by Lauren Royal
She walked away.
"You English are strange," Cait said flatly.
Jason just threw back his beautiful dark head and laughed.
Though Mrs. Twentyman had three serving maids to help her, she made it a point to bring Jason and Caithren's supper herself. The pie smelled divine. Its flaky crust was filled with gingery mushrooms and melted cheese, and Cait was in heaven with the first bite.
"Delicious," Jason told their hostess. "Newark was Royalist during the war, was it not?"
Mrs. Twentyman took that as an invitation to seat herself. "Aye, we were. Hull, Coventry, and Nottingham turned against King Charles in the troubles, but Newark was a loyalist stronghold." Warming to her subject, she hitched herself forward. "In 1642 the king paid a visit here, and the whole town turned out to greet him. There are secret underground passages where the wealthy people deposited their deeds, jewelry, and valuables during the war for safekeeping. One leads from our cellar," she confided.
"Secret passages?" Her curiosity piqued, Cait focused on Mrs. Twentyman while she stabbed blindly at her lettuce. "Where do they lead to?"
"They crisscross beneath the marketplace, connecting in various places. Besides stashing their treasures there, some Royalists used them to hide."
Cait took a sip of her ale. "Were they in danger?"
Mrs. Twentyman glanced around, making sure her serving maids were doing their jobs. "Most certainly they were in danger. As long as I live, I shall never forget one morning when their worst fears were confirmed. A party of Roundheads were spotted on Beacon Hill, waiting to attack."
Caithren toyed with her cake. "What happened?"
"My husband's grandmother brought an old army drum out of her house. It needed repair, but it could still make a racket. Her young grandson, my husband's cousin, sounded the alarm, courageously striding through the town, beating the drum loudly, shouting, 'Who will stand up for King Charles?'"
"And they did," Jason told Cait. "They supported him courageously."
"Yes, indeed. They had few guns but put on a brave show with their pitchforks and staves and whatever they could find. That day their luck was in. The Roundheads took one look at the mob and made a hasty retreat. Thanks to the loyal citizens and their little Twentyman drummer boy, Newark was still free."
"Sadly, only for a while," Jason put in.
"We withstood three sieges," Mrs. Twentyman said proudly. "Of course, I was but a babe at the time."
Feeling full after half her pie, Cait leaned back in her chair, lulled by the storytelling lilt of their hostess's voice and the quiet roar of the other guests eating and conversing around them. She yawned behind her hand.
Mrs. Twentyman began to rise. "Poor dear, you're sleepy. And here I am yapping away."
Cait shook her head. "Your stories are wonderful, really." When another yawn forced her mouth open, she blushed. "But I am tired." She glanced at Jason, then back to the nice woman. "Do you think you might spare a little vinegar?"
"Vinegar, milady?"
"To mix with the nectar from these." Caithren pulled the marigolds out of her pocket. "My ankle is a wee bit swollen, and it will help."
"Will it, now?"
"Aye."
When Mrs. Twentyman began stacking the plates, Cait noticed something on her hand. She reached across the table and touched the woman's thumb. "And if you squeeze a wee smidge of juice from a dandelion stalk on this wart, it will clear up in no time."
A little gasp came from Jason at her forwardness, but the innkeeper's wife looked pleased. "I will try that, milady. First thing tomorrow."
Cait smiled. "I would love a bath." She looked to Jason. "Assuming you can afford it?"
The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Mrs. Twentyman had been treating them like husband and wife. She was mortified, thinking now the woman might realize they were sharing a room but not married.
Jason exchanged an embarrassed glance with their hostess. "I think I can manage that," he said carefully.
"And I shall be needing some decent clothes."
She wasn't surprised when Jason didn't argue. "I'll do my best to find some while you bathe. Let me just see you up to the room."
"You'll be needing clothes?" Mrs. Twentyman asked.
"Aye. And a night rail. Mine went…missing," Cait explained feebly.
