by Lauren Royal
"Whiskey." Jason's voice sounded weak to Cait's ears. Or maybe the blood pounding in her head was muffling the sound. "Here," he said more clearly and offered the goblet to the doctor.
The man took it and downed a healthy gulp. "Decent stuff," he declared, then poured a thick stream over Caithren's wound.
Her breath hissed in, but she wouldn't cry. She'd shed the last tears she would in front of Jason.
"Wh-what did you do that for?" she managed to stutter.
"To cleanse it. Stop infection."
"What?" It stung like blazes. "My cousin Cam would skin you alive if he saw you wasting good whiskey like that. Give it here." She snatched the goblet from the surgeon's hand and gulped greedily, feeling the liquor burn a hot path down her gullet and into her empty stomach.
Jason appeared to be holding back a laugh. A dark glare took care of that. "I have always practiced gentle healing," she told him. "I cannot believe he did that."
She sipped again. The stuff wasn't nearly as nasty as she'd thought.
"It's not unheard of, sweet. Ford did the same for my bullet wound, and he's no surgeon, though he does fancy himself a scientist."
"Ford?" She drank again. The warmth in her stomach was spreading, and her arm seemed to hurt less. Her head was beginning to feel as though it might detach itself and float away.
"My youngest brother, Ford." Jason crouched down and gazed into her eyes. A tiny smile emerged on his face. "Never mind."
He stood and motioned the surgeon closer.
She sipped once more, then set her jaw and angled her arm out. "Have at it," she declared.
The man rummaged in his bag and came out with a needle and black thread.
Caithren winced and looked up at Jason. "Are you sure he has to do this?"
"I'm sure. Drink." He shoved the goblet closer to her lips, and she complied. "It won't take long."
She nodded and steeled herself for the pain. When it came, a sharp prick and a scraping sting as the raw edges of flesh were bound together, it wasn't as bad as she'd anticipated. Not nearly as hurtful as when the surgeon had doused her arm with the whiskey. Or maybe the whiskey had numbed it some.
Jason put a hand on her good shoulder. "You're doing fine." His voice sounded proud, or maybe impressed. It made the whiskey curl warmer in her belly. It seemed all she wanted was his trust, his approval.
Nay, not all, not if she were to be honest with herself. She also craved his arms around her, his lips on hers.
His love.
Everything—her whole world—seemed so confused. When had her goals changed? Where had this yearning come from, and why was it so overwhelming?
She didn't know. She knew only that it was wrong—wrong for her, for her plans, for her life. She belonged home with Cameron, tending their land, their heritage. Not far away in England with this exasperating man.
Her thoughts turned to Jason more every day…her thoughts and her heart. But staying with him was impossible. Even if Jason wanted her, it would be impossible. And he didn't want her, which should have made it easier. But it didn't make it easier; it made it worse.
Much, much worse.
The hated tears flooded her eyes, and one rolled warm down her cheek. She dashed it away with her good hand.
"Nearly there," Jason soothed, stroking her hair. "He's almost finished."
She felt another jab and tug on her arm, and the tears flowed faster. Not from the pain, though…
Oh, aye, from the pain. The pain that weighed heavy as a brick in her chest. The pain in her heart.
It wasn't long at all before the surgeon knotted the thread and cut it with a knife. He tied a bandage around her arm to protect his handiwork. Then, mindful of his patient's distress, he collected his things quietly and went to Jason. "Go to Hampstead Wells and ask to see Dorothy Pippen. She sells medicinal water."
"My thanks." Jason pressed a few coins into the surgeon's hand and followed him to the door, closing it softly behind him. Cait put her arms back in her sleeves and tightened her laces.
"There." Jason came close and patted her shoulder. "It wasn't so bad, after all, was it? And now it's done."
She shook off his hand. She couldn't bear his touch. Not when she knew they'd reach London tomorrow and go their separate ways, with no regret on his part. Only pride, she imagined, that he'd kept her where he wanted her, ensuring his successful, unimpeded capture and murder of Geoffrey Gothard.
