Amethyst (20 page)

"Bundle up, now," he said, holding out the blanket. When she stood, he wrapped it around her shoulders, vexed at himself when he noticed the enticing rose scent that seemed to waft from her whenever she moved.

Turning away, he took an oil lamp off the mantel and lit it.

"We're going outside?" she asked as she trailed after him down the corridor.

"In a manner of speaking."

He stopped to unlock the door to the great hall, and she followed him inside. Lighting the way, he led her along the wall, moving beneath the overhang created by the partial new roof. He took her elbow to guide her around a rusted cannonball.

"I was hoping to have this roof finished before the cold set in," he yelled over the wind. It was picking up, making a hell of a racket. "Now, if it proves to be a snowy winter, I may as well stay at Cainewood much of the time. I won't see much progress in this kind of weather." A glance through the open roof had him shaking his head at the threatening clouds. "Bloody hell."

They were forced to brave the snow to reach another door in the center of the end wall. Once they were inside, he shut it quickly, glad for the blessed quiet.

"Storerooms," he explained, leading Amy down the short corridor with two cellars on either side. They came out into his large kitchen.

Amy looked suitably impressed. "My goodness, this is impeccably restored."

"It projects outside the curtain wall," Colin pointed out. "I suppose it made the castle somewhat vulnerable at the time it was first built, but it was a sound decision as a precaution against fire damage."

Proud of all his improvements, Colin showed her the ovens, spitted fireplaces, and wash basins with bronze taps and spouts. After she'd expressed appropriate admiration for the kitchen, he took her down a long, unused passage to the left.

"This was the original garderobe," he explained. "It hung over the moat, a nice innovation at the time. Owing to the location, though, everyone had to go through the great hall and kitchen to use it."

Amy peeked into the rough wooden latrines. "I'm glad I'm visiting now instead of then." She'd already made use of Colin's new garderobe, twin latrines with all the modern comforts, and declared them the most luxurious cubbyholes she'd ever seen. They had water closets, newly imported from France, and pipes all the way to the River Caine.

"I'll stick with the one next to your study, thank you," she said. "It's cold over here."

"It is, isn't it? Let's take our supper and head back."

Backtracking through the kitchen and toward the great hall, Amy followed Colin into the vaulted cellar on the left, a pantry stocked with plenty of food, although not yet a great variety. Handing the lamp to her, Colin grabbed a basket and filled it with a small wheel of cheese, some carrots, apples, and a jar of—

"What's that?" Amy asked in some alarm.

"Pickled snails."

"Pickled
snails?
Surely you jest."

"I do not. They're delicious."

"I guess I'll try them," she said dubiously, "but I have to say they look and sound disgusting." She slanted him an assessing glance. "You gentry certainly eat some strange things."

Colin laughed and led her into the vault across the corridor. Walls lined with racks held but a few bottles of wine, one of which he hastily selected. Watching Amy look around, he tried to see the cellar through her eyes. Great empty barrels were scattered about, and two long, ancient wooden tables ran down the center of the arched chamber.

"Let me guess," Amy suggested, "the taproom?"

"The buttery."

"A butter room?"

"Well, it's not where they kept the butter, but that's what it was called. Your first guess was close—this room was dedicated to brewing and serving beverages. 'Butt' is an old word for bottle."

Amy followed him out of the buttery and back toward the great hall. "How do you come to know so much about old castles?"

Colin shrugged. "They always interested me. I spent my early years at Cainewood and the rest of my childhood in a succession of old, drafty castles on the Continent. I asked a lot of questions, read a lot of books."

He motioned with his head for her to open the door, then winced when she got a blast of cold snow in her face for her trouble. He ushered her ahead, and she held up the lamp to light their way back.

"Most men, given this land, would build a new house and leave the ruined castle as a relic for their children to play in," he shouted from the swirling snow behind her. "It would probably cost less and certainly be easier to heat."

When they reached the other end, Amy opened the door and they stepped into the welcoming entry hall, warmed by the dancing fire. Colin shut the door against the wind, and the room went suddenly silent.

Setting the basket and bottle of wine on the stone floor, he turned to lock the door. "God knows why I'm restoring this place; it makes little sense." Finished, he faced her. "But it's three hundred years old, and it seems a shame to just let it crumble into ruin. The walls are thick and solid—it's a good home…" He shrugged and smiled at her. "I like living here."

"That's the romantic in you, Lord Greystone," she said softly.

Romantic?
No one had ever accused Colin Chase of being romantic. Handsome, yes, he'd have to be deaf not to have heard the ladies extolling his physical virtues. He liked to think he was a good lover and he embodied many other worthy traits. But romantic? Never.

He searched her amethyst eyes, scarcely believing she could be serious. But he could see she was sincere.

She obviously didn't know him very well.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence and tension between them. "Insane, is more like it."

