Amethyst (25 page)

"But it
is
yours, Amy. It's all yours."

Silently she knelt by the trunk to close and lock it, then joined him again at the window. They both gazed at the snow drifting down. The storm was dwindling, and this would probably be their last night together.

"You're right," she said softly. "It is all mine. But in the last two years I've learned that what counts are the people you have around you. Money isn't important."

"It is if you don't have it," he returned bitterly, thinking about the years he'd spent struggling to get the estate into shape and restore his home, delaying his marriage and family plans.

"I'd trade it all—every bit of it," she whispered, "to have my parents again."

He felt his heart tug in his chest. She was right, of course. Turning to her, he took her face between his palms and gently tilted it to meet her eyes. "I know," he whispered back. "I know you would."

The chamber was quiet. The snow fell inaudibly outside the window; the crackling fire and their breathing were the only sounds. Her eyes deepened in color as he gazed into them, and he bent his head to capture her lips.

Amy felt her torn spirits mending in his embrace. His kiss was slow and caressing. His hands crept from her cheeks down the sides of her neck, to her shoulders and around to her back, where she felt their warm imprints pressing her against his powerful body.

A long, dreamy, melting time later their mouths broke apart, and Amy laid her head on his chest. Beneath her ear, his heart beat strong and steady. He stroked her hair with unhurried, gentle movements and twisted it in his fingers, almost as though he liked it, she thought lazily.

Her gaze drifted to the jewelry that sparkled on the bed. The galant, the aigrette, the pocket watch…the cameo. The thought of him owning it made her feel warm all over.

Would he treasure it like she hoped he would? Years from now, would he look at it and remember the passion they'd shared? She hoped so. If he felt even a shred of the emotion she did, she suspected he'd remember it all his life, for she was certain she would.

When she finally pulled away, she was surprised and relieved to find that, somewhere between his discovery of her secret and their shared, healing kiss, her uneasiness with him had vanished.

"I owe you a dinner," she reminded him with a grin. "Are you willing to try my very first stew?"

"With a side dish of pickled snails?" he asked, grinning back devilishly.

She groaned and headed out of the bedchamber.

WITH A HUM OF
satisfaction, Amy moved her bishop diagonally across the chessboard toward Colin's king.

"Check," she announced.

Colin was hard put to keep a smile off his face. After two complete games, it was clear Amy was the thoughtful tactician, while his style was fast and aggressive. But he'd put his mind to this match, planning his moves far in advance. He knew exactly what would happen from here on out.

He moved his king one space; then, the game well in hand, he turned his thoughts to something much more interesting: plotting the perfect practical joke.

Amy's gray marble knight made a decisive click against the black and white board. "Check."

As Colin's hand shot out to rescue his king, he decided he would offer to prepare supper. Alone in the pantry, he ought to be able to dream up a clever prank.

Ahh…yes.

She grinned, oozing confidence, and slid her bishop into place. "Check."

He managed to respond with no more than a speculative glance and a raise of one brow. Though he was relieved to find them much more evenly matched in chess than they'd been in piquet, there was no reason to rub his impending victory in her beautiful face.

He tapped his king into place, threatening her knight.

Amy frowned at the board, then slowly withdrew the knight, relieving the pressure on his king.

Colin rubbed his hands together in glee. Now he controlled the events of the board, and he quickly moved one of his jade-green rooks across to threaten Amy's gray one.

She had no choice—either move her rook or lose it. Colin saw her freeze—she could see the inevitable. No matter which way she went, she'd be dead in two moves—checkmated by his bishop.

She looked up, a surprised, wry smile on her face, then her hand moved to her king and gently laid it down.

Colin reached across the table to offer the obligatory victor's handshake, though he thought a kiss would be a much more interesting forfeit. "Good game."

"Shall we make it three out of five?"

He grinned. "I believe two out of three was the agreement." The slim margin of one game made victory all the sweeter. "Shall I collect supper?" Rising, he glanced at the clock on the mantel. "A midnight supper, as it turns out."

"I'll help," Amy offered.

"No, it's my turn." He shrugged into his cloak before she could offer again. "See if you can finish that book. You said you cannot bear to let me return it to Jason's library without seeing how it ends."

Reaching for the book, the tenth volume of Madeleine de Scudéry's
Clélie
, she smiled and settled back.

Apparently she wasn't suspicious.

He ducked out the door before she could change her mind.

WHEN COLIN CAME IN
whistling, Amy was jarred out of Clélie's adventures.

She'd never heard him whistle before. Although he did it quite well, he sounded a bit too cheerful, even for a man who'd just won a chess match.

"What might you be so happy about?"

"Oh, nothing." Still whistling, he moved the chess set off the table and laid out their light supper. "Sorry, but I've no bread," he said, apologizing for the unusual offering. Wine, oranges, smoked salmon, small dried biscuits, and another jar of those disgusting pickled snails.

Amy frowned at the stupid brown things. "Haven't you had enough of those?"

