heart beat a rapid tattoo.
The castle was grandly ancient; the very thought of entering the family's private living space was both daunting and exciting. And the carriage was clattering over the drawbridge already.
Shadows sheathed the carriage's windows as they passed beneath the barbican. Then it was bright again, and Clarice Bradford found herself inside the crenelated walls of Cainewood Castle.
The carriage door was flung open, and Mary ran down the steps into the enormous grassy quadrangle. "Who are you?" Clarice heard her ask. "And who is this?"
"You must be Miss Mary," came a masculine voice. Clarice alighted from the carriage to see a man crouched by her daughter, an infant in his arms. "And this is baby Jewel. Lord Cainewood is an uncle now, aye?"
"Lord Cainewood plays games with me sometimes. The babe is lucky to have him for an uncle." Four stories of stately living quarters looming behind her, Mary ran a small finger down the child's tiny nose. "But Jewel is an odd name. 'Specially for a boy."
"Ah, but Jewel is a lass." A grin appeared on the stranger's face, lopsided and indulgent. "Though she has little hair on her head yet, she's a girl."
"Oh. Will she have hair soon?"
"Aye. A bonnie lass she'll be. Just like you."
Mary's giggle tinkled into the summer air as the man rose to his full height and caught Clarice's gaze with his.
Something stirred inside her when she met his warm hazel eyes. Since he hadn't answered Mary, Clarice had no idea who he was. He looked to be a wedding guest, though, dressed in a fancy blue suit trimmed with bright gold braid. She'd been told this would be a small family wedding. Judging from his accent, he must belong to the bride's side.
The stranger was tall. Clarice was not a short woman, but he topped her by nearly a head. Straight wheaten hair skimmed his shoulders and fluttered in the light breeze, shimmering in the sunshine. And those eyes…she felt she could get lost in them.
She gave herself a mental shake. This magical fairytale day was sparking her imagination—that was all. She'd never thought to be inside the castle walls as an invited guest to the lord's wedding—she and Mary the only commoners invited—the only non-family invited, come to that. Lord Cainewood had said that since their misfortune had inadvertently led to his marriage, he wanted them with him to celebrate. The sheer wonder of it was going to her sensible head. Making her giddy.
"You talk funny," Mary said to the stranger.
"Mary!" Clarice exclaimed, but she couldn't seem to look at her daughter. Her gaze was still riveted to the man's. He didn't talk funny, either. To the contrary, the Scottish cadence of his words seemed to flow right into her and melt her very bones.
Lud, she was afraid her knees might give out.
"Do you think so?" He tore his gaze from Clarice's and looked down at Mary. "Ye should gae a' folk the hearin', ye ken?" he said in an accent so broad it was obviously exaggerated.
At the look on her daughter's face, Clarice laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Surely laughter wasn't appropriate at a lord's wedding. She schooled her expression to be properly sober. "He means you should listen to people without passing judgment," she told Mary.
The man grinned, showing even white teeth. "I'm Cameron Leslie," he said. "Cousin of the bride." Shifting the baby to one arm, he reached for Clarice's hand. When he pressed his warm lips to the back, her breath caught and she thought she might swoon.
Clarice Bradford had never swooned.
"And you two must be the mother and daughter I've heard so much about, whose trials set Cainewood on the road to meet and woo my cousin Cait." She released her breath when he dropped her hand. "Though to hear Lord Cainewood's side of it," Mr. Leslie added with a jaunty wink, "it was Caithren who did the wooing."
Clarice couldn't help but smile. His cousin Caithren sounded like just what serious Lord Cainewood needed. "I'm Clarice Bradford," she said.
"It's pleased I am to meet you." He looked down when Mary tugged on one leg of his velvet breeches. "What is it, sweet?"
"Will you pick me up?"
"Mary!" Clarice frowned and set a hand on the girl's shoulder.
But the man handed the baby to Clarice, then reached down and swung her daughter into his arms. "Of course I'll hold you, princess." His eyes danced with pleasure. "She's charming," he told Clarice.
