by Lauren Royal
Stiffly he crossed the chamber and began loosening his cuffs. It didn’t help that, thanks to the crush of fairgoers, the only room he could get had naught but one bed. Neither did it help that Emerald wore nothing but Mrs. Twentyman’s night rail. Her own clothes and the red gown were wet, draped over the backs of two chairs to dry.
At last she stood and set the comb on a bedside table, beside the violets he’d given her, which she’d stuck into a pewter cup filled with water. The sight of them, bedraggled but saved, made his heart lurch.
He turned away and sat on the bed to pull off his boots, chucking them across the floor.
Her hair waterfalled when she bent to retrieve them and set them side by side against the wall. “You really should try to be tidier.”
He loosened his shirt collar and lay back, crossing his hands behind his head and staring up at the beamed ceiling.
Her head swam into view. “May I have one of the ribbons?”
“Of course. Bring me my pouch.”
She disappeared, only to return holding the brown leather pouch. He couldn’t help noticing how beautiful she was, standing over him with her thick hair bunched in one hand, the firelight revealing hints of her slender form beneath the white night rail. He could barely tear his gaze away long enough to fish in the pouch and pull out the blue ribbon.
It was much too long to simply tie back her hair, but she used it anyway, leaving the long ends to dangle down her back. He’d been right: the blue suited her perfectly.
He smoothed his missing mustache and closed his eyes, listening to her little sounds as she readied herself for sleep.
When Emerald crawled into bed next to him, he made no move to get under the covers. Even thinking the words Emerald and bed in the same sentence made his whole body feel hot. Hardly daring to breathe, he held himself still as death.
It was the dream. The dream had done this to him.
Well, he wouldn’t let the dream win.
He couldn’t let it win. Emerald MacCallum was not the sort of woman he was looking for—not that he was looking at all.
Emerald was deceitful and reckless. And Scottish, of all things! It didn’t matter that she felt soft and smelled sweet. That was only part of the deception.
His eyes flew open when she turned to him and levered up on an elbow. A true hazel now, her gaze was riveted to where his unlaced collar gaped open, revealing the angry puckered scar. “Does it still hurt?” she asked quietly.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s healing. It’s been more than three weeks.”
“I should make a poultice for you.” She reached out, and he stopped breathing, but then her hand dropped away. “How did it happen?”
He couldn’t tear his gaze from her concerned face. And her wide mouth, with its plump lower lip. He was sure her mouth was soft. It had been soft in his dream.
“Geoffrey Gothard shot me,” he said.
“He shot you?” She sat up in bed and shook her head violently. The dark blond tail of her hair shimmered as it swayed back and forth. “You said he hurt, perhaps killed a wee lass. And attacked her mother—”
“That he did—all of that. And when I went after him to bring him in to the authorities, he shot me.”
Twisting to face him, she moved his shirt aside with gentle fingers and touched the pink, ridged tissue lightly.
Something inside him softened.
“It was dangerously close to your heart,” she said.
A choked laugh escaped his lips. “No, it’s only my shoulder. But I was already covered in another man’s blood, so Gothard figured he’d hit his mark.”
“It’s no wonder you’re after killing him, then.” Her fingers exploring, she leaned closer. Her hair fell forward, and the ends of the ribbon tickled his chest.
“No, I…” He couldn’t seem to think. “I don’t mean to kill him, I mean to stop him from hurting anyone else.” Absently he pulled one end of the blue ribbon until the bow came untied. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t back away. “And—confound it, I know this is weak of me—but I cannot forgive him for causing me to kill a man. It’s a burden I’ll carry the rest of my life. But that he shot me…no. That I blame on my own carelessness. I wasn’t fast enough; I was stunned.” His fingers combed through her hair as the words tumbled out. “And perhaps I shouldn’t have been taking the law into my own hands to begin with. It’s not…not the sort of person I am. Though you’ve seen no other, so I cannot fault you for believing so.”
