Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3) Read online

  "Though she seems rather tongue-tied now," Jason put in dryly. "First time in my memory."

  Sitting beside Jason in a salmon velvet armchair, Kendra could barely resist kicking him. Maybe she should. Perhaps bad manners would send the duke running.

  But no, she needed something more drastic. Failproof.

  "In circumstances such as this, a bout of speechlessness is only to be expected," Lechmere quipped in a haughty tone. "Though I assure you, my dear, I'm not looking for conversation." His cold gray gaze seemed to heat as it swept her from head to toe. "I admire a quiet, biddable woman."

  Dear God. She'd better think of something quick. When Jason asked her to pour the wine, she rose quickly, deliberately tripping on the edge of the patterned black-and-salmon carpet.

  "Watch yourself," Jason warned under his breath. He smiled at the duke, who held out his goblet in one limp-wristed hand.

  "Oh, I'm so clumsy," she lied. At her brother's glare, she only giggled, prompting a frown.

  Kendra never giggled.

  With exaggerated force, she pulled the stopper from the decanter, then giggled again when it went flying across the room and hit a portrait of one of her solemn ancestors square on his painted forehead.

  Her great-great grandfather. She looked to his image for help, but no advice was forthcoming.

  "Quite all right, my dear." Lechmere raised his chin. "It's natural to be nervous when meeting a man of my stature. When you're a duchess—"

  "When I'm a duchess, I shall open lots of orphanages," she babbled. "There are so many disadvantaged children who would blossom with a proper education in a caring environment. And speaking of blossoms, have you extensive gardens, your grace? Because I've theories on crossbreeding flowers—"

  "I told you she's a good conversationalist," Ford interrupted.

  "Here, your grace, let me just take this goblet." She grabbed it from his hand, cringing when her fingers met his cold, clammy ones. "My, what a lovely ruby." Unbelievably, the ring she was speaking of was lodged on his thumb. Evidently his fingers weren't numerous enough to properly display his wealth. "Amy would adore seeing it, I'm sure."

  "Amy?"

  "My sister-in-law. My brother Colin's wife. She's a jeweler." Kendra set the goblet on the table with a bang that made everyone jump.

  "Your brother's wife is a jeweler?"

  The duke looked positively scandalized. Since Kendra could hardly control a grin, she giggled again to cover it. "Oh, yes. Colin found her on the streets of London." Which was true, in a sense—since he'd rescued her from the Great Fire two years earlier—but more than a tad misleading. Though her family had been commoners, Amy was educated and wealthy in her own right. "Of course, she's a countess now as well, but a jeweler all the same."

  "Hmmph," the duke sniffed.

  "Yes, your grace. It's an admirable thing for a woman to be more than just a lady, don't you think? Well, let me just pour, then."

  And she did—right into his lap.

  He jumped up, watching in horror as a red stain spread on the turquoise satin in a very embarrassing place. "I think I've had enough, my lady, of both the wine and yourself. If you'll excuse me." With his pointy nose in the air, he strode awkwardly from the room.

  "Crossbreeding flowers?" When her twin's eyes met her own, they both burst out laughing.

  But Jason wasn't amused. "Very charming, Kendra." Deliberately he placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, then steepled his fingers, pinning her with exasperated green eyes. "That's one prospect off your list. Need I remind you who is left? I'll expect a decision after the weekend, and you'll be wed by the end of the summer."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kendra awoke the next morning with a massive headache.

  Jason couldn't be serious.

  He and Ford and Colin were off to a monthly house party they attended—no females allowed—and, as usual, she and Caithren would be joined by their sister-in-law, Amy, and her baby daughter, Jewel, for the weekend. Usually they had something of a house party of their own, playing with the babe and gossiping until the men returned.

  But when the men returned this time, they'd be expecting to hear whom she'd decided to marry.

  She stared up at the underside of the mint-green canopy she'd begged for in her youth. Although their parents had depleted the family fortune financing the king in the Civil War, Jason had always seen to it that she'd never wanted for anything. To the best of his abilities, he'd indulged her every whim. He wouldn't force her to marry now.

