by Lauren Royal
"Pardon?"
"I'm naming my horse Maid-of-the-Wave. Her coat is glittery like a mermaid, don't you think? And sort of reddish, like a salmon?"
He shrugged. "If you say so."
"What will you be naming yours?"
"Nothing." He shot a glance over his shoulder. "I'll be riding him only through tomorrow. He won't have time to learn a name."
She shook her head mournfully. "All creatures need a name. If you won't name him, then I shall have to. Hmm…" Chilled, she gathered the edges of the cloak more closely around her. "Hamish," she decided.
"Hamish?" Jason slanted her a puzzled glance. "After who?"
"The young farmer who married the Maid-of-the-Wave."
His lips quirked. "You never said his name was Hamish."
"Well, I don't actually know his name. But it seems to me that about one out of four men in Scotland is named Hamish, so I figure it's a bonnie good bet."
She was blethering again.
Since he appeared to be choking back laughter, she looked away and caught sight of a flutter in the sky. An excuse to change the subject. "Magpies," she said, watching one of the black-and-white birds land in a tree. "Do you see their dome-shaped nest? I hope there are at least two in it."
Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder again. "Why?"
"Less than two are supposed to be unlucky, aye? And doubly so if you see one alone before breakfast." He was still looking behind them. "Are you counting the magpies?
"Pardon? No. No, I'm not."
"I don't believe the superstition, but I do know a verse." She started quoting. "One for sorrow, two for luck, three for a wedding—"
"Bloody hell!"
She gasped when he reached across and grabbed her reins. Kicking his horse into a gallop, he drove them both off the side of the road. His hat flew off.
"What are you doing?" she yelled, holding on for dear life, one hand on her head to keep her own hat from flying away.
"Just hold on!" His jaw set, he pressed on, and Cait wondered wildly what they could be running from. Six strange little round hills sat off the road a wee distance. Drawing close, he reined in and dragged both horses to a halt.
He dismounted in a flash and reached both hands to help her down. He tugged her toward one of the mounds.
"Will they stay?" she asked. "Maid-of-the-Wave and Hamish?"
He shrugged, hurrying her along. "The horses are the least of our worries."
"Don't tell me you think those brothers are after us again."
He shot a glance around the hill, back toward the road. "All right, I won't tell you."
She followed his gaze. Her heart seized when she spotted Walter and Geoffrey Gothard astride two horses.
"Damnation! Get down!" With two hands on her shoulders, Jason pushed her to her knees.
She shrieked, her hand going to her hurt arm.
"Sorry," he hissed. Her hat tumbled off as they scrambled behind the mound and out of sight. But there was no way to hide the beasts they'd been riding on. And Jason's instincts had been right. The brothers were following them. She'd seen them with her own eyes.
Quite suddenly she recalled a vivid memory of standing outside Scarborough's house and overhearing their wicked plans. As then, she shivered. But her heart was pounding a good deal harder than that day, knowing the Gothards were now bent on killing not just Scarborough, but her and Jason, too.
"Cooperate this time, will you?" Jason's eyes burned with an intense green fire. "There's nothing for it. I hope they'll stay on the road, but if they ride round this hill and get a good look at our faces—"
He broke off, and his mouth covered hers.
The caress was more than a simple kiss this time—his body covered hers, warm and heavy, pinning her to the cushiony grass. Her blood raced in both passion and fear. She felt boneless and aflame all at once, the conflicting emotions all-consuming.
Was it grass-muted hoofbeats she heard drawing near, or her own heartbeat in her ears? Whichever, stark panic overcame the softer feelings, and her heart pumped even faster as she imagined Gothard stabbing Jason in the back as she lay under him, or shooting him, or—
"Pardon my impudence," he murmured, "but I've got to make this look good." The next thing she knew, his hand was venturing under her skirt—
And the hoofbeats came yet closer—
"Damn me, Caroline," a man's voice drawled. "Someone's found our favorite spot."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jason opened one eye to get a look at the intruders, then sat up, muttering a curse. Caithren lay limp in the grass, a hand pressed to her heart while he adjusted the tangled cloak and tugged down on her skirts.
