Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (11 page)

When the door swung open, she gasped and shot him an accusatory glare. "There's only one bed."

"I told you there was only one room. It's no fault of mine it has only one bed." He walked in and set his portmanteau on the bed in question. "We'll manage."

She stood on the threshold, eyeing the room with trepidation.

"Come in, will you? I may be an Englishman," he added dryly, "but I'm not in the habit of forcing myself on unwilling women."

"I didn't think you would." With a start, Caithren realized it was true. As infuriating as he was, she felt safe in his presence. It made no sense. She knew it made no sense, which was she was nervous.

Since she couldn't just stand there, she entered but left the door open. He removed his surcoat and tossed it over the back of a lovely carved chair, then went around the room lighting candles.

She wandered over and fingered the fabric of the brown coat. Fine stuff, although plain. Stitching neat enough to rival her mother's. "Mam always despaired of my sewing," she blurted.

What an inane thing to say. As though he cared. But she'd never been good at controlling her mouth when she was jumpy like this.

He shut the door, blocking out the noises of other people in the corridor and downstairs. "Did she, now?"

"Aye, she claimed I'd never make a proper wife. Never mind that I'm capable of seeing to the health and provisioning of every soul at Leslie."

He moved an extra candle to the dressing table. "At Leslie, huh?" From his leather bags came two shirts and a pair of breeches, which he left in an untidy heap on the bed, then an ivory comb, a razor, and a ball of soap. "If you can do all that, I cannot see whereas sewing would make a difference one way or the other."

"Don't you need a wife who can sew?" She hadn't finished saying it before heat rushed to her cheeks. Crivvens, she couldn't stop blethering.

"I don't need a wife at all." He set the implements on the dressing table and examined himself in its fine mirror. "My sister, Kendra, takes care of running my household."

"How about after she marries?"

His eyes met Cait's in the silvery surface. "Not bloody likely. Anytime soon, at least."

His gaze held hers for a moment. Her stomach fluttered. Perhaps she wasn't as safe with him as she'd thought.

He stroked his mustache, then sighed and set to work with the brush and soap, making a fine lather. When he started brushing it onto his face, Caithren felt she shouldn't watch. It seemed too intimate. Instead she walked to the window and drew aside the drapes.

It was pitch black behind the hotel, and she couldn't see a thing. With a sigh, she let the curtain drop and ran a hand down the wall beside the window. It had wallpaper—thick sheets nailed to the wall, with flock printing. The paper's pattern felt velvety under her fingers. She'd heard of wallpaper, but she'd never actually seen any before.

The blade made a small scraping noise that sounded loud in the silence. Despite herself, she sneaked a glance in the mirror. She hadn't seen him clean-shaven, and devil take it if her fingers didn't itch to touch the newly exposed smooth skin. Looking away, she went to the bed and started folding the clothes he'd left there.

But her gaze kept wandering to the emerging planes of his face.

He dipped the brush again, rubbed white foam in a wide arc beneath his nose, caught his upper lip with his teeth—

"What are you doing?" she burst out.

"Removing my mustache." Calmly—as he did everything else—he drew the razor over a section, rinsed it in the washbowl, shaved the next patch. And on, until many black hairs floated on top of the water, and the space above his lip was bare and paler than the rest of his face.

He rubbed it ruefully. "Feels odd."

He flashed her a grin full of straight, white teeth she hadn't noticed before. And those chiseled lips. Such a beautiful mouth. Her own mouth gaped open as she laid the second shirt on the bed and sat herself at the edge, her hands clenched in her lap.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She finally found her tongue. "You look young."

He laughed. "And just how old did you think I was?"

"I don't know," she hedged, mentally kicking herself for making such a brainless comment in the first place. "Thirty, maybe?"

"I'm thirty-two." He looked back in the mirror, turning his head this way and that.

"Thirty-two? But you look—"

"I know. That's why I grew it sixteen years ago. I was handed a lot of responsibility at an early age, and I thought if I looked older…" His fingers moved to stroke the absent whiskers, then jerked away. "I miss it already."

