Emerald Page 10

  "I'll bet you have." He bent down and fished the knife from the mud, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the blade. "I'm thinking you should have leave to call me Jason."

  "Oh, aye?"

  A gleam came into his eyes. "After all, we have slept together."

  Her cheeks flushed hot. "Not exactly. You slept." Looking down, she readjusted the soggy bow at the top of her laces. "I was taught to address my elders with respect."

  "Your elders? Do you think me so old and decrepit?"

  He sounded so disconcerted, Cait's gaze shot up to his face. It took all she had not to laugh. She wished she had the talent to paint; if she could capture his expression on canvas, she could laugh at it forever.

  "Very well, then," she said, keeping her voice businesslike. "Since I've no other means to get to London—thanks to you—I will stay with you willingly. As your equal." He opened his mouth, but she rushed on. "And as such, I will call you Jason. Out loud. I cannot promise what I'll call you in my head."

  Frustration and amusement mingled on his face as he shoved the knife into his belt. "Here," he said gruffly, shrugging out of his cloak and settling it over her shoulders.

  "You'll get wet," she protested even as she snuggled into it. It felt heavy and blessedly warm from the heat of his body. But his brown surcoat was becoming peppered with the dark splotches of raindrops. "I'm already soaked. It will do me no good."

  "You're shivering. It will cut the cold." He removed his hat and plopped it on her head. "I won't have you catching a chill."

  He'd tied his hair back with a ribbon, making a short, neat tail at the nape of his neck. She watched as it became soaked, too. "Now we'll both be miserable," she said. "But I thank you for your gallantry. Why you deserve thanks is beyond me, but Mam always said 'guid manners suffer bad yins.'"

  Thin rivulets of water ran down his blank face and dripped off the end of his nose. She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw while she waited for him to ask for a translation.

  "Courtesy outshines poor manners," she finally said.

  His eyes narrowed but he said nothing, only swung her up into his arms. Before she could protest, he marched to his horse and deposited her on the saddle with a bit more force than was necessary.

  She let out a little grunt.

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Are you all right?"

  "I reckon I'll live."

  He reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek, a futile gesture considering the continual rain. "Why didn't you pull your gun on that bastard?"

  "It's in my satchel, in—"

  "—the coach." He sighed. "I know. My fault. I'm sorry." He reached down to draw a pistol from his boot. The smallest one she'd ever seen, much fancier than Da's, with a brass barrel and a mother-of-pearl grip inlaid with brass wire scrollwork. "Here, take this one," he offered.

  It looked very expensive. "Nay, I—"

  "Take it. You should have something to protect yourself." When she didn't move to claim it, he reached beneath the cloak and stuffed it into her skirt pocket.

  "Thank you," she said stiffly, clutching the cloak closed in front with two cold fists. "It may be that I'll need it; there seem to be a high proportion of unscrupulous men about England."

  He fixed her with an assessing green gaze, then mounted behind her. His arms came around her waist, altogether more comforting than she expected, and they took off at a decent clip down the muddy road.

  "You seem to paint all Englishmen with the same brush," he said presently. "Tell me, Emerald, are there not bad people in Scotland as well?"

  "My name is Caithren," she snapped. "And we save our aggression for the English."

  It wasn't even close to the truth, but it sounded good.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Seated behind Emerald in the saddle, Jason watched her head bob as she drifted in and out of sleep. He found himself leaning close, hoping for a whiff of the flowery scent he'd already come to think of as hers. Whatever it had been—bath oil, perfume, or the like; he was certainly no expert on women's toiletries—the rain had washed away every trace.

  But plain Emerald smelled almost as good.

  He glanced at the sky, happy that the rain had let up. The road in this area was clay, normally stiff and easy to travel, but the miserable wet had made it into a path of mud. On both sides of the slushy mess, barley fields glistened green in the dwindling drizzle.

  When he stood in the stirrups to relieve his stiffness, Emerald came awake with a start. He grabbed her to keep her from falling. She yawned into a small, feminine hand.