He glanced up at the young man and woman, both on horseback. Country folk, likely stealing away to court on the sly.
Horror widened the girl's round gray eyes. "Let's go! Can't you see they're quality? Let's go!" Her cheeks stained bright red, she dug in her heels and took off.
The young man wheeled and rode after her, shouting, "Caroline!"
Releasing a slow breath, Jason crawled around the mound to have a look, then returned to Caithren. "The Gothards…I guess they rode past." He raked a rather shaky hand through his hair, only to realize it was the periwig, which he nearly dislodged. "We scared off those lovers but good," he said with a smile, offering a hand to help Caithren sit.
She smiled back. "We did, didn't we?" She burst into giggles, hugging her sides. The giddiness of relief, he guessed. "My mam always said, 'guid claes and keys let you in.'"
"Good what?"
"Clothes. Dressing well can open doors for you the same as a key, aye? We've dressed the part, and they believed it, just like that." She snapped her fingers and stood up, evidently not an easy task in the silver shoes. Her legs looked wobbly. "What are these wee hills? They look too regular to be natural."
"They're Roman barrows." Jason rose as well, brushing off his velvet breeches. "Burial mounds."
"Oh," she said, making a face. "Faugh."
"Faugh? That's it?" He leaned to pick up her hat. "No quote of your mother's for this one?"
"I'll tell you, Jase. I don't think Mam ever kissed anyone while lying on top of dead Romans."
He threw back his head and laughed.
"I wouldn't mind trying it again, though," she added.
That sobered him. "What?"
"The kissing." She shook out her skirts and pulled up on the hated stomacher. "You seem to enjoy the kissing enough, but you need to have an excuse." She squared her shoulders and faced him daringly. "You're attracted to me, aye?"
"I am." He'd be lying to deny it. "But God knows why." Maybe because she made him laugh. He'd been far too serious the past weeks—the past years, truth be told. Ever since his parents had died and left him with all the responsibilities. "And God also knows I've no business acting on that attraction."
"Why not, I ask you?" She moved closer. "I wouldn't tell a soul, and I wouldn't try to trap you, either. I have every intention of going home to Scotland, and I won't be expecting you to come with me. Before I leave, though, I'd just like to know…"
Both her proximity and her earnestness made him uncomfortable. Turning her hat in his hands, he started walking back to the horses. "Know what?"
"What it would feel like, is all." She hurried to keep up with him, stumbling in the new shoes. "What it would feel like to—"
When she broke off, he risked looking over at her. Her breath came unevenly. Her cheeks had turned a becoming shade of pink.
"You know," she said, as though he knew what she was talking about.
Which, of course, he did.
He halted mid-step. A Scottish woman propositioning him. He needed a moment to digest that.
No matter how much his hands burned to run riot all over her body, the mere idea was absurd. And it was wrong as well. Even more so now that he knew she was a provincial baronet's daughter, not some bold, widowed reward-hunter.
He'd already compromised her by trave
ling alone with her. There was nothing he could do about that now, but he sure as hell wasn't going to take things any further.
He turned to her and stuck the hat on her head.
"With you," she added in a whisper. "I've never wanted to before. Before I met you, I mean." Her hand went to her amulet, and her lower lip trembled. "But you won't do anything about it, will you?"
"No, I won't be doing anything about it." Her eyes were a gorgeous hazy blue. Christ. "You should be grateful for that. It's wrong to take a woman and—just leave her," he said, striding over to the horses.
Teetering in his wake, she called after him. "If you believe that, have you never, then? With a woman, since you've said you're not wanting to marry. I mean…" She rushed in front of him and stood blocking his way, looking up at him. "Are you a virgin, Jason Chase?"