"I thought you wore it in imitation of the king." She gestured at the gorgeous long hair that reached to the middle of his chest. "You look like a Cavalier."

"My family did support Charles in the war," he said distractedly. One hand went up to stroke the wavy mass. "Well, there's nothing for it," he announced in resigned tones.

Puzzled, she cocked her head. "Nothing for it?"

"The hair." He reached for his knife. "It must come off as well."

She leapt from the bed, reaching to still his hand. "Why?" she breathed.

In response to her horror, his eyes crinkled with humor. "Same reason I shaved the mustache. Gothard knows I'm alive now. I don't want him to notice me following him. I'll look different, yes?"

"Well, aye." Suddenly she realized she was touching his hand voluntarily. She pulled back. "But you look different already."

He glanced in the looking glass again. "Not different enough." Holding a hank of the beautiful black silk, he measured it against his shoulder and hacked off a hunk. Crookedly.

She winced. "You're going to look like a wallydraigle."

His expression went from pained concentration to obvious amusement. "A what?"

"A most slovenly creature." She moved closer. "I'll cut it for you," she said, "if you'll go down to the kitchen and ask to borrow a pair of scissors."

Relief relaxed his features. "Done."

He left the room before she quite digested the offer she'd made. Cut the man's hair? She wanted nothing to do with him. What had she been thinking?

She paced around the large chamber. The carved oak furniture all matched, and the counterpane and bedhangings looked to be of silk. Once again, she wondered how he could afford such a place. But apparently he'd been thinking ahead. He'd needed a mirror to accomplish this transformation, and not many small inns would provide one.

She jumped when he barged back in, holding forth the scissors. "Did you think I was a ghost again?"

"Nothing that benign." She dragged a chair over to face the mirror and waved him into it.

He sat and grinned at her reflection in the glass, handing her the scissors over one shoulder. "Go ahead," he urged.

The black waves felt soft in her hands. With a wince, she measured and cut, measured and cut, a wee bit at a time. Soon she was engrossed in the careful work, but not so much that she didn't steal glances at him in the mirror.

His striking features looked even more arresting without the mustache. She hadn't noticed the long black lashes that crowned his clear, leaf-green eyes. A spicy masculine scent permeated his hair and skin.

With her hands on him like this, he didn't seem so irritating and dangerous. As his dark locks slipped through her fingers, it seemed as though a different man were emerging. Surely not, but she felt differently toward him all the same. And chided herself for it.

He studied her in the mirror as well. "What color are your eyes?" he asked.

"My eyes?" She clipped, then glanced up. "Hazel. Why?"

"They looked green earlier today, but now they look blue."

She frowned. "Well, they're hazel." Placing the last silky sheared hank on the dressing table, she stepped away to assess her handiwork. His hair now neatly skimmed his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said softly. "It's a much better job than I would have done."

She glanced at his knife on the table's marble surface. "I expect so," she said, a wry smile teasing at her lips.

Despite all her reservations, she was feeling rather kindly toward him—until he stood, stretched, then unlaced the top of his shirt and pulled it free from his breeches.

"What are you doing now?" she burst out.

He sat back on the chair to pull off his boots. "Getting comfortable for bed. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow. We're planning to 'ride like the dickens,' if you remember."

"I remember," she said. "But—"

"Are you not going to take off your outerclothes?" His second boot fell to the floor with a loud
plop
. "I'm not planning to attack you."

"I have nothing else to wear, thanks to you. My night rail is in my satchel. In the—"

"—public coach." He peeled off a stocking. "I know. That thing beneath your bodice, the garment that looks like a blouse? I'm no expert on women's clothing, but it's quite long, is it not? A shift, is it called?"

"Aye, it's a shift." She plucked distractedly at its sleeves. "Not that it's any of your concern."

She stalked to the bed and tucked the shirts and breeches she'd folded back into his portmanteau, then moved it to a table. Pulling back the lovely counterpane, she found a thick quilt resting beneath. She lifted one corner and climbed into bed.

