The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “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 towards 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. Confound it.” 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. Deuced girl 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 lips. And he had to keep an eye on her, lest she beat him to their quarry and attempt to capture Gothard—no doubt getting 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. She was no match for such evil.

  And now she was injured, thanks to Jason. He owed it to her to follow her, watch over her, whether she liked it or not. Her safety was more important than her pride.

  Luckily, they seemed to be heading in the same direction.

  It would be no trouble.

  FIFTEEN

  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.

  Hang it, had she hired a horse and left already?

  Frustrated, he paid for an ale and paced Church Street while drinking thirstily. He decided he should be relieved she’d found a horse—it would have been frustrating following a public coach. Much too 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, he tilted his head back and drained the rest of the ale. And looked back down to see a maiden across the street.

  A maiden who looked rather like Emerald MacCallum.

  Instead of breeches, the maiden wore a dark green skirt over a long-sleeved, modest shift, topped by a matching green laced bodice that looked like it belonged in the previous century. A thick brown leather belt circled her slim waist. 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.

  Perhaps in Scotland this was what passed for a hairstyle.

  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. Perhaps 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 slip it into her pocket. Strange girl.

  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.

  Confound it. 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.

  Setting the empty tankard atop a gravestone, he groaned aloud at the thought. But he had no choice.

  Or did he?

  SIXTEEN

  TILTED, MOSSY stone markers were spaced unevenly on the grass. Caithren strolled the crooked rows, touching one here and there. The same names appeared over and over through the centuries. Mowbray, Southwell, Hodgkinson.

  She shivered as she touched the rough headstone of two Southwell bairns. They’d been dead more than two hundred years, one at the age of four, the other listed simply as “Infant Daughter.” Caithren’s throat tightened at the thought of losing family. The recent loss of Da still hurt.

  “Boarding!”

  Startled, she glanced around the kirk toward the Greyfriars Inn. She’d enjoyed her solitude till the last possible moment, but now the coach had pulled up before the rounded corner of the red-brick building, fresh horses in place, and the first passengers were climbing aboard, that old bawface Mrs. Dochart among them. With a sigh, Cait kissed her fingertips and touched them to the sisters’ gravestone, then turned to make her way back to the inn.

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Suddenly the cemetery seemed eerie and forbidding. A soft wheezy sound set her heart to pounding. Was she hearing muffled footsteps?

  Spooked, she froze in her tracks.

  It’s the wind, she told herself. The wind whistling through the old kirk. Cameron always said she had too active an imagination. But her fingers flew to her amulet as her body tensed, ready to run.

  A louder footstep sounded behind her, and a hand clamped on her shoulder. Whirling, she shrieked.

  “Whoa, there.” Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the man looked puzzled and apologetic. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  The face registered, and Caithren’s jaw dropped open. Her hands went to her heaving chest. It took a moment to find her tongue, but when she did, she let loose.

  “You!” The Englishman had said he felt responsible, but she hadn’t figured he was insane enough to follow her. “You scared me half to death.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only—”

  “What are you doing here?” Still trembling, she leaned on a gravestone. “Did you follow me? I told you I don’t want your help.”

  He shrugged in answer as he gazed around the cemetery. “You’re shaking. I suppose you believe in ghosts?”

  “I’ve yet to meet a Scot who doesn’t,” she said shortly.

  His lips curved as though he found that amusing. He motioned his head toward the gray stone kirk. “Why didn’t you go inside?”

  She glanced from him to the building, then back. “You were watching me?” The thought was disturbing.

  She’d wanted to explore the elaborate medieval kirk, not to mention pray there for the stamina to put up with Mrs. Dochart for ei
ght and a half more days. Heaven knew she needed some help. But she’d been afraid the coach would leave without her, so she’d stayed outdoors instead.

  And he’d been watching her. A vague sense of unease stole over her. Her hand went into her pocket, feeling for the familiar comfort of Adam’s portrait she’d put there to remind her of her goal.

  “I-I must go. Please, just leave me alone.”

