Emerald

by Lauren Royal

  "I don't expect you would have." He took a deep breath and looked away, the Jason she knew slipping back into place. "Let me fetch some dry clothes."

  Still stunned, she stood and shivered while he went through the portmanteau. One after another, their clothes came out, every piece soaking wet.

  She draped the garments on the floor around the room. "I hope they'll dry," she said on a sigh.

  Finally, from the very bottom, he unearthed a pair of buff breeches and one of his shirts and held them both up triumphantly. "Dry. Almost. Which do you want?" He waved the breeches, a distinct leer in his eye.

  Surprised and a bit unnerved by his playfulness, she snatched the shirt from his other hand. "This will do, thank you. Turn around."

  With a grin, he obeyed. One of his feet impatiently tapped on the wooden floor, the wet boot leather squeaking with each motion.

  "No peeking," she admonished. Quite adept at removing stomachers now, she did so in all haste.

  "Are you finished yet?"

  "Nay. Stay put."

  His foot kept tapping while she wiggled the gown and chemise to her waist and slipped his shirt over her head. Unexpectedly soft, it smelled warm and spicy, like he did. Reaching beneath the hem, she pushed everything down and off, leaving her shoes in the wet pile when she stepped out of it.

  "Now your turn." She faced away to wait.

  A hand came down on her shoulder and slowly swung her around. His gaze traced a lazy path down her body. She blushed, aware that the shirt reached only to her knees.

  He raised a brow. "Much better than Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. I think we ought to burn that thing."

  "You haven't got a fire," she said crisply. "Are you going to change or not?"

  "In due time."

  Mindful of his eyes on her, she yanked up on the sleeves, which fell well past her hands, and tightened the shirt's laces. "Aren't you freezing?"

  "Are you?"

  Her skin erupted in goose bumps, though it really wasn't too cold now that she was out of the wet gown. "Not since I changed. I'll just take these clothes"—she bent to retrieve them—"and lay them out while you dress." She turned her back and started spreading the garments over what little floor space was left. "Don't worry—I promise not to look."

  "It wouldn't bother me if you did, sweetheart," he drawled.

  If past experience was any indicator, she had no cause to doubt him. Blushing furiously, she made long work of squeezing the water from the brocade gown and wringing out its chemise. Her shoes were alarmingly soggy, but she sat them on the floor and hoped for the best.

  The stomacher was soaked, yet still just as stiff. Apparently Jason hadn't been fooling when he said there was bone inside.

  "Ready," he called.

  She turned, then whirled back away. "You're still half-naked!"

  "If you'll hand over my only dry shirt, I can finish dressing," he said drolly.

  She hugged the shirt in question around her middle. "Oh, never mind."

  Averting her eyes from his bare chest, she fetched the backgammon set and removed it from the burlap bag.

  "Sit," she said, plopping the drenched board onto the table. "It's wet, but I reckon it'll survive, seeing as it's made from a cow that likely got drenched in its day." She lined up the markers on their respective pips.

  "I reckon it will," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. Taking the dice cup, he rolled two sixes.

  She sat across from him, trying not to notice the way his muscles rippled when he leaned across the board to make his moves. Though still a livid pink, his wound looked all but healed. Rain beat down on the roof, and thunder and lightning disturbed her concentration.

  Damn if she didn't lose three matches in a row.

  "I'm hungry," Jason complained as she reset the board.

  "There's some bread left in the pocket of my cloak."

  He rose to fetch it, treating her to a view of his broad shoulders and back. He returned with a handful of white mush. "I don't think so," he groaned and tossed it into the empty fireplace.

  "Maybe it will stop raining so we can continue on to Welwyn before you waste away of starvation."

  He snorted.

  But the weather didn't let up.

  By the time Cait had lost two more matches, the rumbling was directly overhead and nearly constant. Dark was falling. Brilliant flashes of lightning lit the room through the ill-fitting shutters, but the sporadic brightness wasn't adequate to play by.

