Heat rushed to her cheeks just thinking of it.
She rubbed her aching arm. The wound felt hot beneath the bandage. She should have unwrapped it last night and allowed it some air, rather than keeping it swathed in damp cloth. But she hadn't been thinking of anything practical then—she'd thought about nothing but how Jason was making her feel.
How would she live the rest of her life without a man? Without Jason?
Every fiber in her body reacting to that thought, she sat abruptly, pulling the quilt about her shoulders. It was time to talk sense into herself. Last night had been wonderful beyond words, but she'd never feel like that again. Even should she spend the rest of her life with Jason—an idea so absurd it didn't bear considering—she'd never again experience the depth of emotion brought on by that wild combination of attraction, frustration, and weather.
Maybe it was her imagination. Could touching him, loving him, really feel that all-encompassing? In the time she had left with him, she would do her best to find out. But she already knew what the answer would be.
Jason had said they'd be in London by tonight. Friday—two days from now—she'd find Adam at Lord Darnley's wedding.
Then she'd go home to Scotland, where she belonged.
The door lay flat on the floor, and their clothes, save for her mistress outfit, were all gone. Crammed unfolded into the portmanteau, no doubt.
A smile tugged at her lips as she wrapped the quilt around her body and walked to the gaping hole where the door belonged. The sky was cloudless, and the last remnants of the rain glittered like diamonds in the sun's rays. Songbirds chirped in the trees. A beautiful, lovely morning.
The best morning of her life.
Jason was outside by the horses, already dressed in his nobleman disguise, securing their belongings. Her gaze skimmed his gleaming black hair and the masculine planes of his face. He had shaved while she slept, making her fingers itch to feel the smooth skin and compare it to the roughness of last night.
The very thought of that roughness brought a rush of urgent heat that weakened her knees and made her stomach flutter. She drank in his muscular physique, imagining what was underneath the fancy blue velvet suit. Nay, not imagining…remembering.
She blushed. "Good morn," she called.
He looked up, favoring her with one of those white grins that made her heart turn over. But as she watched, it faded. His eyes looked hooded, wary. "Good morn," he returned, then glanced away.
Her heart floundered in confusion. The pleasant flutter in her stomach turned to an uneasy jumble of nerves. After all they'd shared, still he was holding back.
Her face must have betrayed her disappointment, because he came toward her with concern in his eyes. She turned her back, leaning against the empty door frame. But when he laid his hands on her shoulders, her traitorous body responded immediately, and she felt a hot stab of desire.
He tried to swivel her to face him, but she stayed stubbornly facing away. She wouldn't let him see the tears that glazed her eyes.
She pulled from his grasp, and he followed her into the cottage.
"The horses did fine," he said from behind in a matter-of-fact tone. "Get dressed, and we'll make for Welwyn. I'm starving."
Then he wasn't going to mention last night. Wasn't going to reassure her. Nothing.
When she heard the clink of coins hitting the table, she turned. "For the damage," he explained, indicating the door and the mess of congealed bread in the fireplace. "The owners will have to pay someone to fix it up, wash the bedclothes and all."
Pay someone? What kind of a man hired people to do his work for him? When something needed doing at Leslie, she or Da or Cameron did it themselves.
Still, leaving the money was so like Jason. He was a good man. Despite her uncertain feelings, she felt compelled to try to reach him one more time.
"I want to thank you," she started.
"For what?"
"Last night." She clutched the quilt tighter. "I'll never forget it."
"I won't forget it, either," he said. "But that doesn't make it right. It shouldn't have happened."
He regretted last night.
Robbed of breath, she turned toward her still-damp clothes, feeling his gaze on her naked back where it was revealed by the drape of the quilt. Bare skin she'd never thought a man would see. But she'd exposed more than skin to him—more than her back and her breasts and the rest of her body. She'd exposed her entire soul.
