Amethyst (39 page)

Robert backed up against the wall, his pale eyes glassy with terror, fastened on the gleaming silver length of Colin's blade.

Flinging the sword away, Colin rounded on Robert with his fists clenched. He grabbed the shorter man's shoulders and yanked him away from the wall, then rammed him back into it with a raging force. There was an audible
crack!
as Robert's head met the rigid wood, and when Colin let go, Robert slid to the floor in an ungraceful heap.

The fight was over before it began.

Amy watched, silent, as Colin bent down to reclaim his rapier. "Do you want me to kill him?" he grated out, his breath coming in large gulps as he fought to control his fury.

She shook her head violently, still mute. Colin stood motionless for a moment, registering the shock in her disbelieving eyes. Then he slid the sword into his belt and moved to the bed, reaching down toward her.

"You're…you've been
shot
," she whispered, beginning to shake.

He straightened and looked down to where her gaze was riveted, surprised. His shirt was plastered to his ribs by a dark, sticky patch of blood, but it wasn't spreading. "It's but a scratch," he said. He still couldn't feel it—the white-hot maelstrom of his emotions overrode any pain.

Still, he had enough presence of mind to retrieve his surcoat from the corridor and shrug back into it, wrapping it tightly around himself to cover the blood before he scooped her up in his arms.

She trembled in his embrace. With a lingering, murderous look at Robert's still form, he carried her down the stairs and out into the street.

ONLY A STREET FROM
the ramshackle Cat and Canary, the luxurious Rose and Crown seemed a world away.

Amy seemed a world away, too.

"I'm cold, Colin," she whispered as he gently laid her on the bed.

After starting a roaring blaze in the fireplace, he went downstairs to ask for a bath to be prepared. He returned to find Amy huddled in a chair, staring into the flames.

Concerned, he glanced back at the bed.

"I've been tied to a bed…" she murmured in answer to his unasked question.

He unbuckled his sword and set it on a low table, then lifted her up, took her place in the chair and settled her on his lap. Silent, they watched the fire together, Colin holding her close, her head against his chest.

He buried his lips in her tangled curls, and they stayed that way for a very long time, motionless except when Colin's mouth moved against her hair. His kisses were gentle, slow and warm. Possessive, healing. Not sensuous, but cherishing. His heart seemed to burst with tenderness at the miracle of her back in his arms.

Servants dragged a tub into the chamber and filled it with bucket after bucket of steaming water, scented with oil of roses. Hard-milled perfumed soap was left, along with a comb and a brush and large linen towels.

Alone again, Colin rose and stood Amy on her feet. He pushed the blue dress off her shoulders and down her unresisting body. It rustled to pool on the floor, a pale shimmer in the firelight. He drew the ripped nightgown over her head.

"I should have killed him," he whispered, looking at her. Her knees and elbows were scraped and scabby, her wrists and ankles raw and abraded. Purple marks marred one side of her face; dried blood crusted her forehead. Her lips were bruised and swollen, her hair a tangled mess tumbling down her back.

He had thought he would never see her again.

She looked beautiful.

Taking her hand, he led her to the tub and helped her lower herself into the soothing, fragrant water. She melted into the warmth, leaning her head back on the rim. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him shrug out of his surcoat, cringing when his bloodstained shirt was revealed.

"It's naught but a scratch," he reminded her, his voice low and steady. He turned away so she wouldn't see him wince when he pulled the fabric from the wound and slipped the shirt off over his head. But it
was
just a scratch, the barest graze, and wouldn't even require stitches. It stung, but not so much that he couldn't ignore it.

A quarter of an inch to the right
—the thought made Colin suck in a breath. A broken rib, perhaps bone fragments puncturing his lung. It would have wreaked havoc, would certainly have impaired his swift action, if not killed him outright. Well, it hadn't happened. He'd been lucky—very, very lucky—and he would never reveal to her just how narrow their escape had been.

He knelt by the tub, dipped a towel into the water and dabbed at the blood until the shallow laceration was clean.

"Look, Amy." He turned toward the light. "It's nothing." She reached out tentative fingers, touching him lightly, and when he didn't flinch, she settled back with a nod.

Taking up a soft cloth, he cleaned her slowly and gently. He washed away the blood, the dirt, and—he hoped—the memories.

She didn't say a word and neither did he. It was the most impersonal bath he had ever given a lady, yet the most personal at the same time. His cloth ran over her tender breasts, her white belly, between her thighs.

When her ivory skin gleamed clean in the firelight, he lathered her hair with the scented soap and poured buckets of water down her back. His arousal, long denied, grew until he hurt, but he trained his face to remain impassive, his touch to be no more than methodical.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

With a hand in hers, he helped her stand. The water sluiced down her graceful form, leaving droplets that shimmered on her bruised skin.

Colin's jaw tightened, and his eyes fluttered closed momentarily. Her wounds were merely surface deep, nothing that wouldn't heal in a few days at most. But he was furious nonetheless, feeling somehow responsible for her suffering, for the damage to her perfect young body.

He should never have left her.

