by Lauren Royal
"That as well." He leaned closer to the mirror and stroked his bare upper lip. "But I think I'm getting used to its loss." Turning, he reached to steal a cube of cheese off her tray.
"I thought you had breakfast downstairs."
"That was an hour ago." He filched another cube and chewed thoughtfully. "Do you like me better with or without?"
"Without. Both the mustache and the wig." She set the tray aside. "Supposing I like you at all, that is."
"Supposing." Moving to the other bed, he lifted the velvet surcoat and shook out the creases. "Your new clothing is waiting behind the screen."
"Is it?" Curious, she climbed from the bed and made her way over to have a look.
She blinked and looked again.
"By all the saints," she breathed. "It's worse than the red dress."
Draped across a chair lay a bright turquoise brocade gown trimmed with a gaudy wide edging of embroidered silver ribbon. A purple underskirt and stomacher were tossed on top. Even without trying it on, she could tell the dress's scooped neckline would reveal a lot more skin than she was comfortable displaying.
After she'd made such a fuss over the red dress, she couldn't believe he'd brought her this. She stepped out into the room to give him a piece of her mind, then dashed back behind the screen.
"Crivvens! You're in the scud!"
"Translate?" he called.
"You…you're naked!"
"One does have to undress to change clothes." He sounded amused, not angry. "Are you putting on the gown?"
Touching her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them, she dragged her mind from its vivid picture of a bare Jason. "You expect me to wear this?"
"Hell, yes. I spent a fortune for it."
"Just who am I supposed to be posing as in this monstrosity?" She grabbed the gown and held it up to her body, gazing down at herself in horror. "Queen Catharine?" She kicked at the hem.
"No." He laughed. "My mistress."
The gown slipped from her fingers. "Your what?"
"My mistress. Are you undressed?"
His mistress.
"Nay. Not yet." Self-conscious, she fluffed Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. "Are you?"
"Not anymore. Come out and have a look."
Cautiously she stepped from behind the screen—and burst out laughing.
He glanced in the mirror critically, then back to her. "What's so funny?"
"You—as an aristocrat." Tears ran from the corners of her eyes. "Y-you expect people to f-fall for that disguise?"
A small smile quirked at his lips. "As a matter of fact, I do."
"Just because one innkeeper called you my lord yesterday—"
"And don't forget the Gypsy."
She laughed even harder. "O-oh, aye. The Gypsy called you milord as well!"
He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the screen, giving her a little push in that direction. She yelped, looking back over her shoulder to giggle at him again.
He pulled on her single nighttime plait. "Go get changed," he said with mock sternness.
"Very well." She hiccuped and went behind the screen.
She was thankful the long puffed sleeves didn't rub her injured arm, but the gown hugged her upper body like a second skin. Small though they might be, her breasts welled over the top. The stomacher was stiff and uncomfortable.
No surprise there.
"Don't forget the shoes," Jason called.
The shoes. Embroidered silver brocade with pointed toes. And high heels. The only positive thing she could find to say about them was that they fit.
A pity. She would have liked an excuse not to wear them.
"Very practical for riding around the countryside," she said sarcastically. She took a deep breath. "I'm coming out."
"Thank you for the warning."
His smile died and a low whistle sounded as she stepped from behind the screen. His eyes widened. "Whoa."
She teetered to the mirror and pulled her plait forward to unravel it, stilling when he came up behind her and slowly ran his hands down her sides. His palms felt hot, even through the fabric, skimming a tingling path on her skin beneath the turquoise brocade.
Cait swallowed hard. "Could I be cast as your servant instead?"
"Hmm." He blinked and jerked his hands away, as though they'd just been burned. "I think not."
She took the Gypsy-lace handkerchief and started stuffing it into her neckline.
"Uh-uh." Reaching over her shoulder, he plucked it out of her hands. "My mistress wouldn't wear that."
Her exposed bosom broke out in goose bumps. "Maybe I could pose as your little sister, then?"
"Wouldn't help. Kendra doesn't dress all that differently from this, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. Her gaze met his in the looking glass.
"And you don't look like my little sister," he added huskily.
"I don't feel like your little sister, either."
He flexed his hands. "No, you most certainly do not."
Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon on her plait. Clumsily untying it, she watched his reflection back away to sit on one of the beds.
He didn't take his gaze off her.
She'd never had such difficult time unraveling her nighttime plait. It might help if her hands would stop shaking. She grabbed her ivory comb and reached to part her hair in the back.
"No." Jason's voice came from behind her. Confused, she met his eyes in the mirror. "Leave it loose. My mistress doesn't wear plaits."
Slowly she ran the comb through her hair. Crimped from the plaiting, it hung in shimmering waves to her waist. "Wouldn't a nobleman's mistress wear her hair in curls?" Her stomach fluttered. "And pulled up on the sides, with a bun at the back, like I've seen—"
"Not my mistress." He got up and began stuffing clothes into the portmanteau.
She turned from the mirror and walked over to pull a shirt back out and fold it. "Clearly you're used to having someone look after you," she said softly. "Do you have a mistress, my lord?"
Beneath the blue velvet, his shoulders tensed. "I do now."