Oh, it was not to be borne! Despite a heroic effort to rein in her emotions, she rose and wandered away in tears. Her hand went into her pocket and found the miniature of her brother.
She pulled it out and stared at it, drifting to the window, where she could see the picture better in the failing light. Her thumb caressed the glass that protected Adam's familiar face.
Adam. Where was he? Though Lord Darnley's wedding wasn't until Friday, Adam might well be in London by now. Maybe she would find him tomorrow, and when she saw him, her world would be set to rights. Her plans would be back on track, and she wouldn't feel as though her life were so out of control.
Adam. Dear, familiar Adam. She gazed at his oval face, his wheaten hair, his hazel eyes. All just like hers. The foppish outfit he'd posed in, all velvet and ribbons and snowy linen, brought a smile through the tears. So unlike herself and Da, but typical Adam.
"Adam," she said softly.
"Who is that?" Jason asked from behind her.
"Adam," she said louder, feeling better just saying her brother's name. She had a goal—a worthy goal—and at last it was within reach. So close. "Adam. My brother."
When she turned to look at Jason, his face was whiter than the lace on Adam's cravat.
"What is it, Jase?" She'd never known a man to faint, but he looked as though he might keel over at any second. "Is something amiss?"
"Yes." He blinked and shook his head. "No. No." He drew a long breath, and his lips curved in a forced smile. "You're tired. Let me go downstairs and bring up some supper. Then I'll pay Dorothy Pippen a visit and get you the water."
Cait's hand went to her amulet. "I don't need special water. And I'm not hungry. Just stay with me, all right?"
His gaze skittered away. "I must at least make some inquiries and see if I can find out where we need to go tomorrow. Where Scarborough lives, I mean." He made as though to reach for her, then pulled back. "Sleep well. I'll be up later." With a distracted kiss to her forehead, he left her to go to bed.
Alone and reeling.
Gasping, he checked his momentum, but not in time. His silver blade flashed, sliced in, sending a shiver up his arm. The man before him crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pumping into the dirt. His eyes stared unseeing at Jason… hazel eyes… Emerald's hazel eyes… Caithren's hazel eyes…
Caithren's brother's hazel eyes.
His heart racing, Jason let out an anguished yell as he awakened. He curled up on the bed. His breath heaved. He couldn't recall what he'd eaten for supper, but it felt like it were about to come back up.
"Jason?" Caithren leaned over him, patting his shoulder uncertainly.
He moaned. His head pounded from overdrinking last night—something he never did—and a frustrated dampness squeezed from beneath his clenched eyelids.
Dear God in heaven, he'd killed her brother.
She would never accept him, never love him, never stay with him, never marry him. As though killing an innocent man hadn't tainted him enough, the man had been her brother.
With all his might, he wished she'd really been Emerald. He would still love every stubborn inch of her, and he might have a chance with Emerald. Emerald would understand the driving need for justice that had turned him into another man. Emerald would understand the way killing, even unintentional killing, changed a person.
But Caithren…sweet, unspoiled Caithren…
She wouldn't.
And he'd killed her brother. Her brother. How could he expect her to forgive him, when he couldn't even forgive himself?
He couldn't tell her the truth.
He had to tell her the truth.
"Jason?" Her hand jiggled his shoulder, spiking the pain in his head. Not that he didn't deserve it. Slowly he rolled over and gazed up at her.
"Was it the nightmare again?"
He nodded.
Her lovely eyes filled with compassion. "It will go away when you know who he was."
"I—"
He broke off. Words simply failed him. He needed to tell her…
But how?
Unaware of his anguish, she leaned closer. Her sweet breath felt heavenly, washing over him through parted lips. Clearly concerned, she leaned closer still. Her mouth was close, so close.
Resolve melted, and he closed the distance and met her lips with his, kissing her desperately. She flung herself against him. A low moan vibrated in her throat as she deepened the kiss, inviting him in to explore her velvet warmth.
