He struggled to keep his face impassive. When she swayed closer, he stepped back.
Her eyes going hard with determination, she pulled out the lacing completely, tossed it on the bed, and began wiggling the dress down her body. The candlelit room was rather dim, but not so dim he couldn't tell she wore nothing beneath the thin chemise.
He swallowed hard. "Um…Emerald? Just how, um…comfortable are you planning to get?"
The gown dropped to the floor, puddling around her feet. She bit her lip and stepped shakily from the folds. "This ought to do it," she said in a soft, trembling voice.
It did it, all right. His gaze raked her all the way down to the torn hem of the chemise. He wondered if she knew her entire form was silhouetted beneath the off-white cambric. Her nipples were hard points against the front of the filmy garment. And it wasn't cold.
Feeling overly warm himself, he removed his coat and loosened the laces on his shirt.
She walked up to him. Right up to him. Her scent surrounded her like a cloud. A soft, dizzying cloud. Flowers of Scotland again.
Her hands came up to rest lightly on his shoulders. He stood, speechless, while she went on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his.
Warm lips. His body responded immediately, and her lips parted, inviting him to explore the sweet cave of her mouth. Ignoring a painful wrench in his shoulder, his arms went around her to press her close, and then closer—close enough to feel the hard rectangle of her emerald between them. Her almost-bare back felt small and vulnerable against his hands.
Vulnerable? Emerald MacCallum, vulnerable?
He pulled away. Of course she was vulnerable, or he wouldn't be bound on protecting her. He would have gone after Geoffrey Gothard tonight, instead of worrying for her safety and deciding to wait until she was settled somewhere safe—very safe.
But she was still Emerald MacCallum. A woman with whom he had no interest in becoming entangled. No interest whatsoever, at least in his mind.
He wished he could convince his body of that.
She was gazing at him, her eyes now darkened to a deep, hazy blue. Her tongue came out to moisten her lips, leaving a delicious sheen that he ached to kiss away. Deliberately he lifted her hands from his shoulders and moved to get into his bed.
She followed him, sat herself on the edge of the mattress, and leaned close, silently begging him to kiss her again.
Damn if some part of him didn't want to. The nonthinking part.
He forced a laugh instead. "Your bed is over there, Emerald."
She straightened, and one hand went up to draw her thick hair over her shoulder. Twirling it slowly, she looked nervous and innocent. It must be his imagination—either that, or she was quite the actress. There wasn't a chance she could actually be innocent. Not a mother. Not an independent, free-thinking woman like Emerald MacCallum.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
Forcing another laugh, he looked pointedly toward the second bed.
Her lower lip trembled. "I know there are two beds in this room, Jase. You don't have to laugh at me." Averting her gaze, she rose and walked slowly to the other bed, lowering herself to it as though she might break. "So my efforts to allure you are humorous, are they?"
He would swear he'd heard tears in her voice, making him feel like a sorry excuse for a man. "It's not that. It's—" he started, then stopped.
He didn't know what to say, couldn't find the words to explain. He didn't want to hurt her, but he couldn't have her thinking he wanted her—no matter that he did.
He couldn't act on his dishonorable urges, couldn't take her for all the wrong reasons. No responsible man would.
"Go to sleep, Emerald," he said through clenched teeth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Caithren set down the candle and shook Jason's shoulder. "Wake up."
"What?" He struggled up, then fell back to the pillows. "It's the middle of the night," he complained, blinking in the near-darkness. "The birds haven't even started their chorus yet." He rubbed his eyes, then focused on her. "You're already dressed?"
"You said you wanted to leave at first dawn." She turned away and reached for her shoes, mostly so she wouldn't have to look at him. After what had happened last night, she couldn't bear to see the rejection in his eyes.
She could hardly live with herself, let alone what Jason must think of her. She'd made such a fool of herself—he must think she was a wanton. In her quest for a kiss, she'd all but begged him to bed her—and the worst of it was that, in the heat of that moment, she might actually have gone through with it had he given her the opportunity.