And he'd wrenched it right out of her.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Hours later, somewhere between Highgate and Hampstead, Jason admitted to himself what he'd known for days and hadn't wanted to face: He'd fallen in love with Caithren Leslie.
He wasn't ready for this. He'd tried so hard to resist. Because he'd known all along that, with Cait, it would be all or nothing.
He'd wanted the distance he needed to keep his head clear and do what needed to be done. He had responsibilities. Urgent responsibilities: little Mary, her mother, the innocent man he'd killed. Gothard. Less urgent but nonetheless important responsibilities, such as seeing his sister settled.
Distance. Until last night—until he'd lost his head—he'd maintained it. This morning he'd attempted to recover it. A hopeless, disastrous attempt. But how could he share his feelings when so many responsibilities stood between him and the woman he wanted?
He wasn't ready.
But he knew he'd hurt her. His heart sinking, he took refuge beneath the shady cover of the trees overhead, thankful Cait couldn't see his face. Silently they rode past small houses with their shutters closed against the wind, like his mind had been closed to the truth. Cows and sheep in the fields turned as they passed, pinning him with liquid, accusing eyes. Two magpies mocked him from a tree.
He sneaked a glance in Caithren's direction. She looked pale, tired, on the edge of tears, her fingers white-knuckled on the reins. His fault.
Tonight he would leave her safe at his London town house while he took care of Geoffrey and Walter Gothard. Another responsibility—keeping Cait safe.
When the Gothards were behind bars, he'd help her find her brother. He'd tell her he believed everything she'd told him, and…
He'd ask her to marry him.
Though the mere thought pulled the breath from his body, quite suddenly he knew that nothing else would do but to keep her by his side forever. Never had he met anyone who could make him laugh and live like she did. His life before her seemed bleak in comparison.
Leslie was a baronetcy—Scottish or no, the match would be considered suitable. Not that he really cared; the Chases didn't go out of their way to placate society. His own brother had, with his blessing, wed a commoner.
Another glance at Cait tore at his heart. He didn't deserve her. He'd put her very life in danger, then compounded his sins by taking her, callously, with no thought to her pleasure or the words of commitment she had every right to expect from him. No wonder she was mired in gloom.
Soon he would give her everything she wanted, if only she'd give him the chance. He'd spend the rest of his life making it up to her—making her the happiest woman on earth.
In the aftermath of the storm, the road was disastrous, a muddy mess. The day's progress had been slow and aggravating. It seemed a lifetime before they made it to the tollhouse. A lifetime of torture. He would rather have submitted to the rack.
"We're in Hampstead," he told Caithren, hoping to cheer her up. "London is in reach."
"That's good." Her voice sounded weak.
He handed a coin to the tollkeeper and motioned Cait down the hill toward the heath. "Soon I'll be able to warn Scarborough," he said. "That will be a weight off both our minds, won't it?"
Though she nodded and forced a smile, he could see her jaw was tight.
The heath was wild land punctuated by weedy ponds—even slower going than the Great North Road. Narrow trodden paths wound through sprawling acres of wooded dells and fields of heather. Since they couldn't ri
de side by side, Jason took the lead.
"Could that be a real tree?" Wonder in her voice, Caithren uttered her first unsolicited words since they'd left the cottage that morning. "An elm, is it not? It's amazing."
The gigantic elm was perhaps ten yards around, with steps inside leading to a wooden platform that rose above the topmost leaves. He turned to see a smile on her face—a smile he'd been afraid he might never see again. His heart warmed. "Would you like to go up?"
For a moment she looked like she was seriously considering saying no. Then her eyes lit with determination. "Aye. I would like that very much. Will you come with me?"
He eyed the platform apprehensively. It looked sturdy, and the steps didn't look too daunting, housed as they were in the trunk of the tree.
"It's not so very far up," she coaxed. "Not nearly as high as that tower outside Stamford."
There was nothing he wouldn't do at this point to make her resent him a little less. "Very well," he said. "I'll be up in a moment." At her doubtful look, he added, "I mean it this time. Just let me secure the horses."
