by Lauren Royal
“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.
TWENTY-SIX
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 nearly 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 commanded. “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, nearly matched by the speed of Jason’s. “I don’t like it down here.”
“The door isn’t far.” He was clearly fighting to keep his voice even. “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 fellow to bring a lady 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 kind, his voice made her remember the warmth of his body embracing her protectively. His hand felt strong 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. She didn’t even like Jason. “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.” 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.” She digested that surprising statement as he guided her down a short corridor. He’d sounded as if he meant it. “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 an Englishman who 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. L
east of all why she found herself warming to him when he still called 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.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“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 Jason’s 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, solid 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.
“Wake up,” she repeated, her voice muffled against his chest.
Muttering an unintelligible response, he tightened his arms around her. Her heart lurched madly. “You feel good,” he whispered, burying his nose in her hair. “And smell good.”
His mouth trailed from her hair across her cheek, settling soft and warm on her lips. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt before. She gasped.
He bolted upright, and she flailed back, landing on the floor in a twist of night rail and limbs.
Above her, he blinked himself awake and stared at her on the floor, his eyes glazed with confusion. “I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair, staring at his fingers when it apparently ended way before he thought it should. “Good heavens, I…did I wake you? I’m sorry. I…what did I say? Did I knock you over?”
She struggled to her feet. “Never mind.”
“I was dreaming.”
“I certainly hope so,” she said with a huff, sitting primly on the edge of the bed. Though she was feeling anything but prim right now. It took everything she had to stiffen her spine. She felt boneless. “What were you dreaming about?”
His heavy sigh pierced the darkness. He remained silent a moment before words tumbled out, soft and rushed.
“It’s always the same. I see Mary, little Mary, dying, lying still as stone. And then the scene changes, and I’m fighting. A duel, to the death. I run a man through with my sword. Not my enemy, but an innocent man. Accidentally. He dies.” His voice hitched and dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know who he is.”
She wanted to touch him, but instead clasped her hands together in a death grip. “How perfectly dreadful,” she whispered back, struck by the pain that radiated from him.
“All the more dreadful because it’s true.” He reached a hand to pry hers apart and laced their fingers together on the coverlet. “In pursuing Geoffrey Gothard, I did kill an innocent man. Gothard is to blame, and the reason I cannot rest until he’s brought to justice.” His eyes searched hers in the dim reddish light given off by the dying fire. “Would a girl like you fault me, Emerald MacCallum?”
Her heart squeezed in sympathy. He was needing forgiveness—from himself, not her—but she couldn’t resist the pleading in those sleep-heavy eyes.
“Nay, a girl like Emerald wouldn’t fault you,” she whispered. “And neither would a girl like Cait.”
His fingers gave hers a wee squeeze. Some of the tension drained from his body, and he lay back down, his eyes sliding shut. “We ought to sleep,” he murmured. “The sun will be waking us soon. Between the rain and your nap, we lost time yesterday—we must make it up in the morning.”
When his hand slid from hers, she felt a little pang of loss. He could be disagreeable and overbearing, but his was a troubled soul, and he could be kind, too. He’d been a rock of security down in the tunnel.
Perhaps she should give him the benefit of the doubt. They could start over in the morning. She’d even let him call her whatever he wanted. After all, she was stuck with him, having no other way to get to London; she might as well make the best of it.
She took herself back to bed with a happy sigh, feeling rather virtuous in her resolution to make friends with the Englishman. Reflecting on the satisfaction of acting in a spirit of pure, unselfish compassion, she drifted off to sleep.
If one fingertip rested on her lips, it was only because they were still tingling.
TWENTY-EIGHT
DOWNSTAIRS THE next morning, Jason looked up from the news sheet he’d spread on the polished wooden table. “Coffee,” he told Mrs. Twentyman. “And…”
He hesitated.
Emerald was still upstairs getting dressed. Though his sister drank chocolate with breakfast, a girl like Emerald might prefer coffee instead. But maybe…
“Chocolate for the lady,” he decided. As Mrs. Twentyman nodded and hurried off, he looked back down to the news sheet and began to scan the articles.
