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

Adam Leslie dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added "My" in front of "Dear Sister," frowned, then squeezed in "est" in the middle.
My Dearest Sister.
There now, surely Caithren wouldn't be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.

Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair—so like his sister's—over his shoulder. That he wouldn't be home soon shouldn't come as a surprise to her—it wasn't as though he'd spent more than a few weeks total at home these five years past. But it wouldn't hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, even if he was rarely home.

Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to Cait and their father. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da's latest ineffective efforts to marry her off.

"Are you not finished yet, Leslie?"

He glanced over and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored satin festooned with jewels and looped ribbons. Though he kept himself decked out in similar style, he considered himself lucky they let him keep their company, untitled as he was—at least until his very healthy father died sometime in the distant future.

Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn't entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.

"Leslie?"

"Almost done," Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.

"An ale for my friend!" Balmforth called.

Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Hell, any work was thirsty work.

He preferred not to work at all.

He flipped the letter over and scrawled
Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland
on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper's desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.

She giggled.

"Have you any wax?" Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. "And you'll post this for me, aye?"

The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. "Certainly, sir."

"Leslie, come along!" Grinstead shouted. "We're fair dying of thirst."

Laughing, Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding
clank
.

"To freedom!" Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.

"To freedom!" Adam echoed. "Till Hogmanay!"

Grinstead gasped. "You told her you'd be gone till the new year?"

"At the least." Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. "We've the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley's wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn't care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?" The taproom's door banged open. "No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway."

"No sense at all," Balmforth agreed, staring toward the entrance. "Will you look at what just walked in? Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone's talking about?"

Their gazes swung to the tall lass and followed her progress as she sat herself at another table.

"Nary a chance." Adam contemplated the contents of his tankard for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving wench for another. "Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man."

"She's carrying a knife," Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. "And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who'd track outlaws with a price on their heads."

Grinstead let loose a loud guffaw. "You're in your cups, Balmforth. Emerald MacCallum carries a sword and a pistol."

"The MacCallum wench would kick your sorry arses." Adam tugged on the lacy white cravat at his neck. "And mine, too, I expect."

They all burst out laughing, until another bang of the door caught their attention.

An excited old-timer stood in the opening. "Duel at the Market Cross!"

As he and Gothard both fought for better footing, Jason hurried out of his midnight blue surcoat and tossed it to his brother, his gaze never leaving that of his foe. Gothard smirked as he lunged once again, barely giving Jason time to adjust.

Gothard was fleet, but Jason was faster. They scrambled down the steps, and the crowd scurried back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He edged Gothard back beneath the dome, skirting the circular stone bench that sat in its center as they battled their way to the other side of the octagonal structure. Gothard took sudden advantage, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, and broke free with a metallic twang.

His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But the other man's breath came ragged and labored.

All at once, a vicious swipe of Jason's sword sent Gothard's clanging to the stones and skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.

Jason's teeth bit into his own lower lip. "I didn't come to kill today, Gothard. I merely want to see justice done." He sucked in air, smelled the other man's desperation. "Are you ready to come peacefully?"

Sweat beading on his sunburned brow, Gothard stepped back until his calves hit the round stone bench. Frantically he scanned the mass of people still pouring from the surrounding establishments. Three more men stumbled out of a taproom and crossed the dusty street to the dome, the bright rainbow colors of their clothing marking them aristocrats.

Their leader wove through the crowd, clearing a path for his two companions. "Come along, Grinstead!" he yelled as they pushed their way to the front.

Gothard's eyes narrowed. In a flash of movement, one of his arms snaked toward the newcomers, the other down to the wide cuff of his boot, where the curved handle of a pistol peeked out.

Jason's jaw tensed; his knees locked. Time appeared to slow. His surroundings seemed impressed on his senses: the heated babble and musky scent of the excited onlookers, the cool dimness in the shaded dome, the bright green grass and streaky sunlight beyond.

As Gothard rose from his crouch, Jason rushed headlong, his sword arm rigid.

Gothard jerked one of the men in front of him as a shield. Jason tried to check his momentum, but his blade forged ahead, piercing satin and flesh with an ease that came as a shock to a man unused to killing. As long as he lived, he would never forget the astonished look in the man's hazel eyes.

The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason's throat. The man collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason's shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench.

Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man's face drained of color, to match the white lace at his throat.

Geoffrey Gothard raised his arm, cocked his flintlock, and pulled the trigger.

The explosion rocked the Market Cross, momentarily startling everyone into silence. "I'll see you at the gates of hell," Gothard muttered into the void. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, signaling his younger brother to follow.

Ford Chase rushed forward when his own brother, the thirty-two-year-old Marquess of Cainewood, clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.

Surely he was in hell.

Crackling sounds slowly filtered through his consciousness. A grunt. A dull thud.

