The Marquess's Scottish Bride

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The Marquess's Scottish Bride Page 22

by Lauren Royal


  Wat Gothard.

  “You murdering cur!” She planted her feet, aiming to follow up with a deadly knee.

  “Dunderhead!” a man shouted, thundering into the courtyard on a horse. He scooped up Wat, wheeled around, and rode out the gateway and out of sight.

  The stable boy rushed forward as Jason burst out the door, rapier at the ready.

  “Go!” Caithren yelled, gesturing out the gateway. The stable boy took off running. She turned on Jason. “Go! It was the Gothards, and he’ll never catch them on foot. Get Chiron and go!”

  His eyes frantically searched her. “You’re bleeding.” He dropped his rapier and reached to make a ginger exploration.

  “I’m fine!” Bending to sweep his sword off the ground, she shoved it into his hands. “Just go, will you?”

  A torn look in his eyes, he backed away a few stumbling steps, then turned and raced for the stables. Moments later, he galloped bareback out of the courtyard.

  Reeling with both relief and disbelief, Cait sank to the cobblestones. She gripped her upper arm. It didn’t hurt too badly, considering.

  The stable boy limped back into the courtyard, puffing from exertion. “They’re gone,” he said. “No one out front saw what happened, so they were able to flee unscathed.” He knelt to collect all the backgammon pieces, then looked up at her, shoving blond hair from his face. “Are you quite all right, madam?”

  She waved aside his concern. “My…friend”—how was she to describe Jason, anyway?—“went after them on a horse. Maybe he will catch them.”

  She hoped so. If they got away, he’d likely blame her once again.

  At the sound of hooves on the cobblestones, her heart sank.

  “They disappeared,” Jason said. “Just disappeared.” He slid off Chiron, and Cait scrambled to her feet as he came close. “Besides this”—one finger skimmed her upper arm, making her wince—“are you hurt?”

  “Go back!” With her good arm, she gestured sharply. “You cannot have looked well enough. You cannot give up so soon.”

  “What I cannot do is leave you bleeding while I play hide-and-seek. I never did make a very good It.” He tugged at the neckline of her bodice and scowled when it wouldn’t budge. His fingers went to loosen the laces. “What on earth happened?”

  “Wat,” she said. “He sliced me, but I think he was going for you. He pulled back when he saw who I was.” Frantically she pushed at his hands. “Oh, will you not just leave? Go after them! I can tell you the story later!”

  Stuffing the backgammon pieces into the bag, the stable boy glanced up. “She punched the ruffian but good,” he told Jason.

  “You what?” Jason’s gaze shot from her arm to her face. “You hit him?”

  “You want I should stand there and let him kill me?”

  Tossing the hair from his eyes, the boy stood straight and snorted in approval. “She was fixing to unman him as well, I believe.”

  Jason stared at her a moment, then reached for her laces again.

  “Jason!” Her gaze flickered toward the stable boy.

  Jason’s green eyes flashed with impatience. “Come inside, then.” He leaned to retrieve Wat’s sword. The stable boy thrust the burlap sack into his hands and moved to take Chiron.

  The innkeeper stood gaping in the doorway.

  “If I may see to the lady’s wound,” Jason prompted him.

  “Of course.” He ushered them indoors, alternately scratching his head and clucking with sympathy. “Buckden is a quiet town.”

  “I will require a room for the lady.”

  The lady? Since when did Jason refer to her so?

  And in such a masculine, authoritative tone?

  The innkeeper showed them up a flight of wooden stairs to a small chamber. “Shall I bring water and towels?”

  “Please do.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” The man bowed and backed away.

  My lord. Jason didn’t seem wont to correct the mistaken form of address. He simply shut the door, turned, and met Cait’s eyes.

  Her head swam. From the pain, the shock, the intensity of Jason’s beautiful green gaze locked on her own? She couldn’t tell. It all seemed muddled in her brain.

  She stood silent and limp while his fingers went to unlace her bodice. He eased it loose so he draw her shift’s sleeve down to expose the cut on her arm.

