The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Asleep, Emerald looked very sweet. And young, like a little dairymaid, with her plaited hair. She wasn’t at all like he’d pictured the fabled Emerald MacCallum, but then, it weren’t as though anyone knew what she looked like. Drawings on broadsides were of the outlaws, not their pursuers.

  But the thought of such a petite young woman capturing outlaws was laughable. Though she had to be older than she looked—for she looked no older than Kendra—he couldn’t imagine what desperation might drive a maiden like her to take up such a profession. Guilt lodged in his stomach as he looked at her long, full lashes, wondering what color her eyes were. He ran a thumb along her soft cheek.

  Then snatched his hand back in alarm.

  What on earth was he doing?

  Shaking off the strange impulse, he reached to roll his patient onto her stomach, then wrestled the thin quilt from beneath her and settled it over her back. His hands gingerly explored her head for the lump he knew must be there, given that she’d been knocked unconscious. He winced when he found it, hard and large and warm to the touch. The tight plait on that side couldn’t be comfortable.

  He set to undoing it to relieve the pressure. Straight and shimmering, hair every hue of blond and brown slid between his hands. When the first side was loose, his fingers lingered at the place where her white part ended at the nape of her neck. Baby fine hairs glimmered gold in that spot.

  No matter that the girl was Emerald MacCallum, the downy little hollow looked innocent and vulnerable. Anger flared. At himself, at the Gothards.

  He’d thrown down his sword to avoid bloodshed, and now someone else was hurt.

  It seemed no matter what he did, he only caused more harm.

  His fingers absently loosed the second plait while he seethed at the whole situation. Though he tried to block a vision of poor little Mary, the effort only led him to picture Emerald in the same state. The thought made him shake.

  And those deuced blackguards had slipped away. Again! He rose and paced around the room, lighting more candles and cursing his mistakes.

  His attempts at mercy only led to more suffering. He should have gone in with loaded pistols and blade at the ready, prepared to handle the brothers once and for all, with no thought to avoiding violence.

  Father would have done it that way.

  “Father would have handled it,” he muttered in self-disgust and walked across to the window.

  THIRTEEN

  HEARING A voice, Caithren shifted on the bed, her head in a painful fog.

  The voice had been a dark, harsh whisper. She wasn’t sure whether she’d actually heard it or if it had been part of her disturbing dream. She tried to move, but her head hurt. She moaned, struggling against the nausea.

  Swift footsteps approached. “You’re awake, then?” It was the same male voice, but rich, comforting, and laced with relief.

  Cait tried to roll closer to the sound.

  He held her in place with a large, warm hand. “For heaven’s sake, be still.” Tinged with worry, his voice wasn’t quite as nice. “You bumped your head but good.”

  She was lying facedown with her nose mashed into the pillow. She couldn’t breathe properly.

  The man’s hands gripped her shoulders, gently helping her turn. “Are you dizzy?” he asked, moving to arrange her aching head on the pillow.

  She intended to say aye, but when he came into view, her answer got lost somewhere between her mind and her mouth. Clear green eyes—too beautiful for a man—were studying her. He had a slim black mustache that reminded her of the one King Charles wore in a picture she’d once seen. But the man’s shadowed jaw and fine tanned features were framed by glorious, long raven hair that was wavy and prettier than her own. Bent over her as he was, the ends tickled her cheeks.

  He looked frustrated and concerned. And she had no idea who he was.

  “Can you talk? Emerald, are you all right?”

  “Emerald?” she echoed. She supposed she was all right, if she didn’t take her aching head into account. But she couldn’t say for sure, distracted as she was by a faint dimple in the stranger’s chin. There was only one thing she was certain of in that moment. “I-I’m not Emerald,” she managed.

  “Oh?” Beneath the silly English mustache, his lips curved, but not in humor. “You’re Scottish,” he said, as though that explained everything.