He would never leave her again, he promised himself as she stepped from the tub and he patted her dry. The nightgown was ruined and the blue dress ripped in the back, so he wrapped her in a dry towel, swallowing hard as he tucked the end between her breasts.

He dragged the chair closer to the fire and drew her long hair out as she sat down, draping it over the seat back. Then he sat behind her to brush it dry. He hummed as he worked, a soft lullaby his mother used to sing to him before the war.

The firelight played off the shiny black silk, and he wished he could sink his fingers into it, wrap it around his hands and pull her head back, devour her mouth with his. But he willed his hands to continue the systematic strokes, his traitorous body to ignore the sensual stimulation the simple act elicited.

"It's so beautiful…" he whispered once despite himself, pausing to rub the glistening mass between his palms. She froze as though she were surprised, and he would swear she even stopped breathing for a few seconds. But she didn't say a word, and he went on with his task.

He toyed with the idea of setting her up as his mistress, installing her in his beloved castle and building Priscilla the modern manor house she coveted. But deep inside, he knew it would never work. And he daydreamed of taking Amy to wife, living with her openly, without pretense.

Still, old convictions were difficult to overcome.

When her hair was dry and gleaming, he rose and she came up with him. She turned to him with a gentle smile. "Thank you," she whispered. "I feel much better now."

"I'm glad." She stood so close he could feel the heat from her body. He swallowed hard. "Can you face the bed now?"

She nodded, her smile wobbly but determined. "It's a different bed."

"Yes, it is." He led her to it and lifted a corner of the covers; she unwrapped her towel and slipped between the sheets.

Her gaze followed him as he poured water from the ewer to rinse the bloodstain from his shirt, then moved to the hearth to lay it out to dry. His heart warmed at her peaceful, sleepy expression. When his boots hit the floor with two dull thuds, she closed her eyes. He undressed and blew out the candles, then slid into bed beside her.

"Amy?"

"Hmm?"

He had to know. "Did he? …I mean…"

She rolled to face him, opening her eyes to search his in the firelight. "No. He didn't," she whispered. "You arrived just in time. Like magic."

His body sagged into the bed with the release of tension he hadn't known he'd been holding.

She touched his face with feather-light fingertips. "It has only ever been you, Colin. Only you."

If he hadn't known it before, in that moment he knew for certain she was destined to be his. It seemed the harder he tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, unable to respond to her artless admission.

"I still cannot believe you're here." Her eyes turned luminous as her fingertips stroked his jaw. "It was dark in that corridor—so dark that once you battered down the door, I could see only your outline framed in the opening. But I knew it was you. I knew it, but I couldn't believe it. I'd prayed my screaming would draw someone to help, but I never imagined the help would be you." Her fingers stilled on his face. "Am I dreaming?"

He brought his hand up and laced it together with hers. "No," he managed to say. "You're not dreaming."

"You were far away—at Greystone—then suddenly you were there. Exactly when I needed you. Just like during the fire."

The wonder in her voice, the total trust her words implied, made Colin's heart skip a beat.

"I'll always be here when you need me," he said simply. "Always."

He squeezed her hand tight, then drew her head down to rest on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and settled her small, soft body against his. He stroked her satiny skin, feeling her respiration settle into an even pattern, her body relax in the solace of long-denied sleep.

The weight of her head on his shoulder, the warmth of her breath on his neck, the silky pillows of her breasts nestled against him—all were heaven.

Yet he felt as though he were in hell.

Though his heart told him it was so, it seemed impossible to admit that the pure essence of Amy—her inherent goodness, her intelligent strength, her passion for life—more than compensated for any shortcomings in her background. She would make a wonderful mother someday; her warmth and compassion would create a haven of security no pedigree could provide; he saw that now. The bond he felt between them—as though she existed for him alone—would extend to children of their bodies as naturally as passion darkened her amethyst eyes.

And yet, he remembered another strong bond: that of a little boy for his parents. And he remembered the heartrending pain of abandonment.

How had this happened to him? He was rational, determined. He'd had a plan.

He hadn't wanted to love anyone.

THERE WAS A KING'S
Arms not three blocks from the Chases' town house. The few patrons still there had never heard of Robert Stanley, but the innkeeper directed Kendra and her brothers to another King's Arms, which directed them to a third.

The place was deserted, but a weary serving maid was still in the back, sweeping up, and she was able to confirm that they had indeed found Robert Stanley's haunt. Perking up at the sound of his name, she informed them that rumor had it he'd taken off with his love, bound for either St. James or St. Trinity.

"There would be no marriages on Sunday." Kendra's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Perhaps we're not too late. We'll go and warn—"

"Oh, no, we won't," Jason interrupted in a tense, clipped voice that forbade any argument. "There's no sense in chasing out there tonight. The morning will do fine."

"But—"

"Listen, Kendra," he said more gently. "We're as concerned about Amy as you are. But I know that neighborhood—it's no place to visit late on a foggy night. The clergy will have been long since abed, anyway. We'll go first thing in the morning."

Crestfallen, Kendra's enthusiasm evaporated. It had felt so good to be in active pursuit. Still, she knew there was nothing to discuss—Jason made perfect sense. "I want to get there early," she proclaimed. "Before anyone can possibly be married."