by Lauren Royal
After she’d made such a fuss over the red dress, she couldn’t believe he’d brought her this. She stepped out into the room to give him a piece of her mind—
“Crivvens! You’re in the scud!” she exclaimed, dashing back behind the screen.
“Translate?” he called.
“You…you’re half-naked!”
“One does have to undress to change clothes,” he said reasonably. “Are you putting on the gown?”
Touching her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them, she dragged her mind from its vivid picture of Jason’s bare chest. “You expect me to wear this?”
“You’d better. It wasn’t cheap.”
“Just who am I supposed to be posing as in this monstrosity?” She grabbed the gown and held it up to her body, gazing down at herself in horror. “Queen Catharine?” She kicked at the hem.
“No.” He laughed. “My wife.”
The gown slipped from her fingers. “Your what?”
“My wife. A nobleman’s wife. Are you undressed?”
His wife.
“Nay. Not yet.” Self-conscious, she fluffed Mrs. Twentyman’s night rail. “Are you?”
“Not anymore. Come out and have a look.”
Cautiously she stepped from behind the screen—and burst out laughing.
He glanced in the mirror critically, then back to her. “What’s so funny?”
“You—as an aristocrat.” Tears ran from the corners of her eyes. “Y-you expect people to f-fall for that disguise?”
A small smile quirked at his lips. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Just because one innkeeper called you my lord yesterday—”
“And don’t forget the Gypsy.”
She laughed even harder. “O-oh, aye. The Gypsy called you milord as well!”
He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the screen, giving her a little push in that direction. She yelped, looking back over her shoulder to giggle at him again.
“Go get changed,” he said with mock sternness.
“Very well.” She hiccuped and went behind the screen.
She was thankful the long puffed sleeves didn’t rub her injured arm, but the gown hugged her upper body like a second skin. The neckline was low and scooped. The stomacher was stiff and uncomfortable.
No surprise there.
“Don’t forget the shoes,” Jason called.
The shoes. Embroidered silver brocade with pointed toes. And high heels. The only positive thing she could find to say about them was that they fit.
A pity. She would have liked an excuse not to wear them.
“Very practical for riding around the countryside,” she said sarcastically. She took a deep breath. “I’m coming out.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
His smile died and a low whistle sounded as she stepped from behind the screen. His eyes widened. “Whoa.”
She teetered to the mirror and pulled her plait forward to unravel it, stilling when he came up behind her. He stared at her in the mirror, standing close enough that she could smell his spicy scent and feel the heat given off by his body.
Something about the way he watched her niggled at Cait. She swallowed hard. “Could I be cast as your servant instead?”
“Hmm? Oh. No, I think not.”
She took the Gypsy-lace handkerchief and started stuffing it into her neckline.
“Uh-uh.” Reaching over her shoulder, he plucked it out of her hands. “My wife wouldn’t wear that.”
Her exposed skin broke out in goose bumps. “Maybe I could pose as your little sister, then?”
“Wouldn’t help. Kendra dresses much like this, sweet.”
Sweet. Her gaze met his in the looking glass.
“And you don’t look like my little sister,” he added softly.
“I don’t feel like your little sister, either.”
He flexed his hands. “No, you most certainly do not.”
Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon on her plait. Clumsily untying it, she watched his reflection back away to sit on one of the beds.
He didn’t take his gaze off her.
She’d never before had difficulty unraveling her nighttime plait. It might help if her hands would stop shaking. She grabbed her ivory comb and reached to part her hair in the back.
“No.” Jason’s voice came from behind her. Confused, she met his eyes in the mirror. “Leave it loose. My wife doesn’t wear plaits.”
Slowly she ran the comb through her hair. Slightly crimped from the plaiting, it hung in soft, shimmering waves. “Wouldn’t a nobleman’s wife wear her hair in curls?” Her stomach fluttered. “And pulled up on the sides, with a bun at the back, like I’ve seen—”
“Not my wife.” He got up and began stuffing clothes into the portmanteau.
She turned from the mirror and walked over to pull a shirt back out and fold it properly. “Clearly you’re used to having someone look after you,” she said softly. “Do you have a wife, my lord?”
Beneath the blue velvet, his shoulders tensed. “I do now.”
For a long minute, neither of them said anything. He looked away first.
It meant nothing, she decided. A nobleman and his lady. A game—just a game.
“I’ll need a wedding band,” she suddenly realized. “And so will you.”
He thought for a moment, then went to his belt pouch and rummaged inside, coming out with the emerald-studded gold band he’d bought from the Gypsy woman.
Feeling odd, she let him slip the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. It fit perfectly, feeling cool and smooth against her skin. The little emeralds winked at her.
She looked up to see him plucking another ring from the pouch, this one wider and heavier, with some sort of crest stamped on the face. Before she could get a close look, he jammed it onto his finger and rotated the crest underneath, so it appeared to be a plain gold band.
She finished folding his clothes and tucked them into the portmanteau, then went to fetch the night rail, wavering on the unfamiliar heels. “I cannot walk in these.”
