Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (31 page)

Her words seemed to echo across the open fields. At first he was horrified, but then he laughed. "No, I'm no virgin. But it's different in my circle of acquaintances." King Charles's court was licentious as hell. Barring his sister—he hoped—he doubted there was a courtier over the age of fourteen who could call him or herself virgin. "We have different expectations. With you, there's a matter of responsibility."

"I have no expectations. For once, could you listen to the Gypsy? Could you forget about responsibilities and just let yourself feel?"

"I think not."

He felt all too much, and that was the problem. If he thought he could simply love her and leave her, he might consider it. He hadn't been so tempted in a good, long while. Maybe in all his life.

But with Caithren it would be all or nothing—he knew that in his bones.

"Look, we've been tied at the hip for days now. All you really want from me is to get to London. And I'll get you there, I promise. A Chase promise is not given lightly."

Her eyes cleared and turned a disappointed, indistinct color. "You have no idea what I want from you, Jason. And I don't believe you ever will." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

"You're cold," he said. "And the weather looks to be getting colder. Come along. We're almost to Stevenage, where I can buy you a cloak."

The clouds had grown dark and menacing, and Jason found the interior of The Grange even darker. Brushing off the drizzle that had beaded on his cloak, he stepped into the taproom and blinked in the dimness.

Caithren wasn't at the table where he'd left her.

Panic sprinted along his nerves before he got himself under control. He tossed the new wool cloak he'd bought over her chair and walked around the tavern, checking every corner of the oddly shaped room. Then back to the table, his heart beginning to beat unevenly. He'd left her with his portmanteau and the burlap bag with the backgammon set.

All was gone.

Geoffrey's and Walter's faces flashed in his mind. But no one in the taproom looked at all concerned, and it was inconceivable that Caithren would go with the brothers without a fight. While it was true she couldn't shoot, he'd seen her in action: punching, kicking, wielding a knife. And there was no sign of a confrontation.

Still, his pulse raced, his head felt woozy. What if they'd managed to take her? How would he find them? What would he do? He couldn't think clearly when he kept seeing her standing in that courtyard with blood running down her arm. Blood from a Gothard's blade.

If anything more happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

He paced around the tavern, stopping at tables, querying one patron after another. "A woman was sitting there. Short, blond. Did she leave with anyone?"

No one had seen a thing.

When she came down the stairs, stepping gingerly on the heeled shoes, he spun around. His long legs ate up the distance between them.

"Where the hell were you?"

"Hold your tongue. Everyone is looking at us." She walked to their table, set down the burlap bag, shrugged the portmanteau off her shoulder. "I took everything with me so nothing would go missing. I was gone but a minute."

"You have a damn odd idea of a minute. Where did you go? How dare you disappear on me! I thought the Gothards had—"

"I had to…you know. Use the privy." Frowning, she peered into his eyes, and then, unbelievably, her lips turned up in a hint of a smile. "I've never really seen you angry before. I didn't think you had it in you."

"I've never thought you were missing before," he snapped out.

She crossed her arms and leveled him with a stare. "How about when I tried to escape you? Or when I fell asleep in the kirk?"

"Things were different then. Then I didn't—oh, bloody hell."

"Then you didn't
care
?" she supplied. "You cannot say it, can you? That you care."

"I care," he said. "I care about making things right. I care about replacing what you lost on my account. I care that you get to London in one piece, not carved up by a Gothard's blade."

The sound of raucous laughter came from another table. Pewter tankards clanked on wood. "I don't want anything to happen to you, either," Caithren said softly.

"Why?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Because
I
care." Her gaze dropped to her crossed arms. "And I don't mean about getting to London or the money you owe me."

With a finger he lifted her chin. "Emerald—"

"And no matter what you call me, I care because of this—" She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

Bloody hell. Calling her Emerald wasn't working. With a groan of surrender, he closed his eyes to return the kiss.

His arms went around her, and the sounds of the tavern receded as she arched herself so close he felt her damned amulet between them. Her lips were warm velvet; her flowery scent assaulted his senses.

How could such an exasperating woman be so sweet?

At the sound of a whistle, he pulled away to much applause.

"We see you found her," someone yelled.

Caithren's cheeks went from the pink of passion to the red of embarrassment.

"Shall we go?" he asked with a laugh. He drew the new cloak from her chair and settled it over her shoulders. "It's seven miles to Welwyn and starting to rain already."

"We're not going to make it, Jase," Caithren yelled through the storm. She hadn't known it was possible to feel so wet. Her new cloak was all but useless against the downpour. "If this gown soaks up any more water, poor Maid-of-the-Wave will be driven to her knees."

A huge crash of thunder made both horses shy. The sky opened up and spewed twice as much water, a feat she hadn't thought possible. Rain came down in blinding sheets. Cait couldn't see as much as two feet ahead.

She felt Jason's leg bump up against hers before his hand came through the downpour to grab her reins. "Shelter!" he hollered over the next crack of lightning. "Come with me!"

He led them off the road along a barely visible trail. Hidden in the trees sat an old thatched cottage. How he'd found the place she'd never know, but the mere sight of it lifted her heart.

