The Earl's London Bride Page 6

  Discomfited, he turned back to the road. No one? It couldn’t be so; surely she knew someone who would take her in. Her father had perished, true—he’d seen that with his own eyes—but what of a mother? A relative? A neighbor?

  He felt her take a shuddering breath. Keeping her eyes lowered, she bunched up his discarded surcoat to make a pillow and lay down on the bench, her knees drawn up like a small child. Less than a minute later, her breathing slowed and evened out in the rhythm of sleep.

  He drove on, absently smoothing the damp hair off her face, letting his gaze wander over her slumbering form draped along the length of the seat. Something vaguely unnerving fluttered and settled in his stomach as he turned onto Lothbury and headed west.

  SEVEN

  “SHE’S TOUCHING me.”

  Rubbing his dry, burning eyes, Colin glanced over his shoulder at the children in the wagon bed.

  “He’s looking at me oddly.”

  Colin clenched his teeth and turned his attention back to the road, where it seemed every inhabitant of London was ahead of him. A leisurely carriage ride from London to Cainewood Castle normally took about five hours, but the sun was setting, and after six hours they weren’t even a quarter of the way there.

  They could walk to Cainewood faster than they were moving, he thought irritably.

  “She won’t stop humming.”

  “Ouch!”

  He had to find somewhere to stay before major warfare broke out. For the past hour, he’d stopped at every inn along the way and sent Davis to inquire about available lodging. Colin was beginning to believe every room in the kingdom was taken.

  When Davis came out of the last one, shaking his head, Colin had briefly considered bedding outdoors for the night. But although it was warm, there was a persistent wind, and he shuddered at the thought of trying to make nine children comfortable with not so much as a blanket.

  Nine children and Amy Goldsmith.

  He glanced down at her grimy face. Amethyst Goldsmith—whoever would have thought? He’d left her shop two weeks ago with no intention of ever going back, ever purchasing another piece of jewelry, ever seeing her again. And now here she was, dropped—literally—right in his lap.

  He could’ve laughed himself silly, if not for the tragic circumstances of their reunion.

  She’d moved up in her sleep, and her head now rested against his leg. He smiled to himself, picturing her turning red with embarrassment if she knew. He allowed himself to touch her, skimming his fingers down her arm, encircling one dainty wrist.

  Just to check that her pulse was still steady, of course—she’d doubtless inhaled a great deal of smoke.

  It was quite steady.

  For the dozenth time, he fervently thanked God she was alive.

  When she stirred, Colin hastily withdrew. Amy murmured something incoherent, then settled back into sleep. Her long black lashes looked feathery against her ashy, tear-streaked cheeks.

  Colin tore his gaze away and stared straight ahead at the congested road. The top of Amy’s head still pressed against his leg. Being near her felt so very different from being near Priscilla. He’d kissed Priscilla before, but never had he felt this…flustered. Yet she was his betrothed, and she was beautiful, intelligent, exactly what he wanted—and Amy was just a shop girl he’d smiled at once.

  He was more familiar with Priscilla, he decided, more comfortable. He and Amy weren’t supposed to be touching—indeed, they certainly wouldn’t be if she were awake. It was simply the excitement of the forbidden masquerading as some deeper emotion.

  And he wasn’t looking for emotion in his marriage. He’d told his sister as much just last night.

  Heavens, had it been but a day since his family’s visit to Greystone? He felt ages removed from the fellow who had gleefully pulled that prank. It seemed as though he hadn’t slept in a week.

  He paused before another inn and sent Davis to investigate. Scuffling sounds and a high-pitched shriek came from the back of the wagon. Colin’s empty stomach complained loudly, and he came to a decision.

  They were stopping here. To eat, if nothing else.

  They were in luck—of sorts. Davis came running back to report that there was room in the inn. One room, to be precise. With two beds. For eleven people.

  Well, it was shelter, and Colin was inclined to think there might be nothing else available between here and Cainewood. He sent Davis to claim it before someone else pulled off the road.

  EIGHT

  AMY WASHED down a bite of meat pie with ale, allowing the children’s anxious chatter to lull her. Wedged on the bench between a girl of five and a boy of six, she kept her gaze on her plate and avoided Lord Greystone’s eyes across the table.

  She had no wish to talk—given her choice, she wouldn’t even be awake. She’d managed to spend the past few hours in oblivion, casting the time away. Dreaming…warm hands touching her, soothing her…comforting. Now that she was conscious, she felt guilty for having such a pleasant dream when her father was dead.

  A sudden sharp pain of loss overwhelmed her, and she struggled to force it back inside. She couldn’t think about it now—it was too fresh, and she was too broken.

  “Bread, Amy?” Lord Greystone’s rich voice cut through her thoughts.

  She slowly brought her gaze to his. “No, thank you.”

  “Cheese?”

  “I’m really not hungry.” She could see Lord Greystone eyeing her barely eaten pie, so she stuck her spoon in it.

  “You have to eat.” The statement was matter-of-fact, but his voice was filled with concern. “You’ll fall ill.”

  When she dropped her spoon and lowered her eyes again, Lord Greystone cleared his throat and rose. “I’ll take the children upstairs. You stay for a bit and finish your supper. Will you wait for me here?”

  Amy raised her chin and nodded up at him.

  “I’ll come back down for you,” he promised, and took himself off, the children trailing in his wake.

  She toyed with her food for the next quarter-hour, breaking up her pie, the spoon awkward in her left hand. She attempted a couple of bites, but the meat had turned cold and stuck in her throat, nearly making her gag. Gulping more ale, she pushed her plate away; she hadn’t been hungry in the first place, but Lord Greystone had insisted on setting it in front of her.