Cameron's teasing had proved right on the mark. Impulsive, that's what she was. She had to learn some self-control.
She wanted to be outdoors, in front of Jason on his horse, where he wouldn't be able to see her face and she wouldn't be able to see his. She wished more than ever that he'd obtained a second horse, because she suspected sitting so close to him would be almost as much torment as looking at him.
He was falling back asleep.
She shook him again. "You said this town made you uneasy." Thank God she had a viable excuse to wake him and leave while it was still dark. "Do you wish to overtake the Gothard brothers, or nay? We haven't any time to waste."
"All right. Give me a minute." With a groan, he rose from the bed and changed his shirt, tightened its laces and those of his breeches. Her eyes averted, she parted her hair and hurried it into two plaits, tying the ends with the green ribbon he'd bought her at the fair. Thankful that her own clothes were dry, she folded the red dress and chemise and packed them away.
"Hurry up," she said.
"What's going on here?" he muttered, tugging on his second boot.
He was going to keep at her unless she managed to put this behind her. She gathered herself together. "About last evening," she said to the floor, "do you reckon we can just forget it happened?"
"Nothing happened." He shoved yesterday's shirt into his portmanteau.
She pulled it back out to fold it. "Jase—"
"I've forgotten it already. I lack the sleep to think straight, in any case. It's a wonder I remember my name, let alone events from yesterday." Taking the shirt from her hands, he stuck it into the portmanteau and opened the door. She followed him out and downstairs.
On the way from the inn he peeked wistfully into the dining room, but it was unattended and pitch-black. "The minute the sun comes up, we're stopping for food."
"Far be it for me to deny your stomach."
He handed her the room key, dug in his pouch for some coins, and slapped them into her hand. "Leave these on the counter, will you? I'll ready Chiron. No sense ruining the stable lad's sleep, too."
With a theatric sigh, he headed for the stables.
The birds were singing by the time they reached Sawtry. A small, sleepy town, its few public buildings bordered one side of the village green, the other three sides lined with thatched-roof houses. There was naught but one tavern, a rectangular stone building called Greystones.
Jason chuckled when he saw the sign.
"Whatever do you find so amusing?" Cait asked.
"My brother—um, he…lives in a place called Greystone."
"So?"
"It just struck me as funny, is all." He swung himself down to the street. "We'll stop here for breakfast."
"Why don't we eat it on the road?" she suggested, looking at the square, at the sky, at anything but him. "I'll wait here with Chiron while you go inside and get something."
"The Gothard brothers were in Stilton, which means they're not making better time than we are. I'm certain they're fast asleep. We have time to stop and eat."
"I'd rather not, if you wouldn't mind." She didn't want to face him across a table. "I'll stretch my legs while you fetch the food."
Without agreeing, he helped her dismount. She took his horse by the reins. "I'll just walk Chiron over there"—she indicated the village green and a post with a sign in its center—"and wai
t for you."
"I'd rather you come inside. After yesterday—"
"You said the brothers will still be sleeping. How unsafe could it be? You can watch me from the window."
He fixed her with a penetrating gaze that made her quickly look elsewhere. "Very well," he said at last. "But stay in sight."
The grass was soft and springy, and it felt good to walk after more than an hour in the saddle. She was delighted to discover that she wasn't really sore anymore. After four days on horseback, her body was finally adjusting.
She tethered Chiron to the signpost, which was topped by a fancy wrought-iron affair with letters spelling not only SAWTRY, but also SALTREIAM, the village's name from Roman times.
Doffing her shoes and stockings, she wiggled her toes in the grass and wondered what Jason was thinking of her after last night. He was acting normal. Probably because he didn't want her, so her behavior hadn't mattered to him.
A depressing thought.
In an effort to cheer herself, she rolled her shoulders, reached for the sky, then bent to touch her feet, coming face to face with a fresh, white daisy. She plucked it from the grass and brought it to her nose, smiling at the sweet, familiar scent. Sprinkled liberally throughout the green, the flowers reminded her of a childhood pastime, and she picked a handful, tucking up her skirt to collect them.