“You’ll learn,” he said, tossing her comb into one of the leather bags. As he took the folded night rail from her hands, his eyes swept her again from head to toe. Feeling the same irksome niggle, she whirled to face the mirror and put her hands back under her hair, fanning it forward to cover her exposed skin.
Tentatively, she raised her gaze to meet his in the mirror once more. His jaw tightened.
Was he angry? At her? Why?
He backed away, the inscrutable expression sliding back into place. “I’ve arranged for two horses,” he said. “We’d best go, Emerald.”
FORTY-SEVEN
RIDING BESIDE Jason in brooding silence, Caithren sneaked glances in his direction. Encased in the dark velvet suit, his lean body moved with the big black horse as though they were one. Wind whipped the long red hair around the planes of his clean-shaven face.
She had to admit she might have thought he was a nobleman if she didn’t know him. Her stomach felt fluttery just looking at him. It might have been fun to playact lord and lady under other circumstances.
But there weren’t any other circumstances.
Jason would always toy with her, and Cait, the inexperienced maiden, would always fall into his trap. She couldn’t think why he did it; she knew he wasn’t cruel. Perhaps this was just a diverting game to him, something to pass the time on the road. He couldn’t know how it felt for her.
At least she knew it was only a game, she consoled herself. Better than clinging to the hope of more. She needed to find her brother. He needed to find the Gothards. A personal attachment would only slow them down. And ultimately lead nowhere, since she lived in Scotland and he lived here in England.
But her stomach didn’t feel fluttery anymore, just sick.
With a sigh, she tried to turn her mind to more pleasant thoughts. “I miss Chiron,” she said conversationally as Jason waited to cross another bridge.
“I miss him, too.” He seemed distracted. “And I hope he’ll be well taken care of.”
“You paid enough that he should be,” Cait said. He could have bought a third horse for the coin he’d coughed up for board.
“Chiron has never been mistreated.” He nodded as a man passed from the other direction, then guided his mount down the center of the bridge. “I’m hoping to keep it that way.”
As they rode into the small town of Biggleswade, Caithren reached to pat her horse’s red-chestnut neck. “This mare is a bonnie lass. What is she called by?”
“I didn’t think to ask.”
“Nay? Then I will have to name her myself.”
“You do that.” He twisted in the saddle, scanning the street. “Mind if we stop? There’s a baker next to the Coach & Horses. We’ll just run in and get some bread.”
“I’ll wait here.”
“No.” His gaze shifted to her injured arm. “I want you to come with me.”
She’d lost this argument before, so she slid off her horse—whatever the creature’s name might be—and tethered her beside Jason’s.
Though the sun wasn’t high in the sky yet, it seemed a long time since breakfast. Delicious smells of fresh bread came through the bakeshop’s door. Jason tugged it open and hurried to pull her inside.
Unused to the heels, she nearly stumbled. “Jase—”
“Hush.” Baskets tacked on the wall were brimming with crusty loaves. With a rigid hand on her elbow, he guided her over and turned to her expectantly. “Grain or manchet?”
“Um…manchet.”
He shot a glance out the window, then grasped her round the waist and swung her to face the baker. “What did you say, sweet?”
“M-manchet,” she stammered out. She leaned closer to whisper. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Two loaves of manchet,” he told the baker loudly.
“Two pence, my lord.” The flush-faced baker fetched two small loaves and began wrapping them in paper.
Jason pulled out his pouch. “Geoffrey Gothard,” he muttered under his breath.
Cait’s spine stiffened.
His attention on the window, Jason took his time paying the man. At last she saw the tension ease from his shoulders. He tucked the two loaves beneath one arm and curled the other around her waist. Casually, he drew her through the door and outside.
His fingers tightened just before he whirled her around and urged her back against the building. “Pretend you’re flirting with me,” he said, the words coming stilted through a wide, devastating smile.
He pressed close, closer, until the warm bread was pinned between their two bodies. It was broad daylight. All morning he’d been acting like he wanted nothing to do with her.
Her breath caught when he touched his forehead to hers, hot and close. “Now,” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “Geoffrey Gothard is walking this way—he won’t look twice at a couple in a passionate embrace.”
She tried to lean and see for herself, but his free hand came up to hold her face. “Put your arms around me.”
She shakily complied.
“That’s better,” he murmured in her ear. His breath warmed her earlobe, making her feel shakier still.
When she’d donned the turquoise gown this morning, he’d looked at her differently. What if this was just an excuse to kiss her? Another one of his games? She tried again to see Gothard, but Jason’s fingers tightened on her chin. His green gaze bore into hers, so intense her knees nearly buckled.
“You’re m-making this up,” she accused, wishing her words came out stronger. “The Gothards aren’t here!”
“If you value your life, you’ll keep your voice down and play along.” His mouth brushed her cheek and trailed down her neck, leaving a damp, quivery path. “You’re my wife,” he murmured against her throat. “I think we must be newlyweds. Try to look like you’re enjoying this, will you?”
Aye, she was enjoying it.
When she pressed against him, he claimed her lips in a searing kiss. The heat from the bread seemed to seep into her stomach and spread. Her head felt woozy. Her entire body felt limp. Only the wall and Jason’s arms kept her standing.