  When her ale was finished, she stared at the pattern in the oak table and blanked her mind until, out of a corner of her eye, she glimpsed Lord Greystone coming downstairs.

  He’d cleaned up, neatly pulled back his hair, donned his surcoat. It was ripped a bit, but he’d brushed it clean of the ash and soot. His grayish shirt showed beneath the unbuttoned front. Dark stubble dotted his cheeks and chin.

  Watching as he went through a swinging door into the kitchen, she ran her fingers through her own knotted hair. Earlier, she’d scrubbed the grime from her face and unraveled her disheveled plait, but found nothing with which to brush it out. Their tiny room had no mirror—she was sure she looked a sight.

  Not that she cared.

  NINE

  COLIN BACKED through the kitchen door with two bowls full of sloshing liquid in his hands, some strips of cloth draped over one arm, and a jar of honey wedged between chin and shoulder.

  He put everything on the table and straddled the bench beside Amy, motioning his head toward her plate. “Finished eating?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “May I have a look at that hand? We really should clean it.”

  “I suppose so,” she said, offering her hand.

  Colin wondered if he were up to the task of drawing her out of this dreamlike state. He had to figure out something to do with her, but she wouldn’t be much help if she persisted in answering him with three-word sentences.

  He glanced at her hand and winced. “Ouch!” he said with a mock shudder.

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Bad enough.” He gently placed her hand in one bowl. “We’ll soak it for a few minutes, shall we?
”

  Her long black lashes swept down as she squinted at the bowl. “What is it?”

  He smiled distractedly. “Cream.”

  “Cream? You mean, from milk?” She gave a slight shake of her head, making her dark hair shimmer in the flickering light.

  “Why cream?” she asked.

  “Huh?” He shook himself. “Doesn’t everyone put cream on burns?”

  “I think not,” she mused, drawing her eyebrows together. “Butter. In my family, we put butter on burns.”

  “We always use cream,” he asserted. “As well as honey. I hear tell butter’s no good.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” she said dubiously.

  “Well, how does it feel?”

  She paused, considering, then tilted her head. “A little better, I guess.”

  “See?” His smile was triumphant.

  Amy smiled back; the smile was shy and more than a little bit sad, but a smile nonetheless. Colin congratulated himself.

  “That should do it.” She started a little when he took her hand, but he pretended not to notice. While he held it over the bowl, watching the cream run off in tiny rivulets, the air between them crackled with unasked questions. Her hand stopped dripping, and he rinsed it in the bowl of water.

  Her eyes closed, and he felt her relax, her hand limp as he swished it around, pulled it out and turned it over.

  “Hmm…” He dabbed gingerly at her palm with one of the linen strips. “It’s clean now, and a bit less red.” He held it up for her to see. “What do you think?”

  Her eyes popped open. “It’s fine.”

  But she was grimacing, and the longer she looked at it, the more he felt her stiffen. Not that he could blame her. The puckered blisters were an angry hue.

  “We need it perfectly dry.” He dabbed at her hand again, trying not to hurt her. “There. Now the honey…” He opened the jar, dipped in a spoon, and drizzled the sweet thick substance onto her injured palm, spreading it gently with one finger.

  She sat silent as he wound a fresh linen bandage around her hand, tucked in the end, and rinsed his fingers in the bowl.

  “Davis is watching the young ones.” Wiping his palms on his breeches, he rose. “Would you care to take a walk?”

  Without waiting for her answer, he took her by the elbow.

  TEN

  THE ROAD OUT front was noisy, crammed with an endless stream of people fleeing London. A well-worn path in back of the inn led up into gently rolling hills, and it was here that Lord Greystone guided her.

  It was a cloudless night, the wind having blown every wisp over the horizon, and Amy could just make out his profile, dark against the moonlight. Aided by what seemed a million stars, her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Twisting the gold ring on his finger—the ring she had made—Lord Greystone cleared his throat.

  “How is your hand?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Are you right-handed, or left?”

  “Right.”

  “It will be a spell before you can write, then.”

  She shrugged. “I expect so.”

  Lord Greystone paused, and the fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh. “Amy…”

  His voice sounded too serious. She didn’t want to discuss…it. Not yet, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or, if she were lucky, perhaps this was all a horrible dream, and tomorrow she’d wake up back in Cheapside.

  She was glad for his 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. “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…empathy, 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 small, my parents left me quite often. Most of the time, in fact. And I was lonely and scared all the time. I wasn’t the bravest of boys,” 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, at home—with kind servants. 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 a year older than I—feels differently. He’s always idolized our parents, most especially our father.”

  “How about your sister?”

  “Kendra and her twin, Ford, were so young they never knew any other kind of life. They’re sixteen—about your age, I think?”

  Amy nodded. “I’m seventeen. 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. Soon afterward we were taken to Holland to live with other Royalist exiles. We were safe. After a while I realized I didn’t miss my parents much, since they had hardly ever been around anyway.”

  He fell silent, 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. “Gone,” she answered in a quavery voice. “The plague took her. 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 soft and compassionate, but she wasn’t ready to accept sympathy just now. It made eve
rything too real.

  “I…” His arm tightened around her. “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 felt like a knife in her chest. “Now I have no one. I’m all alone.”

  He jumped down and stood before her, gripping her shoulders. “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.”

  “You’d just lost your mother,” 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.

  “Never say that,” he said vehemently. “It’s good to be alive. Never ever say that.”

  Hesitantly, almost shyly, he leaned forward and reached his arms around her, pulling her to him. Her downturned face was squished against his shoulder, her body rigid with tension and uncertainty. She finally had to raise her chin to breathe and felt his cheek graze hers, warm and a bit rough. The unfamiliar sensation took her aback.