“Once upon a time, it was filled by the River Caine.” Colin’s voice startled her, nearby. He pointed out the river in the distance. “It runs all the way from the coast past Cainewood to here. In fact, the license to crenelate was granted by King Richard II to protect Greystone from pirates who sailed up the River Caine from the sea. It was originally built by a bishop.”
Amy felt her beloved history books coming alive within these walls. “How long has it been in your family?”
“Not at all, till recently. Its Royalist owners perished with no issue. Charles deeded it to me after the Restoration, when I was all of sixteen. I’m just now getting around to fixing it up.”
At all of twenty-one, Amy knew. Somehow he seemed much more mature, much older. She supposed that was what came of being orphaned at six and growing up on one’s own.
A ruined tower sat adjacent to the entrance, and she looked down inside it—a long way down.
“The oubliette,” he explained. “It was secured with a heavy iron grille.” His voice sounded mysterious and deep as the pit. “Miscreants would be cast inside…and sometimes forgotten.”
Suddenly shivering, she tightened the blanket around her body.
With a grunt, Colin shouldered her trunk. “Come inside, where it should be warmer.” He motioned for her to follow him down a short passageway with an unassuming oak door at its end.
He unlocked the door and entered, bending to set down her trunk. She followed in time to see him shove it against the wall with one booted foot.
“There.” He glared at her accusingly. “I’m not looking forward to our riding back with it, I’ll warrant you.”
Her legs were still shaking, though she’d never admit it. She set the basket on the floor. “I’m not riding a horse back.”
“Benchley cannot drive the carriage here with one horse.”
“Then you’ll ride out with him and return with the carriage. That way you won’t have to carry the trunk on horseback,” she pointed out.
“That’s true,” he conceded rather crossly. Averting his face, he turned to arrange some wood in the fireplace on the right.
The vestibule was small and square, with an open-beam ceiling of oak. An oak staircase marched up the wall opposite the entrance. To the left, Amy saw an arched door. She walked over and tried the handle.
“It’s locked,” Colin said, standing up. “The great hall is beyond, lacking half a roof at present.”
She nodded, turning back to him. Behind him, the fire burned brightly, illuminating the dim chamber. Shadows danced on whitewashed, unadorned stone walls. The stone floor was polished smooth from centuries of use, and a fringed Oriental carpet rested in the center.
“Is this where you sleep?” Amy asked. She knew his home was mostly unrestored, and many families lived in a room this size or smaller. Perhaps he had a pallet that he put in here at night.
“Heavens, no.” He laughed and picked up the basket. “Come this way.”
She followed him through an open archway and down a corridor. He paused at a doorway on the left.
“This is my temporary bedchamber,” he explained. “Once the great hall’s roof is complete, the rest of the living quarters will be restored.”
Amy stepped into the austere room. It held a wooden washstand, a dressing table with a mirror, and a large bed with a small table beside it and a chest at its foot. Carved in a twisted design, the bedposts supported a cream-colored canopy that matched the bedclothes and plastered walls. A gray stone fireplace and hearth echoed the gray stone that framed the three windows.
She wandered to a window and drew in her breath in surprise.
“You’re looking behind the great hall.” Colin’s voice came across the room from where he lounged against the doorjamb. “It’s officially called Upper Court. The main courtyard where we entered is called Lower Court.”
Amy gazed into the secret space, partially concealed by a light blanket of freshly fallen snow. Come springtime, when the winter cold subsided, it would contain a beautiful garden. Placing her elbows on the wide stone windowsill, she rested her chin in her hands and stared out dreamily. Having grown up in crowded London, the thought of a private walled garden was blissful.
“I would call it Hidden Court,” she said softly.
A low chuckle came from the doorway. “That’s exactly what I do call it, to myself.”
Amy wasn’t surprised. It was the perfect name for this most perfect place. “How do you get to it?”
“Through my study, next door.”
Leaving the window, she followed him down the corridor. His study contained a large scarred wooden desk with a comfortable chair; a long, plain upholstered couch with a low table before it; and some rough shelving stuffed with a few books and a lot of ledgers and piles of paper.
“Benchley sleeps here,” he said, indicating the couch.
But Amy had eyes only for the glass-inset double doors in the exact center of the back wall. She went straight to throw them open and stepped into the courtyard beyond, heedless of the frosty air and falling snow.
Colin turned to start a fire, slanting a glance now and then to watch her. He laughed when she brushed snow off the plants to see what lay beneath. What a marvelous creature she was, quick to anger, but even more easily pleased. Now that she’d emerged from the cocoon of her grief, she was like a beautiful butterfly, and his heart ached with the knowledge that he could never capture her.
Finished with the fire, he turned to warm his back near the flames, watching Amy flit around his private courtyard…the courtyard Priscilla had failed to even notice on her one visit to her future home.
He shook himself. Priscilla embodied everything he required
