by Amy Atwell
Table of Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Book 1: Johnny
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Book 2: Johanna
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Author
Excerpt from Lying Eyes, available now from Carina Press
“AMBERSLEY shares rich storytelling treats that go beyond the traditional romance; it's reminiscent of classic Judith McNaught works. ” —RITA-nominated author, Therese Walsh, The Last Will of Moira Leahy
A passion too long denied...
“All I ask is the freedom to choose my own husband. Do you think me incapable of that?”
Sunlight from the window cast a gleam in his blue eyes. “No. You’re wise enough to know your money makes you very attractive. And that bothers you, doesn’t it?”
With a frown, she looked away, but he tilted her chin back to face him.
“You want a man to fall in love with you, not for your wealth or even your beauty, but for whom you are inside. Perhaps one day a man will come along who steals your heart, and it will never beat the same again.”
She became conscious of the pounding of her heart as his arms enfolded her.
“Perhaps one day, he’ll take you into his arms, and with one kiss he’ll change your destiny.”
Before Johanna could protest, Derek's mouth swooped down and hungrily claimed her lips. She stiffened, shocked by the sudden display of such intense emotion. Almost immediately, his kiss became less insistent but more tempting. The coaxing caress of his sensual lips across hers was impossible to withstand. Her arms crept up to his shoulders, and she returned the kiss with an awakening hunger of her own, unwilling to allow this moment to end.
His whisper penetrated her fogged brain. “We were made for each other, Johanna. End this mad quest, for your suitors may profess deep, undying affection, but they desire only your fortune. I, at least, won’t play you false.”
Discover these additional titles by Amy Atwell:
The Daughters of Cosmo Fortune, contemporary romantic capers set in Las Vegas:
Book 1, now available: Lying Eyes
Book 2, coming soon: Cheating Hearts
Book 3, coming soon: Stealing Kisses
AMBERSLEY
Amy Atwell
Copyright ©2011 by Amy Atwell
Published by Amy Atwell
All rights reserved.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Ambersley is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
Bringing this book to publication has been a twenty-year journey. Really. I began jotting random scenes for what became Ambersley in the early 1990s. My heartfelt thanks to the talented and tenacious Debbi Michiko Florence, a fellow author whose friendship and support encouraged me to finish the first draft back in 2000. More thanks are owed to authors P.J. Alderman, Dale Mayer and Therese Walsh, all of whom slogged through the massive revision (and cutting of 20,000 words) in 2008.
To my writing groups—Writing GIAM, Pixie Chicks, LaLaLa Sisters—you've been there for me during the dark times when I might have abandoned my writing. Thanks for all the encouragement and support.
A note of thanks to literary agent Kevan Lyon, who championed this book to the New York publishers. I owe thanks for your conviction in my writing and your prodding me to dig more deeply into my hero. It's a better book because of your input.
To the terrific ladies of the Publishing Underground, thanks for all the guidance and advice in bringing this story to readers. Special thanks to Laura Morrigan for the breathtaking cover art. It's just what I wanted.
I'm grateful to my family for bearing with my unyielding desire to write and to my husband who always encourages me to follow my dreams.
Dedication
In loving memory of my mother, who shared her passion for reading with everyone—especially me. The wait is over, Mom. I know you're smiling.
Ambersley
Book 1
Johnny
Chapter 1
Ambersley, June 1801
He’d simply done what any good man would do.
Thomas Bendicks repeated that to himself as he carried the small child along the forest path. Overhead, birdsong heralded the approaching dawn. He swore silently, afraid the bright light of day would bring regrets. Best not to think too closely upon the previous night’s tragic events or the possible repercussions of his actions.
He adjusted his burden to gently shoulder his way into the cottage. “Martha?” She would know what to do next.
His wife bent over the stove in the dim light. “Is that you, dear? Go out and wash up. Eat something, then you can sleep your fill. You must be tired after last night.” She turned toward the door and promptly dropped the loaf of bread she carried. “Tom, what’s that you’ve got?”
He craned his neck and managed to whisper past the child’s chokehold. “I found her just this side of the stream. I heard whimpering and there she was, all curled up under a rhododendron. When I pulled her out, she climbed into my arms. Now she won’t let go.” Awe tinged his voice, for he still couldn’t believe this little being had trusted him. She clung to him like a vine to a sturdy oak.
