by Lauren Royal
EMERALD
Lauren Royal
Author’s Cut Edition
Novelty Books
EMERALD by Lauren Royal - Author's Cut Edition
Published by Novelty Books, a division of Novelty Publishers, LLC, 848 N. Rainbow Blvd, Suite 4390, Las Vegas NV 89107
Originally published in paperback by Penguin Putnam Inc.
COPYRIGHT © Lauren Royal 2000, 2011
ISBN 978-1-93890701-2
5th Edition, July 2013
Cover by Kimberly Killion
Book Design by Typesetter for Mac
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Lauren Royal and Novelty Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Learn more about the author and her books at LaurenRoyal.com.
BOOKS BY LAUREN ROYAL
The Jewel Trilogy
Amethyst
Emerald
Amber
Forevermore (a Jewel Trilogy novella)
The Flower Trilogy
Violet
Lily
Rose
The Temptations Trilogy
Lost in Temptation
Tempting Juliana
The Art of Temptation
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Books by Lauren Royal
Inside Flap
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Thank You
Bonus Material
INSIDE FLAP
England and Scotland, 1667
Jason Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, is out to bring a blackguard to justice when he crosses paths with a woeful Scottish lad. When the lad turns out to be a lovely Scottish lass, he realizes she must be the notorious bounty hunter Emerald MacCallum. Convinced they're after the same man and her very life may be in danger, Jason decides he must keep Emerald close…
In Caithren Leslie's view, there couldn't be enough distance between her and the handsome but overbearing Englishman. She's searching for her wayward brother, but Jason won't let a little thing like the truth interfere with his absurd conviction that she's living under an assumed identity. Mindful of the dangerous traveling conditions, Cait grudgingly accepts his protection. Until, that is, she begins to suspect that mistrust isn't the only emotion between them…and their mission for justice just might turn out to be a quest for love...
For my mother,
Joan Falbaum Royal,
who taught me how to read and write
and
For my father,
Herbert Charfess Royal,
who taught me to appreciate and
respect all genres of literature
With my everlasting love to you both
CHAPTER ONE
Chichester, England
August 1, 1667
"Jason, you cannot mean to kill him."
Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched from the grasp his brother Ford had on his upper arm. "By God, no. But I'll learn why he did this and bring him to justice if it's the last thing I do."
"I've never seen you like this—"
"Because I've never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or her mother's torn clothes and bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard's name over and over." Trembling with rage, his hand came up to worry his narrow black mustache. "My villagers." He met Ford's gaze with his own. "My responsibility."
"You've plastered the kingdom with broadsides." Ford's blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. "The reward will bring him in."
"I'm bloody well satisfied to bring him in myself."
Jason turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester's vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. Carved from limestone, it was arguably the most elaborate structure in all of England…but the beauty of its intricate tracery was at odds with the evil that lurked inside.
An evil that Jason intended to deal with.
Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news beneath the dome, paused to glance his way. He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slim with a stance that bordered on elegant; Walter, shorter and rawboned.
Jason's footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following behind. In their wake, people seemed to stream from all four corners of town, rushing to catch the show.
Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit.
With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a furious gaze. "You'll come with me to the magistrate," he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.
Gothard merely stared at him. For a fleeting moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.
Jason's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "Now, Gothard."
The other man's gaze held hard and unwavering. "My nearest and dearest enemy," he drawled in an insolent tone.
A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn't uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut.
Confusion churned with the anger in Jason's stomach. "Why should you call m
e your enemy?"
Gothard's gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. "The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?"
"I am," Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his calm routine, back to his estate, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging him for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.
Blue eyes that might never open again.
And there stood the man who had battered her, shaded by the Gothic structure overhead.
"I've done nothing to draw your ire—we've never met." Jason squinted at the man in the shadows. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled with any exposure to the sun—and it looked as though they'd seen much exposure of late. "Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest."
The man's blue eyes went stony with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.
Maybe they had crossed paths.
"To the devil with you, Cainewood."
Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. Honor. The questions could wait—for now.
He slowly counted to ten, focusing on the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. As responsibility weighed heavily on his mind, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Father would have expected this of him. To defend what was his, stand up for what was right—no matter the personal cost.
Deliberately he drew the rapier from its scabbard.
"Damn you to bloody hell." Gothard pulled his own sword with a quick screak that snapped the expectant silence. "We'll settle this here and now."
Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade's thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.
His free hand trembled at his side.
With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.
The vibrations shimmied up Jason's arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm's way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.
Like most men of his class, he'd been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.
Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.