Her fingers tangled in the coarse hair of the wig. The now-familiar exhilaration stole through her, and a part of her wondered how she could have thought she was better off without this.
Another, distant part of her wondered if the Gothards were truly near. Even if they were, she felt safe here with Jason, as she always had, though it made no more sense now than it had in the beginning. The melting intimacy felt genuine, not like playacting, and despite herself—despite the possible danger—she found herself savoring every second.
Surely he felt their connection, too. Somehow she would make him admit it.
He raised his head and looked both ways, then said, “He’s gone.”
She tightened her hands on the back of his neck. “What else can you tell me about your wife?” Her wobbly voice betrayed her emotions. “I-if I’m to act the part, then—”
“Mmm.” It was a succumbing sound. “My wife…well, there’s no one I’d rather kiss.” The green of his eyes turned deep and unfathomable. His mouth brushed over hers, once, twice, then settled in a kiss every bit as deep as his gaze.
She was startled by his intensity. He wanted her, she was sure of it…
Now that she was dressed like an Englishwoman, said a tiny, niggling voice in the back of her mind.
Indignation flared. It wasn’t right. She’d wanted him all along, even with his silly mustache and his overlong hair, even when he dressed as a miller. It was Jason she wanted, not the package in which he was presented.
But he only liked her in a fancy, low-cut dress.
She raised her head, struggling to regain her senses. “Now you don’t push me away,” she accused. “Ever since I put on these clothes.”
“No,” he said, breathing hard. “Ever since I saw you dance with the Gypsies.”
Since then? Her heart twisted. Dancing with the Gypsies, she’d been herself, more herself than at any other time since she’d stepped foot in England. But did he mean what he said? Or was he dukkering—telling her what she wanted to hear?
He backed away, catching the bread from between them before it could fall to the ground.
Cait blinked and put her palms to her cheeks. She focused on the loaves in his hands. “They’re squished,” she said foolishly.
“Gothard is gone.” He handed her a loaf. “I think we tricked him.”
“I hope so,” she said.
But maybe not. Maybe she’d like to try tricking him again…unless she was tired of being trifled with. She wasn’t thinking entirely straight. The bread didn’t feel as hot as it had between their bodies. Though she wasn’t hungry, she unwrapped the loaf, tore off a hunk, and stuck it in her mouth. Before she could say something else foolish.
“Shall we go?” he asked her.
“Aye.” Swallowing, she wrapped her bread back up. “Let’s go.”
They untied their horses and headed out.
The road out of Biggleswade was narrow, with a few small houses scattered alongside. As scattered as Cait’s thoughts. Jason was the most confusing person she’d ever met. Exasperating. Authoritative. Overprotective.
But he certainly knew how to kiss.
Although it was clouding up and cooling off, the brocade gown was heavy enough to keep her warm. The gown and her blood pumping through her veins…
What would she have done without Jason? It felt like a lifetime since he’d kept her off the coach. She’d still be on it, wouldn’t she? Slowly making her way toward London, listening to Mrs. Dochart day in and day out.
She’d have her money and her clothes—clothes that didn’t leave so much skin exposed for the world to ogle. But she wouldn’t have attended a country fair, tasted syllabub, or danced with the Gypsies.
Or learned what it felt like to really be kissed.
He’d swept her
plans out from under her. That was bad enough. But what if he’d swept her heart out from under her as well?
FORTY-EIGHT
My dearest Malcolm and Alison,
I did not have to travel all the way South, as evidence proves the Gothards to be following the Great North Road towards London. They are not good at covering their tracks. So I hope to be home sooner than planned, which is a very happy thing, because I miss you both more than words can say.
All the day, as I ride the road, I think about my two bairns and what you might be doing. Every day that passes without you is a day I’ve missed forever, and I cannot wait to see your two bonnie faces and hold you in my arms again.
From what I have learned, these men are very, very bad people. I know I will be doing the world a good deed to see them gone. All the same, I would rather be with you, and I count the days until it will be so. I cannot wait to hug and kiss you, and my dearest prayer is that when I come home to you this time, it will be forever.
Your very loving Mama
DURING THE TEN long miles from Biggleswade to Baldock, the weather failed to cooperate. As the long blowing grasses gave way to Baldock’s neat clipped gardens, the clouds grew darker and the wind picked up, whipping beneath Caithren’s heavy skirts.
They rode past the Church of St. Mary, a pleasing amalgam of several centuries of architecture. Jason slowed before the Old White Horse. “You hungry?”
She held up her half-eaten loaf of bread. “I can wait if you can.”
With a glance at the menacing clouds, he nodded. They continued on toward Stevenage, with Cait trying her best to keep the conversation flowing over the hours, so as not to think too much.
Because, truly, she didn’t know what to think anymore.
When the temperature dropped, they donned their working-class hats even though they didn’t match their upper-class disguises. Jason dug in the portmanteau and jostled his horse closer to settle his cloak over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, snuggling into the woolen warmth. She fastened the clasp beneath her chin. “Maid-of-the-Wave.”