Amethyst (9 page)

She took strength from Lord Greystone's presence, but she wished they were back at the inn, sitting side by side with tankards of mind-numbing ale, not saying anything. If he were going to insist on talking to her, she would have to make sure the conversation stayed on safe subjects.

When the drumming stopped, she took a quick breath. "You…you're very good with the children."

"Thank you." He looked relieved. "The lad Davis is an enormous help."

"Why are you…doing this? Caring for these children, I mean. It's very nice, but…"

"But why am I shepherding children when every other able man is still in London, fighting the fire?" Lord Greystone led her up a rise to where he'd spotted an ancient, broken stone wall. He seated himself upon a low section. "It's difficult to credit, but I've always felt a kind of…sympathy, I suppose you could call it, for children who are lost or abandoned. Perhaps I would have been of more use fighting the fire, but—"

"No, not at all." Amy levered herself up to sit on the wall, angling to face him. "The children needed you. Thousands are fighting the fire; one more would make little difference."

Lord Greystone hesitated, then shrugged. "I know how those children feel. When I was young, my parents left me quite often. Most of the time, in fact. And I was lonely and scared all the time. I wasn't a very brave lad," he admitted ruefully.

"They left you?" Amy could barely conceive of such a childhood; her parents had never left her for so much as a day.

Until today
, she realized suddenly.

She felt a brief, sharp stab of grief, then pushed it down, down, far inside, like stuffing one of those new jack-in-the-box toys back under its lid.

She bit her lip. Lord Greystone was watching her. As long as she kept asking him questions, she wouldn't have to think about it. "Why…how could they do that?"

He cocked his head. "They were passionate Royalists. Cavaliers. King and country came first. We, my brothers and sister and I, were such a distant second we barely even counted."

"But…where did they leave you?"

"Oh, with other Royalist families. They weren't cruel—they didn't actually abandon us. But to a child…well, it felt as though they did. To me, anyway." He paused, twisting his ring again. "My brother Jason—he's two years older than I—feels differently. But he was older when the war started."

"How about your sister?"

"Kendra and her twin, Ford, were so young that I don't think they remember any other kind of life. They're twenty-two—about your age, I think?"

Amy nodded. "And now?" she asked. "How do they feel about it now? Your parents, I mean. Are they sorry?"

"They died. At the Battle of Worcester, fifteen years ago."

His parents were dead…just like hers. "Oh…" she started, then couldn't say anything more.

Mistaking her renewed grief for sympathy, Lord Greystone rushed to reassure her. "No need to feel sorry. It was Charles's last stand against Cromwell, and my folks wouldn't have missed it for the world. I was a strapping thirteen by then, safely ensconced with other Royalist exiles in Holland. I didn't miss them much, since they were hardly ever around anyway."

He sighed, gazing out into the endless dark rolling hills.

"Was your family Royalist, Amy? During the war, I mean?"

"No," she said slowly, pausing as she thought how to explain it. "I mean…we weren't
not
Royalist, either. We were—nothing, I guess. Papa just tried to keep doing business no matter what happened." To Amy's surprise and dismay, her mention of Papa released a floodgate of emotions. Tears began welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, chagrined that she couldn't control herself.

"Don't be sorry. Whether you were Royalist or nay—it doesn't signify. It seems a fine survival tactic to me."

She couldn't answer. Her throat seemed to close up, and a warm teardrop rolled down her cheek and splashed onto her clasped hands.

"Amy?" Lord Greystone probed. "Where is your mother?"

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. "She died," she answered in a quavery voice. "Of the plague. Last year. She fell ill and we had to leave. We went to France, and I never saw her again."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He moved over on the wall and placed an arm around her shoulders. "I'm truly sorry."

His voice was low and compassionate, but she wasn't ready to accept comfort yet.

"I…" His fingers tightened on her shoulder. "I don't understand. Your father, why he went back inside. When the shop was aflame."

Slow tears overflowed, quiet tears, not a storm like earlier in the day when he'd found her. They burned in her eyes and traced hot paths down her cheeks.

She was so exhausted.

"He wanted a painting of my mother." She brushed at the tears with the back of her good hand.

"A painting?" She could feel Lord Greystone beside her, shaking his head in disbelief.

"He
had
to have that picture. A miniature. He used to sit for hours, staring at it. Perhaps—perhaps he didn't really want to live without her," she said with a flash of insight that stabbed deep in her heart. "Now I have no one. I'm all alone."

He jumped down and stood before her, taking her face between his hands. "You're not alone, Amy."

"Yes—yes, I am. My parents are gone…my home is gone…"

Well, there was Robert, a little voice in the back of her head reminded her.

But there was no one to make her marry him now.

"You must have family, somewhere?"

"Only my Aunt Elizabeth." The words came out a whisper, forced through her painfully tight throat. "She lives in Paris. Last year when I stayed with her I was miserable."

"Your mother had just died," he reminded her gently. "You would have been miserable anywhere." With him standing and her seated on the wall, they were of a height. His eyes searched hers, an intense gray, their color neutralized by the darkness. "It's not so bad as all that."

More tears brimmed over, and she saw his brow crease in response.

"I wish I weren't alive," she whispered, dropping her head to escape his penetrating gaze.

He lifted her face and wiped her wet cheeks with his thumbs. "Never say that," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "It's good to be alive. Never ever say that."

In a violent motion, Lord Greystone caught her to him and held her tight. Amy felt his cheek against hers, rough with unshaven stubble, but warm and vital.

