Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2)

by Royal, Lauren

  "That's enough, Kendra." He couldn't let her sway him. Rising from the bed, he grabbed a ball of hard-milled soap from his washstand, threw it into the portmanteau, flipped the bags closed, and secured the latches. "No more arguments." He went to his sister and gave her a hard hug, ignoring the jolt to his shoulder. "They've singled me out—how can I turn away? What kind of man would that make me?"

  Kendra opened her mouth, but Jason cut her off. "You cannot stop me, Kendra sweetheart." He smoothed her dark red curls. "Just wish me Godspeed."

  "If you won't wait to heal, then at least wait an hour or two for Ford and me to get ready. You've never gone off without us. I can care for your wound—"

  "This isn't a holiday, Kendra. You would slow me down."

  He saw her take a deep breath before the fight drained out of her. When she nodded up at him, he turned to Ford. "Find out who I killed, will you? Ask around again in Chichester. Someone must know the identity of his two acquaintances. Then locate them, follow up. Send word to Pontefract if you hear anything."

  "Jason, it wasn't your fault."

  "Do it," he ordered. He jammed his sword into his belt, tucked a small pistol into his boot top, lifted the portmanteau. "Watch over Cainewood for me. God willing, I won't be long."

  "And then we can lay this nightmare to rest?" Kendra asked.

  He stared at her a long time while the chamber filled with an oppressive silence. Then, unable to make that promise, he kissed her cheek and strode from the room.

  "Godspeed," she whispered after him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Her back to the other passengers straggling in and queuing to rent rooms, Caithren stared at the innkeeper in disbelief. "Are you telling me there are no horses for hire in this town?"

  He rubbed a hand over his bald head. "That's what I'm telling you, madam."

  Mrs. Dochart took Cait by the arm. "Come along, lass. Maybe the situation will change on the morrow." With her other hand she set down her valise and dug inside for coins. "We'll take a room upstairs, Mr. Brown."

  Caithren shook off the woman's hand and leaned farther over the innkeeper's desk. "Are there no hackney cabs, either?"

  "No hackney cabs."

  "But Pontefract is a stage stop!"

  "We've extra horses for the public coach, naturally. But not for hire."

  Behind her, Caithren heard feet shuffling impatiently on the gritty wood floor. "Hurry up, there," someone grumbled.

  "Hold your tongue," Cait shot over her shoulder. "I've spent eight days shut up in a hot coach"—with a crotchety, meddling old woman, she added silently—"just to get here and visit with my brother at the Scarborough estate in West Riding."

  Rubbing his thin, reddish nose, the innkeeper slanted her a dubious look. "The Earl of Scarborough's estate?"

  "Aye, the same."

  He shrugged. "You can walk. It's nice enough weather and naught but a mile or so." The man opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound registration book. "Out there, then head east. The road will take you straight past the Scarborough place. You'll find it set back on the right side, perhaps a quarter mile from the road. An enormous stone mansion—you cannot miss it." With a dismissive thump, he set the book on the desk and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. "You may leave your satchel if you wish. Should Scarborough invite you to stay"—his tone conveyed what he thought were the chances of that happening—"I reckon he'll send a footman to fetch it."

  He waved her aside and the next person forward.

  "Come along, lass. We'll be losing the light soon." Mrs. Dochart set her own bag alongside Cait's behind the desk. "Unless you'd prefer to wait for the morn?" she added hopefully.

  Cait reached up a finger to twirl one of her plaits. "Nay, I wish to go immediately." Without a chaperone. "But I'm…I mean to say…well, I expected we'd part company here. Not that I haven't enjoyed yours," she rushed to add, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike with that lie.

  She couldn't remember ever uttering a more blatant falsehood.

  The old bawface looked dubious. "Your cousin hired me to look after you, lass, and—"

  "Only so far as Pontefract. He was well aware I was getting off here, aye? My brother will hire a chaperone for the return journey."

  Though Mrs. Dochart sniffed, it was clear she had no wish to tramp over the countryside. "If you're certain, then—"

  "I'm certain." For want of another way to end their association, Caithren executed a little curtsy. "It's pleased I am to have met you, Mrs. Dochart, and I thank you for keeping me company."