"I…" She cradled the sweet-smelling babe, at a loss for words. Mary was acting inappropriately forward, to the point of burrowing into the man's neck. And Clarice…
Clarice was jealous.
It was absurd. The planes of his face were clean-shaven, his skin flawless and…young. The man was incredibly young. Early twenties, she'd guess. She could see it in his complexion, the straightness of his lanky form, the angle of his head. This was not a man who had yet suffered the slings and arrows of life.
And Clarice was nearly thirty-two years old. Old enough to know she had no business lusting over a young man of any sort, let alone one dressed in the trappings of aristocracy.
She'd never lusted before, ever. It was quite a heady emotion.
Her daughter was clearly just as smitten.
Clarice startled out of her trance when the whine of bagpipes filled the quadrangle.
"That's our signal," Mr. Leslie said. "I expect I should fetch the bride."
When he set Mary on her feet, the girl reached up and firmly took his hand. "May I come with you?"
"Of course you may, princess."
"Princess," Mary breathed as they walked away. Bemused, Clarice smiled down at the cooing infant in her arms, vaguely wondering how she'd ended up holding a marquess's niece. And what she was supposed to do with her.
She glanced up to ask Mr. Leslie, but he was already too distant and Mary was happily chatting away. She wondered if perhaps she'd lost her daughter to this man.
Mary had always dreamed of being a princess.
Cameron Leslie was known to be a wee bit quiet. A man of simple needs, he didn't want for much. But when he did find something he wanted, he generally got it.
At the moment he was wanting Clarice Bradford. Or his body was, at least. His head told him he couldn't come to that conclusion following a five-minute conversation.
Good Lord, he mused as he climbed the steps to his cousin's chamber, in all his twenty-four years he'd never found himself attracted to a woman as he was to Clarice. Her quiet dignity, her wholesome beauty, something in her large gray eyes. The way she so clearly adored her delightful daughter.
A pity his time here in England was so short. He'd like to get to know the lass, but he had less than a week before he needed to head home to Scotland.
Wondering how much persuading Clarice would take to spend some time with him, he knocked on his cousin's door and called through the sturdy oak to ask if she was ready.
When the door opened, his jaw dropped. "Cait?" Dressed for her wedding, she looked different from the girl he'd known since her birth. Unbound from its customary plaits, her dark blond hair, so much like his, hung straight and loose to her waist. She wore cosmetics and a sky-blue gown trimmed in silver lace. An English gown.
"Good Lord," he said. "Cait, you look lovely."
"Thank you." She smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling as she surveyed his own attire, a deep blue velvet suit that he'd borrowed from one of the groom's brothers. He suspected Caithren thought he looked as English as she. She aimed a curious glance at the wee lassi
e who still held his fingers gripped tight. "And who is this?"
"Her name is Mary, and she and her mother are special guests. She, uh, attached herself to me." Cam lifted his hand, and Mary's little hand came up with it. Though he gave a sheepish shrug, his heart swelled, warm and pleased. "She may be walking down the aisle with us."
Caithren knelt, her silk skirts pooling around her. "Good day," she said.
"Good day," Mary returned in a small, polite voice. "I am pleased to meet you, my lady."
"I'm not—" Cait started.
"You'll be a lady within the hour," Cam interrupted with a teasing smile. "You may as well get used to it." He knew firsthand how difficult it was to adjust to a new station in life, having unexpectedly found himself to be a baronet after Caithren's brother died last month. He blew out a breath. "I, on the other hand, will never get used to being a sir."
"Aye, you will." Cait stood and linked her arm though his. "Shall we go?"
Bagpipe music swelled when they reached the double front doors and stepped out into the sunshine. It was a glorious day to be wed, the quadrangle redolent with the scent of newly-cut grass, the sky blue as Cait's gown and dotted with wee, puffy white clouds. Cameron's gaze swept the enormous castle's crenelated walls and the ancient keep while he mentally compared it to the tiny castle he'd recently inherited in Scotland. Beyond the timeworn tower, the grass grew high and untamed.