“Nay, I believe you. I’ve seen who you are, Jason Chase.” Her fingertips brushed his jaw. “I’ve seen a man of honor and compassion, and sometimes, when you let it slip, even a wee bit of charm.”
Reversing their positions, he came up on an elbow and hovered over her. She fell back to the pillow, her lips curving into the sweetest smile, her eyes filling with blue light. Free from her customary plaits, her hair was a mass of colors shimmering against the sheets. She trembled beneath him, but her smile never wavered.
One of his traitorous hands moved to clasp her chin. That wide, soft-looking smile seemed to draw him in, until their faces were only an inch apart. “Emerald…”
The light in her eyes died, and she rolled away.
Bewildered, he gazed at her a moment longer, then flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, saying nothing. There was nothing he could possibly say. He ought not to be kissing her in the first place, so he could hardly fault her for putting a stop to it.
Not that he was worried for her reputation. With two little ones at home, she was no chaste maiden. She was a woman of…a woman of…
What was she, exactly?
A Scot, a mother, a daughter—and perhaps a sister, if that bit of her story proved true. And she was a…businesswoman? What did one call a female who made her living tracking outlaws?
Well, unconventional she might be, but that didn’t mean it was all right to kiss someone he had no intention of courting. It was very much not all right. If he had any scrap of the gentleman left in him, he’d keep his distance.
If only he could be a greater distance from her now.
He swore he could feel her warmth penetrating the bedclothes.
Cursing silently, he took the top quilt and slid off the bed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept on the floor.
Assuming he could sleep at all.
THIRTY-FIVE
“THE BIRDS ARE singing,” Caithren said the next morning when they were back on the road.
Since their almost-kiss last night, Jason had said hardly a word. While she didn’t know how she felt about him, she did know she didn’t care for the awkward silence. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“It’s hot,” he complained.
“It’s warm and clear, just as the green flash portended. Will you open your eyes? The clouds look like wool before spinning.”
She felt him shrug behind her. “They look like clouds to me.”
“Is everything so black and white for you, then?” One of her hands went into her pocket to feel for Adam’s miniature. For all his faults, Adam had an imagination. Too much of one, maybe; he couldn’t be less like Jason. “Do you never see gray sometimes? Or purple?”
“Black is black, and white is white. I see no reason to call them otherwise.”
“You’re grumpy this morning.” He was angry with her for rejecting him. Well, she was angry with herself as well. She sighed and tried to put a note of compassion into her voice. “Did you suffer the bad dream again last night?”
“I wish I could have.” With his free hand, he rooted in his coat pocket for his water flask. “It was rather impossible to dream given that I didn’t sleep.”
“Well, nobody said you had to sleep on the floor. I shared a bed with you the first night, and you didn’t hear me complaining.”
“Is that so?” He brought the flask before her so he could use both hands to pull out the cork. “Maybe that’s because you didn’t stay long enough in it—”
&nbs
p; “Wheesht.” She cupped an ear. “Do you hear water?”
He shook the flask. “No. It’s empty.” Disgruntled, he corked it and shoved it back into his pocket. “Are you thirsty?”
“Aye. And I hear a burn. Running water. There, to the right—I mean the left.”
Following where she indicated, he guided Chiron off the road and along a small path that had been trodden through the trees.
Dismounting, she sighed in pleasure at the sight before her. The stream babbled through a sparse emerald forest, its banks studded with multi-colored pebbles that looked like so many wet jewels.
“Oh, it’s lovely!” She sat upon a log to remove her shoes and stockings.
Jason turned from where he was tethering Chiron. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“I wish to take a stroll in the water. Does it bother you, then?”
He shrugged. “I suppose not.”
“You said it was hot. A wee wade would help you cool off.” While Jason didn’t strike her as a man to doff his stockings and wade in a burn, it was worth a try to get him out of his dour mood. “Come along,” she cajoled. “Be impulsive. Isn’t that what you called it when we went down into the tunnel? And you said it was fun.”