  Caithren squinted at the dice, trying to see what numbers she'd rolled. With a sigh, she rose and headed for the entrance, picking her way around the clothes that littered the floor. She pried the door free from where Jason had propped it within its frame, just enough to see outside.

  The rain pounded down, assaulting her ears. "I don't think we'll be going anywhere," she yelled over the noise.

  "I expect not," Jason said softly, right beside her. When she jumped, one of his arms came around to steady her. The other hand reached to shove the door back into place, blocking most of the sound.

  She could still hear the rain on the roof and through the shutters, but the room seemed suddenly and immeasurably quieter. It seemed she could hear her own heartbeat over the soft sigh of Jason's breath by her ear.

  Surely that wasn't possible. Just as it wasn't possible that he was sweeping aside her hair and kissing that spot on the nape of her neck again.

  She shivered.

  "Are you cold?" he whispered.

  She wasn't sure. Was she cold or just unbearably aware of his lips on her skin? Regardless, she nodded.

  "Come to bed, then. I'll keep you warm."

  Hope blossoming, she spun in his arms. But when a flash of lightning illuminated his eyes, she could see they were guileless.

  "I'll just keep you warm," he repeated. "I promise. A Chase promise is—"

  "—not given lightly," she finished on a sigh.

  She wanted so much more than to be kept warm. But she couldn't face yet another rejection. She wouldn't ask with words, ever again.

  Instead she asked with her body. She pressed against him, ran her hands over the hard planes of his bare shoulders, pulled the tie out of his hair, meshed her fingers in its silky softness.

  Her reward was hearing his sharp intake of breath.

  "To bed. To keep warm," he said firmly and turned her around, guiding her across the darkened room with a hand clamped on her shoulder.

  She clenched her teeth, but a groan slipped out anyway.

  "Have I hurt you?" he asked. "Oh, damn, it's your arm, isn't it?"

  She began to nod, then realized he couldn't see her. Turning to face him, she flattened her hands against his chest. "Aye," she whispered, her palms tingling. "I never found time to gather plants today."

  "Is it getting any better?"

  "Nay." She wouldn't lie. But she didn't want to alarm him, either. She didn't want to be thinking about her arm now—she wanted to be thinking about his body, warm and tucked beside hers. "It's been but a day. These things take time."

  "I wish I could have a look."

  "Well, it's dark. You can look in the morning, if it pleases you. For now…" She snuggled close.

  Though she felt him hesitate, she also felt his heart pounding beneath her hands. With a muttered oath, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed, probably scattering all their carefully laid out clothes as he went.

  Not that she cared. She knew she had won.

  The bed ropes creaked as he set her down, and another flash of lightning revealed his features in stark relief. Enough so she could find his lips with hers by the time the responding thunder rumbled through the sky, shaking the cottage, the floorboards, the bed.

  Or maybe she was shaking. Nay, for sure she was shaking. His hands moved to cup her face, and he eased her back, coming down on top of her. His shirt rode up her thighs, and it was scandalous, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.

  How could she care when her dreams were
coming true?

  His bare chest felt wonderfully warm through the thin cambric shirt. His lips were gentle and giving, but she could feel his reticence, a sweet reticence that teased her. She grabbed at his hair and fitted her mouth to his, reveling in his groan. Her world was reduced to his hands and his mouth and his body, the heat and the glory, the pure pleasure of him touching her at last.

  His shoulders tensed above her as he shifted onto his elbows, sparing her his full weight. His fingers worked at the shirt's laces while his mouth trailed down, lingering in the hollow of her neck. She arched in shivery delight, gasping when she felt the lacing drawn out of its eyelets, gasping again when the same laces dropped to the floor.

  His mouth teased in the open vee of the shirt's placket, licking, biting, kissing. And lower, his lips playing over her aching breasts and grazing her sensitive nipples. It was wicked, but wickedly marvelous. It was—

  He moved to draw the chain with her amulet over her head.

  "Nay," she whispered, wedging a hand between them to settle the necklace back into place.