His eyes slit open, and his head split in two. Or it felt like it.

Hell.

Wincing at the brightness, Jason forced his eyes open wider. Shiny dark red curls swam through his vision as his sister Kendra moved to toss another log on the already blazing fire. Another thud, and waves of heat washed over him.

Hell. It was hot as hell in here.

He blinked once, then again. "Where—where am I?" he stammered out.

Kendra whirled. "At Cainewood, Jason. Home." She rushed to his bedside and swabbed his brow with a warm, damp cloth. Her familiar lavender scent wafted around him. Her light green eyes were filled with concern.

Kendra, his sweet, exasperating sister Kendra, so full of life—but her expression worried him. And the heat.

"Damn, I'm hot." He pushed at the covers—two thick quilts and a velvet counterpane—and tried to sit up. Pain knifed through his body. He fell back, touching his shoulder and chest gingerly. Thick bandaging. "What happened?"

A quick frown marred her wholesome features, then was gone. "Don't you remember? You were shot."

It all came screaming back: the limestone Market Cross, the weight of the rapier in his hand, the shock as it sank into flesh. Gothard, that whoreson, pulling a man from the crowd to use as a shield.

"Holy Christ," Jason whispered.

He'd killed an innocent man.

"You're going to be fine," Kendra rushed to reassure him. "It was naught but a shoulder wound, and the ball came clean. The surgeon said you'll be fine."

No, he wouldn't. He'd never be fine again.

Jason shut his eyes and turned his head to hide the hot, unmanly tears that threatened. He was always so level-headed; whatever had possessed him to take the law into his own hands?

Rage, that was what. Black, unreasoning rage. The sight of Clarice Bradford's ghost-white face and her motionless, bruised young daughter. Just remembering made his blood seethe anew.

"Mary?" he croaked.

"She still lives. But she's no better." Kendra smoothed her lemon-yellow skirts, a cheery color that seemed to clash with the sadness clouding her face. She put a hand to his forehead. "You don't feel hot. You're not feverish." She swiped at her own damp brow. "How are you feeling?"

"Like hell. It's hot as hell in here."

"The surgeon said to keep you warm."

"Surely you took him too literally."

She bit her lip in a rare show of uncertainty. "I'll go get Ford." Giving his hand a quick squeeze, she sighed, then hurried from the room to fetch her twin.

Jason lay still, staring at the familiar stone walls of his ancestral home. Colorful tapestries lent the cavernous chamber an intimate feel and kept the drafts to a minimum. Cainewood Castle had always made him feel safe, peaceful.

But not today.

Pangs of guilt swept him in waves, only to be swamped by anger at Geoffrey Gothard's actions. This was no longer just about Jason's villagers—the coward had used a blameless man as a shield. A man who would live today if Jason had chosen to wait for the authorities.

But damn it, he hadn't gone there to kill Gothard, let alone an innocent bystander. He'd intended to see Gothard detained, brought to justice…

The pain in his head intensified.

He knew also the Gothard brothers would have been long gone had he not acted immediately upon hearing word of their whereabouts. Law enforcement in these parts was sorely lacking.

He raised a hand to his aching head. Why the devil did Gothard consider him an enemy?

Ford sauntered in at Kendra's heels, flashing a hopeful smile. "How do you feel?"

"Like hell," Jason and Kendra said together, way too loudly.

Wincing, Jason pushed the long black hair from his eyes.

"It's the laudanum." Ford stated the facts like the analyst he was. "The surgeon gave you enough to fell a middling-sized horse. Said you'd need it to survive the trip home, but that it may well give you a headache."

"He may well have been right." Jason closed his eyes and sucked in a steadying breath before opening them again. The candlelight seemed brighter than usual. Too bright. He blinked at the cobalt blue canopy overhead. "What day is it?"

"Friday. Evening." Ford cleared his throat and leaned against one carved, twisted bedpost. "You were out over twenty-four hours. Damn, it's hot in here."

Kendra glared at her twin. "I'll open a window."

"The door as well. And for God's sake, bank that fire." Ford turned to Jason, smiling at their sister's overzealousness. Then his expression sobered. "I believe Gothard thinks you're dead. You were covered in blood—"

"That of the man I killed." Jason's chest constricted painfully. "Who was he?"

Ford blinked. "I don't know. I rushed to care for you, and when I looked up, he was gone."

"He was with two other men. They must have taken him. We'll have to make inquiries—"

"In due time." One hand on her hip, Kendra frantically fanned the door open and closed. "Cooler now?"

Her face was flushed to match her dark red hair. Jason smiled, though even that movement hurt his head. "Sit down, Kendra."

The bed ropes creaked as she sat gingerly on the mattress. "I rode into the village this morning." One of her fingers traced idle circles on the blue velvet counterpane. "I talked to Clarice."