Amy looked suitably impressed. “My goodness, this is impeccably restored.”
“It projects outside the curtain wall,” Colin pointed out. “I suppose it made the castle somewhat vulnerable at the time it was first built, but it was a sound decision as a precaution against fire damage.”
Proud of all his improvements, Colin showed her the ovens, spitted fireplaces, and wash basins with bronze taps and spouts. After she’d expressed appropriate admiration for the kitchen, he took her down a long, unused passage to the left.
“This was the original garderobe,” he explained. “It hung over the moat, a nice innovation at the time. Owing to the location, though, everyone had to go through the great hall and kitchen to use it.”
Amy peeked into the rough wooden latrines. “I’m glad I’m visiting now instead of then.” She’d already made use of Colin’s new garderobe, twin latrines with all the modern comforts, and declared them the most luxurious cubbyholes she’d ever seen. They had water closets, newly imported from France—the first water closets she’d ever used—and pipes all the way to the River Caine.
“I’ll stick with the one next to your study, thank you,” she said. “It’s cold over here.”
“It is, isn’t it? Let’s take our supper and head back.”
Backtracking through the kitchen and toward the great hall, Amy followed Colin into the vaulted cellar on the left, a pantry stocked with plenty of food, although not yet a great variety. Handing the lamp to her, Colin grabbed a basket and filled it with a small wheel of cheese, some carrots, apples, and a jar of—
“What’s that?” Amy asked in some alarm.
“Pickled snails.”
“Pickled snails? Surely you jest.”
“I do not. They’re delicious.”
“I suppose I’ll try them,” she said dubiously, “but I have to say they look and sound disgusting.” She slanted him an assessing glance. “You gentry certainly eat some strange things.”
Colin laughed and led her into the vault across the corridor. Walls lined with racks held but a few bottles of wine, one of which he hastily selected. Watching Amy look around, he tried to see the cellar through her eyes. Great empty barrels were scattered about, and two long, ancient wooden tables ran down the center of the arched chamber.
“Let me guess,” Amy suggested, “the taproom?”
“The buttery.”
“A butter room?”
“Well, it’s not where they kept the butter, but that’s what it was called. Your first guess was close—this room was dedicated to brewing and serving beverages. ‘Butt’ is an old word for bottle.”
Amy followed him out of the buttery and back toward the great hall. “How do you come to know so much about old castles?”
Colin shrugged. “They’ve always interested me. I spent my early years at Cainewood and the rest of my childhood in a succession of old, drafty castles on the Continent. I asked a lot of questions, read a lot of books.”
He motioned with his head for her to open the door, then winced when she got a blast of cold snow in her face for her trouble. He ushered her ahead, and she held up the lamp to light their way back.
“Most people, given this land, would choose to build a new house and leave the ruined castle as a relic for their children to play in,” he shouted from the swirling snow behind her. “It would probably cost less and certainly be easier to heat.”
When they reached the other end, Amy opened the door and they stepped into the welcoming entry hall, warmed by the dancing fire. Colin shut the door against the wind, and the room went abruptly silent.
Setting the basket and bottle of wine on the stone floor, he turned to lock the door. “Heaven knows why I’m restoring this place; it makes little sense.” Finished, he faced her. “But it’s three hundred years old, and it seems a shame to just let it crumble into ruin. The walls are thick and solid—it’s a good home…” He shrugged and smiled at her. “I like living here.”
“That’s the romantic in you, Lord Greystone,” she said softly.
Romantic? No one had ever accused Colin Chase of being romantic. Charming, perhaps; handsome, definitely—the ladies of Charles’s court had never been shy about telling him so. But romantic? Never.
He searched her amethyst eyes for any trace of irony. But he could see she was sincere.
She obviously didn’t know him very well.
He cleared his throat, breaking the silence and tension between them. “The lunatic in me, is more like it.”
She shook her head, smiling. Colin’s gaze moved to her cheeks, pink from the cold, and her lips, red and slightly wind-chapped. Her curls, arranged so carefully by Kendra’s maid that morning, were blown loose around her face…
He wanted to kiss her. He stepped forward.
She licked her lips. “Are those pickled snails really edible?”
He shook his head to dispel those preposterous thoughts. “They’re the best. Although I’ve just realized I forgot to bring spoons from the kitchen.”
“You needn’t brave the cold. I’m perfectly willing to share your knife with you.” She flashed him an odd little smile. “After all, I’m naught but a simple merchant’s daughter.”
Amy leaned down to pick up the wine bottle. Colin frowned at her back.
But it was as well that Amy had reminded him—for with all this talk of romance, he’d been on the edge of forgetting just who and what she was.
Clutching their supper to his chest, he turned and hurried down the corridor, back to the relative safety of his desk.
THIRTY
THE KEEP WAS built of lavender stone, cut in perfect rectangular bricks, set together seamlessly to form the tallest tower in the world. As Amy wound up the spiral staircase she paused at an arched window to look out.
Ferocious, fire-breathing, terrifying…the dragon lumbered closer, its heavy tread making the earth shudder. She ran up and up, a burning stitch in her side, but came no nearer the top.
Papa was up there. She had to get to him.
The