  "Nay," he echoed, the word sounding foreign from his lips. His knuckles brushed her face, hesitated, halted. He stilled. "Nay," he repeated, closing his eyes and pulling away.

  He sat up, breathing in slow, loud puffs.

  "I said I wouldn't do this," he ground out from between gritted teeth. "It's not responsible, and—"

  Reaching up, she grasped his shoulders. "For once in your life, would you forget about being responsible? I want you, Jason."

  Another flash of lightning, and his answer was in his eyes.

  No.

  Despite her resolve, she had asked with words again—and, no, he wouldn't have the likes of her.

  A sob tore from her throat—a sob borne of frustration and embarrassment, endless rejection and unfulfilled passion. She leapt up and made for the door, clawing at it with frantic fingers, throwing it to the floor behind her. A mighty crash resounded from the cottage as she raced out into the storm.

  He was behind her within seconds, but she kept running, darting around the shadows of the trees, until finally he caught her by the hem of the shirt and pulled her to her knees in the wet grass. She threw herself forward, shutting her eyes against the sight of him, though she couldn't really have seen him anyway in the darkness and the driving rain.

  "Leave me alone!" she screamed over the deluge. Never had she realized water could be so loud. But that was good—it drowned out her harsh breathing and the staccato beat of her heart. It pounded on her skin, cold needles that drove away all her anguished thoughts as she concentrated on the chilled wetness. It caressed her body with the icy fingers she needed to cool her ardor and bring her back to her senses.

  Then warmer fingers were on her, rolling her onto her back. Jason was kneeling over her. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded over a rumble of thunder. "You'll catch your death out here."

  "Leave me alone!" Angrily she pushed at his hands and struggled to her feet. "Always, since I met you, you will never leave me alone," she hollered as he came up after her.

  A bolt of lightning illuminated his face for a second, just a second. But long enough for Cait to see his tortured face, his anguished eyes. And in that flash she saw that the rejection she'd seen in the cottage had been something else. She'd seen what she'd expected to see, rather than the truth.

  The naked hunger.

  "I don't want to leave you alone," he bellowed over the wind and the rain and another hard crack of thunder. "Damn it to bloody hell—I never wanted to leave you alone!"

  And he was on her in an instant, his bare torso hot on her chilled, wet body, his mouth searching for hers.

  Their lips met, and a jolt of desire shot straight through to her heart. The kiss wasn't gentle, but devouring, demanding a response she was only too ready to give. His tongue swept her mouth as his hands swept down to the hem of the shirt, dragging it up her body until he broke contact to pull it over her head.

  Lightning flashed as he crushed her to him, skin against skin, fusing his mouth to hers again. Rain pounded down all around them, but they were close, so close not a drop could shimmy between their straining bodies. His lips traveled her cheeks, her nose, her hairline, leaving a burning path no cold water could erase. Unshaven roughness grazed her skin, a man's texture that gave rise to a thrill as wild as the storm.

  He lowered her to the grass, his hands roaming her body and leaving a riot of sensation in their wake. Her own hands skimmed his back, his shoulders, wherever she could reach. Thunder rumbled—in the distance, then closer—matching the uneven beat of her pulse. The rain smelled chilly and fresh, but Jason smelled warm and male and unbearably exciting.

  When his hand raced down her side and his fingers explored between her legs, she cried out, feeling herself wetter than the rain somehow and straining for more. More of his body, more of his mouth, more of his fingers where they teased. More, more. She pressed her lips where his neck met his shoulder and tasted him, her teeth nipping his heated skin.

  He reared up, and suddenly all four of their hands were fumbling on the laces to his breeches. In moments he had peeled them off, and his mouth closed over hers as he plunged into her.

  A wee bit surprised at the intrusion, Cait stiffened and gasped. He hesitated above her.

  She couldn't see his face through the dark and the rain. She knew only that he couldn't stop now. She wouldn't let him. Like the rain and the thunder and the lightning, nothing would stop them.

