by Lauren Royal
She was somewhere in England, and Da was dead.
Disoriented, she raised herself to her elbows, then flopped back to the pillow. A fresh burst of pain detonated inside her head, forcing a moan out through her lips.
"I told you to keep still." With a gentle hand, the man swept her hair off her face.
She pushed his hand away and fingered the ends of her hair, confused. He'd unraveled her plaits. Her other hand drifted up to touch the side of her head where the pain was the sharpest. "I'm not Emerald."
"You're Scottish"—he held up a palm to stop her words from tumbling out—"you're wearing men's clothes, you're carrying a pistol, and you're after a wanted outlaw. Now tell me you're not Emerald MacCallum."
"I'm not Emerald MacCallum."
His mouth curved as though he were amused. "Did the knock on your head damage your memory?"
"My memory is intact, thank you. But my name isn't Emerald." Despite her denial, her brain seemed impossibly muddled by the throbbing pain. "It's Caithren," she managed finally. "Caithren Leslie. Not Emerald."
"Hmm…" The man raised one black brow. "If you're not Emerald, then can you explain what you're doing here?"
Her brain might be muddled, but she knew an accusation when she heard one. "Why shouldn't I be here?" she asked on a huff. "Is there some law against my visiting your country? England and Scotland share a king, last I heard. Though not for long, I'm hoping."
Looking less than satisfied, he crossed his arms while one booted foot tapped against the wooden floor. Obviously he was waiting for her to explain herself.
Arrogant cur.
She wouldn't look at him, then. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the plain whitewashed walls, a simple wood cabinet, a utilitarian washstand, a small tub full of dirty bathwater that should have been carried away.
Pontefract. She was in her room at the inn in Pontefract. She was here in Pontefract…
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out the man so she could concentrate. "I've come to find my brother," she said at last, opening them in relief.
"Hmm, is that so?" he challenged in a calm voice laced with a touch of irony. "Then I suppose you can explain to me how you know Gothard."
She stared at him blankly. "Gothard?"
"Geoffrey Gothard. The man you tried to shoot in order to collect the reward. I'm not a half-wit, Emerald."
"I'm not Emerald. And I'm not a half-wit, either, but you're certainly making me feel so, since I haven't the slightest notion what you're blethering about."
He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her for a while, as though trying to gauge her sincerity. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, rolling her too close to him for her comfort. The queasiness clawed at her stomach again.
She was alone with a strange man. A strange English man. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips.
His eyes darkened, making her nervous. With a sigh, she reached up to fiddle with a plait, then remembered her hair was loose. She fisted her hands atop the bedcovers. "It's God's own truth I'm telling you, Mr.…"
His mouth twisted up in a hint of a smile. "Chase. But you may call me Jason."
"I may, may I?" Stuffy, these English. Well, it wasn't as though Cameron hadn't warned her. She took a deep breath and decided to try again. "Do you believe me?"
"I think not." His sarcastic tone grated on her. "What is your brother's name?"
She struggled against the pain in her head. "…Adam."
"And why do you have cause to think he'd be here?"
"He was invited by…"
As she strained to come up with the name, he shook his head, sending the glorious hair swinging. "You'll have to invent these lies more quickly if you expect them to sound believable."
"Scarborough," she gritted out.
"The Earl of Scarborough?" A sparkle came into his eyes, as though he were entertained by the thought of someone related to her being invited anywhere by an earl.
Just like the innkeeper downstairs.
Did she look that provincial? Her clothes were in decent condition. Her father had been a baronet.
"I'm surprised at you, Emerald." His mocking voice interrupted her musings. "You've a reputation for being the cunning sort. Surely you can come up with a better story than that. It must be the knock on the head."
How this man could think she was someone else was beyond her. Exasperated, she slammed her hand against the mattress, wincing when it jarred her. "Bile yer heid."
"Pardon?" Clearly amused, he raised a brow. "Are you suggesting I boil my head?"