  Would he?

  With a huff, she rose and pulled on her new hunter-green riding habit. She ran a comb through her hair, not bothering to call her maid in to curl and pin it. Amy would be here within the hour, but she needed to think. Alone.

  In no time at all, she was mounted on Pandora, her mare, galloping across the Sussex Downs. Her brothers would be mightily vexed if they knew she was riding unescorted, but the three of them could go hang for all she cared right now.

  Besides, they were away all weekend and would never know.

  The fresh country air eased her aching head, but just thinking about that weasel Lechmere made her shiver. And the rest of her prospects weren't much better.

  The Earl of Shrewsbury came complete with a meddling mother—the "shrew" in her title was all too fitting. The Marquess of Rochford was a widower and kind enough, but his hair was completely gray—doubtless from dealing with his seven unruly children. Viscount Davenport didn't talk, he whined. The Duke of Lancashire lived in, well, Lancashire—which was entirely too far from her family. The Earl of Morely was wealthy and wise, but nearing fifty. Lord Rosslyn was young, handsome, and fun loving, but lacking somewhat in brains. She wondered if he could read.

  Jason couldn't be serious.

  Coming out of her thoughts, she slowed to a stop. She hadn't realized how far she'd ridden. In fact, she noticed with a start, she was at the same spot where they'd seen the highwayman yesterday.

  His friends had been atop that hill, lying on their stomachs, their hats pulled down to conceal their faces, training an impressive assortment of pistols on the hapless Puritan.

  This morning, the hill was deserted and the highwayman nowhere in sight. In an attempt to judge the time, Kendra glanced at the sky, but it was all clouded over. The day was turning beastly. Not cold, but muggy, with a definite threat of rain. With no sun to confirm it, she guessed the time to be about ten o'clock. Perhaps highwaymen slept in.

  Plainly, highway robbery wasn't a full-time occupation. Not that she had any idea of what she'd have done if the highwayman had been here. Run for her life, in all probability. But she drifted into a vague fantasy of herself riding down the road at breakneck speed, her long, dark red hair floating on the breeze, impressing the hell out of him with her horsemanship and her grace. In her fantasy he stared after her, openmouthed with surprise and appreciation, struck temporarily dumb by a bolt of...love at first sight.

  Well, second sight, actually—but he hadn't paid any attention to her the first time, so surely that didn't count.

  Then she would turn around, ride back, stop in the middle of the road, right in front of him, and slide off Pandora slowly...so slowly. Still gazing at her, he'd come forward, reaching her in two or three of his long strides, his large, strong hands spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground. And then...

  She had no idea. Inexperience didn't make for detailed fantasies. And she certainly wouldn't have anything to do with a highwayman, anyway. Her fantasy wasn't only boring, it was absurd.

  But instead of turning back, she rode along the crest of the hill a spell, then turned away from the lane. And there, perhaps a hundred feet distant, was a very mysterious mound.

  It wasn't sculpted by nature, Kendra realized immediately. Its shape was angular, its surface dirt, not grass.

  A grave. A fresh grave.

  Her hands tightened on the reins as she approached the tomb. Who could be buried there? The highwayman? A victim of his? Eith
er one was unthinkable. She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth.

  A single raindrop fell on one of her clenched fists, and a gust of wind whooshed as she reached the mound. From her perch atop Pandora, she saw the loose dirt blow across it, revealing a sheet of canvas underneath. Her heart hammered at the sight. Was the man not buried properly, then—just covered with a spot of fabric?

  She slid off Pandora and led her forward to investigate. Leaning down, she took a corner of the canvas, just a corner, in two shaking fingers and lifted it...

  If her brothers had been here, they'd have told her, as usual, not to jump to conclusions. And this time, they'd have been right. Her shout of laughter rang across the Downs as she threw back the canvas.

  Twelve blocks of wood. Twelve narrow pipes of various gauges. Twelve hats with different colored plumes and a variety of hatbands.