England was receiving New Netherlands in North America in return for sugar-rich Surinam in South America, under terms reached at Breda. Remembering his brother Colin’s secret participation in that treaty with the Dutch, Jason smiled to himself.
A man named Jean Baptiste Denis had succeeded in transferring blood from a lamb into the vein of a boy. Amazing.
And Christopher Wren had—
He looked up when two men sat down at the adjacent table, already deep in conversation.
The ruddy fellow leaned across the table conspiratorially. “Me cousin wrote from Cumberland to say that none other than the famous Emerald MacCallum is in the vicinity.”
She’s not in Cumberland anymore, Jason thought with a smug smile.
“And how does your cousin know that?” The man’s companion, a thin, pale fellow, shook his head. “This Emerald MacCallum is naught but a fetching rumor, to my mind.”
Just what Jason had once thought. He opened his mouth to clear up the confusion, but then thought better of it. No sense making it known he had Emerald in tow, he decided as a serving maid arrived with two steaming tankards.
An unusual maiden like Emerald might be liable to attract an unwanted entourage.
The first man hitched forward. “Me cousin talked to her.”
“Surely you jest.”
“He did. He asked her why she does what she does.” He ran a hand back through reddish-blond hair. “Woman’s got two little children to feed, a boy and a girl, and her husband died, leaving her with a mountain of debt.”
“Emerald MacCallum is a mother?” the thin man mused.
Emerald MacCallum is a mother? Jason mentally repeated, stunned.
Could that be true? It might explain why she seemed sweeter and more nurturing than he’d expected of a girl who made her living tracking.
But a mother? Of two? She claimed she was just seventeen years old! Of course, a girl her age was more than capable of bearing children, but…
“He also said the woman’s over six feet tall. Imagine that.”
Imagine that, Jason echoed in his head, stifling a laugh. Here she came now, meandering down the stairs, all five-feet-four-inches of her.
Unless, as she kept claiming, she wasn’t Emerald.<
br />
His breath caught.
But that was impossible. He’d found her, a Scottish female dressed in men’s clothing, holding a pistol on a wanted outlaw.
As she came closer, the sight of her emerald amulet reassured him. Emerald was fast becoming legend, he decided, and folk always exaggerated legend. Look what they said about William Wallace…seven feet tall, indeed! As absurd as Emerald’s being six feet, and likely off by a similar measure.
“Me cousin said she was kind,” the ruddy fellow added. “He was sufferin’ from the sore throat, and she gave him some strange Scottish herbs and told him to boil them in wine and drink the lot down.”
Now, that sounded like the Emerald Jason knew. As she slid into the chair across from him, he resumed breathing.
TWENTY-NINE
“HUNGRY?” JASON ASKED, sliding a tankard in front of Caithren. “I can send it back if you’d like, but I reckoned you’d fancy chocolate over coffee.”
She breathed deep of the sweet steam. “You reckoned well.”
“How is your ankle this morning?”
“Much better.” Cupping the warm drink in both hands, she sipped. “I borrowed your comb. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He raised his own tankard. “I paid Mrs. Twentyman for the night rail. Did you pack it like I told you to?”
“Aye. Thank you for that. And for having my clothes laundered and pressed.” She smoothed her hunter green skirt and grinned. “Even if they were tossed over that chair rather haphazardly.”
“My pleasure.” His eyes danced with good humor. My, but he was agreeable this morn. “It was the least I could do since I couldn’t find you new ones.” Sobering, he took a sip of Mrs. Twentyman’s strong brew. “We can reach London in four days if we hurry. I’ve a mind to make it to Stamford by nightfall, but it won’t be easy.” He measured her thoughtfully for a moment. “I want to thank you.”
“For what?” Caithren couldn’t imagine. So far as she could remember, she’d done little but complain.
His lazy smile made her stomach do a flip-flop. “Last night, when I—well…I didn’t mean to wake you with my nightmare, but it was nice to have you there.”