His eyes locked with hers for a long moment, clear and unfathomable. “Very well,” he said at last. “Get started.” He waved her along the bank. “Let me fill the flask and check the map, and I’ll follow along in a bit.”
The stream felt lusciously cold on her bare toes. Raising her skirt, she inched in until the water lapped at her feet and then her ankles. She wandered along for a few minutes, keeping a hopeful eye out for the dark green notched leaves of water betony as she skipped stones across to the other bank. The burn smelled fresh and enticing. Bunching her skirt in one hand, she bent to scoop a palmful of water with the other and took a deep, refreshing drink.
When she looked up, it was into the beady black eyes of a wild boar.
Caithren’s heart paused, then skittered before beating again. The beast stood a goodly distance away, perhaps twenty or thirty feet, eyeing her malevolently. She took a step back, pitched forward and had to catch herself from tumbling. The bottom of the stream wasn’t the smooth slope she’d been expecting. It dropped off toward the center.
The boar took a step forward.
“J-Jason?” she stuttered ineffectively, afraid to yell and provoke the animal. She stepped back again, more gingerly this time. The hem of her skirt dipped into the water, and she hiked it higher and tucked it into her belt.
Her hand went up to grasp her amulet. The smooth, polished emerald felt solid and reassuring in her clenched fingers. But the stone’s protective powers didn’t seem to be in force. Staring at her unblinkingly, the boar came two steps closer.
Her heart pounding, she reached her other hand into her pocket, her fingers closing on the grip of Jason’s little pistol. Slowly she pulled it out and cocked the flintlock.
At the distinctive click, the boar moved again. She would swear his eyes narrowed.
“Jason? Are you nearby?” Her hand shook as she raised the barrel. “S-stay back,” she ordered in the most demanding voice she could muster.
Ignoring her command, the boar came closer.
“Jason!” she wailed.
Her breath was coming in panicky gasps. The boar took another step. “Stay back!” she screamed. “Keep away from me, you mawkit beast!”
But it wouldn’t listen, and Jason wasn’t coming to her rescue. When the boar came yet closer, she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.
The resulting bang! left her heart in her mouth. The pistol’s kick sent her sprawling on her bottom in the cold burn, and the boar charged splashing into the water, straight at her. She scrambled to get up, but her feet skidded on the muddy streambed, and the pistol slipped out of her grasp, plunging to the bottom.
Just as she was sure she was about to die, the animal collapsed.
The silvery blade of a sword flashed in the sun, jammed between its shoulder blades.
Shuddering in both horror and relief, Caithren sat in the water, feeling a sudden warmth as the beast’s blood spread in red ribbons beneath the surface. Her gaze was riveted to the motionless boar where its hairy back made a hump in the shallow stream.
Jason waded to her side and reached a hand to pull her up. She stood there, dripping, her hands clenching her crossed arms in a futile attempt to control the shaking.
“It wouldn’t have attacked you if you hadn’t shot,” he said calmly.
“B-but he wouldn’t stop.” Her teeth chattered, although the day was no less hot than before. “He was coming towards me.”
“At a walk, no? He was only curious.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Boars don’t attack people unless they’re provoked.”
“H-how was I supposed to know that?” Her sodden skirt had come untucked and floated about her knees. Her bodice and shift were plastered to her skin. The pale ivory sleeves were streaked a sickening shade of pink.
She stared at the fallen animal until Jason took her by the hand and tugged her upstream. His fingers felt warm and reassuring.
“Submerge yourself,” he urged. He waded back to the boar, lifting his boots high, heavy with water. “Go ahead,” he called back. “The blood will wash out.”
Numbly she obeyed, watching him tug the sword free and rinse the blade. He slid it back into his belt, then plunged his arm into the water and came up with his pistol.
For a long moment he held it dripping above the surface, looking from it to Caithren and back again. He cocked a brow. “I reckon it’s best I keep this, no?” Tucking it into his boot top, he splashed his way back to her.