He tethered the animals to a nearby tree that was large yet dwarfed by the elm. Then he gritted his teeth and started up, mentally groaning when he saw the stairs were slatted instead of solid.
The first few steps weren't too bad, but then the staircase started spiraling inside the trunk, getting more and more narrow. Look up, he told himself, look up. Eyes on the goal, not the drop. His pulse skittered, his head whirled, the blood roared in his ears.
Halfway up, he paused to lean against the hollowed interior and close his eyes. When he opened them, his vision was blurry, and he shook his head to clear it. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, and if he felt as though his dinner might come up, well, he'd just have to ignore that.
Given her head start, he was surprised when he caught up to her. She seemed to be expending quite an effort in the climb. Last night must have taken its toll on her. Another blade of guilt stabbed at his heart.
What kind of man took a woman in a thunderstorm?
She glanced back at him. "You look pale."
He blew out a breath and shrugged. His gaze on her back, he ordered his legs to stop shaking, and at last they made it to the platform.
"Forty-two steps," she announced. "By all the saints, will you look at that view!" She rushed to the rail, her gaze scanning from right to left and back again.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said. The platform looked as though it might hold about twenty people. Wiping sweaty palms on his breeches, he stayed in the exact center. "We're lucky to have a clear day. London's often mired in fog." His stomach did a flip-flop when she leaned over the rail. "Keep back, will you?"
"London is incredible. It's enormous! I've never seen so many buildings in one place."
The view stretched for miles and miles. From his spot behind her, he pointed out the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral, destroyed in last year's Great Fire, and the hills of Kent south of the Thames.
"And what could that be?" Cait asked, indicating something much closer, in the shrubby area at the far end of the heath. She turned to him. "A reservoir? With horses and carriages driving right through it?"
"Whitestone Pond." Jason nodded at a large marker that sat near it. "Named for that old white milestone. King Henry the Eighth designed it to keep the City free of the countryside's mud. All horses and wheels pass through it on the way in from Hampstead." He laughed at her expression of disbelief. "We'll be doing so ourselves in a short while."
"It still looks a long way to London," she said quietly.
He frowned at her tight features. "Just an hour or so."
"I-I'm hurting, Jason." She dropped her gaze, plainly uncomfortable at the admission. "My arm," she explained. "I thought I could make it through the day, but…"
"Damn, and I didn't take you foraging for plants." Forgetting his dizziness, he moved closer and slung an arm around her shoulders. He remembered her clenched hands and the stoic set of her jaw as they rode. "Was that why you were so quiet?"
She nodded miserably.
Though he'd thought her silence had meant she resented him, he was too guilty to feel relieved. "You cannot make it another hour?"
Clouded with pain, her eyes met his. "I don't know," she whispered. "All the day I've been—"
"London can wait," he decided, alarmed. Caithren was nothing if not strong and steady. "We'll ride back up the hill, to Spaniards Inn. You saw it, by the tollgate?"
She nodded again.
"It's not far at all." He swung her up into his arms, as one would carry a small child. "You're going to be fine."
"Jason!" Despite her distress, she giggled, making his heart lift a bit. "Put me down!"
"I'll hear none of it," he told her with mock sternness, starting down the steps and forcing himself to ignore the rush of vertigo. "We'll have you in a room in no time. Can you sit your own horse?"
"Of course I can. I rode all the day, did I not?" Warm laughter rang through the hollowed trunk, bringing him waves of relief.
But the feeling was short-lived once he looked down the steep, winding stairs.
There was nothing for it, he told himself sternly. One step after another, he ordered his feet to comply. With the drop looming before him, the way down was always worse than the way up. And doubly worse carrying Caithren, leaving no hand free to balance against the wall.
His breath came in embarrassingly short pants, and the arms that cradled her were shaking. Mercifully, she didn't comment on any of that or his lack of speed. "Put me down," she repeated quietly instead. "I'm not an invalid. I only wish to rest."