He lowered himself into a chair as Martha approached to peer at the child. The little girl could be no more than four years old. Cuts and scrapes reddened her chubby arms and legs beneath the torn and filthy nightdress. Sooty smudges marred a pale round face framed by a disheveled mass of long dark curls knotted with brambles. Her blue-green eyes overflowed with unspoken terror.
“Tom, why did you bring her here? You know she must be His Grace’s daughter. Everyone will be searching for her.”
He pulled the child from his shoulder and adjusted her across his lap. She nuzzled her head against his chest and closed her eyes, one tiny hand clutching his sweat-stained shirt. The smell of ash bound them as one.
“I was almost home when I found her.” A poor excuse, he knew. “Besides, it’s a right mess up at the Hall—the fire destroyed half the roof, the west wing is gutted, and I hear most of the inside is damaged.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The duke and duchess are dead, as is half the house staff.”
Martha’s eyes filled with tears, and she swept away the moisture with hasty fingers.
“I was told the child was dead, too,” Tom continued. “Some daft story about her ghost sailing through the smoke last night. Nobody seems to know who’s in charge or what to do next.” His arm tightened about the child. “Look at her. She’s so scared, I thought it better to bring her here for a day or two. I don’t think she should see the Hall like it is now.”
The l
ittle girl had fallen asleep against his chest. Gingerly, Martha reached over to smooth a stray curl from her face, bracing against old memories that swamped her. Poor little orphan, what was to become of her now? The title and the property would go to some male relative. Maybe he’d have a family—that would be best. It might be days before he arrived, and meanwhile...
She smiled. “Tom, you did the right thing. She needs peace, and she won’t get it at the Hall. We’ll keep her here with us until her relatives arrive. That shouldn’t be nigh long, right?”
When he didn’t answer, she realized he’d drifted to sleep, his grizzled cheek slumped upon the child’s head.
~
The child awoke screaming.
Her soprano shrieks brought Martha running to her makeshift bed. Violent nightmares had assailed the little girl these past four nights, and once again she sat erect amidst rumpled blankets. She made no further sound, merely trembled while tears trickled down her face. The terror within her huge eyes ripped at Martha’s heart.
She reached down to offer comfort, but the girl raised her arms to Tom who gathered her close. He crooned a wordless melody in her ear until her trembling subsided. Martha retreated to the hearth and tried to ignore the pang that came each time the little girl turned to him for solace.
She stirred last night’s embers in the fireplace. “Come, Tom. I’ll make a pot of tea and some porridge. It’s no use trying to sleep more.” Fetching her woolen shawl and a pail, she went to the well.
When she returned, she found Tom and the child seated on the chilly floor, where the little girl played silently with two cornhusk dolls he’d fashioned. Setting the kettle to boil, Martha’s eyes stung as she recalled her first husband and little son, both lost to the pox years ago. Her son had been just this age when… She busied herself. Tom had offered her marriage, provided her solace for her loss, and asked for naught in return but that she prove a good wife. How she wished she could have given him a child—he was so obviously smitten with the little girl.
“She smiled at me,” Tom said in a church whisper.
Martha raised her brows at him.
“She speaks not a word, and her eyes carry that haunted look still. Do you think she’ll ever forget the fire?”
Martha knelt on the floor with them, although getting back on her feet would be no easy task. She stroked the little girl’s shorn curls—cropping them close had been the only way to remove the briars.
The child responded with an upturned face and solemn eyes. Martha barely dared breathe. Then, with an exhalation of breath, the girl returned her attention to the dolls.
Martha closed her eyes in a watery blink.
Tom stood and bent to help Martha to her feet. He followed her to the hearth and watched as she prepared the porridge for their breakfast. “I’m sorry she—” he began.
“No need apologizing for her. She is what she is and no harm done.”
“I think she only turns to me because I found her.” Tom swallowed. “I could take her up to the Hall, if you think that’s best.”
“I’m glad you found her, Tom, and I’m glad you brought her here. She’s frightened and she’s hurting, poor dear.” She handed him a bowl of porridge. “’Twill do her no good to go traipsing up to the Hall. I saw the place yesterday, and it’s a sorry sight. And who would look after her? Her nursemaid’s dead. The poor child would be nothing but a burden to the butler or the housekeeper.”
“I hear the duke’s solicitor has left to find the heir.”
Martha nodded. “Very well. She stays with us until the new duke arrives. She trusts you. You cannot betray that.”