She plucked her soaked bodice away from her body, trying to gather her wits. “It’s sorry I am that your boots are ruined.”
“They’ll dry.” He shrugged, then his forehead furrowed. “You’re a lousy shot, Emerald.”
“I’m not Emerald.” Irritated, she waded out of the water at full speed. “I’ve never shot a gun before. I didn’t like it much.”
He emerged from the burn and sat on a stump, shading his eyes with a hand as he gazed up at her. “You were carrying a pistol when I found you.”
“Found me? Abducted me is more like it.”
He yanked off a boot and spilled out a gush of water. “What were you doing carrying a pistol if you don’t know how to use it?” His stocking came off next. He wrung it in his hands. Absurdly, she thought he had nice toes. “Well?” he barked.
Her head jerked up. “It was Da’s. Cameron made me take it. To protect myself from Englishmen like you.”
A look of uncertainty seemed to cross his face, but he regained his normal implacable expression while he poured slowly from his second boot. “You’re certainly one for the stories. Quick thinker, too.” He peeled off his other stocking. “It’s a good thing the outlaws don’t know you cannot shoot—that could put a damper on your business, I expect.”
She glared at him in disbelief, then turned and stalked upriver, back to where she’d left her things. “You’ve an aggravating master,” she informed Chiron. Plopping down upon a log, she spread her skirts around her, hoping they might dry a wee bit in the sun while she pulled on her stockings and shoes.
Her eyes were still trained downward when Jason’s nice toes marched into her field of vision. She squinted up at him. “Where is the food you bought yesterday? I’ll be wanting a chitterin’ bite.”
“A what?”
“A chitterin’ bite. Do you not eat something after a swim, to keep from catching cold?”
“No.” He stared at her as though she’d left her head in the water. “Is that another of your Scottish superstitions?”
“It’s not a superstition—it’s a health precaution. And I don’t care for the way you say Scottish.”
He raised a brow. “Will an orange do?”
“Aye. Sweet is preferable to savory.”
“I will file that information.�
�� He fetched an orange from the portmanteau and handed it to her. “You’ll have to wear the red dress,” he said, pulling it out as well. He draped it over the log, a jarring splash of crimson against the green of their forest surroundings.
“Nay.” Ignoring it, she bit into the bitter skin of the orange and began peeling. “I won’t wear that dress again.”
Ignoring her in turn, he shrugged out of his surcoat and took dry breeches from one of the leather bags.
“Crivvens!” She jumped up, scattering orange peel all over the ground. “You’re not going to undress right here, are you?”
“There’s nobody around. What would you have me do, ride around the countryside soaking wet?” In one single lithe motion, he pulled his shirt free from his waistband and off over his head. “And I can’t be the first fellow ever to undress in your presence—not when you’ve had children.”
A small part of Cait registered fury that he still imagined her a parent despite her firm denial; the rest was transfixed by the sight of Jason’s chest. Lightly defined muscles rippled beneath a sprinkling of silky black hair. She had seen men’s chests before—Da’s, Adam’s, Cameron’s. But never a stranger’s.
And most certainly not a stranger who looked like Jason.
When he started unlacing his breeches, she made a strangled noise and spun away. “I’d rather not have to watch.” Her heart was beating fast from rage—and something else. “Indulge me in my false pretense of innocence,” she added sarcastically, moving away.
His laughter followed her. “Come back and take the red dress. I won’t have your skirt drenching my nice dry clothes as we ride.”
The skirt in question was dripping on her nice dry shoes and stockings. In disgust she turned back and snatched the red gown from the log.
“Here,” he said, digging in the portmanteau. “You’ll be needing this as well.” He held out the sheer chemise that had come with the dress.
Instead of arguing, she took it, though she had no intention of wearing it. Plunking the half-peeled orange on the log, she made her way through the trees, far enough that she was sure he couldn’t see her. She checked thoroughly for boars before ripping at the laces of her soggy bodice.