  That lie might have topped the first one; Cait wasn't sure. Feeling a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, she crossed the inn's taproom and headed out into the waning sunshine and down the road.

  She hadn't progressed ten feet when the woman's voice shrilled into the quiet street. "Ah, Caithren, lass!"

  With a sigh, Cait composed her face and turned back to the inn. "Aye, Mrs. Dochart?" The bawface stood framed in the doorway. A cracked wooden sign swung in the light wind, creaking over her head. "I told you I shall be fine."

  "But the innkeeper said east. It's west you're walking."

  "Oh!" Her cheeks heated. "Right."

  "Nay, left."

  "Right. I mean to say, aye. Left, east."

  Reversing her direction, Cait hurried past, murmuring "Thank you" over her shoulder. She heard the woman mutter under her breath and was soon relieved to be out of earshot.

  The evening was warm, and the slight breeze felt wonderful after the stuffy, confining coach. It was passably pretty country, the land green and flatter than at home. She much preferred the harsh contours of Scotland—the beautiful glens, the blues and purples of the wooded mountains, the little lochs and streams and waterfalls everywhere. But she didn't have to live here, after all. She could enjoy the land for what beauty could be found.

  Her heart sang to be free at last, on her way to meet Adam and perhaps rest a few days, depending on the returning public coach's schedule. In two weeks' time she'd be back at Leslie, signed papers in hand, giving Cameron the tongue-lashing he deserved for saddling her with that irritating old woman.

  Glancing down, she spotted the distinctive red-green leaves of meadow rue poking from the edge of a ditch. With a gasp of delight, she knelt to pick some, wrinkling her nose at the strong, unpleasant scent. Bruised and applied, it was good to heal sores and difficult to find near home. Pleased, she tucked it into her pocket and continued on her way.

  She rubbed a hand across her forehead and tried not to think about how tired she was. Instead she focused on the hours ahead. Following what promised to be her first decent meal in weeks, tonight she'd luxuriate in a big tub of clean, steaming water. She couldn't wait to wash off the dust of the road. And she couldn't wait until tomorrow morn, when she'd be snug in a soft feather bed at Scarborough's, imagining the public coach rattling down the road toward London with that bawface tucked inside.

  The thought was so vivid and appealing, she nearly missed the gravel drive that led to a yellowish stone mansion in the distance.

  The building threw a long shadow. The sun was setting. She tucked her plaid tighter around her black bodice and skirt. When Adam saw her dressed in mourning, he'd understand right off how completely he'd neglected his family and home. It would be a simple matter to persuade him to sign the papers MacLeod had drawn up.

  In the fading light she hurried along the path, marveling at the way the gravel was so raked and pristine. Scarborough must employ an army of servants. But they weren't here now, she realized as she drew close.

  The mansion was shut up tight as a jar of Aunt Moira's preserves!

  The sun sank over the horizon as Caithren stared at the heavy, bolted oak door. Hearing the call of a single hawk overhead, apparently the only living creature in the vicinity, she stifled a sob.

  So much for her happy daydreams. She would have to stay the night in Pontefract, steel herself to climb back on the coach in the morning, t
hen somehow survive the nine days it would take to reach London.

  She counted on her fingers. She should arrive on the day of Lord Darnley's wedding, just in time to present herself as an uninvited guest. It was the only place she knew for certain she'd be able to find Adam.

  Touching her amulet, she prayed there'd be no summer storm or anything else to delay the coach, because God only knew where Adam would be headed the morning of August thirty-first.

  A scuffling sound on the roof made her glance up. Probably some sort of wee animal. Or rats.

  Cait shuddered. "Set a stout heart to a steep hillside," she said aloud, imagining her mother saying the words. She squared her shoulders and was turning back toward the road when there came the snort of a horse and an answering neigh.

  Horses meant people. Her spirits lifted. Maybe Adam and his friends were here after all, and they'd just been out hunting. And even if it were strangers, maybe they could spare her the long walk—

  She heard a muted thump and the crunch of gravel, as someone apparently dropped from the roof. Then another thump.

