Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (12 page)

Malcolm crawled over his sister and down to the floor to hug his mother around the knees. "Are you going to be Emerald again?"

"Aye. I'm going to be Emerald one more time."

"But it's the middle of the night."

"Nay, dawn approaches. And others are doubtless on the Gothards' trail already." She knelt to give her bonnie lad a fierce hug, breathing in his scent to sustain her through the days and weeks ahead. Soap and milk, underscored by a faint trace of the dirt she could never quite get out from under his fingernails. She wished she could bottle the aroma and take it with her.

Unwinding his small arms from around her neck, she stood to shrug into a man's surcoat.

"It's lucky you two were of a height." Hearing her mother's voice, Flora turned to see her leaning against the doorway that separated the two rooms of their cottage. "Not many women can wear their husband's clothes."

"Aye?" A strand of long gray hair had escaped her mother's plait; Flora walked over and pushed it behind her ear. "It was the only lucky thing between us."

"Now, Flora—"

"Don't go defending him, Mama." Though her words were firm, she pressed a kiss to the top of her tiny mother's head. All of Flora's height—and she was the tallest woman in Galloway—had come from her father. "I'll never forgive my husband for pledging our home in a game of dice and then getting himself killed in that border raid. Damned halliracket."

"Wheesht! The bairns are listenin'."

"And right they should be." Flora twisted her unruly red hair and piled it on her head, then jammed her deceased husband's hat on top. "It's fair they know why I have to leave them."

"Flora—"

"Just give me peace till this is finished, Mama. One last time. With the reward posted for Gothard, I can pay off Kincaid and then some. We'll be able to breathe. Give the farm our attention. Maybe even get wee Alison her own bed. Won't that be nice?"

"Nice, Mama!" Alison repeated.

Flora's mother bent to sweep a length of broken reed off the floor. The roof needed replacing as well. "Damn your daftie of a father for ever takin' you tracking," she muttered. "Thought you were the son he never had."

"Neither of us chose our men well." Flora stuck a pistol into her boot top and snatched up the sword that was propped in the corner. "Still and on, if Papa hadn't taken me, I wouldn't be able to get us out of the mess we're in today." She kissed her mother's parchment cheek. "Take care of the bairns, Mama. God willing, I'll be back to stay."

Hard kisses for Alison and Malcolm, and she was off to do what needed to be done.

Once and for all.

Jason jerked awake. Emerald was gone. Again.

Dawn's hazy gray light seeped through the window. He slept soundly these days, the bone-deep weariness of a healing body coupled with hard hours on the road. But still…how was it that a woman could rise, dress herself, and leave without waking him?

Cursing himself—which was getting to be quite a habit—he pulled on his boots and went downstairs, hoping she'd only gone in search of something to break her fast. But the Crown's cheerful taproom was eerily empty. Too early yet for guests to be up and about.

And Emerald was gone, really gone.

He winced at the thought of her out there alone. But there was nothing for it. He could ill afford to waste precious time searching for her, even supposing it were possible he'd be successful. It had been a different matter when she was on a lumbering coach taking a specific route. She could be anywhere by now, and he didn't know the first thing about tracking a body—that was her skill, not his.

He would simply have to make it his business to get to London first. How long was her head start? Had she found a horse? With no money, she'd have a hard time of it—

Panicking, he pulled out his coin pouch and spilled the contents into his hand.

Nothing was missing.

Idiot woman.

Slipping the pouch back into his pocket, he tramped out into the gray morning and went to wake the stable boy.

Four hours had passed since Caithren had seen a soul. Soaked to the skin, she shivered with a bone-deep cold. She'd passed through three wee villages—if one could even call them that—but only one had boasted an inn, and no coach had been parked in its courtyard.

It felt as though she'd descended into an evil land where no one existed save herself.

As dawn approached, a talkative family rumbled by in an ox-drawn cart. She would have loved to beg a ride, but they were going the opposite direction. Regardless, just the sight of them brought a tiny smile of relief.

Walking backward, she watched them fade into the distance, their cheerful voices becoming fainter and fainter until all was quiet, save for the steady beat of the rain. A lonely sound.

Summoning her last reserves of energy, Cait turned and walked faster. She had to be near the coach by now. Squinting her eyes, she thought she could see a village ahead, a silhouetted irregular line of rooftops. A church spire, or maybe it was only more trees. She couldn't be sure, and rain suddenly pelted from the sky, obliterating the hazy view and making her shiver even more.

Water sluiced down the gently sloping road, hiding the deep, slushy ruts. She tripped into one of them and fell to her knees in the mud, wrenching a foot as she went. The tears that had been threatening all the long night pricked hot behind her eyelids.

No, not the tears. Not again. She blinked hard and took a deep breath, then dragged herself up.

Though she'd twisted only her ankle, her whole leg throbbed. Her teeth were chattering, and the hand clenching her amulet was shaking and white-knuckled with strain. When she heard a horse approaching from behind, she couldn't find the strength to turn around and see who it was. Why did it matter, really? Maybe the traveler would help her. More likely he'd simply ignore her.

But just in case, she pulled the amulet off over her head and shoved it up her soggy sleeve.

Not a second too soon. The heavy thud of someone dropping from a horse made her force herself to turn and look.

Leading an obviously ill-treated nag by the reins, a man was trudging toward her, his boots squishing in the mud. Black eyes leered wildly from his rough-hewn face, which was dark with unshaven stubble that didn't look anywhere near as bonnie as it had on the Englishman.

"What have we here?" he asked.

Caithren backed up. "I-I have no money," she managed to stutter out. To demonstrate, she turned her pockets inside out, revealing naught but the miniature portrait of Adam, which she hastily shoved back inside.