  She tethered Pandora to a tree. Atop a nearby hill, she set a hat on a block of wood with a pipe sticking out from under it. When she ran back down and glanced up, it looked for all the world like a man lying on his stomach, pointing a gun at her.

  He was clever, this man. Very clever.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  She froze. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and for the barest second she thought the voice was in her head. But he was standing behind her. She could feel his presence, maybe three feet away.

  "I'm..." Words failed her. "I'm..."

  "You're letting my hat get wet."

  "Oh." Kendra put a hand to her head, feeling the mass of her hair curling with dampness. She hadn't noticed the increasing drizzle. "It's raining."

  "Very observant of you."

  She turned then and gazed up at him, and he looked exactly the way she'd known he would. His hair was golden—thick, silky, and straight. It was cut short, not chin-length like a Puritan's, nor cropped like a wig-wearing Royalist's, but somewhere in between, and the front was hanging in his eyes. She wanted to reach out and sweep it off his forehead, but she seemed rooted in place, and she wouldn't have dared to touch him, anyway.

  His snug black breeches were wool, not velvet, and his shirt was white, not black. He wasn't here for business, then.

  "I've come to save my props from the rain. Will you help me, seeing as you're here?"

  Help him? She ought to be bolting for Pandora at this very moment. "Of course."

  Had she said that? She knew she shouldn't have. He ran up the hill and snatched up the three props, then turned and strode back to the rest of them. Windblown, his golden hair bounced in time with his steps as she followed.

  She concentrated on his broad back, watching the play of muscles beneath his thin shirt as he flipped over the canvas and piled the hats on top, bundling them up and tying the four corners in a neat knot to make a parcel. He hefted it, testing its weight, then turned to her. "You can carry this, aye? Before you, on your horse?"

  He didn't sound angry at her, more like he was simply resolved to complete his task in the most efficient manner possible. Kendra was somewhat relieved, but she moved in a haze of unreality.

  She managed to find her voice, however. "If you'll hand it up to me, yes, I'm sure I can carry it. Where are we taking it?"

  "A cottage over the next hill, not too far." He gathered the pipes under one arm and lifted the bundle by its knot. "Let's be off, before it starts raining in earnest."

  His horse was tied by hers—amber, of course, his glossy coat a tawny tan color. Pandora's hide was a deep brown, and Kendra thought they made a handsome pair.

  It was difficult to see over the bundle in front of her, but it was a short ride.

  The cottage was unlocked, and the highwayman made short work of tethering their horses before depositing the pipes inside and returning for the bundle. After handing it to him, Kendra slid off Pandora slowly...so slowly...and a second later he was back, and his large, strong hands were spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground.

  His fingers rested on her waist a little longer than necessary, and she felt their warmth through her habit. She looked up at him. He had a wide mouth, the full lower lip perfectly straight across the center bottom edge. She wanted to touch him, just there.

  Her eyes locked on his, and her breath caught in her throat.

  A crash of thunder rent the air, and big raindrops began pelting to the earth. He jumped back, motioning her to follow him inside.

  She should leave. Now. But it was pouring...

  The cottage looked more like a well-appointed hunting lodge, warm and cozy and very masculine. He shut the door behind them and wandered to a leather-upholstered couch, throwing his long form onto it with a surprising grace. "Close, aye? Five more minutes, and my hats would have been ruined. I thank you for your help."

  "You're welcome," Kendra said from just inside the door where she still stood in a daze. She couldn't believe she was in a hunting lodge with this dangerous man. It was incredible—and, all of a sudden, incredibly scary. She couldn't remember ever having been alone with a man, save her brothers. And she didn't know the first thing about this one—except that he was an outlaw.

  The fear must have shown on her face, because he sat straight and patted the cushion beside him. "Come here—I don't bite. You'll stay till it stops raining, aye?"

  "Aye—I mean, yes." Outlaw or not, she loved the way he talked, the words slow and melodic. Though her heart was pounding, she screwed up her courage and moved to sit gingerly beside him. "I'm Kendra. Kendra Chase."

  "Trick Caldwell."

  "Trick?" she echoed, startled. She turned to him, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be frightening. "What kind of a name is Trick?"