  "Sealed up. Cannot even get inside and snatch a few trinkets to pay our way. Damn it to bloody hell." Coming from around the side of the mansion, the man's voice sounded cultured. But he was cursing a string of oaths the likes of which Cait had never heard.

  She scooted into the archway that housed the front door and pressed herself against the cold stone wall.

  "I'm glad it's sealed up." The second man's voice was whiny. "I don't fancy taking things, Geoffrey."

  "Everything here is ours, Wat. Or should be. You crackbrain."

  The man called Wat didn't respond to the insult. "But Cainewood's horses? What about those?"

  "The horses are rightly mine." The first man kicked at the ground, or at least Caithren thought he did. It was difficult to tell from around the corner. "We had to take them. We were low on funds with no way to get here. Can't you get that through your thick skull? Did you want to walk? Sleep in the open and beg for our supper?"

  "We could have found work."

  "Work? When hens make holy water. Should we stoop to chopping wood for a living? Baking bread? Shoeing horses?"

  "Geoff—"

  "Enough!"

  Caithren heard the crunch of gravel beneath someone's shuffling feet. "So. Lucas is gone. What now, Geoffrey?"

  "He'll be at the London town house, I reckon."

  Cait heard the sound of pacing. Then a prolonged silence, followed by a low whistle.

  "What are you thinking?" Wat sounded wary. "I don't care for the look in your eyes."

  "We'll go to London." There was a significant pause. "And we'll get what belongs to us."

  A chill shot through Caithren, though the night was still warm. Apparently Wat felt the same way. "You cannot mean to hurt him?"

  "Whatever it takes. He's got it coming, and you're next in line. When you're the earl, we'll be sitting pretty."

  "When I'm the earl?" Cait could hear her heart pounding while Wat mulled that over. "Geoffrey," he said slowly, "you're not…you're not talking…murder?"

  "Maybe I am."

  They were planning to murder someone? Cait's breath seemed stuck in her chest.

  "You would kill him?" Wat squeaked.

  "I don't believe it will come to that. But it would be his fault for kicking us out. Just as it's his fault we're in this trouble. And his money we'll be using to get out of it."

  Wat had nothing to say to that.

  Or maybe he was shocked speechless.

  "With Cainewood's death on our hands, we've nothing to lose," Geoffrey added gruffly. "Come along."

  As she listened to them mount their horses, Cait began to tremble. It wasn't long before they rode around the corner of the mansion at a slow walk, heading straight past the front door where she hid. She scurried into a corner of the arched entry.

  "I cannot do it." Even through Cait's fear, Wat's whine was grating on her. It was a wonder Geoffrey didn't put killing him next on his list of misdeeds.

  But evidently Geoffrey chose not to listen, because he ignored the protest. "We have enough coin left to pay for a night at the inn. We'll let everyone see us."

  "See us?"

  "We'll leave for London come morning. People will remember us here, and if we ride like the dickens, no one will believe we could have gotten there in time. We won't be suspected of hurting our dear brother."

  "But Geoffrey…" Wat's voice was so drawn out and plaintive, Caithren almost felt sorry for him. As they rode before her and then past, she risked inching forward to get a look at them.

  Two men, both rumpled and sunburned. They spoke like quality, and looked it, too—overly proud, even if their clothes could use a washing. But they were robbing, murdering scum. English scum.

  Cameron had been right about Englishmen.

  "Now let's find some women." As they moved down the drive, the last of Geoffrey's words drifted back, faint but intelligible. "The last kitchen maid the housekeeper hired on before we left—she was a comely one, wasn't she? If she's not visiting her mama while Lucas is gone, she must be staying in Pontefract."

  Women. The scum were in search of women. Caithren hugged the tops of her crossed arms in a futile attempt to stop herself from shaking.

  England was as evil a place as she'd always heard. What was she doing here all alone? She should have let Mrs. Dochart accompany her out here to Scarborough's. Or Cameron—she should have let Cameron make the journey. This certainly had been an ill-conceived undertaking.