Jason found her sitting cross-legged and working industriously. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked, amusement lacing his voice. "A daisy chain?"
She slit the last stem and slipped the first daisy through it, completing the circle. Then she looked up into his smiling eyes, finding it easier than she'd expected.
"For you," she said, rising. "A peace offering." Standing on tiptoe, she crowned him with it. "A daisy chain is supposed to protect you from the fairies."
Instead of teasing her about another superstition, he turned pink beneath his tan, revealing freckles she hadn't noticed before. "We've found peace between us already," he said. "Have we not?" With a sheepish smile, he removed the daisy chain and put it on her own, smaller head.
It slipped right down and around her neck. He leaned closer, settling it into a gentle curve atop the swell of her bodice, his fingers lingering there longer than was necessary.
A frisson of confusion ran through her. She licked her lips and looked down, then reached to grasp the amulet that lay framed within the flowers. Something solid and familiar to cling to in the midst of all this foreignness.
When she glanced up, he was contemplating her bare feet. He bent to pluck another daisy and tucked it into the plait behind one ear. Stepping back, he grinned.
"You look very Scottish," he said.
"Do I, now?" She met his gaze, surprised to find she was able to do so and smile. "Well, you look very English."
"Hmm…" he said in a thoughtful tone. "Both of us managed to say that without sounding insulting." He turned to untie Chiron. "Imagine that."
"Imagine that," she echoed.
Imagine that, indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
White and yellow wildflowers dotted the gently rolling land on either side of the narrow lane leaving Sawtry. As they rode, Jason could see Emerald lazily fingering the daisy chain around her neck, silent as the peaceful landscape. But for once it wasn't an adversarial silence, merely the silence borne of exhaustion, the comfortable silence that comes to pass when two people coexist without the need to fill it with senseless chatter.
Indeed, the only sounds were those of Chiron's hooves on the rutted road and the occasional travelers who passed. Until there came a wild yell, and three young bareback riders came racing down the road right at them, all but forcing Chiron into the stream that ran alongside.
"Gypsy lads!" Emerald came alive. "They pass through Leslie every year, and oh, they play the most lovely music." She cocked her head. "Can you hear a lute?"
"Easy, boy." Jason reined in. "I can hear nothing except—damn, here they come again."
From the other direction, they thundered past.
"Follow them," she urged. "They must be encamped nearby."
Sure enough, over the next hill came the delicate notes of the lute she'd heard. The lively tune grew more distinct as they turned off the road and followed the trail of clumps kicked up by the racing horses.
The Gypsy boys halted and slid from their mounts beside a makeshift community of people milling among tents, carts, and pack animals. Smoke rose into the air above the encampment. The lads bent over in laughter, pointing at Jason and Emerald.
An old woman motioned them closer, flashing a gap-toothed grin.
Emerald turned and tilted her head back, one hand on her hat to secure it. "Have we time to stop? Just for a minute?"
He'd never seen her so excited—he couldn't deny her dancing turquoise eyes. "Ten minutes."
Emerald was already waving to the short, round-faced woman. "Hallo!" she called as they pulled close.
"Hallo, me lady," the Gypsy woman returned. She wore a long, many-layered skirt in a myriad of bright colors and a head scarf of another color altogether. Thick gold loops hung from her ears. "Will you buy?"
"I could have told you that's what she wanted," Jason muttered.
"Wheesht!" Emerald admonished. She slid from Chiron. "I haven't any money."
The woman patted Chiron's flank. "A beauty." She pulled an apple from her pocket and held it out for the horse to munch. "How much?"
Jason dismounted and held the reins possessively. "He's not for sale."
"Pity." She sighed. "Trade?" With an expansive gesture, she offered several horses grazing nearby. "Two for one?"
Jason laughed. "No trade, either."
"Pity." Giving a dismissive wave, the woman turned and walked into the tent village.
Emerald shrugged. "Come, let's find the music. They don't usually mind visitors."