For a long minute, neither of them said anything. Then he looked away.
It meant nothing, she decided. Nobleman and mistress. A game—just a game.
She finished folding his clothes and tucked them into the portmanteau, then went to fetch the night rail, wavering on the unfamiliar heels. "I cannot walk in these."
"You'll learn," he said, tossing the comb into one of the leather bags. As he took the folded night rail from her hands, his gaze swept her again from head to toe. Turning to face the mirror, she put her hands back under her hair and fanned it forward to cover her cleavage.
His eyes locked on hers in the mirror, keeping her captive. He seemed to be holding his breath. His jaw tightened.
Was he angry? At her? Why?
He backed away, his expression becoming a mask of stone. "I've arranged for two horses," he said. "We'd best go, Emerald."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Riding beside Jason in brooding silence, Caithren sneaked glances in his direction. Encased in the dark velvet suit, his lean, hard body moved with the big black horse as though they were one. Wind whipped the long red hair around the planes of his clean-shaven face.
She had to admit she might have thought he was a nobleman if she didn't know him. Her stomach felt fluttery just looking at him. It might have been fun to playact lord and mistress under other circumstances.
But there weren't any other circumstances.
Always she would want him, and always he would come temptingly close and then back off.
It was better this way, she decided firmly. Better without any emotions, any entanglements. She needed to find her brother. Jason wanted to find the Gothards. Anything personal between them would only get in the way. And ultimately lead nowhere, since she lived in Scotland and he lived here in England.
But her stomach didn't feel fluttery anymore, just sick.
With a sigh, she trie
d to turn her mind to more pleasant thoughts. "I miss Chiron," she said conversationally as Jason waited to cross another bridge.
"I miss him, too." He seemed distracted. "And I hope he's well taken care of."
"You paid enough that he should be," Cait said. He could have bought a third horse for the coin he'd coughed up for board.
"Chiron has never been mistreated." He nodded as a man passed from the other direction, then guided his mount down the center of the bridge. "I'm hoping to keep it that way."
Caithren followed, reaching to pat her horse's red-chestnut neck as they came into the small town of Biggleswade. "This mare is a bonnie lass. What is she called by?"
"I didn't think to ask."
"Nay? Then I will have to name her myself."
"You do that." He twisted in the saddle, scanning the street. "Mind if we stop? There's a baker next to the Coach & Horses. We'll just run in and get some bread."
"I'll wait here."
"No." His gaze shifted to her injured arm. "I want you to come with me."
She'd lost this argument before, so she slid off her horse—whatever the creature's name might be—and tethered her beside Jason's.
Though the sun wasn't high in the sky yet, it seemed a long time since breakfast. Delicious smells of fresh bread came through the bakeshop's door. Jason tugged it open and hurried to pull her inside.
Unused to the heels, she nearly stumbled. "Jase—"
"Hush." Baskets tacked on the wall were brimming with crusty loaves. With a rigid hand on her elbow, he guided her over and turned to her expectantly. "Grain or manchet?"
"Um…manchet."
He shot a glance out the window, then grasped her round the waist and swung her to face the baker. "What did you say, sweetheart?"
"M-manchet," she stammered out. She leaned closer to whisper. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Two loaves of manchet," he told the baker loudly.
"Two pence, my lord." The flush-faced baker fetched two small loaves and began wrapping them in paper.
Jason pulled out his pouch. "Geoffrey Gothard," he muttered under his breath.
Cait's spine stiffened.
His attention on the window, he took his time paying the man. At last she saw the tension ease from his shoulders. He tucked the two breads beneath one arm and curled the other around her waist. Casually, he drew her through the door and outside.
His fingers tightened just before he whirled her around and urged her back against the building. "Pretend you're flirting with me," he said, the words coming stilted through a wide, devastating smile.
He pressed close, closer, until the warm bread was pinned between their two bodies. It was broad daylight. All morning he'd been acting like he wanted nothing to do with her.
Her breath caught when he touched his forehead to hers, hot and close. "Now," he demanded in a harsh whisper. "Geoffrey Gothard is walking this way—he won't look twice at a couple in a passionate embrace."
She tried to lean and see for herself, but his free hand came up to hold her face. "Put your arms around me."
She shakily complied.
"That's better," he murmured in her ear. His tongue flicked out and his teeth nipped her lobe, making her feel shakier still.
Ever since she'd donned the turquoise, gown, he'd been looking at her differently. Maybe he just wanted to kiss her. She tried again to see Gothard, but Jason's fingers tightened on her chin. His gaze bore into hers, so intense her knees nearly buckled.
"You're m-making this up as an excuse to kiss me."
"If you value your life, you'll play along." His mouth brushed her cheek and trailed down her neck, leaving a quivery path of dampness. "You're my mistress," he murmured into the sensitive hollow beneath her chin. "Try to look like you're enjoying this, will you?"
Aye, she was enjoying it.
When she arched against him, he claimed her lips in a soul-searing kiss. The heat from the bread seemed to seep into her stomach and spread. Her head felt woozy. Her entire body felt limp. Only the wall and Jason's arms kept her standing.
