Amethyst (57 page)

The Jewel Trilogy
Amethyst
Emerald
Amber
Forevermore
(a Jewel Trilogy novella)

The Flower Trilogy
Violet
Lily
Rose

The Temptations Trilogy
Lost in Temptation
Tempting Juliana
The Art of Temptation

the sterling silver locket that Amy gives Mary in this book!*

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Book Two of the
Jewel Trilogy
by Lauren Royal

Chichester, England
August 1, 1667

"Jason, you cannot mean to kill him."

Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched from the grasp his brother Ford had on his upper arm. "By God, no. But I'll learn why he did this and bring him to justice if it's the last thing I do."

"I've never seen you like this—"

"Because
I've
never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or her mother's torn clothes and bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard's name over and over." Trembling with rage, his hand came up to worry his narrow black mustache. "My villagers." He met Ford's gaze with his own. "My responsibility."

"You've plastered the kingdom with broadsides." Ford's blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. "The reward will bring him in."

"I'm bloody well satisfied to bring him in myself."

Jason turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester's vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. Carved from limestone, it was arguably the most elaborate structure in all of England…but the beauty of its intricate tracery was at odds with the evil that lurked inside.

An evil that Jason intended to deal with.

Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news beneath the dome, paused to glance his way. He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slim with a stance that bordered on elegant; Walter, shorter and rawboned.

Jason's footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following behind. In their wake, people seemed to stream from all four corners of town, rushing to catch the show.

Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit.

With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a furious gaze. "You'll come with me to the magistrate," he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.

Gothard merely stared at him. For a fleeting moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.

Jason's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "Now, Gothard."

The other man's gaze held hard and unwavering. "My nearest and dearest enemy," he drawled in an insolent tone.

A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn't uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut.

Confusion churned with the anger in Jason's stomach. "Why should you call me your enemy?"

Gothard's gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. "The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?"

"I am," Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his calm routine, back to his estate, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging him for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.

Blue eyes that might never open again.

And there stood the man who had battered her, shaded by the Gothic structure overhead.

"I've done nothing to draw your ire—we've never met." Jason squinted at the man in the shadows. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled with any exposure to the sun—and it looked as though they'd seen much exposure of late. "Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest."

The man's blue eyes went stony with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.

Maybe they
had
crossed paths.

"To the devil with you, Cainewood."

Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. Honor. The questions could wait—for now.

He slowly counted to ten, focusing on the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. As responsibility weighed heavily on his mind, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Father would have expected this of him. To defend what was his, stand up for what was right—no matter the personal cost.

Deliberately he drew the rapier from its scabbard.

"Damn you to bloody hell." Gothard pulled his own sword with a quick
screak
that snapped the expectant silence. "We'll settle this here and now."

Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade's thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.

His free hand trembled at his side.

With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.

The vibrations shimmied up Jason's arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm's way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.

Like most men of his class, he'd been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.

Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.

Adam Leslie dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added "My" in front of "Dear Sister," frowned, then squeezed in "est" in the middle.
My Dearest Sister.
There now, surely Caithren wouldn't be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.

Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair—so like his sister's—over his shoulder. That he wouldn't be home soon shouldn't come as a surprise to her—it wasn't as though he'd spent more than a few weeks total at home these five years past. But it wouldn't hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, even if he was rarely home.

Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to Cait and their father. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da's latest ineffective efforts to marry her off.

"Are you not finished yet, Leslie?"

He glanced over and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored satin festooned with jewels and looped ribbons. Though he kept himself decked out in similar style, he considered himself lucky they let him keep their company, untitled as he was—at least until his very healthy father died sometime in the distant future.

Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn't entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.

"Leslie?"

"Almost done," Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.

"An ale for my friend!" Balmforth called.

Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Hell, any work was thirsty work.

He preferred not to work at all.

He flipped the letter over and scrawled
Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland
on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper's desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.

She giggled.

"Have you any wax?" Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. "And you'll post this for me, aye?"

The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. "Certainly, sir."

"Leslie, come along!" Grinstead shouted. "We're fair dying of thirst."

Laughing, Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding
clank
.

"To freedom!" Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.

"To freedom!" Adam echoed. "Till Hogmanay!"

Grinstead gasped. "You told her you'd be gone till the new year?"

"At the least." Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. "We've the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley's wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn't care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?" The taproom's door banged open. "No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway."

"No sense at all," Balmforth agreed, staring toward the entrance. "Will you look at what just walked in? Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone's talking about?"

Their gazes swung to the tall lass and followed her progress as she sat herself at another table.

"Nary a chance." Adam contemplated the contents of his tankard for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving wench for another. "Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man."

"She's carrying a knife," Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. "And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who'd track outlaws with a price on their heads."