She went to the child and led her to the table. The girl sat docile as a lamb while Martha fed her small spoonfuls of porridge.
“Her appetite’s improving,” Tom said.
“Aye, ’tis. And yes, I think someday she’ll forget. But the pain is deep and may take time to heal. We need to be patient.”
As the weeks passed, the child’s nightmares became less violent. She still clung to Tom for comfort, but whenever he left the cottage, she followed Martha about dog-like, silent and watchful. Martha laid her own ghosts to rest by clothing the little girl in her son’s old shirt and breeches. The clothes fit well and even Tom approved, for it made her look less like an invalid. They spoke to no one of keeping the child—after all, they had no right to make themselves her guardians. Yet they believed they did what they did for the best.
One night at the table, Martha pushed her spoon through her stew. “Do they say anything about Miss Amber?”
It was the first time either of them had spoken the child’s name in her presence, but she showed no sign that she recognized it as she ate her bread and honey.
Tom leaned forward on his elbows. “Only to say they cannot find a trace of her. But Mr. Pritchard told me the duke’s solicitor planned to visit Bow Street while he was in London. There’s tales someone may have set the fire deliberately.”
“Why?”
Tom shrugged.
Ill at ease, Martha climbed to her feet. “Come, Johnny, help me with the dishes.” The girl obediently rose and followed Martha with her plate.
Tom reached for his pipe. “I’m not sure it’s right to call the child that.”
“We must call her something.” Martha added gruffly, for it had been her son’s name, “It brings me peace, and she doesn’t mind, do you, Johnny?”
The child looked up at once.
“See? I can’t get her to look at me when I call her Amber.”
The child cleared the table with no regard to her own name.
“Tom, is it possible she doesn’t remember?
He rubbed his nose in thought. “I suppose even though she doesn’t have any burns, Miss Amber may hurt inside. Stokes said he’s heard of cases where people who have bad experiences sometimes forget all about them—they even forget everything about themselves.”
Martha snorted. “What does Stokes know? He’s a footman.”
“Ah, but he once worked for a physician in London.”
This silenced Martha. She scrubbed plates while the child rinsed them with a pitcher of clean water. With a sigh, Tom rose from his chair to dry the plates and place them on the shelf. Preoccupied with their thoughts, silence hung like a thick fog while they worked.
Wiping down the table with a sodden rag, Martha said, “Tom, are you telling me she might not know who she is?”
He watched the little girl on the floor with her dolls. “’Tis possible. No way to know until she starts to speak. And Martha, if she has forgotten, Stokes said that this, ’amnesia’ I think he called it, isn’t always permanent. Sometimes people wake up one day, and they remember everything again.”
As summer waned and one autumn moon proceeded to the next, Martha tried not to dwell too much on this conversation. Yet, while she watched orange colored leaves float free from the trees, she couldn’t help but wish that Miss Amber would likewise magically fall free from her family. More than anything, though, she wished little Johnny would speak to her.
On a chilly November morning, Tom announced his intention to go hunting. He grinned widely as he checked his musket, which only made Martha laugh.
“Bloodthirsty man that you are. Bring us back a fat goose or a brace of doves.”
“Aye, ’twill be my luck to shoot a big goose right into the lake, and me without a dog to fetch it. Remember that when I come home sopping wet and shivering.” With a tip of his hat, he marched off.
Hoping for a rabbit or fowl to grace their table that night, Martha led Johnny to the arbor to gather chestnuts for dressing the meat. “I’m either getting too old or too fat for this,” she said as she stooped to pick up a chestnut. No doubt her back would ache something fierce at the end of the day.
With pride she watched her little Johnny, in breeches, shirt and tricorne, dart about as quick as a squirrel. The child barely resembled the cherub they’d rescued—she’d grown taller and lost her chubbiness, while
sunshine had browned her once porcelain skin and streaked her short dark curls with reddish gold. Johnny gathered handfuls of chestnuts and dumped them loudly into the pail they’d brought. Soon the tinny sound of nutshells against metal turned to the softer thud of nutshell against nutshell.
“This won’t take us long at all, will it?” Martha kneeled on the ground and spread her shawl to fill it. It would be much easier to get up once than bend over a dozen times.
It was a full minute before she sensed that silence had replaced the thud of nutshells, and she looked around to discover what might have caught Johnny’s attention. Martha found herself alone in the arbor. With a grunt, she hefted herself up, stepping on her hem and spilling chestnuts in her wake.