  His breath hissed in. “Sliced you good, didn’t he?”

  She held her bodice to her chest and glanced down. “Not too bad, I’m hoping.”

  A knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer, returning with a bowl of warm water, towels, and bandages. As he set everything on the bedside table, the door closed with a quiet snick, and they were alone again.

  She listened to the innkeeper’s heavy footfalls retreating as Jason sat on the bed and dipped a towel in the bowl of water.

  He dabbed at the bloody wound. “It’s clean, but deep.” Warm fingers encircled her elbow, holding the arm still as he leaned in for a better look.

  Just as her racing heart had begun to calm, it sped back up. She shifted on her feet. “I’ll make a poultice for it when we stop tonight.”

  Frowning, he dabbed some more. “Would it be better to do it now?”

  “My herbs are outside, in the portmanteau.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.”

  He wound a clean cloth around her upper arm. She’d been unconscious while he tended her last cut; used to blood she was, but not necessarily her own. She felt dizzy, from that or from Jason’s nearness—she wasn’t sure which.

  He looked very businesslike as he tied the bandage. Apparently he was immune to her proximity.

  “Why didn’t you go after the Gothards?” she asked.

  “Geoffrey Gothard will get his due.” His eyes glittered. “But I won’t see you hurt in the interim. Never that. Never again.”

  His voice was quiet, but she detected a tremor beneath the control. His hand went to the neckline of her shift, and she released her hold on it, watching his long fingers draw it up to cover her shoulder.

  She began to relace her bodice, yelping at the sting of fresh pain.

  “Hush.” Jason stood and moved her hands away. She stared at the dimple in his chin as he slowly threaded the laces and tied a crooked bow. Then, even more slowly, almost reluctantly, his fingers trailed up her neck, leaving shivers in their wake, until his hands came to rest on her cheeks.

  He cradled her face, tilted it up, drew her closer. He was going to kiss her again, she realized with a heady rush of anticipation. For real, this time, with no excuse of having a nightmare or being followed. Caithren stopped breathing. She could tell he had stopped breathing, too.

  Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it in the still, dim room.

  He lowered his mouth to hers.

  His lips were gentle, his hands callused but tender. Her heart fluttered in her chest, her blood sluiced through her veins, and she pressed closer. Her arms went around him, wanting more. Wanting…

  Astounding herself with her daring, she parted her lips. He responded eagerly, urgently, one hand hooking around the back of her neck to deepen the kiss. When they sank onto the bed, she felt no pain. She felt nothing but the press of his weight, his warmth, his strength—and a new and marvelous exhilaration.

  Another knock came at the door, and he bolted upright.

  “Is the lady all right?” the innkeeper called. “Will you be needing aught else?”

  As Cait sat up more slowly, Jason ran a ragged hand through his hair. He rose and went to open the door. “She’s fine,” he said. “We were just leaving.”

  When the man’s footsteps faded once more, Jason turned to her. “We have to leave,” he said, not meeting her eyes, his voice husky and…apologetic? She couldn’t be sure. “Are you all right to ride?”

  The door was still open. She stood and took a steadying breath. “I’ll survive.”

  Her arm throbbed, but she wouldn’t have admitted to the pai
n were it likely to fall off.

  There would be time to tend to the injury later. When she wasn’t reeling from that kiss. And its abrupt ending.

  “Let me know if you start hurting, all right?” He looked shaken. “Emerald—” He broke off.

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t answer to that name. Not after what had just happened between them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking like he meant it. “For…for letting things get out of hand.” Somehow she was sure he’d intended to say something else, but he barreled on. “It was wrong of me to—”

  “I’ve forgotten it. Like you forgot last night. We’re even now.” Straightening her gown, she pinned him with a look. “And my name is Caithren.”

  She pushed past him out the door.

  FORTY-FIVE

  HER NAME truly was Caithren. She’d been honest all along.

  And Jason was a fool.

