Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2)

by Royal, Lauren

"At a walk, no? He was only curious." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Boars don't attack people unless they're provoked."

  "H-how was I supposed to know that?" Her sodden skirt had come untucked and floated about her knees. Her bodice and shift were plastered to her skin. The pale ivory sleeves were streaked a sickening shade of pink.

  She stared at the fallen animal until Jason took her by the hand and tugged her upstream. His fingers felt warm and reassuring.

  "Submerge yourself," he urged. He waded back to the boar, lifting his boots high, heavy with water. "Go ahead," he called back. "The blood will wash out."

  Numbly she obeyed, watching him tug the sword free and rinse the blade. He slid it back into his belt, then plunged his arm into the water and came up with his pistol.

  For a long moment he held it dripping above the surface, looking from it to Caithren and back again. He cocked a brow. "I reckon it's best I keep this, no?" Tucking it into his boot top, he splashed his way back to her.

  She plucked her soaked bodice away from her body, trying to gather her wits. "It's sorry I am that your boots are ruined."

  "They'll dry." He shrugged, then his forehead furrowed. "You're a lousy shot, Emerald."

  "I'm not Emerald." Irritated, she waded out of the water at full speed. "I've never shot a gun before. I didn't like it much."

  He emerged from the burn and sat on a stump, shading his eyes with a hand as he gazed up at her. "You were carrying a pistol when I found you."

  "Found me? Tricked me into staying with you is more like it."

  His hand dropped. "I can do without the wordplay." He yanked off a boot and spilled out a gush of water. "What were you doing carrying a pistol if you don't know how to use it?" His stocking came off next. He wrung it in his hands. Absurdly, she thought he had nice toes. "Well?" he barked.

  Her head jerked up. "It was Da's. Cameron made me take it. To protect myself from Englishmen like you."

  A look of uncertainty seemed to cross his face, but he regained his normal implacable expression while he poured slowly from his second boot. "You're certainly one for the stories. Quick thinker, too." He peeled off his other stocking. "It's a good thing the outlaws don't know you cannot shoot—that could put a damper on your business, I expect."

  She glared at him in disbelief, then turned and stalked upriver, back to where she'd left her things. "You've an aggravating master," she informed Chiron. Plopping down upon a log, she spread her skirts around her, hoping they might dry a wee bit in the sun while she pulled on her stockings and shoes.

  Her eyes were still trained downward when Jason's nice toes marched into her field of vision. She squinted up at him. "Where is the food you bought yesterday? I'll be wanting a chitterin' bite."

  "A what?"

  "A chitterin' bite. Do you not eat something after a swim, to keep from catching cold?"

  "No." He stared at her as though she'd left her head in the water. "Is that another of your Scottish superstitions?"

  "It's not a superstition—it's a health precaution. And I don't care for the way you say Scottish."

  He raised a brow. "Will an orange do?"

  "Aye. Sweet is preferable to savory."

  "I will file that information." He fetched an orange from the portmanteau and handed it to her. "You'll have to wear the red dress," he said, pulling it out as well. He draped it over the log, a jarring splash of crimson against the green of their forest surroundings.

  "Nay." Ignoring it, she bit into the bitter skin of the orange and started peeling. "I won't wear that dress again."

  Ignoring her in turn, he shrugged out of his surcoat and took dry breeches from one of the leather bags.

  "Crivvens!" She jumped up, scattering orange peel all over the ground. "You're not going to undress right here, are you?"

  "Nobody is around. What would you have me do?" In one single lithe motion, he pulled his shirt free from his waistband and off over his head. "I'd as soon not ride about the countryside soaking wet."

  Cait knew how bairns were made. She was certainly familiar with breeding animals, and, as her best friend, Cameron had always answered her questions. She'd even seen Cam without his shirt. But never a stranger.

  Her gaze was riveted to Jason's chest. Lightly defined muscles rippled beneath a sprinkling of silky black hair.