Mrs. Twentyman looked between them, obviously curious. "I can lend you one of my sleeping gowns," she said generously.
When Jason eyed Mrs. Twentyman's ample form, Cait kicked him under the table. "I'd surely appreciate it," she said.
"Then I'll fetch one and send it up along with a bath and the vinegar." With one last puzzled glance, the woman smiled and took herself off.
Jason leaned to rub his ankle, eyeing Cait's half-eaten pie. "Are you going to finish that?"
She shoved it toward him wordlessly. He ate three bites, then looked up with a question in his gaze, and she passed him her leftover sallet as well. She sipped at the last of her ale while she watched him make her food disappear.
"If you're wanting to go upstairs," he said, "I'll be needing to keep the key." He eyed the remnants of her cake, then shook his head and sat back. "In case you fall asleep before I return."
The thought of sharing his room made her nervous, but she knew she had no choice. Her gaze wandered to the door in the corner. She was exhausted, aye, but not quite ready to go upstairs and face the night.
"Do you think that door leads to the cellar?"
"Probably." His brow furrowed. "Why?"
"I've a hankering to check out those tunnels." She rose and started toward it.
"Wait." Leaping from his chair, he caught her by the wrist. "I thought you were tired."
She shrugged. "I'm curious. Maybe we'll find some treasure."
"I don't think the Twentymans would appreciate—"
"Wheesht!" When she tried to pull away, she only succeeded in pulling him along with her. Other supper guests turned to watch. She lowered her voice. "Don't you have any sense of adventure?"
Without waiting for any reply, she tugged open the door and started down the cellar steps. She heard him mutter to himself as he grabbed a candle off an empty table and followed.
The door above them shut, and the flame pierced the sudden darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, she swiveled to face him. "Do you always do what you're supposed to?"
"Pretty much."
"Boring," she pronounced. With a swish of her English skirts, she turned and looked around. The cellar's walls were lined with provisions, the air chilly. A shiver rippled through her, borne of the cold or a tiny frisson of fear; she wasn't sure which. But it felt a wee bit forbidden and exhilarating to be down here.
Jason looked annoyed and tense. And darkly handsome in the cellar's shadows, if she were to be honest. "Has anyone ever told you you're impulsive?" he asked.
"Cameron. Every day. He finds it endearing."
Jason's response was a muted snort.
A narrow wooden door was set into one corner.
"That must be it." Her voice trembled a little.
He moved between her and the door and folded his arms across his chest, looking much like the man who had kept her from the coach. "I really think we should go back upstairs."
"You don't want to see the tunnels? There could be treasure—jewelry or money left since the war."
He widened his stance. "It wouldn't belong to you if you found any."
"Of course it wouldn't. I wasn't planning to keep it. But it would be exciting to discover, all the same. Aren't you intrigued?"
"No."
With a small huff, she skirted around him. "Then I'll meet you upstairs. Which room number?"
"Four. But—"
She pushed open the door.
A musty smell came from the cramped, dark passage beyond. A rush of excitement made her knees weak and forced a giddy chuckle through her throat as she stepped inside.
Jason slipped past her and held the can
dle hight. "Come along, then," he muttered.
Smiling to herself, she followed him along the dank, earthen tunnel. The curved walls oozed with moisture, and the place had a mildewed odor that spoke of long disuse. Something scurried across her path, and she jumped and let out a squeak, reaching for Jason's arm.
Bobbling the candle, he turned to her and cupped the flame to prevent it from blowing out. "It's only a mouse." His smile was disarming. "Ready to turn back?"
"Nay. I wasn't afraid, only startled."
"Very well." He cleared his throat and looked pointedly down at where her fingers were still clamped on his arm.
When she snatched her hand back, he proceeded.
His footsteps sounded loud on the deserted pathway. After a few yards, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "See any treasure yet?"
"Nay."
He walked twenty more feet. "Any treasure now?"
In answer, she blew out an amused breath.
Ten more feet. "Now?"