Sweet Mary, she wanted him—he could feel her need pumping into him. His arms moved to enclose her, to crush her against him—
No, he couldn't do this. Not this time, not this way.
His hands fisted against her back. If he was going to accept the comfort of her body, the least he could do was slow down, show her the tenderness he'd failed to the first time. Keep his head. Protect her injured arm.
Protect his injured heart.
That heart pounding, he pulled back.
He needed to tell her.
He couldn't tell her.
Not telling her was a lie.
Though he knew he'd be damned to hell for the lie, not to mention for taking her—again, when he knew the truth—he couldn't seem to help himself. Just this once, before she discovered what he'd done—what kind of man he was—he would worship her. With his hands, his mouth, his body, he would make her his, make her happy, if only for tonight.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Cait knew the moment he gave in.
His hands relaxed and pulled her close, bringing her mouth to his again. His kiss wasn't angry or hesitant—instead it was sweetly cherishing. It seemed as though the whole of his attention was focused on that kiss, as if, for that moment, nothing else existed in his world.
The sheer intensity frightened her. She'd wanted the chance to see if the passion of that stormy night was repeatable, but now she was afraid to learn the answer.
If it were yes…how would she ever find it in herself to leave him?
Not that he would ask her to stay.
The truth brought a pang to her heart. But then he rolled and took her with him, and she ended up on her back with him gazing down at her, his eyes deep green in the hazy dawn light.
She wrapped her arms around him, and he kissed her again, his tongue sweeping her mouth. She found herself a melting mass of sensation, a puddle on the mattress for him to do with as he would. But still he only kissed her, a kiss that drugged, a kiss that precluded all thought.
When he came up for air, that frisson of fear returned. She wasn't having second thoughts—never that—but intentionally loving him in a bed in the morning was so different than impulsively on a rainswept night. A surrender of sorts, and a huge leap of trust, but she was willing to take it. She could only hope the cliff didn't prove to be too high.
Jason's hands went to the tie at her neck, attempting to loosen the night rail's high ruffle. He only succeeded in knotting the bow. "I thought we were going to burn this," he complained, the words tainted with frustration.
"Here, let me do it." Her heart pounded while her fingers worked at the tangle. "I thought you were an expert at removing female clothes."
"Not night rails. I don't believe I've ever removed a night rail. Off-putting garments, night rails. Mrs. Twentyman's in particular."
Impatient, he moved to help, but she pushed his hands away.
"Wait," she said with a choked giggle. "You'll only make it harder."
"Harder." In the gray shadows she saw his jaw tense. "It's absolutely harder," he said, sounding husky and breathless.
"Nay, it's easy now." Her own voice shook, betraying her anxiety. "It's nearly undone."
"That's not what I meant, Cait." Taking her hand, he moved it down to the bulge in his breeches.
"Oh." She seemed unable to breathe properly. "Oh, my. It is hard. How very interesting." Exploring, she forgot she'd managed to untie the night rail's ruffle until she heard his moan and felt his lips nibbling her throat. "Oh, Jase." Her fingers tightened, surrounding him.
"I think…" His muffled words tickled the hollow of her neck. "Not that it doesn't feel good, but I think…I think you'd best touch me elsewhere now." Lifting his head, he reached for her hand. "Now."
His eyes looked rather frantic, so she reluctantly released him. "Interesting," she said again, arching in delight when his lips went back to her throat.
"Interesting?" The question vibrated right into her.
This sweet, melting seduction wasn't anything like last time, nor was it—or Jason—anything like the animals she'd observed around Leslie. "Well, now, I've seen a horse's, you know, but I've never felt—"
"A horse's?" On a choked laugh, Jason's head came up. "I've never been compared to a horse, but I thank you for the compliment. I think. Then you've seen horses, ah…?" His busy mouth went back to work, making a shiver run through her.
"Oh, aye. But our first time, well…it didn't work the same way, did it?" Her hands played restlessly in his hair. "Of course I knew it wouldn't, because Cam told me people do it face to face. I can see why. The kissing is nice."