"Never," he said, and went back to whistling.

Amy's book lay open and ignored as he poured wine into two goblets. He was happy about something, she thought—probably that he'd finally be able to get rid of her tomorrow. The snow had stopped a couple of hours earlier.

Handing her a goblet, he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. She sipped, watching him through her eyelashes. He was hardly acting like a man who couldn't stand her presence—it was confusing, to say the least.

"Like it?" he asked.

"It's nice." Accepting a biscuit layered with fish, she popped it into her mouth, closed her book and set it on the table.

"It's Madeira." He took a swallow of his own wine, then raised the goblet in salute. "King Charles's favorite."

Chewing slowly, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Underneath his light, meaningless conversation, she sensed a glee he could scarcely contain.

Something was up.

On the other hand, she reminded herself, she didn't know him very well.

She knew his body, though. Her gaze traveled his snug buff breeches and white shirt, which was casually unlaced to reveal the top of his tanned chest. And beneath that shirt, she remembered…

"Where did you get the scar?" she asked suddenly.

"The scar?"

"On your arm. The long, white—"

"Oh. That scar." He sat beside her and placed more salmon on a biscuit. "I seldom notice it anymore." As though the injury were of no consequence, he waved the hand with the biscuit airily. "It's an old fencing practice wound—I was sixteen or so."

"Didn't it hurt?"

"Hell, yes." He bit off half the biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of wine. "Someone poured brandy on it—that was the worst part—and then even more brandy down my throat. Then they stitched it up with a needle and thread."

"Lord! I cannot even imagine." Amy took a deliberate sip of her own wine, to fortify herself or wash away the image—she wasn't sure which. "And it was only a practice…didn't that make you angry?"

Colin stuck the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and chewed it slowly, considering. "No," he said finally, a wry smile on his lips, "it made me the best bloody swordsman in all of Europe. I made damn sure it would never happen again."

Amy thought about that: How Colin seemed determined to turn every disadvantage life dealt him into a benefit. He'd done it with his disappointing childhood, resolving to do much better with his own family. He'd done it with his dilapidated estate, toiling tirelessly to turn it into something of value. He believed hard work and dedication—whether countless hours of swordplay or working the land with his own hands—were the best means to a happy ending. And he didn't expect the good things in life to be handed to him on a silver platter.

There was much to admire in such an attitude, she thought.

Colin, on the other hand, had ceased thinking about it at all. The jar of snails on the table had reclaimed one hundred percent of his attention. Those snails beckoned, practically begging to be opened and play their part in this evening's performance.

He considered himself a veritable model of patience as he waited until he'd polished off his fifth biscuit before reaching for the jar and removing the lid.

"Ready for one of these?" he asked innocently.

She held up a half-eaten biscuit. "Not yet," she said through a mouthful of fish.

With a shrug, Colin nonchalantly dipped his spoon into the jar, scooped a snail, and placed it in his mouth.

Even the foreknowledge left him vastly unprepared for the taste of his concoction. Struggling to keep his face straight, he washed down the snail with a large gulp of wine as quickly as he could. If Amy succeeded in pretending she liked
these
snails, she'd be the best actress he'd ever seen.

She finished her biscuit and put together another, and then another. At last, when he doubted she could cram in another bite, she announced, "I'm ready."

"For what?" He fixed her with a puzzled, innocent look.

"For a snail, of course," she snapped.

"Oh, you want one?" Quelling a smile, he spooned out a snail and watched the liquid dribble back into the jar, his tinkering undetectable. He licked his lips.

"Here," he offered, moving his spoon toward her mouth with the mock generosity of a man reluctant to part with his favorite morsel of food.

When she opened her mouth, he delicately placed the snail inside. Though her face scrunched up in a look of dismay, she managed to swallow it. Then rushed to wash it down, draining her goblet of wine in the process.

Refilling the goblet with pretended indifference, Colin struggled to contain his mirth. "Is something wrong?" he asked, knitting his brows in feigned concern.

"It—it tasted a bit different. Do you suppose it might be a bad jar?"

Colin was enjoying himself immensely. "No, they all came from the same batch. Perhaps you simply don't care for pickled snails."

"No, no, I like them," Amy insisted. "But this one tasted different. Try one, you'll see."

"I already had one," he reminded her. "It was fine. Try another."

She put a hand on her stomach. "Please, I'd feel better if you have another one first."

There was nothing for it. He had to eat another snail or give up the game—and he was having too much fun to admit to his trickery just yet.

He took a deep breath before popping one in his mouth, then swallowed it without chewing.

"It's fine," he declared. "Delicious, in fact. Perhaps there was one bad snail in the batch." He fished out a snail and handed Amy the spoon. "Here, try another."

While Amy moved at the speed of a snail herself, inching the spoon toward her lips, he took a long sip of wine and swished it around his mouth to remove the foul taste.

Relieved, he turned to her expectantly.

Her face was slowly turning red. When she gagged, he burst out laughing.