She half-groaned, half-laughed. The candlelight disappeared as he took a sharp turn. She followed him around the corner.
And caught sight of something over his shoulder that made her stop short.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A solemn man in a hooded robe stared at Cait, his eyes unbearably sad and hollow.
He floated four feet off the ground.
Even as a shocked gasp escaped her, he faded.
"What is it?" Jason whirled toward her, his eyes wide with alarm.
Shaking, she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. "Didn't you see him?"
"See what?" He turned to look, but the passageway was empty.
"He was there. I saw him, I swear."
"What?"
"A ghost! A man dressed in robes. But his feet didn't touch the ground. And then—then he just faded away. Into nothingness."
"Calm yourself." He switched the candle to his other hand and curved an arm around her shoulders. "There's no such thing as ghosts. It's spooky down here. You imagined it."
"I did not!"
"Very well, then, you saw something. But there must be a logical explanation."
"I want to go back."
"Fine." Brushing by her, he started down the passage. "I never wanted to come down here in the first place."
She hurried to catch up and grasped his hand, not caring what he thought. As she ran to keep up with his long strides, she threw anxious glances over her shoulder.
The ghost didn't reappear, but she shivered anyway. "Do you smell something?" Somehow, speaking aloud was reassuring. It blocked the echo of their footsteps and the eerie sounds that seemed to bounce off the walls. "The atmosphere down here is strange."
Jason's hand tightened on hers, making her already high-strung nerves tauten a bit more. "We're almost there." He turned and walked backward, peering through the semidarkness to see her face. "Are you all right?"
Before she could answer, a blast of frigid air whooshed down the corridor and snuffed the candle, plunging them into darkness.
Caithren screamed long and loud, ceasing only when Jason pulled her into his arms and her mouth was muffled against his warm chest.
"Hush." He rubbed her back in a circular motion. "It was only a draft."
The tunnel was black as the Widow MacKenzie's ancient kettle. She heard the squeak of a mouse, a slow drip somewhere, the rapid beat of her own heart, the slower beat of Jason's. "I don't like it down here."
"The door isn't far." His words were measured and patient. "We'll just feel along the wall."
Gingerly she reached out, her fingers meeting grainy, clammy dirt. She jerked back.
"I'll feel along the wall," he amended, turning within her grasp. "Just hold onto my waist, and I'll have you out of here in no time."
They progressed a few feet, then stopped cold when light suddenly flooded the passage.
"I heard a scream." Mrs. Twentyman stood in the open doorway, one hand to her ample chest and a lit lantern in the other. "Oh, it's you two."
Cait hurried past her and into the cellar, dropping to sit on a sack of flour. She crossed her arms and hugged herself in an attempt to stop the trembling. "I saw a ghost down there."
"No, she—" Jason started.
But Mrs. Twentyman interrupted. "Gilbert," she said matter-of-factly. "Our resident ghostly monk. One of the passageways leads to the old friary."
Caithren looked at Jason, still standing in the open doorway. "I told you he was wearing robes."
"Gray, with a hood?" The woman nodded sagely. "That's Gilbert, all right. But don't you worry, dearie, he's never hurt anyone. Though he does sometimes move bottles around in here—the serving maids dislike coming down to the cellar alone."
Jason shut the door to the tunnel, and Cait released a shaky breath. He came over and helped her stand, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I apologize," he said to Mrs. Twentyman, "for trespassing. She was curious—"
"Bosh. Think nothing of it. You're not the first guests to take it in your heads to go exploring, and I'd wager you won't be the last." She winked at Jason. "And quite certainly not the first man to bring a woman down here and scare her into his arms."
Embarrassed, Cait jumped away from Jason just as he quickly dropped his arm. What must the Twentymans think of them? And her wearing an English doxy's dress.
The kindly woman turned to Caithren. "Your bath is likely getting cold, though, so you'd best run along."
She needed no more of an invitation to bolt up the stairs.
