“They’re well, I’m sure,” her husband said absently while pulling a fresh shirt over his head.
Cavanaugh had laid a blue velvet suit on the bed. Men had it so easy, Kendra thought with a touch of weariness-induced irritation. Brown or green, velvet or satin. Aside from varying quantities of braid, lace, and ribbon, everything looked the same. Their shirts and cravats were always white, their shoes—with the exception of some foppish court dandies—invariably black. High-heeled with fancy buckles for court, low-heeled and plain for every day. There was nothing much for them to decide.
She selected a cloth-of-gold gown and held it up. “What do you think?”
His back to her as he reached for his breeches, Trick answered, “It’s fine.” For a moment she stood there, aggravated, until he turned and favored her with one of his blinding white smiles.
He was right. Everything was fine, after all.
In a few short weeks, their relationship had come a long way—farther than she’d thought possible. The journey to London had been almost blissful. Trick had been attentive, but even more important, he’d answered most of her questions without resorting to evasion. The days on the road had gone a long way toward convincing her their marriage would be a happy one.
Bless her brothers for bringing them together, she thought, then silently laughed at her reversal of feelings.
“Come here,” Trick said, and she did, letting the gown slip to the floor as she walked into his arms. His kiss was everything she hadn’t known she needed before he’d come into her life.
They parted regretfully. “I’m sorry to rush you out of the house when we’ve barely arrived,” he murmured. “but I want to complete my business with King Charles and take you home to Amberley.”
With a sigh, she moved away and began detaching her stomacher. “I still wish I could see it.”
“See what?” he asked, pulling up the blue velvet breeches.
“The treasure. Will we be bringing it along to court?”
Trick’s gaze wandered to the massive chest sitting in a corner. He wished he didn’t have to deal with this. He wished he didn’t have to deal with King Charles or his problems at all.
“I think I’ll just meet with Charles tonight to explain, then arrange to send it along later.”
She wiggled her gown down and off. “I cannot wait to see his reaction.”
Losh, he couldn’t let her be there. He had delicate matters to discuss with the king. Looking down as he tucked in his shirt, he made his voice as casual as possible. “I believe Charles will feel this is a matter best settled between men.”
He raised his gaze to hers, expecting to see that look in her eyes. The defiant look she’d given him when he’d told her she couldn’t come along to Scotland, again when he went off to Burntisland, and yet again when he’d ordered her not to get on the boat.
But instead he saw a different look. Hurt.
He wanted to hit something. Not an hour in London, and the accursed deceptions were coming between them already.
Characteristic of her, though, the hurt look was fleeting, and the one he’d expected came into her eyes, after all. He watched her draw breath, girding for battle. “Charles likes women,” she said.
“In his bed, yes.”
“No.” She caught his gaze and blushed. “Well, yes, but that wasn’t what I meant. He listens to women. Really listens, as if he cares what we say. Even about politics.”
Lucky him, marrying one of probably three ladies in England who would think to discuss politics with their monarch. “If I let you see the treasure, will it make you feel better?”
“You cannot do that.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s no key, and Charles is going to wonder where the lock is if you hack it off.”
“Then I won’t.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“I mean I won’t hack it off.”
She glanced at the chest, then back to him, speculation narrowing her pretty green eyes. “Can you pick the lock?”
“You insult me.” He swiped his knife off the dressing table, and she followed him to the chest, where he knelt and went to work, delicately probing the keyhole. “There isn’t a good smuggler on earth who doesn’t know how to pick a lock.”
Wearing nothing but his amber bracelet and a chemise, she sat on the chest. When she crossed her legs right in front of his face, his knife slipped.
“Were you a good smuggler?”
Determinedly, he refocused. “Actually, I was a bad smuggler. My heart was never in it.” A satisfying click reverberated in the room. “But I can pick a lock.”
Removing it, he stood, and she jumped up to throw open the lid.
“Oh, my heavens, Trick. Look at this.” She hefted a solid gold charger, running her fingers over the delicately engraved rim. “It’s beautiful.”
“He’ll probably melt it down.”
“No,” she breathed, dropping to kneel before the chest. “He wouldn’t.” She set the charger on the floor and reached for a silver pitcher in the shape of a swan. “Oh, I just knew I wanted to see this.” One by one, she removed pieces, each more impressive than the last. Plates, bowls, goblets, cutlery, serving utensils, platters. “Hamish was right. The first Charles truly did live like a king on his coronation journey.”
He smiled as she delved deeper, her bottom rising as she leaned into the chest.
“Oh, what is this?” She drew out an ivory casket inlaid with scrolled gold wire.
He shrugged. “Small items?”
“In a beautiful box like this? And locked?”
Taking it from her, he made short work of that and put it back in her hands.
With a sigh of anticipation, she raised the lid. “Jewels!” She lifted an exquisite sapphire and diamond necklace. “My goodness, it looks like pirate’s booty! How did jewels get in here?” Replacing the necklace, she slipped a gaudy emerald ring on