She rubbed her face against his, almost imperceptibly, feeling a human connection for the first time since she saw her father disappear into the raging inferno that used to be her home.

"God in heaven," she whispered.

In his arms she felt safe, removed from her hostile reality, and she wished she could stay there forever. She breathed deeply of his scent, smoke and healthy male sweat, mixed with a faint underscore of fragrant soap. Slowly her arms came up and stole around his neck, her fingers entwined in his hair.

Dimly realizing that his attempts at comfort were edging too far toward impropriety, Colin tried to pull back. But Amy came off the wall with him, sliding down his body until her feet came to rest on the grass, her head beneath his chin, her face pressed into his chest, her tears soaking the thin linen.

Holy Christ. Despite her gut-wrenching misery, he couldn't help but think she felt too damn good in his arms.

Then he stopped thinking altogether.

When Amy raised her face to him, he pulled her even closer and brought his lips to hers.

The travelers rumbling by in the background, the crickets in the hills, the wind blowing past…all faded away like magic. Only the two of them existed.

The caress deepened and his lips parted hers, sending a thrill through her entire body. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she marveled at the new feelings, for his kiss was nothing like the ones she'd tolerated from Robert.

She was overwhelmed by the way Lord Greystone's mouth claimed hers. His kiss was like a potion—it made her body melt and her consciousness dim. Suddenly she couldn't remember who she was or whether she had any problems.

His tongue invaded her mouth searching for hers, and he tasted of ale, but sweeter, and it was shocking and wonderful. She leaned into him, reveling in the feel of his hard body against her softness, and his hands wandered down her back, cupping her bottom and pulling her closer still.

A low sound of pleasure escaped her throat.

It brought him back to reality.

He dropped his hands and broke away from her mouth. What was he doing? Seducing an innocent girl, taking advantage of her grief and loneliness, her vulnerability, her overwhelming need to feel alive and connected? He wasn't that kind of man—he'd always prided himself on being cool and logical, not ruled by his emotions.

And certainly a gentleman. He knew there were different rules for the women in Amy's class than for the promiscuous ladies in his own. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself.

Amy stared at him, dazed, her knees weak.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He didn't sound like Lord Greystone, Amy thought. His voice was rough, and he did look sorry—ashamed, even.

"Sorry?" Amy's senses were still spinning. She wasn't sorry, not one bit. She'd never imagined any person could make her feel like someone else, in a different time and place, and she'd wanted that feeling to go on forever.

And, unless she was mistaken, he'd felt much the same. Surely he couldn't have kissed her like that if he hadn't. Or could he? She was admittedly ignorant of such matters.

"You're sorry?" she repeated.

"Well, not sorry exactly," he said in that unfamiliar rough voice, fumbling for the words. "It's just…I shouldn't have done that…taken advantage of you like that. Not that I didn't want to—oh, bloody hell!" He took a step toward her and put his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length, clearly exasperated. "You're a proper young woman, and I've a responsibility to send you to your aunt in the same condition I found you."

Amy would have agreed with him yesterday. But today, alone in the world and having tasted the sensations of being in his arms, she wasn't sure of anything.

"My lord—" she began.

"
Colin
," he interrupted, irony in his voice. "Once you've had a man's tongue in your mouth, you're allowed to call him by his Christian name."

Amy blushed furiously, thankful for the cover of darkness. Still, she tried the name in her head.
Colin.
She'd never called a nobleman by his given name, and it should feel wrong. But now she thought
Colin
, and it made her feel warm all over.

"And if you were about to tell me it doesn't matter," he continued, "you're wrong. It matters a lot."

"But—"

"No buts, Amy. It's late, and we're both very tired. We have a long ride to Cainewood in the morning. Let's get some sleep."

He grasped her good hand and pulled her toward the inn. She followed reluctantly. There was no arguing with him, it seemed.

Her hand tingled where it nestled in his. She'd held hands with Robert and never felt anything at all. Even with her limited experience, she knew this couldn't be normal.

Was it not the same for him?

IT WAS.

Colin had a vast record of experience and knew this wasn't one jot normal. But it was absurd. He was betrothed, and Amy was a commoner, a woman who, as of this morning, had nothing whatsoever to her name.

He was tired; that must be it. He was very, very tired.

If his body felt like it were vibrating, that was only because he was tired.

After a good night's sleep, he'd feel differently. He'd be more himself, back in control. They'd go on to Cainewood, wait a couple of days until the roads were clear, then he'd take her to Dover and buy her passage across the Channel. They'd never see each other again.

His pride would remain intact, not to mention her virginity.

They arrived back at the inn and trudged wearily upstairs, to find four little bodies bundled in each of the two beds, crosswise, and Davis curled in the only chair, snoring softly.

Colin stood with his mouth open.

"You expected what?" Amy whispered. "That they'd all lie down on the floor and leave the beds to us? I'd say they settled themselves quite fairly."

"I thought they'd leave
part
of each bed to us," he complained loudly. "Greedy little devils, aren't they?"

"Shhh! You'll wake them."

"I wish they would waken, so I could rearrange them. But you're not well acquainted with children, are you? Nothing short of a cannon blast would wake them."

Despite the sleeping evidence, Amy still couldn't bring herself to talk out loud. "I have no brothers or sisters. How should I know how children sleep?"

"I'll go downstairs and fetch some more blankets," he said, turning on his heel.

He stopped short of slamming the door behind him. Amy slumped against the wall, wondering what had made his mood change so suddenly.

She slid down to the floor and waited, her knees to her chest. Alone, the grief started creeping back. She wouldn't think about it. She'd think about his kiss…