  It certainly wasn't a hand that looked accustomed to holding a pistol, but he supposed that was to her advantage. The less she looked like a threat, the more likely outlaws wouldn't notice her coming after them.

  "Tired, are you?" he drawled, resettling both her and himself and adjusting again to Chiron's rhythmic sway.

  "I didn't sleep, if you'll remember."

  "What I remember is waking up alone, wondering where you were and if you were safe."

  "You mean wondering if I'd managed to get to Gothard before you could."

  "I didn't say that, Emerald."

  "How many times must I tell you I'm not Emerald MacCallum?" She twisted around to see him. "Why won't you believe my story?"

  "You do a pretty job of telling it, but it doesn't wash. For one thing, it hinges on you or your brother inheriting some land. Besides the fact that I cannot imagine you as a landowner"—that earned him a glare before she turned away, her chin tilting up—"you're from Scotland. Land there isn't owned by individuals," he said smugly. "It's owned by the clans."

  "A fat lot you know." Her voice was unmistakably scornful. "I'm from the east, not the northern Highlands. Can you not tell from my accent?"

  That lilting accent was muddling his brain. "You sound like a Scot to me." He guided Chiron back to the center of the road, away from the dangerous bogs that plagued the edges. "Scots are Scots."

  Before him, her back went stiff. "Curious," she said softly. "You don't strike an initial impression of an uneducated man, but you seem to be unaccountably lacking in knowledge."

  "And I suppose you've been to university?" The fact that he hadn't had always rankled him. Following the Civil War, he'd spent his early adulthood in exile with the king. Of all the Chases, only the youngest brother, Ford, had received a formal education.

  "Close enough," she said. "I read all of Adam's books after he was booted out. Didn't want to see them go to waste."

  "Don't tell me they believe women should be educated in that wilderness you call a country."

  Though he'd said the words in all good humor—he'd seen to it that his sister Kendra was educated—an outraged squeal came from before him. Emerald bounced, her elbow unintentionally lodging in his gut.

  At least he thought it was unintentional. "Ouch!" He rubbed his ribs. "Sit still, will you?"

  "Well," she huffed, "I'm thinking you should buy another horse. Then you wouldn't care how I sit. And we could go faster. The Gothard brothers are on two horses."

  "Don't I know it," he grumbled. His two horses.

  She had a point. But though yesterday he'd planned to buy another horse, today he was having second thoughts. With another horse, Emerald would have the means to run off on her own.

  Besides, his complaining aside, he rather liked having her sitting in front of him.

  "This horse is faster," he said. "Even with us riding double."

  "How can—"

  "Take my word for it." He knew those horses; they were decent stock, but not in Chiron's class. The brothers had gotten a big head start toward Pontefract, yet he'd beaten them there traveling wounded.

  "I'm sure they're not riding any more hours than we are," he said, anticipating her next protest. "This road is plagued by highwaymen at night, not at all safe to travel. And their horses need the rest; they've been riding them for weeks."

  "They said they would ride like the dickens," she reminded him. "They could be changing horse
s."

  "I've no fear of that. They haven't the money to be changing horses."

  Beneath her borrowed hat, her plaits swished as she shook her head. "If you haven't the money for another horse," she said in a patronizing tone, "you can just say so. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

  She truly had no idea who he was. He smiled to himself, glad to see his cover of a commoner was convincing. It was safer that way for them both.

  "Speaking of money," he said, "why didn't you take some when you tried to leave? How did you expect to fend for yourself with no silver to pay your way?"

  She was silent a moment. "Are you saying I should have stolen from you?"

  "Some folks wouldn't look at it as stealing." When Chiron started up a hill, she slid back against him. Too close. "As you miss no chance to point out, it's my fault you have no coin. It's a dangerous world; you really need to look out for yourself."

  The road flattened, giving him relief when she drew herself straight. "Two wrongs don't make a right."

  "Does your mother say that, too?"

  "Everyone says that. You must have heard it before?"