Her words seemed to echo across the open fields. At first he was horrified, but then he laughed. "No, I'm no virgin. But it's different in my circle of acquaintances." King Charles's court was licentious as hell. Barring his sister—he hoped—he doubted there was a courtier over the age of fourteen who could call him or herself virgin. "We have different expectations. With you, there's a matter of responsibility."
"I have no expectations. For once, could you listen to the Gypsy? Could you forget about responsibilities and just let yourself feel?"
"I think not."
He felt all too much, and that was the problem. If he thought he could simply love her and leave her, he might consider it. He hadn't been so tempted in a good, long while. Maybe in all his life.
But with Caithren it would be all or nothing—he knew that in his bones.
"Look, we've been tied at the hip for days now. All you really want from me is to get to London. And I'll get you there, I promise. A Chase promise is not given lightly."
Her eyes cleared and turned a disappointed, indistinct color. "You have no idea what I want from you, Jason. And I don't believe you ever will." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.
"You're cold," he said. "And the weather looks to be getting colder. Come along. We're almost to Stevenage, where I can buy you a cloak."
The clouds had grown dark and menacing, and Jason found the interior of The Grange even darker. Brushing off the drizzle that had beaded on his cloak, he stepped into the taproom and blinked in the dimness.
Caithren wasn't at the table where he'd left her.
Panic sprinted along his nerves before he got himself under control. He tossed the new wool cloak he'd bought over her chair and walked around the tavern, checking every corner of the oddly shaped room. Then back to the table, his heart beginning to beat unevenly. He'd left her with his portmanteau and the burlap bag with the backgammon set.
All was gone.
Geoffrey's and Walter's faces flashed in his mind. But no one in the taproom looked at all concerned, and it was inconceivable that Caithren would go with the brothers without a fight. While it was true she couldn't shoot, he'd seen her in action: punching, kicking, wielding a knife. And there was no sign of a confrontation.
Still, his pulse raced, his head felt woozy. What if they'd managed to take her? How would he find them? What would he do? He couldn't think clearly when he kept seeing her standing in that courtyard with blood running down her arm. Blood from a Gothard's blade.
If anything more happened to her, he would never forgive himself.
He paced around the tavern, stopping at tables, querying one patron after another. "A woman was sitting there. Short, blond. Did she leave with anyone?"
No one had seen a thing.
When she came down the stairs, stepping gingerly on the heeled shoes, he spun around. His long legs ate up the distance between them.
"Where the hell were you?"
"Hold your tongue. Everyone is looking at us." She walked to their table, set down the burlap bag, shrugged the portmanteau off her shoulder. "I took everything with me so nothing would go missing. I was gone but a minute."
"You have a damn odd idea of a minute. Where did you go? How dare you disappear on me! I thought the Gothards had—"
"I had to…you know. Use the privy." Frowning, she peered into his eyes, and then, unbelievably, her lips turned up in a hint of a smile. "I've never really seen you angry before. I didn't think you had it in you."
"I've never thought you were missing before," he snapped out.
She crossed her arms and leveled him with a stare. "How about when I tried to escape you? Or when I fell asleep in the kirk?"
"Things were different then. Then I didn't—oh, bloody hell."
"Then you didn't care?" she supplied. "You cannot say it, can you? That you care."
"I care," he said. "I care about making things right. I care about replacing what you lost on my account. I care that you get to London in one piece, not carved up by a Gothard's blade."
The sound of raucous laughter came from another table. Pewter tankards clanked on wood. "I don't want anything to happen to you, either," Caithren said softly.
"Why?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"Because I care." Her gaze dropped to her crossed arms. "And I don't mean about getting to London or the money you owe me."
With a finger he lifted her chin. "Emerald—"
"And no matter what you call me, I care because of this—" She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.
Bloody hell. Calling her Emerald wasn't working. With a groan of surrender, he closed his eyes to return the kiss.