He didn't put her down, and somehow he made it to the bottom. He didn't have the luxury to let his knees buckle or to sit a spell and recover his composure. Silently congratulating himself, he perched her on her reddish mare and mounted his own black steed.
Afraid to jar her, he led her slowly back over the heath and up the hill to the white, weatherboarded inn. Securing a room seemed a process that took forever. And he knew that forever to him must have seemed forever and an eternity to her.
At last he closed the door of their oak-paneled room, and she dropped into a chair, white-faced.
"That bad?" he asked.
She put on a brave smile. "It hurts. But mostly because I'm so tired, I'm sure. I didn't sleep much last night." Color sprang to her cheeks as she doubtless remembered why. "We should have gone on to London. I'm sorry I made you stop."
He wasn't falling for her false bravado. "Let me have a look."
Without waiting for her agreement, he crouched before her and detached the tabs of her stomacher. As he began loosening the gown's laces, a flush came to her skin. Her heart sped up beneath his fingers, as clear an indicator of her desire as if she had told him outright. Despite his worry, answering need rushed through him.
Damnable, unconscionable need.
He clenched his teeth and forged ahead, carefully lowering the dress's bodice and the chemise underneath, helping her pull her arms from the sleeves. She pressed the gown to her chest with a hand and held out her injured limb.
All lust fled when he lifted the edge of the linen bandage and glimpsed what lay beneath. A soft moan escaped her lips.
"Christ." Jason unwound the fabric as gently as he could. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right," Cait whispered. "I know you don't mean to hurt me."
He smiled a little, then grimaced as the wound was revealed. Not long, but deep. Deeper than he remembered and surrounded by angry, dark pink flesh. A drop of red blood seeped out when the bandage fell away, and he could see a sickening taint of white inside.
"I should have been checking on this." Yet another failure on his part.
"You wanted to last night—"
"It's getting infected."
She glanced down, then averted her gaze. "It looks very bad." He watched her jaw tighten with determination. "I'll be fine, Jason. Don't worry for me. It will heal. I'll make a poultice." He
r face brightened. "So close to London, there might even be a shop. I can tell you what I need—"
"I imagine it hurts like hell." He rose and paced away, then turned back. "I'd best fetch a surgeon. I believe it should be stitched."
"Stitched?" Her pretty forehead wrinkled, making his gut twist with sympathy.
"It's getting worse rather than better." He stared at her colorless face. "The doctor will know for sure. Bloody hell, I'm sorry."
Cursing himself for messing up yet again, he went downstairs to send a man to find a surgeon.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jason returned a few minutes later with a goblet and handed it to Caithren. She sniffed at the contents suspiciously.
"What is it?"
"Whiskey."
"I thought as much." She handed it back. "Nay, but I thank you for the thought."
He frowned. "You don't like whiskey?"
"Have you seen me drink whiskey before now?"
"No, but…you're Scottish."
"And…?"
"It's whiskey, which the Scots invented if my—"
Caithren burst out laughing—until the movement pained her arm. "We don't all fancy whiskey, Jase. It's not a law. And here you accuse me of painting all the English with one brush." She watched him slowly turn red. "Some ale wouldn't be amiss—"
A sharp knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer it.
Cait felt the blood drain from her face as the surgeon marched in, a burly man clutching a bag of implements. But she told herself to be brave. She didn't want to embarrass herself before Jason.
He thought little enough of her as it was.
"I'm told of an injury," the surgeon said. "A slash wound, is it?"
"Aye." Clutching her bodice to her chest, she held forth her bare arm.
The surgeon came closer, yet gave it but a cursory glance. He looked to the goblet in Jason's hand. "What've you got there?"
"Whiskey." Jason's voice sounded weak to Cait's ears. Or maybe the blood pounding in her head was muffling the sound. "Here," he said more clearly and offered the goblet to the doctor.
Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) Page 25
