Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (10 page)

"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.

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 mottled 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."

He stopped mid-chew. "Pardon?"

She took time for a sip of ale, half-hoping he would choke from curiosity. "The Gothards are going to London to get something from this man Lucas." She sipped again. "If he fails to give them what they want, they plan to murder him."

"Lucas Gothard? They plan to
kill
the Earl of Scarborough?"

Caithren shrugged. "Is that Scarborough's given name? Adam didn't say."

"What else did they say?"

"You cannot expect me to remember an entire conversation."

He said nothing, but she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Uncomfortable under his gaze, she reached into her skirt pocket to touch the miniature portrait of Adam. Her one memento of home—and the only thing she had to her name right now, save the clothes on her back.

The Englishman was studying her, his eyes narrowed. "Why did you let the Gothards get away?"

"I told you—"

"Yes, and it's a nice story. Very well done of you. But for you to know this much, well, it's perfectly clear you're none other than Emerald MacCallum, and there isn't a chance you'll convince me otherwise. Are you going to eat that?" He indicated her bread.

"Help yourself."

As she watched him reach across and break off a piece, Cait struggled for calm. She'd punished him with silence earlier, but it had been at least as hard on her as it had on him. No sense continuing the unpleasantness when she'd never see him again after tonight. Although if he called her Emerald one more time, a swift kick where it hurt might be in order.

He washed down a second piece of her bread with his ale. "Tell me why you're looking for your brother."

His tone implied he was trying to pacify her. That would annoy her if she let it, but she wouldn't.

Maybe if she told him more of her story, he would come to believe her.

"According to my father's will, Adam will inherit all of Leslie unless I marry within the year."

Plates rattled and diners chattered in the background. "And…?"

"Marriage is out of the question." She flashed him a bright, facetious grin. "Men are too demanding and controlling."

He appeared to be coughing up his ale.

"Is something amiss?"

"No." He thumped himself on the chest, then winced. "Continue."

"Well, Adam isn't fit to run Leslie. A restless sort, Adam is. And since I don't plan to marry, I need his signature on some papers relinquishing his rights to the property in exchange for a generous allowance." She fixed him with her best accusing glare. "The papers are in my satchel on the coach."

"I'll have another set drawn up in London." He blotted his mouth with his napkin. "At my expense."

"Your generosity knows no bounds."

Ignoring her sarcasm, the Englishman gazed at her supper. "Are you going to finish that?"

She shoved her half-eaten pie in his direction. "By all the saints, you're a bottomless pit. It's a wonder you're not fat as old King Henry."

"Runs in the family." With a scrape, he pulled it closer.

"As the sow fills, the draff sours."

"Pardon?"

She watched the pie methodically disappear. "The more you eat, the less you enjoy your food."

"Another of your mother's pearls of wisdom?"

"Aye, her words were wise."

"In this case, her words were wrong." He washed down the last of her supper with the last of her ale, then stood. "It was quite enjoyable. Now I must dash off a note and post it to Scarborough, to warn him of his brothers' intentions. And another note to my family. They'll be wondering where I am." He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a key. "Would you like to go up? The innkeeper had naught but a single room, but I'm certain we'll fare well together."

"You are, are you?"

"Yes," he said, so tolerantly she gritted her teeth. "Room twenty-six, upstairs and to the left. I'll meet you there in a few minutes."

Handing her the key, he started out of the taproom, then turned back.

"I can trust you to wait?"

The key's hard metal edges bit into her clenched fist. "I'm not going anywhere," she assured him blithely.

Not yet, anyway.

Caithren headed up the fancy wrought-iron staircase, fuming as she looked for number twenty-six.

It was clear the Englishman didn't like her, yet he expected her to share his chamber tonight. Fifty-seven rooms and only one available? She didn't believe him for a moment. He planned on keeping his eye on her.

She was glad she'd be rid of him soon. She'd never figure him out. Most especially, she'd never figure out what it was about him that made her want to goad him. Or what is was about him that made her want to touch him.

If she were to be honest, that was the most puzzling thing of all.

Reaching the end of the corridor, she turned in disgust. She must have gone right, not left.

The Englishman was standing at the other end, watching her. "Are you lost?" he called.

"Nay." She hurried toward him. "I only wanted to have a wee look around."

Raising a brow, he took the key from her hand and fitted it into number twenty-six's lock.