Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (29 page)

She reconsidered. "The red isn't too bad. But I cannot picture you skinny and freckled."

"It's no lie. I was awkward, too. Gangly." As he fussed with the wig, Cait watched the muscles move beneath his shirt. He wasn't gangly now. "Took me years to grow into my looks."

"Ah," she said with a teasing smile. "And here I thought it was the mustache that transformed you."

"That as well." He leaned closer to the mirror and stroked his bare upper lip. "But I think I'm getting used to its loss." Turning, he reached to steal a cube of cheese off her tray.

"I thought you had breakfast downstairs."

"That was an hour ago." He filched another cube and chewed thoughtfully. "Do you like me better with or without?"

"Without. Both the mustache and the wig." She set the tray aside. "Supposing I like you at all, that is."

"Supposing." Moving to the other bed, he lifted the velvet surcoat and shook out the creases. "Your new clothing is waiting behind the screen."

"Is it?" Curious, she climbed from the bed and made her way over to have a look.

She blinked and looked again.

"By all the saints," she breathed. "It's worse than the red dress."

Draped across a chair lay a bright turquoise brocade gown trimmed with a gaudy wide edging of embroidered silver ribbon. A purple underskirt and stomacher were tossed on top. Even without trying it on, she could tell the dress's scooped neckline would reveal a lot more skin than she was comfortable displaying.

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, then dashed back behind the screen.

"Crivvens! You're in the scud!"

"Translate?" he called.

"You…you're naked!"

"One does have to undress to change clothes." He sounded amused, not angry. "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 a bare Jason. "You expect me to wear this?"

"Hell, yes. I spent a fortune for it."

"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 mistress."

The gown slipped from her fingers. "Your
what
?"

"My mistress. Are you undressed?"

His mistress.

"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.

He pulled on her single nighttime plait. "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. Small though they might be, her breasts welled over the top. 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 and slowly ran his hands down her sides. His palms felt hot, even through the fabric, skimming a tingling path on her skin beneath the turquoise brocade.

Cait swallowed hard. "Could I be cast as your servant instead?"

"Hmm." He blinked and jerked his hands away, as though they'd just been burned. "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 mistress wouldn't wear that."

Her exposed bosom broke out in goose bumps. "Maybe I could pose as your little sister, then?"

"Wouldn't help. Kendra doesn't dress all that differently from this, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.
Her gaze met his in the looking glass.

"And you don't look like my little sister," he added huskily.

"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 had such difficult time 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 mistress doesn't wear plaits."

Slowly she ran the comb through her hair. Crimped from the plaiting, it hung in shimmering waves to her waist. "Wouldn't a nobleman's mistress 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
mistress." 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. "Clearly you're used to having someone look after you," she said softly. "Do you have a mistress, my lord?"

Beneath the blue velvet, his shoulders tensed. "I do now."

For a long minute, neither of them said anything. Then he looked away.

It meant nothing, she decided. Nobleman and mistress. A game—just a game.

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 the comb into one of the leather bags. As he took the folded night rail from her hands, his gaze swept her again from head to toe. Turning to face the mirror, she put her hands back under her hair and fanned it forward to cover her cleavage.

His eyes locked on hers in the mirror, keeping her captive. He seemed to be holding his breath. His jaw tightened.

Was he angry? At her? Why?

He backed away, his expression becoming a mask of stone. "I've arranged for two horses," he said. "We'd best go, Emerald."

Riding beside Jason in brooding silence, Caithren sneaked glances in his direction. Encased in the dark velvet suit, his lean, hard 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 mistress under other circumstances.

But there weren't any other circumstances.

Always she would want him, and always he would come temptingly close and then back off.

It was better this way, she decided firmly. Better without any emotions, any entanglements. She needed to find her brother. Jason wanted to find the Gothards. Anything personal between them would only get in the way. 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's 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."

Caithren followed, reaching to pat her horse's red-chestnut neck as they came into the small town of Biggleswade. "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, sweetheart?"

"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, he took his time paying the man. At last she saw the tension ease from his shoulders. He tucked the two breads 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 tongue flicked out and his teeth nipped her lobe, making her feel shakier still.

Ever since she'd donned the turquoise, gown, he'd been looking at her differently. Maybe he just wanted to kiss her. She tried again to see Gothard, but Jason's fingers tightened on her chin. His gaze bore into hers, so intense her knees nearly buckled.

"You're m-making this up as an excuse to kiss me."

"If you value your life, you'll play along." His mouth brushed her cheek and trailed down her neck, leaving a quivery path of dampness. "You're my mistress," he murmured into the sensitive hollow beneath her chin. "Try to look like you're enjoying this, will you?"

Aye, she was enjoying it.

When she arched against him, he claimed her lips in a soul-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.

His tongue traced her lips, then swept inside, kindling a hot rush of excitement. And, somehow, that changed everything.

Her fingers tangled in the coarse hair of the wig. The now-familiar pleasure stole through her, and she wondered vaguely how she could have thought she was better off without this. She clung to his lips, molding herself against his body, wishing she could flow right into him.

Were they really being watched? Either way, she felt safe with him here, as she always had, though it made no more sense now than it had in the beginning. The melting intimacy felt genuine, not staged, and despite herself—despite the real danger—she found herself savoring every second.

Surely he felt the connection, too. She couldn't let him deny these feelings again.

He raised his head and looked both ways, then said, "He's gone."

Feeling a loss, she held him captive with a hand behind his neck and the other splayed against his back. "What else can you tell me about your mistress?" Her voice shook, betraying her emotions. "I-if I'm to act the part, then—"

He groaned, a heart-wrenching sound of capitulation. "My mistress…there's no one I'd rather kiss." The green of his eyes turned dark and unfathomable as he clasped her tightly against him. His mouth brushed hers, once, twice, caressing her lips more than kissing them, wordlessly begging her to open and let him in. When she parted her lips, he devoured her mouth with an urgent hunger.

She was stunned at the possessiveness of his embrace. He wanted her, she was sure of it…

Now that she was dressed like an Englishwoman.

But it wasn't right. She'd wanted him all along, mustached or not, long hair or short, dressed like a peasant or a nobleman. It was the man she wanted, not the package in which he was presented.