  When he started unlacing his breeches, she gave an outraged huff. "I'd rather not have to watch." Despite the calm words, her heart beat much too fast. "Indulge me in my false pretense of innocence," she said sarcastically, then whirled to walk away.

  His laughter followed her. "Come back and take the red dress. I won't have your skirt drenching my nice dry clothes as we ride."

  The skirt in question was dripping on her nice dry shoes and stockings. In disgust she turned back and snatched the red gown from the log.

  "Here," he said, digging in the portmanteau. "You'll be needing this as well." He held out the sheer chemise that had come with the dress.

  Instead of arguing, she took it, though she had no intention of wearing it. Carefully she set the half-peeled orange on the log and made her way through the trees, far enough that she was sure he couldn't see her. She checked thoroughly for boars before unlacing her soggy bodice.

  Goose bumps sprang up on her skin as she undressed. From cold, or confusion? This vexatious and misguided man kept insisting on calling her Emerald…but he never hesitated to come to her rescue. He was exasperating and rigid…yet oddly compassionate and honorable in his way. And though she'd never been as angry with anyone in her life—he'd completely ruined all her plans!—his slightest touch sent her heart to racing.

  That last point didn't bear thinking about. She didn't want to be with any man. She wanted to find Adam and get back to Leslie where she belonged.

  He was right, blast it—her shift was entirely too soaked to wear beneath the dress this time. Disgusted, she dropped the chemise over her head and wiggled it into place. The gossamer fabric might as well be air for all the concealment it offered. She stepped into the gown, laced it up, and attached the stomacher with fumbling fingers. Covering her exposed bosom with both hands, she made her way back to the streambank.

  She was sure her face was as red as the gown.

  Thankfully, Jason was decently clothed. But when his gaze trailed from her burning face to her hands splayed on her chest, he burst out laughing.

  "Sorry," he mumbled, digging in his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. "Here."

  She cocked her head.

  "To fill in the neckline."

  "Oh. I thank you." She shoved it down the front of the dress and tucked it in as best she could before reaching for the orange. "You should have a chitterin' bite as well," she told him.

  "Why? So I won't catch cold?"

  "Aye." She sat on the log and divided the fruit, handing him half. "So you won't catch cold."

  He stuffed a section into his mouth and dug out some fresh stockings before joining her on the log. "I thank you for your concern," he said. "I was under the impression you'd just as soon I caught consumption and died."

  Her mouth hung open. What a thing for him to say.

  Why had she ever thought she might like him?

  "Not until you get me to London," she snapped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  An hour later, Caithren dismounted at the Haycock Hotel and followed Jason into a charming courtyard with stone archways and mullioned windows. "A hat?"

  "Yes, a hat. While you were busy provoking the boar, I checked on the map, and this is the only sizable village between here and Stilton. Should we ride all that way on a day like today with but a single hat between us, one of us will end up sunburned and suffering." He nodded at his hat, which was perched atop her plaits. "I'd as soon it not be me, though common decency dictates it will be."

  "Oh." She slowly drew off the hat and held it out to him.

  He took it from her and set it back on her head. "The shops are closed on a Sunday, but I'm hoping to persu
ade someone here to part with a hat in exchange for a generous payment." They both scanned the patrons in the inn's sunny courtyard, well-off ladies and gentlemen sharing conversation or lingering over news sheets. "Perhaps a more feminine design would suit you?" he added, tilting the hat's brim up with a finger.

  Since his comment by the burn, she'd acted cold as a Scottish winter—and he repaid her by being thoughtful. Flustered, she tucked his handkerchief deeper into her neckline. "Sometimes you're too nice."

  "I'm not nice." He drew back his shoulders. "I'm doing what I have to do. No more, no less. I'm responsible for you, and for everything you lost due to my actions."

  "For my things, yes. But how many times do I have to tell you you're not responsible for me? I can take care of myself."

  His mouth opened, closed, then he turned on his heel and strode into the cool, shadowed lobby to make inquiries at the desk.

  Cait trailed behind him and stared at his back while he explained his problem to the innkeeper. Her legs were aching again, and her brain felt muddled.