By the time she reached the taproom, Jason caught up to her. He reached for her hand, clasping it as he had in the tunnel. "I'm sorry she thinks that of us. I know it disturbs you."
Low and tender, his voice made her remember the heat of his body embracing her protectively. His hand felt warm and sent tingles up her arm. She wished he would hold her again…when she wasn't frightened of a ghost. Just thinking that made the blood rush to her face, and she brought her free hand to her cheek.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine." Falling in behind him on their way up the narrow staircase, she slipped her hand into the gown's pocket to touch Adam's picture. She needed to shake these ridiculous thoughts. "You still don't believe it, do you?"
"That you saw a ghost? No," he said flatly. "I reckon someone was down there, same as we were. Perhaps taking a shortcut or searching for forgotten valuables."
"He was floating. If you'd seen him, you'd believe."
"But I didn't." Jason reached the landing, turned, and shrugged. "Can we agree to disagree? Though I fought going down there, I thank you for coaxing me. It was fun."
"Fun?"
He grinned. "I haven't done anything impulsive in a long while. Maybe ever, it seems." His mouth reversed into a frown. "Other than taking you with me, that is."
"And you're not sorry for that either, are you?"
"I cannot say that I am." He guided her down a short corridor. "Here we are. Room four." Releasing her hand, he unlocked the door and waved her inside. "I'll leave you to your privacy."
"And my bath." She clenched her other hand around the one he'd dropped, but it didn't feel anything like when he'd held it. "I can still smell the mustiness from the tunnels. It will feel good to be clean."
"Oh," he said. "I almost forgot. I have something for you. From the marketplace this morning." He dropped the key back into his pouch and withdrew a tiny, corked ceramic bottle.
Puzzled, she took it from him.
"Smell it," he urged.
She pulled out the cork and waved the bottle under her nose, drawing a deep whiff of the fragrant scent.
"Flowers of Scotland," Jason said proudly. "Or so the woman at the marketplace told me."
Caithren was stunned. "It-it's lovely," she stuttered.
"It's the oil you use in your bath, no? And to wash your hair?"
"Well, I press my own myself. But aye, from Scottish flowers. Flowers of Scotland." What a sweet gesture. From a man wh
o had as good as abducted her.
It was confusing, to say the least.
"It's lovely," she repeated.
"I'll replace whatever else you lost as well." He backed up, easing the door closed. "I never meant to cost you your belongings."
She gazed at him mutely, then nodded.
"I'm glad you understand, Emerald."
But she didn't. She didn't understand anything. Least of all why she found herself starting to like him when he was still calling her Emerald.
And he was staring at her amulet. He found a green stone more convincing than all her protests.
"I understand," she said, although she was more confused than ever. With a small smile, she added, "Jase," and then shut the door in his face.
"Mary! No!"
At the sound of a muffled yell, Caithren startled awake. Wide awake. She sat upright, her gaze frantically searching the room.
Across the chamber, Jason jerked and twitched. The fire had burned so low she had difficulty seeing him, but his face looked slick with sweat although it wasn't overly warm. The room had two beds, and she'd awakened in hers alone—but she felt disoriented and dismayed to find herself in a dark room with a man.
"No…" The single word was forced through a mouth contorted in pain. "No, no…"
Her stomach knotting with compassion, she rushed over, tripping on the hem of Mrs. Twentyman's much-too-long night rail and stopping her fall with his bed.
"Jason, wake up." She put a hand to his shoulder, jiggling it a little. When he only moaned, she shook him hard…harder. "Oh, please wake up!"
He half-rose and threw his arms around her. Her legs tangling in the night rail again, she tumbled on top of his long, hard body.
She lay upon him in shock, both of them trembling.
The thick white night rail had a high ruffle around the throat, full sleeves to her wrists, and enough fabric to wrap around her three times. But she could still feel Jason through the voluminous garment. His size, his warmth. His spicy male scent overwhelmed her.
She felt dizzy, like when she'd awakened in Pontefract. But she hadn't been hit on the head this time.