  “You’re English,” she countered, batting his hair from her face. He straightened, and his spicy scent wafted away, leaving her head a little clearer.

  The room swam into view. She lay beneath not the dusky rose canopy of her bed at home, but a utilitarian beamed ceiling, the plaster cracked and at least a century older than Leslie Castle.

  She was somewhere in England, and Da was dead.

  Disoriented, she raised herself to her elbows, then flopped back to the pillow. A fresh burst of pain detonated inside her head, forcing a moan out through her lips.

  “I told you to keep still.” With a gentle hand, the man swept her hair off her face.

  She pushed his hand away and fingered the ends of her hair, confused. He’d unraveled her plaits. Her other hand drifted up to touch the side of her head where the pain was the sharpest. “I’m not Emerald.”

  “You’re Scottish”—he held up a palm to stop her words from tumbling out—“you’re wearing men’s clothes, you’re carrying a pistol, and you’re after a wanted outlaw. Now tell me you’re not Emerald MacCallum.”

  “I’m not Emerald MacCallum.”

  His mouth curved as though he were amused. “Did the knock on your head damage your memory?”

  “My memory is intact, thank you. But my name isn’t Emerald.” Despite her strong denial, her brain seemed impossibly muddled by the throbbing pain. “It’s Caithren,” she managed finally. “Caithren Leslie. Not Emerald.”

  “Hmm…” The man raised one black brow. “You do seem rather young for such a line of work. If you’re not Emerald, then can you explain what you’re doing here?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be here?” she asked on a huff. “Is there some law against my visiting your country? England and Scotland share a king, last I heard. Though not for long, saints willing.”

  Looking less than satisfied, he crossed his arms while one booted foot tapped against the wooden floor. Obviously he was waiting for her to explain herself.

  Arrogant cur.

  She wouldn’t look at him, then. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the plain whitewashed walls, a simple wood cabinet, a utilitarian washstand, a small tub full of dirty bathwater that should have been carried away.

  Pontefract. She was in her room at the inn in Pontefract. She was here in Pontefract…

  She squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out the man so she could concentrate. “I’ve come to find my brother,” she said at last, opening them in relief.

  “Hmm, is that so?” he challenged in a calm voice laced with a touch of irony. “Then I suppose you can explain to me how you know Gothard.”

  She stared at him blankly. “Gothard?”

  “Geoffrey Gothard. The man you tried to shoot in order to collect the reward. I’m not a half-wit, Emerald.”

  “I’m not Emerald. And I’m not a half-wit, either, but you’re certainly making me feel so, since I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re blethering about.”

  He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her for a while, as though trying to gauge her sincerity. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, rolling her too close to him for her comfort. The queasiness clawed at her stomach again.

  She was alone with a strange man. A strange English man. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips.

  His eyes darkened, making her nervous. With a sigh, she reached up to fiddle with a plait, then remembered her hair was loose. Her hands curled into fists atop the bedcovers. “It’s the truth I’m telling you, Mr.…”

  His mouth twisted up in a hint of a smile. “Chase. But you may call me Jason.”

  “I may, may I?” Stuffy, thes
e English. Well, Cameron had warned her. She took a deep breath and decided to try again. “Do you believe me?”

  “Would you believe you?” His sarcastic tone irked her. “What is your brother’s name?”

  She struggled against the pain in her head. “…Adam.”

  “And why do you have cause to think he’d be here?”

  “He was invited by…”

  As she strained to come up with the name, he shook his head, sending the glorious hair swinging. “You’ll have to invent these lies more quickly if you expect them to sound believable.”

  “Scarborough,” she gritted out.

  “The Earl of Scarborough?” A sparkle came into his eyes, as though he were entertained by the thought of someone related to her being invited anywhere by an earl.

  Just like the innkeeper downstairs.

  Did she look that provincial? Her clothes were in decent condition. Her father had been a baronet.