  “It’s a beautiful building.” He gestured at the bell tower, where no less than sixteen pinnacles crowned the battlement. “You really should have a look inside.”

  The sun came back out, dispelling her anxiety somewhat. She took a deep breath and straightened. “I don’t have time to go inside. The coach is leaving.”

  He nodded. “I’ll walk you through.”

  “There’s a door on the other side?” She frowned but followed him, dimly wondering why she was cooperating with an Englishman. But she felt that he meant her no harm.

  Inside, it was cool and deathly quiet. Deserted as well, at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. The flames of votive candles made shadows dance in the dim light that filtered through the kirk’s beautiful stained-glass windows. She paused to silently admire the ancient grandeur, loath to disturb the utter peacefulness with unnecessary words.

  With a tug on her hand, he urged her down a side aisle.

  “Last call!” The driver’s voice managed to pierce the thick stone walls. Looking up, Cait could see that some of the colorful windows were old and broken, no doubt letting in the sound, as well as the wind that had frightened her in the graveyard.

  “Let go of me,” she whispered, trying to pull from the Englishman’s grasp. He had no business touching her. “I must go.”

  He held tight and continued doggedly toward a small private chapel that projected outside the main wall. It would be near Church Street and the inn. She guessed she’d find the door there.

  But when they stepped through an archway and inside, a scan of the wee chapel revealed only a single wooden bench and a simple altar with three small burning candles. Afternoon sun shone through a cracked window, projecting brilliant colored patches on the stone floor.

  Alarm skittered through her. “There’s no door.”

  “I never said there was a door.”

  She stifled her urge to yell—she couldn’t be making a racket in the kirk. “I must go.”

  “I think not.”

  He wanted to keep her here? She moved for the main sanctuary and front door, but he was faster and blocked her path. Losing patience, she shoved at his arm. “Please move out of my way.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He wedged himself into the archway, spreading his feet at the bottom and his hands at the top. “I want only to protect you.”

  Protect her? The man was daft. She beat both fists against his chest, and he yelped. But he was solid and immovable.

  Through a high cracked window, she heard the call of her name. Panic welled in her throat. She needed to be on the coach. Her future depended on finding her brother. She didn’t have time for this stranger and his odd definition of protection.

  She gave him another shove and kicked at his shins, but he stood firm, his mouth a straight line beneath his silly, slim mustache. She heard her name called again and wished she hadn’t left Da’s pistol in her satchel on the coach.

  When she heard the creak and groan of the coach departing, her panic blended with white-hot anger. Frantically she tried to duck under his arms, through his legs, and finally turned her back, sputtering incoherently. Only when the sound of the wheels faded into the distance did he step from the archway.

  No matter they were in a kirk—she whirled and slapped him hard across the face.

  “Egad!” His hand came up to cover his cheek where her finger-shaped imprints were already making a blotchy, red presence. “You’ve got a devil of an arm.”

  “Don’t you blaspheme in the kirk!” she yelled, bringing her hand up again.

  Neatly he caught her by the wrist. “Once, you’re quick. Twice, I’m stupid,” he said drolly.

  “You’re stupid, all right! You made me miss my coach!” She wrenched free and shrank away from him, back into the wee chapel.

  “There’s nowhere for you to go,” he said calmly. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Why should I believe you?” But she did, though it made no sense. “How am I going to get to London?”

  “There will be another coach.”

  “In three days! And I must be in London by next week!”

  He rubbed his injured cheek. Absurdly, she noticed he hadn’t shaved. He must have been in a hurry this morning.

  “Next week,” he mused, as though to himself. “What for?” He came close, his hand dropping from his face to clamp her shoulder, holding her from bolting. As if she had anywhere to go. “Why do you need to be in London? Think fast—I’m sure you can come up with a good one.”

  “My brother is expected there.” She twisted from his grip. “I told you I’m looking for him. I need him to sign some papers.”

  “That story’s getting old, Emerald.”

  “It’s the truth!” She was too distraught to keep her voice low now. Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. She didn’t know whether she was more enraged that he’d detained her or that he insisted on calling her Emerald. Both made her spitting mad. “If I miss him in London, he might go to India. And how will I find him then, I ask you? What will I do then?”