Clenching her teeth, she looked away. Her plaid was tossed over a chair, her shoes and stockings on the floor. Alarm shot through her. "Did you undress me as well, then?" She thrust her hands under the bedclothes to see what else he might have taken off of her.
That brow went up again. "I reckon you'll find you're still decent. Bloody hell, woman, what do you take me for?"
"An Englishman." Her clothing was all in place, although the laces on her shirt had been loosened. She gave them a vicious tug, then looked down and gasped. "There's blood on my shirt." She felt for the source, though it didn't really hurt much.
"You were cut. Nothing serious."
Slackening the laces, she peeked beneath. He was right. The meadow rue she'd picked would heal it in no time.
"That's why your shirt was unlaced," he continued. "I…checked."
When she looked up, his face was red. A proper gentleman he was, then, but he was still an Englishman. And he was staring at her. Caithren bit her lip and felt for her good-luck charm.
Her hands closed on air.
"Where's my amulet?" she squeaked in a panic. She struggled up on her elbows again and felt the dizziness rush back.
"I have it right here." He reached to the bedside table, lifted the amulet, and dangled it over her head by its chain. The emerald swung in a hypnotizing pattern. "I'm hardly in the habit of stealing from unconscious women."
"Well, I don't know you, do I?" She snatched it to her chest.
"But you know Geoffrey Gothard, don't you?"
Crivvens, the man was persistent. She shot him a peeved look and slipped the chain back over her head, feeling better when the amulet was settled in place. She wrapped a hand around it.
That Geoffrey he was talking about, she remembered who he was now—the murdering cur she'd overheard at Scarborough's and met again on the inn's staircase. That terrible, horrible man and his scum of a brother.
Englishmen.
She shivered and tugged up on the thin quilt. Here she was, alone with another Englishman, a strange man in a strange country. Well, at least this one Englishman was looking out for her, even if she didn't care for him badgering her with questions. And though he was plainly annoyed, he'd yet to raise his voice to her.
"Thank you for your help," she said softly by way of apology.
When she tried to smile, his eyes softened. He leaned closer and brushed the hair from her face. One warm finger trailed her cheek.
He was staring at her mouth, looking as though he wanted to kiss her, like that bampot Duncan had looked at the village dance last month.
What a daft thought. The Englishman, kiss her? He didn't even believe who she was.
The knock on her head must have been harder than she'd supposed for her to think something like that. And he was vexed with her, although she'd done nothing to warrant it. Nothing she could recall, anyway.
She squinted up at him. "Why are you so vexed?"
"I had a job to do, Emerald," he said with a sigh that, if she didn't know better, she might take to be apologetic. "And you got in the way. No fault of yours." He waved a dismissive hand. "Stay away from Geoffrey Gothard. He's a dangerous man."
Despite his annoying use of the wrong name, Caithren's heart melted a little. He'd rescued her downstairs, and now he was warning her, trying to protect her. "I saw that for myself," she said, seeking to reassure him. "But he's unlikely to be a danger to me, seeing as
he's on his way to London."
"London?" She saw his body tense. "How come you to know this?"
"I…overheard him and—his brother, aye? When I went out to Scarborough's to find Adam." Because he seemed concerned for her welfare, she added, "They didn't see me."
The Englishman's beautiful green eyes narrowed on hers suspiciously. "Why are you telling me this? To send me off in the wrong direction?"
"Pardon me?"
He stood abruptly. "Just stay away from Gothard. Find yourself another reward to collect." The candle flames flickered as he strode to the door, disturbing the room's musty air. His gaze settled on her emerald amulet for a moment before he pierced her with those incredible eyes. "I admire your persistence—it puts me in mind of my family—but I cannot see why you refuse to own up to who you are."
"You know what my mam would have said?" Caithren crossed her arms beneath the quilt. "Telling it true, pits ain in a stew."
He paused with his hand on the latch. "I cannot understand you."
"Then permit me to translate. Telling the truth confuses your enemies."