  She went closer and tapped Jason on the shoulder. "I'm away for a wee dander."

  He stopped mid-sentence and turned. "A wee what?"

  "A walk." She gestured toward the door. "Down the street a bit, to stretch my legs."

  "Stay on the High Street," he told her.

  Wansford boasted only the High Street, so far as she could tell. She wandered down it, enjoying the sunshine and the solitude she'd lacked the past few days. Her irritation with Jason melted away as her feet put distance between them.

  Charming stone cottages with tiny gardens lined the road, bees buzzing around carefully tended flowers. There was one other inn, the small Cross Keys. Farther down the street, a little kirk sat with its door open.

  A service was in progress. Cait sidled closer to listen. The drone of the vicar's sermon sounded peaceful and familiar. It was comforting to find that Sunday rituals, at least, were the same here as in Scotland. She slipped inside and into the back pew, feeling at home for the first time since she'd stepped onto the coach in Edinburgh.

  At the end of a frantic search, Jason found Emerald in the church. Dozing.

  Taking her by the arm, he pulled her up and out the door. "I was worried sick," he told her in hushed tones, tugging her away from the building. Once out of earshot, he turned her to face him. "I couldn't find you."

  "Your face is red," she said, wrenching her arm from his grasp. "You're angry."

  "Damn right I'm angry."

  "But you're not yelling."

  One of the two of them belonged in Bedlam. "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "You should just show it. Why don't you show it?" She grasped her emerald necklace like it would save her from his nonexistent wrath. "And you're angry because you thought I'd gotten away and gone after Gothard on my own."

  Amazing how she clung to that image of him. He took a calming breath. "Stay with me from now on, will you? I don't want you out of my sight." He swept his hat from her head and drew one with a white feather from behind his back, setting it atop her plaits. "There. Now we'd best get back on the road."

  "I've never owned a hat with a feather." Hurrying down the street beside him, Emerald pulled off the hat and turned it in her hands. "It's bonnie. I thank you."

  He donned his own hat. "Don't lose it."

  "Have I lost anything yet? Without your help?"

  "No." He looked down at her and, despite himself, grinned. "I've been a great help in that area."

  With a reluctant smile, she jammed the hat back on her head. "The Gothard brothers were sunburned."

  Baffled, he slanted her a glance. "And you're saying that why?"

  "You were talking about getting sunburned."

  "An hour ago." He would never understand how women's minds worked.

  "Well, they were both sunburned." They turned a corner and continued toward the stable yard. "Do you think the Gothards cannot even afford two hats?"

  "From what I understand of their circumstances, I wouldn't be surprised." Chiron was brought forward, and he handed the groom a coin.

  "Then they really wouldn't be able to change horses," she mused as he hoisted her up and mounted behind her. "And he's a blockhead."

  "Who's a blockhead?"

  "Geoffrey Gothard. We were talking about him, aye?"

  "Were we?" He tapped her on the shoulder. "Gothard is not as stupid as you think. You'd best keep that in mind."

  "I didn't mean to say he was stupid. I meant he is literally a blockhead. He has a square head."

  He squinted, trying to picture the man, and decided she was right. Delighted, he laughed and squeezed her around the middle, and then, without conscious thought, tilted her hat forward and pressed his lips to that enticing spot on the nape of her neck.

  "What was that?" she squeaked.

  He asked himself the same question.

  Why the devil did he find her so alluring?

  She was everything he wasn't. Superstitious. She believed in ghosts. She wanted his king out of her country. And though it was clear she was educated, half of what she said was lost on him between her accent and all those unintelligible words.

  A Royalist and a Cavalier born and bred, he couldn't imagine why he was drawn to someone so provincial and…well, Scottish.

  "I don't know," he said at last, meaning it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After what seemed an interminable day, Caithren and Jason finally arrived at the Bell Inn in Stilton. Leaving him to settle Chiron in the stables, Cait wandered into the inn's courtyard.