  “I’m surprised at you, Emerald.” His mocking voice interrupted her musings. “You’ve a reputation for being the cunning sort. Surely you can come up with a better story than that. It must be the knock on the head.”

  Exasperated, she slammed her hand against the mattress, wincing when it jarred her. “Bile yer heid!”

  “Pardon?” He raised a single, amused brow. “Are you suggesting I boil my head?”

  Clenching her teeth, she looked away. Her plaid was tossed over a chair, her shoes and stockings on the floor. Alarm shot through her. “Did you undress me as well, then?” She thrust her hands under the bedclothes to see what else he might have taken off of her.

  That brow went up again. “I reckon you’ll find you’re still decent. What do you take me for?”

  “An Englishman.” Her clothing was all in place, although the laces on her shirt had been loosened. She gave them a vicious tug, then looked down and gasped. “There’s blood on my shirt.” She felt for the source, though it didn’t really hurt much.

  “You were cut. Nothing serious.”

  Slackening the laces, she peeked beneath. He was right. The meadow rue she’d picked would heal it in no time.

  “That’s why your shirt was unlaced,” he continued. “I…checked.”

  When she looked up, his face was red. A proper gentleman he was, then, but he was still an Englishman. And he was staring at her. Caithren bit her lip and felt for her good-luck charm.

  Her hands closed on air.

  “Where’s my amulet?” she squeaked in a panic. She struggled up on her elbows again and felt the dizziness rush back.

  “I have it right here.” He reached to the bedside table, lifted the amulet, and dangled it over her head by its chain. The emerald swung in a hypnotizing pattern. “I’m hardly the type who’d steal from an unconscious maiden.”

  “Well, I don’t know you, do I?” She snatched it to her chest.

  His mouth tightened with annoyance. “But you know Geoffrey Gothard, don’t you?”

  Crivvens, the man was bullheaded. She shot him a peevish look and slipped the chain back over her head, feeling better when the amulet was settled in place. She wrapped a hand around it.

  That Geoffrey he was talking about, she remembered who he was now—the murdering cur she’d overheard at Scarborough’s and met again on the inn’s staircase. That terrible, horrible man and his scum of a brother.

  Englishmen.

  She shivered and tugged up on the thin quilt. Well, at least this Englishman was looking out for her, even if she didn’t care for him badgering her with questions. And though he was plainly cross, he’d yet to raise his voice to her.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said softly by way of apology. She tried to smile.

  His eyes softened in response. All at once he seemed very close to her, though he had not moved. And he was staring at her mouth, the same way that bampot Duncan had stared right before he tried to kiss her at the village dance.

  Was this strange man going to kiss her, then?

  Nay, she was daft! She must have truly knocked herself silly. What would a mustached, pretty-haired, bullheaded Englishman want with a girl like her? Besides, he was still cross with her: his mouth remained pressed into that thin, tight line.

  She couldn’t help noticing it spoiled the dimple.

  “Why are you so cross?” she heard herself asking.

  “I had a job to do, Emerald,” he said with a sigh that, if she didn’t know better, she might take to be apologetic. “And you got in the way. No fault of yours.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Stay away from Geoffrey Gothard. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “I quite agree. But he’s unlikely to be a danger to me, seeing as he’s on his way to London.”

  “London?” She saw his body tense. “How come you to know this?”

  “I…overheard him and—his brother, aye? When I went out to Scarborough’s to find Adam.” Because he seemed concerned for her welfare, she added, “They didn’t see me.”

  The Englishman’s clear green eyes narrowed on hers suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this? To send me off in the wrong direction?”

  “Pardon me?”

  He stood abruptly. “Just stay away from Gothard. Find yourself another reward to collect.” The candle flames flickered as he strode to the door, disturbing the room’s musty air. His gaze settled on her emerald amulet for a moment before he pierced her with those incredible eyes. “I admire your persistence—it puts me in mind of my family—but I cannot see why you refuse to admit who you are.”