His tongue traced her lips, then swept inside, kindling a hot rush of excitement. And, somehow, that changed everything.
Her fingers tangled in the coarse hair of the wig. The now-familiar pleasure stole through her, and she wondered vaguely how she could have thought she was better off without this. She clung to his lips, molding herself against his body, wishing she could flow right into him.
Were they really being watched? Either way, she felt safe with him here, as she always had, though it made no more sense now than it had in the beginning. The melting intimacy felt genuine, not staged, and despite herself—despite the real danger—she found herself savoring every second.
Surely he felt the connection, too. She couldn't let him deny these feelings again.
He raised his head and looked both ways, then said, "He's gone."
Feeling a loss, she held him captive with a hand behind his neck and the other splayed against his back. "What else can you tell me about your mistress?" Her voice shook, betraying her emotions. "I-if I'm to act the part, then—"
He groaned, a heart-wrenching sound of capitulation. "My mistress…there's no one I'd rather kiss." The green of his eyes turned dark and unfathomable as he clasped her tightly against him. His mouth brushed hers, once, twice, caressing her lips more than kissing them, wordlessly begging her to open and let him in. When she parted her lips, he devoured her mouth with an urgent hunger.
She was stunned at the possessiveness of his embrace. He wanted her, she was sure of it…
Now that she was dressed like an Englishwoman.
But it wasn't right. She'd wanted him all along, mustached or not, long hair or short, dressed like a peasant or a nobleman. It was the man she wanted, not the package in which he was presented.
She pulled away, struggling to regain her senses. "Now you look at me differently," she accused. "Ever since I put on these clothes."
"No." He captured her gaze with his. "Ever since I saw you dance with the Gypsies."
Since then? Her heart leapt. Dancing with the Gypsies, she'd been herself, Caithren Leslie, more than at any other time since she'd stepped foot in England.
He backed away, catching the bread from between them before it could fall to the ground.
Cait blinked and put her palms to her cheeks. She focused on the loaves in his hands. "They're squished," she said stupidly.
"Gothard is gone." He handed her a loaf. "I think we fooled him."
"I hope so," she said.
But maybe not. Maybe she'd like to try to fool him again. She wasn't completely convinced this was the only way to keep from being seen, but it could be the only way Jason would allow himself the pleasure of kissing her.
That sort of bloody-mindedness she was determined to change.
The bread didn't feel as hot as it had between their bodies. Though she wasn't hungry, she unwrapped the loaf, tore off a hunk, and stuck it in her mouth. Before she could say something else stupid.
"Shall we go?" he asked her.
"Aye." Swallowing, she wrapped her bread back up. "Let's go." They untied their horses and headed out.
The road out of Biggleswade was narrow, with a few small houses scattered alongside. As scattered as Cait's thoughts. Jason was the most confusing man she'd ever met. Exasperating. Authoritative. Protective.
But he certainly knew how to kiss.
Although it was clouding up and cooling off, the brocade gown was heavy enough to keep her warm. The gown and the hot blood pumping through her veins…
What would she have done without Jason? It felt like a lifetime since he'd kept her off the coach. She'd still be on it, wouldn't she? Slowly making her way toward London, listening to Mrs. Dochart day in and day out.
She'd have her money and her clothes—clothes that didn't leave half her bosom exposed for the world to ogle. But she wouldn't have attended a country fair, tasted syllabub, or danced with the Gypsies.
Or learned what it felt like to really be kissed.
He'd swept her plans out from under her. The trouble was, she feared he'd swept her heart out from under her as well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
My dearest Malcolm and Alison,
I did not have to travel all the way South, as evidence proves the Gothards to be following the Great North Road toward London. They are not good at covering their tracks. So I hope to be home sooner than planned, which is a very happy thing, because I miss you both more than words can say.
All the day, as I ride the road, I think about my two bairns and what you might be doing. Every day that passes without you is a day I've missed forever, and I cannot wait to see your two bonnie faces and hold you in my arms again.
From what I have learned, these men are very, very bad people. I know I will be doing the world a good deed to see them gone. All the same, I would rather be with you, and I count the days until it will be so. I cannot wait to hug and kiss you, and my dearest prayer is that when I come home to you this time, it will be forever.
Your very loving Mama
During the ten long miles from Biggleswade to Baldock, the weather failed to cooperate. As the long blowing grasses gave way to Baldock's neat clipped gardens, the clouds grew darker and the wind picked up, whipping beneath Caithren's heavy skirts.
They rode past the Church of St. Mary, a pleasing amalgam of several centuries of architecture. Jason slowed before the Old White Horse. "You hungry?"
She held up her half-eaten loaf of bread. "I can wait if you can."
With a glance at the menacing clouds, he nodded. They continued on toward Stevenage, with Cait trying her best to keep the conversation flowing over the hours, so as not to think too much.
Because, truly, she didn't know what to think anymore.
When the temperature dropped, they donned their working-class hats even though they didn't match their upper-class disguises. Jason dug in the portmanteau and jostled his horse closer to settle his cloak over her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said, snuggling into the woolen warmth. She fastened the clasp beneath her chin. "Maid-of-the-Wave."
