by Lauren Royal
Setting the empty tankard atop a gravestone, he groaned aloud at the thought. But he had no choice.
Or did he?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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." Cait'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, she 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 the devil 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 eight and a half more days. Lord 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 nervousness. He was only a man, albeit a misguided one. "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 supposed he was trying to help.
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, loathe 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. That must be where the door was.
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 accusations and claims of responsibility.
She gave him another shove and kicked at his shins, but he stood firm, his mouth a straight line beneath his thin 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.
"Holy Christ!" His hand came up to cover his cheek where her finger-shaped imprints were already making a blotchy, red presence. "You've got a hell 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! I missed 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 God's truth!" 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?"
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. "I hate you!"
"You're not my favorite person, either. 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 very 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, her gaze shot 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, but she only 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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jason sat Emerald before him on his horse. Not ten minutes later, he knew it was a mistake. Damn woman kept wiggling against him, which made him uncomfortable in more than one way.
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."
He grunted and scooted back in the saddle, but only momentarily. Christ, the wench 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.
Bloody hell, was there anyplace she hadn't kicked or hit him?
"How did you find me?" she asked in a peevish tone.
It had been blind luck, but in his present mood he couldn't resist needling her anyway. "For a tracker, you're not very good at covering your own."
"I'm no tracker, whatever that might be."
"You trail outlaws and bring them in to collect the rewards." His gaze kept returning to that vulnerable little hollow at the nape of her neck. "Perhaps the Scots have a different word for it, but we call that tracking."
"Do you mean to say you think I do this regularly? Not just for this Gothard fellow, but for others?"
"It's exactly what you do, and we both know it. See here, Emerald, you're becoming legend. There are few hereabouts who don't know what you do, and I won't have you telling me you're one of them."
She huffed and jerked on the reins, jarring his bruised body and causing Chiron to shy. The end of one of her plaits flew back on the breeze, tickling his face. His stomach growled.
"Hungry, are you?"
"It's long past time for dinner." He didn't know which hurt worse: his poor abused body or his empty belly. "And I left without breakfast this morning, thanks to you."
"Thanks to me? This wasn't my idea."
He didn't rise to that bait, and they rode for a while more in uneasy silence. He wondered if he should give in and return her to the coach. But then he noticed her fingering her amulet.
Emerald.
Remembering her nick from the scuffle with the Gothards, he stiffened his resolve. She could get herself killed out there alone.
"You'll thank me for protecting you later," he murmured under his breath.
"You're not doing this out of responsibility and kindness." Emerald's smug words held a challenge. "Did you really think I'd fall for such an unbelievably noble excuse? You want to kill this man Gothard, and you're afraid I'll get to him before you do and steal your reward out from under you." Evidently proud of her powers of deduction, she leaned back with a grunt of satisfaction, jabbing her shoulder into his wound.
He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Let her believe that nonsense, if it pleased her. Though she could hardly have accused him of a motive that was more out of character, it wasn't surprising a woman like Emerald would find such a rationale acceptable. Telling the truth, that he was concerned for her life, must have insulted her independent nature.
Her explanation suited his purposes perfectly.
For the first time in days, he found himself pleased by a turn of events.
That evening, the clink of cutlery on pewter and the buzz of ale-lubricated conversation filled Caithren's ears as her gaze wandered the well-lit taproom of the Crown Hotel in Bawtry.
She inhaled deeply of a steaming chunk of meat pie before popping it into her mouth. "Not bad for English food," she admitted around the bite. "Hunger is the best kitchen."
Mr. Chase set down his tankard and steepled his fingers. "Translate?"
"Food tastes better when you're hungry. English food, at any rate."
Ignoring the barb, the Englishman lifted his spoon. She watched him, remembering when she'd first set eyes on him and thought he was so handsome. Now he just looked stubborn and irritating. Imagine finding oneself attracted to a man who had the gall to keep her off a public coach.
She deliberately looked away, out one of the Crown Hotel's large, fine glass windows. Across the street and to the right, candles glinted through the mottle
d windows of a nice, small plastered inn called the Turnpike. Down on the left sat the Granby Inn, a squat, square building that looked perfectly acceptable.
The Englishman had certainly chosen an enormous, expensive hotel. She wondered if he had money. He didn't look it. But she felt like she were staying in a private mansion. There were marble pillars in the entrance hall. And the hotel had fifty-seven rooms. Fifty-seven!
She wiggled on her chair, which was plush and upholstered and felt luxurious. At home they had only plain wooden chairs around their table. After spending half the day on horseback, the padding was welcome.
"You'll reach London much faster on horseback than by coach," the Englishman said, interrupting her musings. "This arrangement will work to your benefit."
"Aye?" She touched her emerald amulet. If all went as planned, this arrangement would end come midnight or so.
"We'll make it there in five or six days instead of nine. Long before the coach. And I hope before Gothard."
She took a dainty bite of her pie. "Gothard?" she echoed, unable to resist baiting him.
"Geoffrey Gothard," he clarified and stabbed his spoon into his own pie.
"Oh, him." On impulse, she reached across the table to touch the Englishman on the arm—then yanked her hand back. What was she doing? "You'd best go faster if you're planning to catch him. He was fixing to 'ride like the dickens,' whatever that means."
"It means like the devil." He polished off the last of his bread, studying her with a calculating green gaze. "How is it you know this?"
Cait sighed. "I told you I heard Geoffrey and Wat talking, when I was looking for my brother at Scarborough's place."
"Well, we made decent time today." He flexed his shoulder, a pained look coming over his face. "We shall ride like the dickens, then, and God willing I'll find the bastard right off."
"God willing, is it?" Toying with the handle of her dull pewter tankard, she drew a deep breath. "You can assist God by looking for Gothard at the home of someone named Lucas."