"I'm not your enemy." He blinked several times. "Why of a sudden does everyone think me his enemy?"
He said it to no one in particular, his gaze aimed toward the blackened beamed ceiling, as though he were looking for the heavens to send down an answer.
"I should be on the road after Gothard," he mused to himself. Then he sighed and looked back to her. "But damn if I don't feel responsible for you."
"Well, you needn't be," Cait said. "I can take care of myself."
"Not from what I've seen. And now, thanks to me, you're even less equipped physically to deal with men like the Gothards."
"What do you mean, thanks to you?"
He frowned. "Surely you realize you fell down the stairs as a result of my intervention? And it was my sword that cut you. Accidentally—I wasn't even holding it—but it's my responsibility nonetheless." She heard a click when he pushed down on the latch. "I insist you accept my help."
"I'd say you've helped me quite enough already." This man was out of his mind. "Your kind of help I don't need."
He didn't seem to hear her, or else he simply dismissed her opinion. "Get some sleep," he said, "but make sure you awaken. The last thing I need is another Mary."
Mary? Who the devil was Mary?
He opened the door. "I'll check on you in the morning. If your head still aches, we'll have a doctor in to examine it."
Caithren was so confused and frustrated that if she'd had the energy, she'd have kicked the door shut behind him. As it was, it closed softly.
Did he think she was there for his bidding?
I'll check on you in the morning.
Not if she had anything to say about it.
CHAPTER TEN
The silver blade flashed, vibrations sang up his arm, and the man before him crumpled to the ground. Blood pumped, sickeningly slick and bright—
His heart racing, Jason sat straight up in bed, sweat breaking out to coat his clammy skin. His breath came in short, hard pants.
Who was this man he'd killed? Had he been a husband, a father? Certainly he'd been a son.
How many lives had Jason ruined with that fateful thrust of his sword?
Hopefully not as many as when his own parents had been slain on the field of battle. God forbid he should put another family through a hell like that. Not even, as his parents had, for honor.
Senseless honor. They'd died fighting for the king, yet Cromwell had prevailed.
He raked a hand through his hair and swung his shaky legs off the bed. Dust motes floated in the brightness that streamed through the crooked shutters. Sunshine. Daylight. He'd overslept. Another restless, too-short night, like they all seemed to be since he was shot.
He stumbled to his clothing, pulled out his pocket watch, and flipped open the sapphire-adorned lid. Almost noon. Damn, Gothard would be long down the road by now.
And Emerald after him. Cunning Emerald, the woman Jason had found himself absurdly tempted to kiss. He was the one who ought to have his head examined.
He threw on a shirt and breeches, then padded across the hall to knock on her door. Silence. He tried the latch, and the door swung wide to reveal an empty room.
Cursing at himself, he returned to his own room and pulled on his boots. His family had been right—he had no business going after Geoffrey Gothard. But it had nothing to do with the state of his health. The fact was, he belonged behind a desk or riding his land. He'd always valued peace and tranquility; he didn't know how to do this. He was botching it good and proper.
Downstairs in the taproom, the early dinner crowd was much too cheerful for Jason's mood. A quick glance failed to reveal Emerald among the diners. The harried innkeeper was rolling a fresh barrel of ale into place behind the counter. When he paused to mop his red face, Jason jumped behind to help him upend it. It settled into place with a thump, displacing more than its share of dust.
Jason coughed. "Do you know where I might find the woman who was injured last night?"
The man wiped his shiny brow with a handkerchief. "She left this morning. On the public coach."
"The coach? Not a horse?"
"No horses available in Pontefract. Told her that yesterday when she wanted to hire one."
"She had no horse of her own?"
The innkeeper shrugged. "She arrived on the coach."
Jason rubbed his aching shoulder. One didn't use public transportation to track outlaws. If Emerald had arrived here looking for a horse, something must have happened to hers. She must be on her way to the next town to find herself another.