Adam Leslie dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added "My" in front of "Dear Sister," frowned, then squeezed in "est" in the middle. My Dearest Sister. There now, surely Caithren wouldn't be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.
Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair—so like his sister's—over his shoulder. That he wouldn't be home soon shouldn't come as a surprise to her—it wasn't as though he'd spent more than a few weeks total at home these five years past. But it wouldn't hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, even if he was rarely home.
Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to Cait and their father. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da's latest ineffective efforts to marry her off.
"Are you not finished yet, Leslie?"
He glanced over and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored satin festooned with jewels and looped ribbons. Though he kept himself decked out in similar style, he considered himself lucky they let him keep their company, untitled as he was—at least until his very healthy father died sometime in the distant future.
Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn't entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.
"Leslie?"
"Almost done," Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.
"An ale for my friend!" Balmforth called.
Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Hell, any work was thirsty work.
He preferred not to work at all.
He flipped the letter over and scrawled Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper's desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.
She giggled.
"Have you any wax?" Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. "And you'll post this for me, aye?"
The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. "Certainly, sir."
"Leslie, come along!" Grinstead shouted. "We're fair dying of thirst."
Laughing, Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding clank.
"To freedom!" Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.
"To freedom!" Adam echoed. "Till Hogmanay!"
Grinstead gasped. "You told her you'd be gone till the new year?"
"At the least." Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. "We've the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley's wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn't care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?" The taproom's door banged open. "No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway."
"No sense at all," Balmforth agreed, staring toward the entrance. "Will you look at what just walked in? Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone's talking about?"
Their gazes swung to the tall lass and followed her progress as she sat herself at another table.
"Nary a chance." Adam contemplated the contents of his tankard for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving wench for another. "Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man."
"She's carrying a knife," Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. "And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who'd track outlaws with a price on their heads."
Grinstead let loose a loud guffaw. "You're in your cups, Balmforth. Emerald MacCallum carries a sword and a pistol."
"The MacCallum wench would kick your sorry arses." Adam tugged on the lacy white cravat at his neck. "And mine, too, I expect."
They all burst out laughing, until another bang of the door caught their attention.
An excited old-timer stood in the opening. "Duel at the Market Cross!"
As he and Gothard both fought for better footing, Jason hurried out of his midnight blue surcoat and tossed it to his brother, his gaze never leaving that of his foe. Gothard smirked as he lunged once again, barely giving Jason time to adjust.
Gothard was fleet, but Jason was faster. They scrambled down the steps, and the crowd scurried back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He edged Gothard back beneath the dome, skirting the circular stone bench that sat in its center as they battled their way to the other side of the octagonal structure. Gothard took sudden advantage, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, and broke free with a metallic twang.
His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But the other man's breath came ragged and labored.
All at once, a vicious swipe of Jason's sword sent Gothard's clanging to the stones and skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.
Jason's teeth bit into his own lower lip. "I didn't come to kill today, Gothard. I merely want to see justice done." He sucked in air, smelled the other man's desperation. "Are you ready to come peacefully?"
Sweat beading on his sunburned brow, Gothard stepped back until his calves hit the round stone
bench. Frantically he scanned the mass of people still pouring from the surrounding establishments. Three more men stumbled out of a taproom and crossed the dusty street to the dome, the bright rainbow colors of their clothing marking them aristocrats.
Their leader wove through the crowd, clearing a path for his two companions. "Come along, Grinstead!" he yelled as they pushed their way to the front.
Gothard's eyes narrowed. In a flash of movement, one of his arms snaked toward the newcomers, the other down to the wide cuff of his boot, where the curved handle of a pistol peeked out.
Jason's jaw tensed; his knees locked. Time appeared to slow. His surroundings seemed impressed on his senses: the heated babble and musky scent of the excited onlookers, the cool dimness in the shaded dome, the bright green grass and streaky sunlight beyond.
As Gothard rose from his crouch, Jason rushed headlong, his sword arm rigid.
Gothard jerked one of the men in front of him as a shield. Jason tried to check his momentum, but his blade forged ahead, piercing satin and flesh with an ease that came as a shock to a man unused to killing. As long as he lived, he would never forget the astonished look in the man's hazel eyes.
The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason's throat. The man collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason's shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench.
Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man's face drained of color, to match the white lace at his throat.
Geoffrey Gothard raised his arm, cocked his flintlock, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion rocked the Market Cross, momentarily startling everyone into silence. "I'll see you at the gates of hell," Gothard muttered into the void. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, signaling his younger brother to follow.
Ford Chase rushed forward when his own brother, the thirty-two-year-old Marquess of Cainewood, clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.
CHAPTER TWO
Surely he was in hell.