She shook her head, smiling. Colin's gaze moved to her cheeks, pink from the cold, and her lips, red and slightly wind-chapped. Her curls, arranged so carefully by Kendra's maid that morning, were blown loose around her face…

God help him, he wanted to kiss her. He stepped forward.

She licked her lips. "Are those pickled snails really edible?"

He shook his head to clear those preposterous thoughts. "They're the best. Although I've just realized I forgot to bring spoons from the kitchen."

"You needn't brave the cold. I'm perfectly willing to share your knife with you." A gleam came into her eyes. "After all, I'm naught but a simple merchant's daughter."

Having delivered her jab, Amy leaned down to pick up the wine bottle. Colin frowned at her back. How did she know he thought of her that way? Kendra, most likely—the meddler in the family.

But it was as well that Amy had reminded him—for with all this talk of romance, he'd been on the edge of forgetting just who and what she was.

Clutching their supper to his chest, he turned and hurried down the corridor, back to the relative safety of his desk.

THE KEEP WAS BUILT
of lavender stone, cut in perfect rectangular bricks, set together seamlessly to form the tallest tower in the world. Arched windows graced each landing, and as Amy wound up the spiral staircase she paused to look out.

Ferocious, fire-breathing, terrifying…the dragon lumbered relentlessly closer, its heavy tread making the earth shudder. She ran up and up, a burning stitch in her side, but came no nearer the top.

Papa was up there. She had to get to him.

The dragon let out an earsplitting roar, breathing its red and yellow and blue fire through a window. She pressed herself against the wall as flames raced past her up the winding steps, in a thick burning line toward the top where Papa waited.

When it seemed as though neither her legs nor her lungs would hold out for one more step, she finally reached the top—but Papa was already on fire. A skeleton he was, reclining in a chair, holding an oval-framed picture, his feet bones resting on a bolster. Flames shot from his skeleton eye sockets and between his bare skeleton ribs. Black smoke rose in a column from the bony structure to the sky.

Gray ash rained down on the lavender stone. The dragon's roar shook the tower. Its glittering eyes looked straight into hers before it bent its head and breathed fire into the stairwell. Red and yellow and orange flames rushed up the steps straight at her, burning a path all the way to her right hand. Her hand was on fire, burning brightly, and it started up her arm…

She screamed for help, but nobody came.

Her hand had turned into a skeleton hand; the flesh was burning off her arm, the flames working their way to her shoulder. She screamed at the top of her lungs…

IT SOUNDED AS THOUGH
someone were in the castle, attacking Amy in the bedchamber next door.

His heart pounding, Colin leapt from the couch, threw his breeches over an arm, grabbed his knife from the desk and his rapier off the floor. Blades at the ready, he burst into the bedchamber, where Amy thrashed wildly in his bed.

Alone.

He could scarcely imagine what demons could cause such a nightmare.

He tossed the weapons into a corner and pulled on his breeches, hopping on one foot and then the other as he made his way across the room. Tugging on the laces, he launched himself onto the bed with a force that nearly sent Amy over the other side.

"Amy, wake up!" He shook her frantically. "It's naught but a dream. Wake up."

A concerned voice floated up the winding staircase. Someone was coming to rescue her. Someone was coming, after all.

"Wake up! You're all right."

The voice was closer, right in her ear. Someone's hand was on her burning shoulder. Wait—no, it wasn't burning…

AMY HEARD HER OWN
cries and struggled through her fog into reality, her screams turning into deep, wrenching sobs.

"Hush, it's over." Colin pulled her into his arms. The quilt, which she'd thrown off during her nightmare, slid to the floor. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her wet face into his warm chest. He rubbed her back through her thin chemise in a slow, soothing rhythm, murmuring to her all the while.

At last she calmed enough to pull away. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she sat up and stared at her right hand in disbelief.

"It was burning…"

"Does it hurt?"

She shook her head, remembering both the real pain from her old injury and the many-times-magnified pain of the dream. But the sensation now was just the fading tingle of memory, and the hand was fine, not the skeleton fingers she'd been half-expecting to see.

"No, it doesn't hurt at all." She dropped her hand to the bed, still staring at it by the light of the dying fire. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I thought you were being attacked." He laughed shakily and stood up. "I ran in here with my knife, ready to defend you, wearing absolutely nothing. I'm not sure I'd have been a very effective warrior."

"Oh." She looked up, her gaze landing on his chest, which looked bronze in the shimmering firelight. Her eyes widened as she suddenly realized he wasn't wearing much more than nothing now.

His tanned upper body was clad in naught but a thin white scar, long since healed, a diagonal slash across his left upper arm. She wondered fleetingly what had caused it, but was too distracted to give it much thought. Her gaze dropped to his bare feet. Why, he wore nothing at all, it seemed, other than a pair of unfashionably tight breeches, and those—she couldn't help noticing—only partially laced.