  "Ah, and that's a story." He smiled at her, a wide white smile that lit up the cottage and belied the dreary day. Leaning forward, he reached out a hand and placed it on her wrist, just lightly, but a tingle raced up her arm and throughout her body, warming her in the strangest way. Something snapped inside her, and the sense of unreality was gone.

  She was here, really here, with the amber highwayman—no, Trick, she corrected herself—alone, and he wasn't scary at all.

  Well, not very.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Are you hungry?" Trick asked suddenly.

  She shook her head, wondering if he actually had food here. Surely he didn't own this cottage. Well, maybe he knew where the owner kept stores, and she shouldn't be surprised he would use them.

  He was a thief, after all.

  "Thirsty, then? Aye, I'm guessing a spot of wine would do you. You look tense."

  Tense didn't begin to describe how Kendra felt. She glanced down at his long fingers ringed lightly around her wrist. "A...spot of wine would be nice, if you have it. Thank you."

  Releasing her, he rose with a leonine grace and sauntered over to a cabinet without hesitation, as though he knew every nook and cranny of the place. Crystal goblets and a matching decanter were hidden behind the doors. He filled two glasses, and she took one, hoping he didn't see her hand shake.

  "I'll just settle the horses and return, aye?"

  "Where...?"

  "There's a small stable in the back." He set his goblet on the mantel. Taking a heavy cloak that dangled from a peg on the wall, he shrugged into it and was out the door with a whoosh of wind.

  She sat on the couch, listening to the rain on the roof and sipping the sweetish Madeira. Though she wasn't cold, she shivered. Looking around, she wondered how he could describe this as a cottage.

  The cottages in the village of Cainewood were generally tiny and dark, single-room buildings with rough plastered walls and trodden earth floors. This cottage was impeccably clean and boasted large glass windows. The wooden walls and floors were polished to a gleam, and her feet rested on a lovely Oriental carpet. Besides the couch, there were two chairs and several small tables, two marquetry cabinets, and a desk in one corner.

  She walked over to it and ran a hand along the smooth, rich wood. Everything on top was neatl
y arranged. Setting down her goblet, she slid open the top drawer to find a stack of paper and bottles of ink. Her hand went to the bottom drawer and tugged, but it was stuck closed or locked. She frowned at it, then turned to survey the rest of the enormous room.

  A beautiful carved dining table and chairs sat on another patterned carpet, obviously imported from lands far away. A peek through an archway revealed a spotless, quite modern kitchen, the shelves heavily stocked with victuals. Another archway opened onto a corridor, which apparently led to several more rooms.

  Some cottage, Kendra thought. All furnished, food and drink...Trick seemed quite at home. Maybe he lived here, after all. She'd never thought much about where a highwayman might live, but she hadn't expected it would be a hunting lodge, or a cottage, or whatever he wanted to call it. She'd assumed they slept in inns or the like.

  When the door opened and Trick walked in and swept off his cloak, she rushed back to the desk and reclaimed her goblet.

  "It's not letting up," he announced, stomping the rain off his boots.

  She was relieved that he didn't seem to care she'd been nosing around. "Is this...yours?" she blurted, making her way to sit on the couch. "I mean, do you live here?"

  "Um...close enough."

  Kendra felt her face heat. She really shouldn't be so curious. It was none of her business whom the cottage belonged to, and now she'd put Trick on the spot.

  Of course he didn't own it. Many highwaymen had a reputation for being gentlemanly, but that didn't mean they were actual gentlemen. Men of property didn't turn to the roads for sustenance.

  Thankfully, he looked amused rather than annoyed or embarrassed. He swiped his wine off the mantel and sat beside her.

  The room was quiet except for the soft pit-pat of rain. She sipped from her own goblet, peeking at him over the rim. He gazed at her through the ends of his damp golden hair, and she saw his eyes darken. But surely he had no reason to be angry.

  No, it was something else.

  Her heart sped up, and of its own accord her hand rose to sweep clear his forehead. Horrified at herself, she snatched it back just in time.