His hand dropped. "The coach toward where?"
"London."
"London?" Surely she'd gone in another direction; she'd only said London to confuse him, hadn't she? "Are you certain?"
But the moment the question was out of his mouth, he knew the innkeeper was right. The old stableman had told him Scarborough was in London. If the Gothards had come to West Riding to speak with their brother—to get something from their brother—it made sense that now they'd head to see him in London instead. And of course Emerald would go after them.
The man dabbed at his dripping nose. "London, yes. It's Thursday, no? The coach leaves for London at eight every Thursday."
"Eight. Damn." She had a four-hour lead. But the public coach was slow as a condemned man mounting Tyburn gallows, and Chiron, Jason's silver gelding, had won his last three races in Sussex. If Emerald hadn't found a horse yet, he might be able to catch up to her. "How much do I owe for the room?"
He slapped coins on the counter and ran upstairs to fetch his belongings, then headed back down to the stables. Blasted woman thought she could fool him, did she? The Gothard brothers were riding for London, and here she was, going after them at her first chance.
She was Emerald MacCallum, all right, no matter the lies that tumbled from her enticing lips. And he had to keep an eye on her, lest she get to Geoffrey first—because she was bound to get herself killed in the process.
She might have a reputation for tracking men—indeed, she'd done a credible job of it so far, tracing the brothers to here—but she'd never come up against the likes of Gothard before. The man was evil.
And now she was injured, thanks to Jason. He owed it to her to follow her, watch over her. Protect her.
Luckily, they seemed to be heading in the same direction.
It would be no trouble.
Jason caught up to Emerald's coach—at least he hoped it was her coach—in Doncaster. Passengers had disembarked. A few walked along Church Street or Greyfriars Road, stretching their legs while the horses were changed.
Emerald was nowhere in sight.
He tethered Chiron and poked his head into the coach's cabin, finding it empty. Neither was she inside the Greyfriars Inn, where other passengers were taking refreshment.
Bloody hell, she must have hired a horse and left already.
Frustrated, he pa
id for an ale and paced Church Street while drinking it. He decided he should be relieved—it would have been hell following a public coach. Too damned slow. Once he found her—assuming he could—it would be much better with her on horseback. He could follow surreptitiously and keep her safe, without worrying about the brothers getting too far ahead.
Yes, it really was quite a relief. Anxious to get on the road after Emerald, he tilted his head back and drained the rest of the ale. And looked back down to see a woman across the street.
A woman who looked rather like Emerald MacCallum.
Instead of breeches, the woman wore a dark green skirt over a long-sleeved, high-necked shift, topped by a brown laced bodice that looked like it belonged in the previous century. She rounded a corner of the Church of St. George, disappearing from Jason's view. He took off after her.
He hadn't caught sight of her face. But the sun had glinted off dark-blond hair woven into two plaits. He'd thought Emerald had plaited her hair last night only to hide it under her hat, but he could have been wrong in that assumption.
Absurd hairstyle for a grown woman.
There she was, standing by the double doors of the majestic medieval building. Stopping in a graveyard a safe distance away, he concealed himself behind a monument and watched.
It was quite definitely Emerald. Evidently she only dressed like a man when her quarry was in range. Or maybe she hadn't found time yet to wash the blood off her shirt and mend the slash from his blade.
Gazing up at the massive planked doors, she reached a finger to trace a section of their scrolled ironwork before her hand closed over the latch. But she stopped short of opening it. Instead she heaved a visible sigh and began wandering around the church, toward another graveyard that looked ancient compared to the one where Jason hid. Idly she bent down to pluck off part of a small plant and slipped it into her pocket. Strange woman.
It hit him then. As in Pontefract, there must have been no horses available here in Doncaster. She was only biding her time until the coach was ready to leave.
Damnation. He would have to follow the coach after all, until Emerald managed to find herself a horse. And thereby risk Gothard getting to London ahead of him, potentially endangering other people there and along the way.