"Gudeman's croft," Caithren murmured.
"What is that?" Mary asked.
Cameron knelt down to her. "A place allowed to grow free as a shelter for brownies and fairies."
"Oh." Mary's eyes opened wide. "Do you know stories of brownies and fairies?"
"Many. But they'll have to wait for later." With his free hand, Cam ruffled her unruly curls, then he stood and faced Cait. "It's really the old tilting yard. Colin told me they don't groom it since it's long been in disuse."
"I knew that." Her lips curved in a soft smile as she scanned her new home. "Can you believe this place, Cam?"
He met her hazel eyes. "You always were meant to live in a castle, sweet Cait."
"Aye," she said, no doubt thinking of her family's tiny castle at home—Cameron's castle now. "But who'd have ever guessed it would be such an enormous, historic one…and in England?"
"You'll do fine." Though they'd always been inseparable and he would miss her terribly, Cam knew in his heart she belonged here at Cainewood with the marquess she'd come to love. He leaned to kiss her forehead, then looked up. "There's your man now."
When her gaze flew to her intended, her face lit at the sight of him. Suddenly Cameron ached for the security this tall, dark-haired man so clearly enjoyed—a woman to love and a place that truly felt like his own.
A family.
Now that Cait was staying here in England, Cameron felt very alone. A family would be comforting. With several bairns who would grow up and help him make the Leslie estate into everything he and Cait had always dreamed it could be.
Clarice walked over to take Mary by the hand. "It's time," she said gently, and reluctantly the wee lass released her grip on Cam. The girl looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes lingering on him as the woman led her away.
"Her mother?" Cait guessed.
"Aye. Her name is Clarice Bradford. You'll like her." Cameron's gaze followed the two as they walked toward the gatehouse on their way to Cainewood's private chapel. Clarice's rich brown hair gleamed beneath a pink-ribboned straw hat. Her pink dress was simple compared to those of Caithren and the other women, but it suited her perfectly.
Cameron was simple as well.
He turned to take Cait by both hands. "Are you ready?" he asked.
"More ready than I ever thought possible." Smiling at him, she squeezed his fingers. "You know, Mam always said it's better to marry over the midden than over the muir."
"I've heard that said, that it's wise to stick within your own circle." Unbidden, his gaze flicked over to Clarice. "But I'm not sure I believe it."
"I don't believe it, either." Caithren's own gaze trailed to her groom, waiting for her by the barbican. "I reckon even mothers are wrong sometimes."
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Read on for an excerpt from Amber,
the final book in Lauren's Jewel Trilogy!
Excerpt from
AMBER
Book Three of the Jewel Trilogy by Lauren Royal
Sussex, England
June 1668
Kendra Chase adored her brothers, except when she wanted to kill them.
"Jason is right," Ford told her as they rattled down the road in a shabby public coach. "You're twenty-three years old, and it's high time you take a husband."
Kendra slanted a glance at the plainly dressed stranger sharing the coach with them. "Not the Duke of Lechmere," she said with an exasperated glare at her twin. "I won't be 'your graced' for the rest of my life."
Kendra's oldest brother, Jason, tried unsuccessfully to stretch his long legs. "And what, pray tell," he drawled in an annoyed tone, "would be wrong with that? I've never understood what you have against dukes." Crammed onto the bench seat between Kendra and his wife, Caithren, he sighed. "I only wish to see you live a life of comfort. Would you prefer to travel this way all the time?"
As if to drive home her brother's point, the springless vehicle lurched in and out of a rut, rattling Kendra's teeth. She gritted them. Though Jason was careful with money, he was, after all, the Marquess of Cainewood, and they did own a rather luxurious carriage. But one of its wheels had broken on their way out of London, and they'd been forced to take public transport—or else risk missing an urgent appointment back home at Cainewood Castle.