  A colossal fool. A gargantuan fool. The greatest fool that ever lived.

  How had he not seen it sooner? Had he simply been too stubborn to admit such a grave mistake, even to himself? Even when the evidence was overwhelming?

  She was shorter than Emerald MacCallum was rumored to be, not to mention too young for motherhood and completely unsuited for Emerald’s profession. She didn’t know north from south or right from left. She cried far too easily, and she had no business carrying a pistol. For heaven’s sake, the girl couldn’t shoot an outlaw from arm’s length!

  None of that had convinced him.

  Neither had her earnest protests.

  But the events of this afternoon had exploded his entire view of Emerald.

  His view of Caithren, that was.

  Caithren.

  Somehow, she didn’t seem like a Caithren.

  But she most certainly wasn’t an Emerald. An Emerald would not have idled in that courtyard while the Gothard brothers fled. An Emerald would not have sent others after her quarry. Wounded or not, an Emerald would have been hot on the trail before Jason could even catch his breath.

  He hated that at times like this his father came to mind. A father who had been forever dutiful and honorable. He’d certainly never made a mistake on the order of this one.

  Jason swore at himself for two solid miles.

  If he hadn’t already been certain he was ill-suited for this quest of justice, he had the proof riding in front of him. First he’d taken the life of an innocent man, then he’d endangered that of an innocent maiden by mistakenly dragging her into this mess.

  If only he could turn back time and leave Caithren on that public coach. He would—honestly, he would—even though that would mean they’d never have kissed as they just had.

  His arms tightened around her waist at the mere idea.

  Unfortunately, going back in time was naught but wishful thinking. The hard truth was, now that the Gothards had seen them together, protecting her was more important than ever.

  And their, uh, romantic entanglement—if that’s what it was—only complicated matters. New and confusing feelings were an unwelcome distraction, besides which, it was now more than obvious that he couldn’t trust himself alone with Caithren. Alone with Emerald, he’d maintained self-control only by thinking of her as the mercenary tracker.

  Alone with Caithren, he had no such protection.

  For both their sakes, they needed some distance from each other.

  They rode through Southoe, a sleepy village with three moated manor houses and a single old brick inn. “Are you hungry?” Caithren asked as they passed it, jarring him out of his thoughts.

  “Hardly.” He pushed back his hat. “I’ve been thinking—”

  “I cannot say I’m surprised. You seem to do that a lot. Did the Gypsy not say you plan too much?”

  “Hush.” He swatted one of her plaits. “And listen, please. We’ve no need to rush anymore. We don’t have to worry about the brothers reaching London before us.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They’ve been following me. They tried today to kill me.”

  “Not a very competent attempt,” she said doubtfully.

  “Walter isn’t known for his brains. Still, they obviously had a plan, with Walter doing the deed and Geoffrey then spiriting him away. Geoffrey wouldn’t want another murder laid at his feet, and Walter is a biddable sort.”

  “So…”

  “So they won’t be racing off to London the way they planned when they thought I was dead. They’ve evidently decided to do away with me first. Alive, I can bear witness to their deeds, and well they know it. They’re desperate. If either of them ever had a decent bone in his body, it’s disappeared now that they’re backed into a corner.”

  She was silent as she took that in.

  He drew a deep breath. “Another change in appearance would be prudent. And they’ll recognize Chiron as well. I’ll have to board him and buy another horse.” Another thought occurred to him. “Two. They won’t expect us to be riding two.”

  “I won’t try to escape you,” she said, reading his mind.

  “I’m glad of it.”

  He would miss riding with her, though. The feel of her body against him, the scent of her hair, the little hollow at the nape of her neck. Unconsciously he pulled her closer.

  Then remembered he had to keep his distance.

  “We’ll stop in the next town and stay the night—Emerald.” he said. Perhaps continuing to call her the hated misnomer would help keep her at arm’s length. “You can rest and tend to your wound while I gather what we need.”

  She grunted. “We?”