His arms went around her, and the sounds of the tavern receded as she arched herself so close he felt her damned amulet between them. Her lips were warm velvet; her flowery scent assaulted his senses.
How could such an exasperating woman be so sweet?
At the sound of a whistle, he pulled away to much applause.
"We see you found her," someone yelled.
Caithren's cheeks went from the pink of passion to the red of embarrassment.
"Shall we go?" he asked with a laugh. He drew the new cloak from her chair and settled it over her shoulders. "It's seven miles to Welwyn and starting to rain already."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
"We're not going to make it, Jase," Caithren yelled through the storm. She hadn't known it was possible to feel so wet. Her new cloak was all but useless against the downpour. "If this gown soaks up any more water, poor Maid-of-the-Wave will be driven to her knees."
A huge crash of thunder made both horses shy. The sky opened up and spewed twice as much water, a feat she hadn't thought possible. Rain came down in blinding sheets. Cait couldn't see as much as two feet ahead.
She felt Jason's leg bump up against hers before his hand came through the downpour to grab her reins. "Shelter!" he hollered over the next crack of lightning. "Come with me!"
He led them off the road along a barely visible trail. Hidden in the trees sat an old thatched cottage. How he'd found the place she'd never know, but the mere sight of it lifted her heart.
She held both horses while Jason pounded on the door. No one came to answer. The shutters were all latched from the interior, and the door was locked. Water streaming into her eyes, Cait waited while he walked all the way around the one-room building.
"Closed up!" he called through the pounding rain.
She wanted to cry.
He stood stock-still for a spell, then disappeared behind the cottage and returned with a hefty log. Bracing it against his good shoulder, he stepped back and ran at the door.
It didn't give, and she winced at his anguished yell. "You're going to kill yourself," she called. "You're in no shape for this!"
But he tried it twice more, until the door crashed in. He nearly fell on his face after it, and, miserable as she was, Cait had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
"Go inside," he told her, and she did, gratefully. After tethering the horses beneath some trees, he took their things and followed her, propping the door into its space behind them.
>
They stood there, dripping, for a long minute. Rain pounded on the roof. The cottage looked clean enough and boasted a bed with a thick quilt, a small table, two wooden chairs, and a brick fireplace. No wood, no candles, no oil lamps. The warped shutters let in a little light and a lot of rain that puddled near the glassless windows. But it was shelter, and Caithren couldn't remember being more appreciative in her life.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Jason gestured helplessly. "It will be cold come night. And dark. All the wood outside is soaking wet." He looked at the table and chairs.
Her gaze followed his. "You're not thinking of burning them?" When he shrugged, she shook her head. "They're not yours to burn. Besides, where would we continue our backgammon tournament?"
"That's right." Grinning, he pulled off his hat. Water poured from the wide brim. "I'm ahead."
"You are not." She set her own drenched hat on the table. "We're dead even. Seventeen matches each."
He dragged off the wet wig. His own hair underneath was just as soaked, sleekly black and plastered to his head.
"You look like a selkie," Cait said.
He unfastened his cloak and let it drop to the floor in a sodden heap. "A what?"
"A selkie. A mythical creature that takes on the form of a seal in the sea and a man on the land."
"How flattering." Amusement lit his eyes as they raked her from head to toe. "You on the other hand, look the picture of perfection."
"Aye?" Laughing, she shrugged free of her cloak. "I wouldn't be surprised if this gown weighs more than I do." Bending at the waist, she gathered her hair and twisted it. Water streamed out onto the wooden floor.
As she straightened, her hair still bunched in one hand, Jason's arms came around her from behind. She hadn't even heard him move close. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.
Warm and soft. Her breath caught, and she stood stone still. She hadn't imagined it the first time, she realized, a little thrill running through her at the thought. "What was that for?"
"I've been wanting to do that since the day I met you," he said huskily.
Quite unsure about this side of Jason Chase and where it had come from, she turned to face him. His penetrating gaze was entrancing. "Well, I wouldn't have stopped you," she said.