"Mmm, nice." Settling his mouth on hers again, he kissed her long and deep, as though to prove it.
By the time he raised his head, her senses were spinning.
"Yes, nice," he repeated with a grin. One hand wandered down her body, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.
"H-have I told you that Cameron and I are breeding horses? Highland ponies." Breathless, she sucked in some air. "Lately we've been crossing them with Spanish stock, in an effort to—"
"Are you nervous, Cait?" He spread the night rail's neckline wider and kissed each of her sensitive breasts.
She was going to die. She was going to die right there. "Maybe." An understatement. "A wee bit." A bigger understatement.
His head came up again. "Has anyone ever told you that you babble when you're nervous?"
"Cameron." Through the night rail, his fingers lazily traced the line where her legs met, inciting a tingling current of desire. Trailing her hands down his back, she found the bottom edge of his untucked shirt and worked her way underneath it. The skin on his back felt hot. "But I don't think I've ever been quite this, um…nervous with Cam."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said dryly. "Let's get rid of this, shall we?"
He sat and tugged on the hem of the night rail, but the yards and yards of it only got hopelessly tangled. With a shaky giggle, she rose to her knees to help him struggle her out of it.
"You're supposed to take this seriously," he said, pulling handfuls of the fabric up to blind her.
"Am I?" She gasped when cold air hit her middle, her face completely swathed in white wool. "This entire act is rather absurd, if you think on it."
"Then don't think."
As though she could. Her breasts were bared now, and she still couldn't see a thing.
But she heard his sharp intake of breath. "Sweet Jesus. You're perfect."
She shoved the night rail off her head, blinking in the brightening morning light. The hunger in his eyes made her blush. "Am I not scrawny?" she asked, tugging the quilt up to cover her body. "You keep telling me I don't eat enough."
"You're perfect," he repeated, sweeping the quilt right off the bed.
Speechless, she could only gasp again.
"I was wrong," he added with a wicked grin. "Besides, I so enjoy your leftovers." While she was still tongue-tied, his hands reached out and fitted themselves to her breasts, which she'd always thought were too small. "Perfect," he breathed, closing his eyes mom
entarily.
She fell back to the pillows, weak with shock. Or something. "This isn't fair."
"No?" His eyes opened and ravenously roamed her body.
She blushed and folded her arms across her breasts. "You should be in the scud, too."
"In due time," he said, moving closer.
"Now."
"Has anyone ever told you you're demanding?"
"Aye." Her hands went to loosen the laces on his shirt. "I'm demanding, and I blether when I'm nervous, and I'm impulsive."
"And you talk too much."
When he kissed her, her fingers faltered. "But I'm perfect," she reminded him.
He nodded solemnly. "Yes, you're perfect."
With a single lithe motion, he stood and pulled the shirt over his head, then made short work of divesting himself of his breeches. Cait swallowed hard, thinking he was perfect, too. Like the drawing she'd seen of Michelangelo's David in one of Adam's schoolbooks. She'd spent hours studying that picture, but she never thought she'd see it come to life.
When he came down on top of her, skin to skin, she sighed loudly in contentment.
Supporting himself on his elbows, he hovered over her. "Now, will you just hush up?"
"Oh, aye," she breathed as his mouth closed over hers. Slow and deep, the kiss left her dizzy when he broke contact. His dark head bent, and his clever mouth moved over a breast, wet and warm and tingling.
"Oh, Jase. I never knew…do all men do this?"
She felt his chuckle. "I cannot speak for all men."
"This is t-taking much longer than horses." She sucked in a breath. "Generally, the male horse bites the female on the neck—"
"Like this?" His mouth trailed up and demonstrated.
She arched in shock and pleasure. "Aye. But…go back to the other."
A low laugh filled the dim room as he lightly bit a nipple. "You like this, do you?"
"Aye, very much." Excitement surged through her when he started suckling away the bite. "But horses accomplish this much faster, aye? It's all over in a matter of minutes, like the first time we—"
When his mouth left her, she wanted to smack herself for blethering