  “India? Your creativity knows no bounds.” Wincing, he bent to rub one of his shins, and she was gratified to think she’d damaged him. “India,” he muttered, his voice unmistakably disgusted.

  The tears did fall then, fast and furious. All she’d wanted was to find Adam. It had seemed such a simple matter to go to him and have him sign the papers. Now everything had gone awry.

  “I must get to London!” The Englishman’s face looked all blurry through her tears. “Why did you keep me here?” she wailed. “Whatever for?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. “I told you last night. I feel responsible—”

  “I’m not your responsibility!”

  “—for seeing to your safety,” he continued unperturbed. “I only hoped to delay you a few days, to allow me to deal with Geoffrey Gothard before he can do you harm.”

  “Gothard again?” She stamped her foot, hard. It seemed the candle flames wavered, but the Englishman didn’t budge. “You’re unbelievable!”

  “You’re no treat yourself. I’m only trying to help you.” He shook his head. “India.” The sigh that escaped his lips was so elaborate it ruffled his long black hair.

  She sat down on the single bench and dashed impatiently at the wetness on her cheeks. Wheesht! She rarely cried at home, but here she was a veritable fountain.

  England was a nasty place. Cameron didn’t know the half of it.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” Her shoulders trembled. “Will you take me back to the coach?”

  “Forward to the coach. And the answer is no.” His black boots shuffled on the stone floor. He plopped to sit beside her. “Please don’t cry.”

  His voice sounded miserable. He hated tears, did he? Good. She let loose a particularly pathetic wail.

  He scooted to the far end of the bench. She angled toward him so he could see the tears run down her face. He rose and walked away, pacing the breadth of the wee chapel and back again. When he came to stand before her, arms crossed, she dropped her head into her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

  Or at least she hoped he thought so. She had to convince him to take her to the coach.

  “I’ll take you to London,” he muttered.

  Tears forgotten, she looked up. “If you think I’d go with—”

  “Look, I must go to London regardless.” He frowned at her puzzled glare. “To find Gothard. I can protect you this way. I don’t suppose it will be too much trouble to bring you along.”

  She stood and rose on her toes before
him, so she could stick her face near his. “Oh, aye?” He flinched. She’d never spoken to anyone—much less a grown man twice her size—with such vitriol before. But he deserved it. She pushed her nose even closer. “Thanks to you, I don’t have any clothes or money—it’s all on the coach. I don’t even have a hat! I expect you’ll be sorry before this is over.”

  His face turning red, he swept off his hat and stuck it on her head. “I’m sorry already.”

  “Good,” she said through clenched teeth. Because it was good. He was unhappy and he was getting her out of here: both good things, in her estimation.

  She tipped the hat’s brim and swiped the tears from her cheeks.

  As soon as they caught up with the coach, she’d be off, and best of luck to him in foiling her plans again. Fool her once, he was quick. Twice, she was stupid.

  And Caithren Leslie was far from stupid.

  SEVENTEEN

  JASON SAT Emerald before him on his horse. Not ten minutes later, he knew it was a mistake. It seemed she never stopped wiggling.

  He hadn’t considered how the two of them would get to London on one horse. Truth be told, he hadn’t considered much of anything before coming up with this harebrained scheme to detain her—to ensure she didn’t do anything foolish that might get her killed.

  Before they left Bawtry tomorrow, he’d have to buy another horse. He hoped mightily he’d have better luck finding one than she’d had.

  They rode two long hours before she said a word. As he guided Chiron through a stand of trees and turned back onto the Great North Road, she finally uttered a sentence. Grudgingly.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you took the long way round to avoid the coach.”

  He snorted. “To the contrary, Emerald, I’m quite certain you notice everything.”

  She leaned back to glare up at him, bumping her head on his sore shoulder. “I’m Caithren.”

  Whatever her name was, she smelled good. Like a heady mix of wildflowers. His arm tightened around her waist, even though the close contact made his aches and pains more achy and painful.