She opened her eyes to see Colin returning, her trunk balanced on one straining shoulder.
“What on earth is in here?” He set it in the wagon with a decided clunk.
“Everything I own,” she said in a broken whisper, her gaze riveted to the wooden slats, the leather straps, the brass fittings.
Papa’s life’s work was in there.
Colin pushed the trunk under the bench, making a hideous scraping noise. Suddenly her throat constricted and she seemed unable to breathe. The grief was bubbling up inside her. A weight settled in her stomach; a fist closed around her heart. Her eyes filled with hot, blinding tears.
It was rising, threatening to overwhelm her, and this time she couldn’t stop it.
She stumbled up to the bench, but she couldn’t sit upright, so she sank to the boards and covered her face with her hands. Then she let it rise up and out, the pain and the tears and the great, tearing sobs.
Her breath came in hysterical gulps. Colin stroked her hair, but she shook off his hand, though she knew it might hurt his feelings. The children were silent; she could feel their pitying gazes. She didn’t care. Papa was dead. She would never see him, never hug him, never hear his voice again.
She was jostled when the wagon started moving, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Wordlessly, Colin stuffed a handkerchief into her fist. Before long it was sopping wet and twisted in her hands.
The world retreated until she was a mass of wretched pain. Papa was dead; her home was gone; she had no father, no mother, no family at all except one aunt in a foreign country.
It was all Papa’s fault. When he’d gone back inside their burning house, he’d robbed her of both her father and her life.
How dare he? she thought. I hate him!
Bolting upright, she gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth as though she’d said the words out loud.
She felt Colin’s gaze, his compassion, but it didn’t help at all.
When he drew her hand away from her mouth and threaded her fingers through his, she levered herself up to the bench and leaned against him, closing her eyes. The tears leaked slowly, tracing new paths down her raw cheeks. Her head throbbed; her eyes burned, hot and swollen. But no physical pain could match the anguish in her heart.
She’d been furious with Papa, to the point of hating him—and for one split second, she had really felt that.
THIRTEEN
STANDING BESIDE the wagon with one hand resting possessively on her trunk, Amy watched, dazed, as Lady Kendra led two children by the hand toward Cainewood’s immense double oak doors.
The raked gravel of the drive crunched beneath their feet. “I cannot believe you did this, Colin.” Lady Kendra turned on the steps to count the young ones. “Nine children! You must have had your hands full.” She paused on the threshold, eyeing Amy speculatively. “Though it looks as though you had help.”
Colin didn’t respond, but Amy slipped him a guilty sidewise glance. She bit her lip, knowing she’d been less than helpful. She hadn’t even been decent company. They’d been on the road for the better part of the day, and she’d strung no more than five words together the entire time.
But she had no time to dwell on herself now, not with Cainewood Castle before her in all its ancient glory.
The living quarters formed a U around the quadrangle’s groomed lawn. She looked up, and up. Four stories.
“More than a hundred rooms,” Colin said beside her, as though he’d read her mind. “Most of them closed up. Jason has years of restoration ahead.” He pointed out the marks of cannonballs in the high, crenelated wall. “Cromwell sacked the place twice.”
Beyond the smooth green grass of the quadrangle, a tall, timeworn tower rose majestically. “The original keep,” he explained. “I believe it dates from 1138. Cainewood’s been in our family, save during the Commonwealth, since 1243.”
“Oh…” Blinking, she turned and stared up at him, his bold features shadowed by the turreted curtain wall. An enormous castle’s wall. Other than Whitehall Palace, it was the largest structure she’d ever seen.
And his family lived here…
The thought was amazing. Nearly inconceivable. Back in her shop and at the inn, Colin had seemed almost ordinary.
He shifted under her stare, and she glanced away, embarrassed.
He pointed again. “Beyond the keep, that’s the tilting yard. Obsolete, these centuries past. Jason doesn’t bother caring for it.”
His wave indicated the vegetation, untamed and ankle high. Still, a tilting yard…she could picture knights of old, mounted on glittering steeds, jousting, their lances held aloft. She’d been reading an Arthurian collection—she’d left it on her bedside table. It must have burned—
“Come, Amy.” His concerned voice rescued her from those thoughts. “I know you’re tired. Come inside and you can rest.”
He shooed the last of the children up the steps and motioned her after them, through the massive doors. The sun was setting, and she expected the entry would be dim. But a chandelier dangled from the vaulted ceiling, blazing with candles that flooded the cream-colored stone chamber with light.
In awe she moved toward the slim columns that marched two-by-two down the center of the three-story hall. An intricate stone staircase loomed ahead. At intervals along the gray marble handrail, carved heraldic beasts held shields sporting different quarterings of…
“The Chase family crest,” Amy said softly.
“How did you…?” Colin set down the trunk and blinked at her. “Oh, you carved those symbols on the sides of my ring.”
She smiled to herself, admiring the ornate iron treasure chests that sat against the stone walls, alternating with heavy chairs carved of walnut. Tapestries enriched and softened the effect.
“It’s…impressive, no?” Colin cleared his throat. “We, uh, used to have somewhat of a fortune,”