Undaunted, the man dropped his mount's reins and stepped closer. The horse looked too worn out to bother going anywhere. Even through the scents of rain and mud, the man's stale, liquor-tinged breath choked Cait as he came near and peered into her face.

"P-please, sir. I haven't anything you'd want."

"We'll see about that." With a lunge, he plunged one grimy hand down her bodice, rooting around.

Horrified, she twisted in his grip. "I have nothing! Unhand me!" Bile rose in her throat as panic tightened her chest. "Stop! Unhand me! Now!"

"No money in here?" The rough fingers shifted and clawed one breast in a painful squeeze. "Ah, but I wouldn't say you have nothing."

Anger and indignation boiled up. Cait's hands clenched round his thick neck, but though her vision blurred with the effort, he didn't seem to notice. She yelled, kicking at his shins, but her injured ankle threw her off balance, and he was managing to back her up into the trees at the edge of the road.

His other hand reached down, hiking her skirt as they stumbled together in the mud, a writhing mass of combat. Gathering her wits, she brought one knee up—hard. With a stunned grunt, the man pulled away and hunched over. But she knew he'd be after her again. She'd never outrun him with her hurt ankle.

If only she could get to his horse.

She sprang for the animal, but the man reached to snag her by the wrist. Still crouched, he managed to whip her back around. Thinking quickly, she gritted her teeth and reached her free hand to pat his body, searching for a gun, a blade—

Beneath his soggy, smelly coat, her fingers closed on the grip of a knife. As she tugged it from its sheath, the man growled in rage and wrenched himself upright.

"Keep back!" Bravely, she brandished the knife in his face.

And a gunshot rang out.

The sheer shock of it forced her backward into the mud. As her bottom met the ground, her breath expelled in a rush and the knife dropped from her hand.

But the bullet hadn't hit her. It had come from another direction.

The man turned and bolted for his horse. Hammering hoofbeats were drawing near—indeed, were it not for the pounding rain and the veil of her own fear, Cait knew she'd have heard the sound earlier.

Her attacker was mounted and moving before her rescuer arrived and reached a hand to help her rise.

She looked up into the face of the Englishman.

She stared at him in disbelief. No matter where she went, he insisted on showing up. But she found herself absurdly grateful he'd shown up now. While she didn't understand him, at least he'd never tried to take advantage.

Her hands splayed on her chest, trying to erase the feel of the monstrous man who was riding away. With a lingering glance at the man's retreating back, the Englishman slid from the saddle and gathered her into his arms.

"Are you hurt?"

Shuddering, she shook her head. It was the only answer she could manage. But she took comfort from his nearness, his warm body against hers.

"I can scarcely credit how much trouble you are," he muttered, the words laced with a quiet fury.

She'd have felt better if he'd have just yelled at her. "What did you say?"

"I said, are you hurt?"

That wasn't what he'd said. Sure they both knew it, she lifted her chin. "Nay, only shaken a bit," she said in a voice that indeed sounded shaken. She wished she could say it more bravely. Though she wanted nothing more than to stand on her own, her hands gripped his shoulders convulsively.

Her manhandled breasts burned beneath her bodice, and her ankle shot fire if she put any weight on it. But she wouldn't cry. He'd already said she was trouble, and she knew he hated her tears almost as much as she did.

After giving her a few awkward pats on the back, he set her away. She blinked in dismay at his face: the clenched, chiseled jaw; the hard, accusing eyes.

Predictably, his voice was as calm as ever. Calm and berating. "What the hell did you think you were doing wandering alone in the middle of the night?"

He had the nerve to be outraged on her behalf? Protective? The cur. Anger coursed through her anew. "I was going back to the coach! To get my things and complete my journey! I was almost there, too. Just leave me be!"

He stared at her, his mouth working as though he wanted to say something but couldn't think how to word it.

"I don't need your help," she added, though she wasn't at all sure what would have happened if he hadn't charged in on his silver horse. "I was taking care of myself just fine. I had a knife."

"I could see that." He eyed the dull gray blade in the mud. "And I saw you, um…with your knee…"

"Um-hmm." She gave him a smug smile.

"But I'd expect that from Emerald MacCallum."

"Very well, then," she forced through gritted teeth. "I appreciate your gallant rescue, but now I'll be on my way."

Gathering what little was left of her composure, she swiveled, hobbled over to fetch the knife, and started limping down the road. She could feel his eyes on her back. One, two, three steps…four, five, six…

"Emerald." His voice wasn't reproving any longer—instead it sounded mocking. "Oh, Emerald…"

She didn't stop. Her name wasn't Emerald. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…

"You're walking in the wrong direction."

She dropped the knife back to the mud. He was behind her in a flash, his hands large and heavy on her suddenly trembling shoulders. "That's London ahead. We passed the coach. Most likely it stopped in Rossington, north of where we slept."

"I knew that." Staring into the distance, she fished the amulet out of her sleeve and slipped the chain back over her head. She rubbed a wet finger over the smooth rectangular stone. "I wasn't walking north?"

"No." He came around to face her, his expression softening. "You've been walking south."

Tears welled in her eyes; she couldn't seem to stop them. She hoped they were disguised by the rain.

His hand went up to stroke his missing mustache, then dropped and curled into a fist. "Didn't you notice the landscape was different?"

"Different?" Her voice went higher than she would have liked. She struggled to control herself as she scanned the drenched countryside. "It's flat, just the same as yesterday. All England is flat and ugly."

He shook his head and gestured at the gently rolling land. "Between Doncaster and Bawtry, it's flat planted fields, bordered with trees. Here, there are hills used for grazing."

"Hills, hah!" she said, even though he was right. Oh, why did she suffer from such a terrible sense of direction? Why couldn't she have normal faults, like normal folk? A lisp, or blotchy skin.