An appointment to introduce Kendra to the latest "suitable" man her brothers planned to foist upon her.
"My comfort isn't the issue here—"
"This is your last chance to make your own choice," Jason interrupted her, gathering the cards from the hand of piquet they'd just played. "If you won't marry Lechmere, you'll have to select one of the other men who have offered for you. Or I will do the selecting."
"The other men." Kendra tossed her head of dark red curls, not believing her brother's ultimatum for a moment. The wretched day had put him in a bad mood, but he was generally the most reasonable man she knew. "Old but well-off, or widowed and settled with children, or young but just plain boring. Stable, wealthy men in the good graces of King Charles, every last one of them."
Her brother's green eyes flashed. "Yes, perfectly acceptable, every last one of them."
"As it should be," Ford put in.
Mournfully shaking her head, Kendra sent Caithren an imploring glance. "They'll never understand."
Cait's eyes filled with sympathy and a bit of shared exasperation. She laid a hand on her husband's arm. "I've told you before, Kendra wishes to marry for love, not—"
"Stand and deliver!" a deep voice interrupted from outside.
With an unnerving suddenness, the coach ground to a halt. Stopped in mid-sentence, Cait's mouth gaped, and Kendra's stomach clenched in fear.
Ford leaned forward and pushed open the door. A man on horseback—a highwayman!—poked his head inside.
The most compelling head Kendra had ever seen.
"You?" Jason and Ford said together.
They knew this man?
Since Kendra hadn't heard that either of her brothers had been hurt—or even robbed, come to think of it—most of her fear dissipated, and her heart lifted with excitement instead.
Nothing like this had ever happened to her!
Looking slightly disconcerted, the highwayman dismounted. "Aye, it's me," he said slowly. Beneath the mask that concealed the upper half of his face, a grin emerged. An engaging slash of perfect white.
Well, not precisely perfect. One of his front teeth had a small chip, but she found that tiny imperfection endearing. And he was dashing, not to mention forbidden. If any of her hopeful suitors had been like this man, she'd have married him in a trice.
/> She wanted to say something to make him notice her. But for the first time in her memory, her mouth refused to work.
His gaze swept the coach's dim interior as though she weren't even there. "You," he said succinctly, motioning to the whey-faced businessman seated beside Ford. "Get out."
"There be five of us in here, three of them men, likely with pistols," the man said stiffly. From his haircut, plain clothes, and the short, boxy jacket beneath his cloak, Kendra knew he was a Puritan. "Perhaps thee had better think again."
"Oh, it's violence you threaten, aye?" The highwayman's voice was deep and a little husky, with, curiously, the barest hint of an accent. "Perhaps you had better think again. My friends," he drawled, gesturing toward the hill behind him, "would make certain you cease to exist within the minute. Get out. Now."
Kendra looked out the door and up. Sure enough, there were a dozen or so men at the top of the hill, their guns trained on the coach.
The Puritan must have recognized the threat, for he reluctantly climbed down. Kendra shifted within the coach, the better to see out.
The victim was a good foot shorter than the robber, who looked impossibly tall and elegant in a jet-black velvet surcoat. Close-faced and resigned, the Puritan emptied his pockets and handed over his money, then turned to reenter the coach.
The highwayman reached to grab the victim's sleeve. "Not so fast."
Visibly shaken, the smaller man stilled but said nothing.
The highwayman shook him a little. "Surely a...man of business, such as yourself, will be carrying more gold on his person than this. Where is it? Sewn into your cloak? Hidden in your luggage?"
Though Kendra could see the rise and fall of his agitated breathing, the Puritan turned back boldly. "Surely thee has no need of gold," he spat out, tugging his sleeve from the bigger man's grasp while eyeing his groomed appearance and expensive, tailored suit. "A...gentleman such as thyself."
The highwayman's eyes were amber, edged in a deeper hue—bronze, Kendra decided—that now spread in toward the center as his expression hardened. "Your luggage and your cloak, then—seeing as you won't cooperate."