  “You’ll have to change your appearance as well. They’ve seen you with me now—they’ll assume you could bear witness too.” His voice dropped. “I’m sorry. It’s for your own good.”

  “Whatever you say, Jase,” she said softly. Her hands closed over his where he held the reins. When she squeezed his fingers, his insides squeezed in reaction.

  Egad, she was maddening! How did this troublesome girl manage to stir up such tenderness and concern in him? He’d known Caithren less than a week, and yet the thought of beastly Gothard nearby and meaning her harm was enough to make him shake with fear. She had already been hurt more than once, and today she could have been killed.

  And it would have been Jason’s fault for dragging her off that coach.

  He was caught in a trap of his own making, and he felt the jaws closing—teeth of steel that he’d sharpened himself.

  FORTY-SIX

  “HOW IS YOUR arm?” Jason asked the next morning as he tied back his hair. He swept something long and shaggy off a table and took it over to the mirror.

  Caithren sat up in bed and flexed her arm, perusing the breakfast tray he’d just brought her. “Not too bad. I used up everything I collected in the woods, though. I hope to find more today.” She watched him shake out the shaggy thing and hold it high in the air. “What is that?”

  “A periwig,” he said, settling it on his head. “What do you think?”

  Popping a radish into her mouth, she stared at the reddish wig. Crimped and curly, it draped far down his chest, longer than his own hair had been before she cut it. She chewed and swallowed before answering him. “You look different,” she said diplomatically.

  He smiled as he dug through his portmanteau, scattering clothing all over the other bed as he worked his way to the bottom. A dark blue velvet suit with gold braid trim came out, then a fine lawn shirt with lace at the cuffs, and finally a snowy cravat.

  None of it was at all similar to any of the other garments he’d worn. Had the clothes been there all along? Or had he brought them back last night? She’d fallen asleep hours before he returned.

  “You don’t like it, then.” Turning back to the mirror, he adjusted the wig’s crown and flipped a hank of curls over his shoulder.

  Giggling, she hid her face in her cup of chocolate.

  “Many men wear periwigs, you know.”

  “But not such long ones.” She chewed
slowly on a bite of bread, studying him in the mirror. “It looks like you’re trying to pass as a nobleman.”

  He raised a brow at that.

  “And—it’s red!”

  “You’re hurting my feelings.” Though he pouted, the eyes in the looking glass were a sparkling green. “Does it look so out of place, then? My sister is a redhead, and my mother was as well. Myself, I was a skinny, freckled lad—I expect red hair would have been more fitting than the black.”

  She reconsidered. “The red isn’t too bad. But I cannot picture you skinny and freckled.”

  “It’s no lie. I was awkward, too. Gangly.” As he fussed with the wig, Cait watched the muscles move beneath his shirt. He wasn’t gangly now. “Took me years to grow into my looks.”

  “Ah,” she said with a teasing smile. “And here I thought it was the mustache that transformed you.”

  “That as well.” He leaned closer to the mirror and rubbed his bare upper lip. “But I think I’m getting used to its loss.” Turning, he reached to steal a cube of cheese off her tray.

  “I thought you had breakfast downstairs.”

  “That was an hour ago.” He filched another cube and chewed thoughtfully. “Do you like me better with or without?”

  “Without. Both the mustache and the wig.” She set the tray aside. “Supposing I like you at all, that is.”

  “Supposing.” An inscrutable look came over his face. He turned his back and moved to the other bed, then lifted the velvet surcoat and shook out the creases. “Your new clothing is waiting behind the screen, Emerald.”

  “Is it?” Suppressing a twinge of annoyance, she climbed from the bed and went to have a look.

  She blinked and looked again.

  “By all the saints,” she breathed. “It’s worse than the red dress.”

  Draped across a chair lay a bright turquoise brocade gown trimmed with a gaudy wide edging of embroidered silver ribbon. A purple underskirt and stomacher were tossed on top. Even without trying it on, she could tell the dress’s scooped neckline would reveal a lot more skin than she was comfortable displaying.

 

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