  A black cat ambled over and wove through her legs, making her smile. The pretty inn's walls were enlivened by fragrant flowering plants and a vined trellis. She knelt, absently petting the cat as she read the words engraved in stone above the courtyard's arched entry.

  TO BUCKDEN 14 MILES, HUNTINGDON 12, LONDON 74.

  Still such a long way to go, she thought with a sigh.

  Spotting a well in the corner, she approached it from the east on the southern side, lest she bring bad luck on herself. At least, she hoped she'd come from the east. In silence she drank three handfuls of water and closed her eyes to make a wish.

  Please let me find Adam. And…

  She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

  . . . let Jason kiss me again.

  Her eyes flew open. What an utterly improper wish! Never had she thought she'd ache for a man's kiss. She hadn't believed she had it in her.

  Lifting the hem of the red gown, she raised the chemise to her teeth to rip off a narrow strip and turned to find Jason's gaze on her from just inside the open stable doors. Heat flooded her cheeks, but that didn't stop her from tying the scrap to the branch of a nearby tree.

  The ritual complete, she seated herself on the lip of the well facing Jason. He kept glancing in her direction, a puzzled look in his eyes. A blackbird watched her from the tree, cocking its head as though it were puzzled as well. The cat meandered over and leapt onto her lap.

  When Jason finally joined her, the look on his face told her he thought her more than a wee bit daft.

  Not that that was anything new.

  "Whatever were you doing?" he asked.

  She stroked the cat, feeling it purr beneath her hand. "This is a clootie well, isn't it?"

  "It's a Roman well, I believe." He placed his portmanteau and the backgammon set, which he'd carried in the burlap bag, atop the well's ledge. Leaning over, he looked inside. "What the hell is a clootie well?" he asked twice as his voice echoed back up.

  "It's a well where you make a wish."

  "Oh, a wishing well. But then you tear your clothes? What was that about? Or is it only that you hate the dress?"

  "When you make a wish at a clootie well, your troubles are transferred to the cloth. Then you tie it to a tree and leave the troubles there."

  "You believe this?" he asked, clearly incredulous.

  "Of course I don't. But it doesn't hurt to do it a
nyway. It's a tradition."

  "Ruining your clothes is a Scottish tradition?"

  She laughed and shook her head. "Normally you'd tie a handkerchief or a rag. Ruining these clothes was an extra bonus."

  A brief, amused smile curved his lips—until he tensed and shot a quick look over his shoulder.

  "Do you see something?" she asked.

  "No. I don't think so. But for a moment I thought I did." He blinked and cocked his head like the blackbird. "So…what did you wish?"

  If only he knew! She blushed to think of it. "My wish won't come true if I tell," she said, then held up a hand. "Nay, I don't really believe that, either. But I'll hold to it all the same."

  "Hush a moment." He turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping the grounds. "I have a strange feeling," he said low.

  She set down the cat and watched it scamper away. "What do you mean?"

  "I'm not sure." He grabbed the bags. "Let's go inside."

  She'd given up hoping for her own room, but she was pleased to see two beds when Jason opened the door to their chamber. Kisses were one thing; sharing a bed, quite another.

  She unpacked their wet clothes and smoothed them on the bare wooden floor, hoping they would dry by morning. Her task complete, she turned to him. "Let me guess. You're hungry."

  "Actually, I'm not. I know you're shocked," he teased, "but don't faint on me, now." To her complete surprise, he followed up with a lunge to catch her in the imaginary faint.

  She giggled, feeling overly warm where his hands gripped her upper arms. If he could loosen up and become more playful, so could she. "Emerald MacCallum would never faint."

  "No, she wouldn't," he agreed slowly. His hands dropped from her arms, and he backed away, watching her.

  "It was a jest," she said. When he didn't respond, her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm not Emerald, but I cannot find the words to convince you."

  He said nothing, only ran a hand back through his hair. Her own hands moved to play with her laces but met the embroidered stomacher instead. Feeling a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with its stiffness, she tucked his handkerchief more securely into her neckline.