  "I've heard it." Spotting a bridge up ahead, he tensed. "I just don't think it applies in this case." Deliberately he drew his gaze from the bridge. "Have you ever considered there might be such a thing as being too honest?"

  "Wheesht! You actually sound angry I didn't take your money."

  "Not angry. Only concerned for you, with your habit of chasing all over England." The sun peeked through the clouds just as the road fed onto Bridgegate. "I won't always be here to protect you."

  "My habit of chasing all over England? I've never been here before. And it will be a long time before I'm tempted to come back. And I can take care of myself."

  He'd seen no evidence that was true, but he was wise enough not to argue. Stopping at the bridge's end to wait for a cart and two mounted riders coming from the other direction, he wondered how she managed on her own. As unpleasant as this association had been, he felt he'd be signing her death warrant to allow her to go it alone. His father would never have left a woman to cope by herself.

  Just then, the sun came out. The River Idle sparkled in the new, bright light, and a brilliant rainbow arched from its center.

  "Oh, the colors are lovely!" Some damp strands had escaped Emerald's plaits, and she pushed them off the side of her face. "But rainbows bring bad luck, aye?"

  "You think so?" he asked, amused.

  She nodded. "I know a verse against it."

  A carriage lumbered toward them across the bridge. "By all means, chant it if it would make you feel better."

  Her chin went up. "Are you mocking me?"

  "Never." At the driver's wave, he smiled and inclined his head. "I'm waiting to hear it."

  She cleared her throat.

  "Rainbow, rainbow, haud away hame

  A' your bairns are dead but ane

  And it lies sick at yon gray stane

  And will be dead ere you win hame

  Gang owre the Drumaw and yont the lea

  And down by the side o' yonder sea

  Your bairn lies greetin' like to die

  And the big tear-drop is in his eye."

  Finished, she waited expectantly.

  "What a long, bothersome charm that is," he said. Not to mention he'd understood but half the words. "Can't you just cross the rainbow out?"

  "Cross it out?" When Chiron shifted, she knotted her fingers into his mane. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Hereabouts, folk place a couple twigs on the ground in the form of a cross and lay four pebbles at the ends."

  "I've never heard of such a thing." She cocked her head. "Will you be doing it, then?"

  "Hell, no. I don't fancy myself superstitious." Another rider was crossing the river. "Would you like to get down and do it?"

  "Nay. The verse will do well enough."

  Chiron snorted and gave an impatient toss of his head, making Emerald sway. Jason steadied her.

  "Shall we cross already?" she asked.

  A father and two sons were on the bridge. "I just…" There was no way to hide it—they'd be crossing many rivers. He took a deep breath. "I prefer to ride down the center of bridges."

  "Down the center?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "And you say you're not superstitious."

  "The bridge is clear now," he muttered and started across.

  "Down the center," she repeated with a giggle. "I'd never have thought you'd keep a ritual like that. A man who scoffs at ghosts and superstitions."

  He kept his eyes trained on the far side of the river. "I'm pleased to entertain you."

  Though her shoulders shook with mirth, she kept her counsel as they rode through the town to the square.

  The marketplace bustled with commerce. Sellers hawked wheels of yellow and white cheeses while buyers haggled over fresh produce. Cattle for sale crowded a smelly pen, and farm laborers stood around, waiting to be hired. Noticing a booth filled with a mishmash of household goods, Jason thought he spotted a few garments in the mix. With any luck, a new skirt for Emerald.

  Perched along one edge of the square, Ye Olde Sun Inn was a timber-framed building with a central chimney and a narrow upper story beneath a steeply sloping roof. "Olde," indeed. But delicious scents wafted out the open door.

  "Damnation, I'm hungry," he said.

  "When are you not?"

  "Since I met you? Never. You've a disconcerting habit of keeping me from my breakfast." As she drew breath to protest, he added, "I'll buy us a meal and take a room for a couple of hours. You can wash off the mud and then sleep while I find you dry clothes."

  "Sleep," she breathed, apparently placated for the moment. "Oh, a wee sleep sounds heavenly."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "Emerald. It's nearly noon. Time to wake up."