"Sleep well," she said, in a tone meant to speak of finality.

He rose and moved to look down on her. "You're going to suffocate," he predicted. "At least loosen your bodice."

When she made no move to do so, he threw back the quilt, leaned over her, and made quick work of untying the bow at the top of her laces.

"Unhand me!" she squeaked in disbelief. Before she collected her wits enough to bat his hands away, he began tugging at the laces. "I-I cannot believe what you're doing! No man has ever loosened my clothing—"

"A pity, sweetheart," he interjected smoothly while finishing the job he'd started. "Though I find that difficult to believe." One long fingertip trailed softly alongside her face. "Don't you fret, pretty thing—I may be the first, but I'm certain I won't be the last."

She felt a flush crawl up her neck, heating her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing coherent came to mind.

"There they go again," he said. "Your eyes were just green, and now they've turned blue." He reached for her amulet.

"This stays," she said firmly, finding her tongue. "I never take it off."

He shrugged, moving to the foot of the bed to pull off her shoes. "Now you'll rest easier." Caithren was still sputtering when he flipped the quilt back to cover her.

Glaring at him, she lay silent as he walked around the room snuffing the candles. In increments, the chamber descended into darkness. He slid in on the other side of the bed, his substantial weight depressing the feather mattress, making her nearly roll into him. She gripped the quilt in tense fists, holding herself in place.

"Sleep well, now," he called in a voice that was annoyingly unperturbed. Apparently giving him the evil eye had had no effect on him at all. "We've a long journey ahead of us."

When he leaned to blow out the candle on the small table by the bed, Caithren raised herself to an elbow to do the same on her side. Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she lay back down and stared into the darkness. It didn't seem as though he planned to attack her, and yet…

She realized suddenly that her pulse wasn't racing from fear, but from something else.

Da had fed and clothed her, Cameron had offered protection and companionship, and more than one suitor had connived to press his lips to hers. But no man had ever made it his business to care for her in a physical sense. The Englishman's hands on her had felt different than Da's or Cam's or those fumbling courting lads'.

She wasn't at all sure whether she cared for the feeling. And why did it matter, aye? Her hand went up and wrapped around her amulet. She'd be rid of him after tonight.

Rigid, she lay beside him, willing herself to stay awake while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Had they crossed their arms over their chests, she imagined she and the Englishman would resemble one of the marble effigies in her village kirk, a lord and lady frozen together in time. But she was no titled lady, and the Englishman was certainly no lord.

He wasn't even a gentleman.

She had to get away from him. Back to the coach, where she hoped and prayed they were still carrying her belongings. It would be a miracle to find her money there as well, but she couldn't worry about that now.

It seemed like forever before his breathing evened out in sleep. She waited a few minutes until she was sure, then jogged his shoulder to double-check. He groaned as though in pain, then settled down with a soft snore. She leaned over him, remembering other moments he'd seemed to be hurting. Suddenly she wondered if
he
could have been injured last night as well. Helping her.

Rising, she swept her shoes off the floor, then caught herself looking back to him. But even if he'd been hurt, it was no fault of hers. She couldn't let herself be swayed. Her decision had already been made.

Slowly she backed away, then turned and opened the door. With one last glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the corridor and eased the door closed behind her.

Leaning against the wall, she calmed her pounding heart while she straightened her bodice and relaced it snugly. Then she slid into her shoes, marched downstairs, through the taproom, and out into the night, trying her best to look as though she hadn't a care in the world.

It was chilly and drizzling. She had no money to hire a horse, no alternative other than to start walking. But the coach would have stopped in one of the towns they'd passed, so if she followed the road, she'd be sure to get back to it by morning.

She set off into the long night that loomed ahead.

"Mama, must you go? You've been home nary a month."

"I must, wee Alison." Flora MacCallum moved to her youngest's bed and bent to kiss her little forehead. She smoothed the fine, chestnut hair from her daughter's face. "Maybe, with any luck, this time will be the last."