He lifted Chiron's reins. "Is it safe to leave him here?"
"They won't be stealing him, if that's what you mean."
It felt deucedly strange to be asking Emerald for advice, but the truth was, he felt completely out of his element. As a young man in exile he'd lived all over the Continent, but he'd never felt as much at odds with his environment as he did in this little pocket of foreignness here in his native land.
He tethered the horse, then followed her into the encampment. They wove between tents made from fresh-cut hazel pushed into the ground and bent over, which formed a resilient frame the Gypsies covered with colorful blankets. Delicious smells came from a huge iron kettle suspended over a stick fire. Women sat on stools around it, weaving lace and chattering in the Romani language, guarded by soft-eyed lurcher dogs.
As they walked by, a woman rose to stir the soup. When she set down the wooden spoon, a dog came up to lick it. "Bah!" she said, throwing the spoon into the fire.
At Jason's sound of surprise, Emerald turned to face him, walking backward. "It's mockadi," she explained. His face must have registered his confusion, because her laugh rang out over the lute's music. "Dogs and cats are unclean," she clarified. "You really are a gaujo, aye?" She laughed again. "A house-dweller."
"The woman fed Chiron by hand," he said. "Horses are not mock"—he frowned as he searched unsuccessfully for the word—"unclean?"
"Nay. Horses are revered. And they're not mockadi because—" She stopped walking backward, and when he almost ran into her, she put a hand to his chest and raised on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "They cannot lick their own backsides."
He laughed so loudly they attracted several stares. A tall, gaunt man with a wide mustache ducked out of a tent. He wore ordinary breeches and a shirt topped by a colorful vest. His black eyes fastened on the sword hanging at Jason's side. "Sharpen it, milord?"
"No, thank—" Jason started.
"Oh, for certain it should be razor sharp, my lord." The sparkle in Emerald's eyes revealed her amusement at the thought of him bearing such a title.
If only she knew.
"You must let him do it
." Reaching for the hilt, she pulled the rapier from his belt. "Since you'll be wanting to"—she cleared her throat conspicuously—"take care of Gothard with it."
It was plain she still thought he was out to kill, but Jason didn't argue. He let her hand the sword to the fellow, though he had no intention of killing anyone with that blade ever again. One innocent man was more than enough life lost at his hands.
The man sat at a portable whetstone and began grinding. Over the sound of the wheel, the delicate notes of the lute were joined by other instruments: a guitar, a violin, drums, maybe something else. The music rose, becoming even livelier. After Jason retrieved his sword and handed the man a coin, Emerald took off in search of the musicians, leaving him to follow.
In a small clearing, dancers swirled, a wild mass of colors. Emerald turned to him, an avid look on her face. "Shall we dance?" She took both his hands, held them up between them, and pulled him toward the clearing.
He took several tentative steps, then stopped. "This isn't the minuet, nor even a country dance."
She giggled up at him. "Nay, it's not. Can you feel the music?" Indeed, it seemed to vibrate from the grass beneath their feet. "Cameron and I dance with them every year. Doesn't the music make you want to move like they do?"
They were whirling in circles, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, snapping their fingers. "No, it doesn't," he said honestly.
"Come, try it!" She tugged his hands harder, until he stumbled into the midst of the dancers. But his feet refused to move like theirs, no matter how hard he tried. After a few halting steps, he pulled his hands from hers and backed away with a small bow and a sheepish smile of apology.
And he watched. Watched her swirling and dipping, swaying to the music that quite clearly spoke to her soul. Others watched as well, their own feet slowing as they watched hers fly.
Her hat flew off, and he ducked into the fray to retrieve it, then hurried back out. Her plaits whipped around, shimmering in the summer sunshine. The daisy chain about her neck whirled in her breeze, swooping up and down and around with her.
Murmured conversations sprang up all around him. Though he didn't know a word of Romani, he did know admiration when he heard it. Emerald was a—gaujo, had she called the house-dwellers?—becoming one with their Gypsy music.
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