  Though she couldn't hear another word the men said, she was still shaking when they disappeared from view, still shaking when she started the long, lonely walk back in the dark. Still shaking after she'd reclaimed her satchel, paid for a room at the inn and extra for a bath, and trudged upstairs to wash off the dust of a week's travel.

  She slipped into her plain room, shut the door and leaned back against it, a palm pressed to her racing heart. She had to get herself in hand.

  Nothing—leastwise a couple of scummy Englishmen—was going to stop her from finding her brother.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jason slowly slid off Chiron, feeling stiff as a day-old corpse. It seemed the ache in his shoulder had extended to every bone in his body. He detached his portmanteau and set it on the stable's dirt floor, then stretched toward the rough-beamed ceiling, a delicious pull of his abused muscles.

  "Will you be stayin' at the inn, sir?"

  His arms dropped, and he looked down into the lined face of a gnarled old stableman. "Only long enough to eat and wash. Then I'm headed to the Scarborough estate in West Riding. I understand it's nearby?"

  "Aye, but no one's there." The little man's face split in the involuntary grin of someone imparting bad news. "Scarborough shut the house and made off for London two days ago."

  Jason could barely keep himself from groaning aloud. After six days of hard riding, had he arrived only to leave again?

  He forked some hay beneath Chiron's nose. Perhaps the man was misinformed. "How come you to know this?"

  The smile turned self-satisfied. "Cousin Ethel's worked there thirty-odd years. She's staying hereabouts while the lord is gone—likes to stop by to pass the day." He puffed out his scrawny chest. "Servants, we know everything."

  Jason rubbed his stubbled jaw. "Then old Cuthbert is gone?"

  The stableman blinked. "Old Cuthbert is dead."

  "Dead?" Dead? At the hands of his relatives, the Gothard brothers?

  "A month past. He and Lady Scarborough—they died crossing the channel. Young Lucas is the new earl. 'Course he's not so young, exceptin' compared to me." He eyed Jason up and down. "About your age, I suspect."

  He bent to unbuckle Chiron's saddle. "Things over there be different now. Took the new earl no more 'n a week to toss his brothers out on their ears, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and some pocket change." With a little grunt, he lifted the saddle and hung it on a hook. "Deserved it, they did. Cousin Ethel
tells stories…that Geoffrey tormented Lord Scarborough—the new one—from the day he was born. Geoffrey hated Lucas, he did, because Geoffrey was older but couldn't inherit."

  Interesting. The little man was a fountain of information, if only Jason could keep it flowing. He reached for a currycomb and ran it through Chiron's glossy silver coat. "Why was that?"

  "Rumor has it he be Lady Scarborough's son from another marriage, you see." When the stableman filled the trough, Chiron drank greedily. "That Geoffrey, he had it in for Lord Scarborough—the new one—before the lad was walkin'."

  "And the younger son?" Jason probed. "Walter, is it?"

  "Wat? Dumber than a box of hair. Geoffrey led him around by the nose since he teethed his first tooth. Two against one it was, and Lord Scarborough—the new one—just waitin' till the day came he could toss the two of them out. 'Course it's sad that was sooner rather than later."

  "Does everyone in the village know all this?"

  "All I know is what Cousin Ethel's told me." The man looked up from where he was crouched, cleaning Chiron's hooves. "But I know how to keep my own mouth shut. You can lay odds on that."

  "Be an interesting wager." Despite his disappointment, Jason's lips twitched beneath his mustache. "Geoffrey and Walter, they're in the area?"

  "Nah." He dropped a hoof and moved around to lift another. "Disappeared the day after the funeral. I've yet to set eyes on 'em since."

  If anybody would know the brothers had returned, it would be this man. Some of the stiffness left Jason's shoulder. "I think they may have found trouble," he said carefully. "Talk has it there's been a reward posted for Geoffrey."

  "That so?" The man's eyes lit up. "Well, then, I'm hopin' he'll come back and that Emerald MacCallum woman after 'im. A Scottish lass taking our own son, born and bred. Now that'd be a sight to see, here in little old Pontefract. We'd be talkin' about it for years."

  "I imagine you would."

  If the rumors of Emerald MacCallum were any more than fanciful nonsense.