  Nothing.

  She arched up against him, taking him deeper, her heart soaring when she felt him respond. Her hands clawed at his back as he rocked against her, the water sluicing over them in a relentless rhythm that matched their own.

  Relentless, like the feeling building inside her, a feeling so urgent and wondrous it could come only from nature. Relentless. A jagged bolt ripped from the sky as Caithren hurtled to a point of no return.

  Then she did return, only to feel Jason pull out of her as the answering thunder rumbled the earth beneath them. Shuddering, he buried his face in her shoulder. "Caithren," he choked out.

  She'd thought she couldn't feel any more wonderful, but hearing him utter her name—her real name, for the first time—made her heart constrict with an unsurpassable pleasure. Her feelings weren't entirely unreciprocated…and, even more significant, he finally believed she was Caithren.

  Finally.

  He struggled to his elbows, hovering above her. "Caithren, sweet Cait." The words came in ragged pants. "I'm—Christ, I'm so sorry."

  She moved under him, feeling entirely too drained to respond to his distress. "I told you I was Cait—"

  "Not about that."

  He rolled off her, onto his back, putting a hand over his eyes. One knee was raised, and her greedy gaze roamed his body as another flash of lightning revealed it.

  "Bloody hell," he said, "I lost my head, and I've"—his face constricted in anguish—"ruined you. Let you down, your family, myself…I'm so damned sorry."

  "Don't you dare be sorry," Cait yelled over the crack of thunder. "Be sorry you didn't believe me, if you will—you haven't believed a word I've said since the day we met. But don't you dare be sorry for this. I am not ruined. A man's contrivance, that."

  By all the saints, he looked wretched enough to do himself damage.

  "It was good, wasn't it?" She sat up and leaned over him, shoving his hand from his eyes. "Wasn't it?" she demanded.

  "It was." He sat too and clutched her close, covering her mouth with wee kisses, with all the tenderness they'd abandoned during their heated encounter. "It was good." Another kiss, and his tongue flicked out to trace her lips. "But it was wrong, and for your first time—"

  "It was good," she interrupted. It had been more than good—it had been unbelievable. The sheer force and power of it, of the two of them together. "I would never have known how good it could be, and I can only be better for the knowing. I didn't have a clue, Jase. Not a glimmer—" />
  He groaned. "All right. It was good. My sweet, independent Cait. What is it the Gypsy said? You go your own way." He kissed the dripping rain off her nose. "Sweet Jesus, have you ever in your life been so damned wet?"

  CHAPTER FORTY

  She was still laughing when they made it to the cottage and he shoved the door back into place.

  Except for when lightning lit the sky and seeped through the shutters, the room was pitch-black, but he managed to find some of the less wet clothes and rub her down with them, then tuck her into the bed before seeing to himself.

  Thankful that she couldn't see him in the darkness, he scrubbed mercilessly at his skin, as though he could scour away the guilt. Oh, she was right—it had been good. Damned good. Better than he'd ever had; better than he'd ever imagined. Even now, his blood ran hot wanting her again…wanting to give it to her nice and slow, the way a virgin should be treated.

  God damn him for being so weak and irresponsible, for allowing his body to rule his head. He should never have taken her—it had been selfish and wrong. Wrong beyond description.

  But it was done, and like everything else, he would make this up to her.

  Somehow.

  After this was all over.

  Now, he would have to work hard to put the distance back between them—the distance they both needed in order to make sure Gothard was dealt with and no harm came to Caithren.

  His precious Cait.

  When he crawled into the bed, she reached for him. Her lips searched blindly for his in the darkness, fumbled, then found their target.

  A sweet, sleepy kiss.

  He wrapped his arms around her, settled himself against her welcoming body, and listened to the patter of rain on the roof. Distance, he thought as he felt her drifting into sleep.

  He had meant to put distance between them, yet here they were, almost as close as two bodies could be. But she felt too good against him to be thinking of distance now.

  The morning would be soon enough.