  "I'm not Emerald," Caithren moaned, batting Jason's hand from her shoulder. Her nap had been entirely too short—after walking all night, she could have slept the day away and then some. But there was no time to waste. No matter how tired she was, she needed to get moving in order to find Adam.

  She forced her eyes open.

  Dressed in clean, dry breeches and a fresh white shirt, Jason leaned over her, too close for her comfort. His broad shoulders blocked her view of the room, and suddenly she felt frightened, alone with this stranger. It had been different last night when she was planning to leave. Now she would have to forge some sort of relationship with him. Sharing a room at an inn was an intimidating way to start.

  Even groggy, she was utterly aware that, because her clothes were all wet, she was naked beneath the sheets. And one of her breasts was already bruised with the marks of an Englishman's fingers. But she remembered Jason's pistol tucked beneath her pillow. Proof that he wouldn't be taking advantage of her, because surely he wouldn't have given her the means to defend herself.

  She drew a shaky breath.

  "Emerald?" He leaned closer yet, unsettling her even more. "I brought you something from the marketplace."

  Yawning, she struggled to sit up while self-consciously clutching the quilt beneath her chin. "What is it?"

  "A Shropshire cake." He held out a flat yellow pastry with a diamond pattern scored into the top. "Try it."

  She stared at his hand, transfixed by the sheer size of it—the sheer size of him—until a delicious scent drifted to her nose, shifting her gaze to the cake. "Very thoughtful," she allowed. She leaned forward to have a bite. "Mmm. It tastes like shortbread."

  "Well, take it."

  Not wanting to disappoint, she bravely risked releasing a hand from the quilt to hold it and eat more. "Scottish shortbread," she said around a mouthful.

  He smiled. "I'm glad you like it. I bought four."

  The buttery pastry seemed to melt on her tongue. "Where are the other three cakes, then?"

  With a sheepish grin, he pointed to his stomach.

  "I see." She took another bite. "It's honored I am that you saved me one."<
br />
  "It was a sacrifice," he said solemnly. "And a peace offering."

  "For what?" The last morsel went into her mouth, and she licked her fingers. "I thought we already had a truce."

  "For this." From behind his back, he produced a large, soft packet and set it on her lap.

  Slanting him a sidewise glance, she used the same hand to slowly unfold the paper. When it lay open across the quilt, she could only stare. "You don't expect me to wear this, do you?"

  This was a bright red gown, complete with an indecently sheer chemise and an embroidered stomacher—a long triangular contraption worn on the front of the dress to cover the laces. Cait looked wistfully at her shift, skirt, and bodice where they hung on three wall pegs drying. Or rather, no longer dripping. They were far from dry.

  "It was all I could find," he said apologetically. He swept the gown from the bed, shook it out, and held it up. "It's not all that bad." He frowned at what was surely a look of pained disbelief on her face. "Is it?"

  "It's fit for an English doxy."

  Despite what looked like a heroic effort to control himself, his lips twitched. "If you think that, I'm forced to conclude you've never seen an English doxy."

  Cait closed her eyes and touched her fingertips to her forehead. "It will have to do, I suppose. Temporarily."

  "I'll leave you to get dressed." Quickly he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

  Resigned, she rose from the bed, wincing as she put weight on her ankle. When she slipped the chemise over her head, it slithered down her body, feeling like less than nothing. The gown went on next. She tightened the laces, then stared down at her cleavage exposed in the deep, curved neckline. The chemise's lace trim barely peeked out over the edge. Unlike her shift, it was mere decoration, apparently not meant to preserve the wearer's modesty.

  No chance was she going into public with half her bosom hanging out. She loosened the dress and wiggled out of it, then took her shift off the wall and wrung it out mercilessly.

  Jason's voice came muffled through the door. "Are you decent yet?"

  "Just give me peace till I tell you I'm ready," she called impatiently. She shook out the shift, wishing she had an iron. It was more wrinkled than old Widow MacKenzie's haggard face.