  “You know what my mam would have said?” Caithren crossed her arms beneath the quilt. “Telling it true, pits ain in a stew.”

  He paused with his hand on the latch. “I cannot understand you.”

  “Then permit me to translate. Telling the truth confuses your enemies.”

  “I’m not your enemy.” He blinked several times. “Why of a sudden does everyone think me his enemy?”

  He said it to no one in particular, his gaze aimed toward the blackened beamed ceiling, as though he were looking for the heavens to send down an answer.

  “I should be on the road after Gothard,” he mused to himself. Then he sighed and looked back to her. “But hang it if I don’t feel responsible for you.”

  “Well, you needn’t be,” Cait said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen. And now, thanks to me, you’re injured and even more vulnerable to men like the Gothards.”

  “What do you mean, thanks to you?”

  “You fell down the stairs after I intervened. And it was my sword that cut you. Accidentally—I wasn’t even holding it—but it’s my responsibility nonetheless.” She heard a click when he pushed down on the door latch. “I insist you accept my help.”

  “I’d say you’ve helped me quite enough already.” Was this man out of his mind? “Your kind of help I don’t need.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “Get some sleep,” he said, “but make sure you awaken. The last thing I need is another Mary.”

  Mary? Who on earth was Mary?

  He opened the door. “I’ll check on you in the morning. If your head still aches, we’ll have a doctor in to examine it.”

  Caithren was so confused and frustrated that if she’d had the energy, she’d have kicked the door shut behind him. As it was, it closed softly.

  Did he think he could order her about as he pleased?

  I’ll check on you in the morning.

  Not if she had anything to say about it.

  FOURTEEN

  THE SILVER blade flashed, vibrations sang up his arm, and the man before him crumpled to the ground. Blood pumped, sickeningly slick and bright—

  His heart racing, Jason sat straight up in bed, sweat breaking out to coat his clammy skin. His breath came in short, hard pants.

  Who was this man he’d killed? Had he been a husband, a father? Certainly he’d been a son.

  How many lives had Jason ruined with that fateful thrust of his sword?

&n
bsp; Hopefully not as many as when his own parents had been slain on the field of battle. Heaven forbid he should put another family through something like that. Not even, as his parents had, for honor.

  Senseless honor. They’d died fighting for the king, yet Cromwell had prevailed.

  He raked a hand through his hair and swung his shaky legs off the bed. Dust motes floated in the brightness that streamed through the crooked shutters. Sunshine. Daylight. He’d overslept. Another restless, too-short night, like they all seemed to be since he was shot.

  He stumbled to his clothing, pulled out his pocket watch, and flipped open the sapphire-adorned lid. Nearly noon. Egad, Gothard would be long down the road by now.

  And Emerald after him.

  He threw on a shirt and breeches, then padded across the corridor to knock on her door. Silence. He tried the latch, and the door swung wide to reveal an empty room.

  Cursing himself, he returned to his own room and pulled on his boots.

  His family had been right—he had no business going after Geoffrey Gothard. But it had nothing to do with the state of his health. The truth was, he was much happier at his desk or riding his land. He’d always preferred calm and order; he didn’t know how to do this, this gallivanting around the country, courting trouble and violence. He was ill-suited to such a mission.

  And he was botching this one good and proper.

  Downstairs in the taproom, the early dinner crowd was much too cheerful for Jason’s mood. A quick glance failed to reveal Emerald among the diners. The harried innkeeper was rolling a fresh barrel of ale into place behind the counter. When he paused to mop his red face, Jason jumped behind to help him upend it. It settled into place with a thump, displacing more than its share of dust.

  Jason coughed. “Do you know where I might find the maiden who was injured last night?”

  The man wiped his shiny brow with a handkerchief. “She left this morning. On the public coach.”

  “The coach? Not a horse?”

  “No horses available in Pontefract. Told her that yesterday when she wanted to hire one.”