She held both horses while Jason pounded on the door. No one came to answer. The shutters were all latched from the interior, and the door was locked. Water streaming into her eyes, Cait waited while he walked all the way around the one-room building.

"Closed up!" he called through the pounding rain.

She wanted to cry.

He stood stock-still for a spell, then disappeared behind the cottage and returned with a hefty log. Bracing it against his good shoulder, he stepped back and ran at the door.

It didn't give, and she winced at his anguished yell. "You're going to kill yourself," she called. "You're in no shape for this!"

But he tried it twice more, until the door crashed in. He nearly fell on his face after it, and, miserable as she was, Cait had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

"Go inside," he told her, and she did, gratefully. After tethering the horses beneath some trees, he took their things and followed her, propping the door into its space behind them.

They stood there, dripping, for a long minute. Rain pounded on the roof. The cottage looked clean enough and boasted a bed with a thick quilt, a small table, two wooden chairs, and a brick fireplace. No wood, no candles, no oil lamps. The warped shutters let in a little light and a lot of rain that puddled near the glassless windows. But it was shelter, and Caithren couldn't remember being more appreciative in her life.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Jason gestured helplessly. "It will be cold come night. And dark. All the wood outside is soaking wet." He looked at the table and chairs.

Her gaze followed his. "You're not thinking of burning them?" When he shrugged, she shook her head. "They're not yours to burn. Besides, where would we continue our backgammon tournament?"

"That's right." Grinning, he pulled off his hat. Water poured from the wide brim. "I'm ahead."

"You are not." She set her own drenched hat on the table. "We're dead even. Seventeen matches each."

He dragged off the wet wig. His own hair underneath was just as soaked, sleekly black and plastered to his head.

"You look like a selkie," Cait said.

He unfastened his cloak and let it drop to the floor in a sodden heap. "A what?"

"A selkie. A mythical creature that takes on the form of a seal in the sea and a man on the land."

"How flattering." Amusement lit his eyes as they raked her from head to toe. "You on the other hand, look the picture of perfection."

"Aye?" Laughing, she shrugged free of her cloak. "I wouldn't be surprised if this gown weighs more than I do." Bending at the waist, she gathered her hair and twisted it. Water streamed out onto the wooden floor.

As she straightened, her hair still bunched in one hand, Jason's arms came around her from behind. She hadn't even heard him move close. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.

Warm and soft. Her breath caught, and she stood stone still. She hadn't imagined it the first time, she realized, a little thrill running through her at the thought. "What was that for?"

"I've been wanting to do that since the day I met you," he said huskily.

Quite unsure about this side of Jason Chase and where it had come from, she turned to face him. His penetrating gaze was entrancing. "Well, I wouldn't have stopped you," she said.

"I don't expect you would have." He took a deep breath and looked away, the Jason she knew slipping back into place. "Let me fetch some dry clothes."

Still stunned, she stood and shivered while he went through the portmanteau. One after another, their clothes came out, every piece soaking wet.

She draped the garments on the floor around the room. "I hope they'll dry," she said on a sigh.

Finally, from the very bottom, he unearthed a pair of buff breeches and one of his shirts and held them both up triumphantly. "Dry. Almost. Which do you want?" He waved the breeches, a distinct leer in his eye.

Surprised and a bit unnerved by his playfulness, she snatched the shirt from his other hand. "This will do, thank you. Turn around."

With a grin, he obeyed. One of his feet impatiently tapped on the wooden floor, the wet boot leather squeaking with each motion.

"No peeking," she admonished. Quite adept at removing stomachers now, she did so in all haste.

"Are you finished yet?"

"Nay. Stay put."

His foot kept tapping while she wiggled the gown and chemise to her waist and slipped his shirt over her head. Unexpectedly soft, it smelled warm and spicy, like he did. Reaching beneath the hem, she pushed everything down and off, leaving her shoes in the wet pile when she stepped out of it.

"Now your turn." She faced away to wait.

A hand came down on her shoulder and slowly swung her around. His gaze traced a lazy path down her body. She blushed, aware that the shirt reached only to her knees.

He raised a brow. "Much better than Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. I think we ought to burn that thing."

"You haven't got a fire," she said crisply. "Are you going to change or not?"

"In due time."

Mindful of his eyes on her, she yanked up on the sleeves, which fell well past her hands, and tightened the shirt's laces. "Aren't you freezing?"

"Are you?"

Her skin erupted in goose bumps, though it really wasn't too cold now that she was out of the wet gown. "Not since I changed. I'll just take these clothes"—she bent to retrieve them—"and lay them out while you dress." She turned her back and started spreading the garments over what little floor space was left. "Don't worry—I promise not to look."

"It wouldn't bother me if you did, sweetheart," he drawled.

If past experience was any indicator, she had no cause to doubt him. Blushing furiously, she made long work of squeezing the water from the brocade gown and wringing out its chemise. Her shoes were alarmingly soggy, but she sat them on the floor and hoped for the best.

The stomacher was soaked, yet still just as stiff. Apparently Jason hadn't been fooling when he said there was bone inside.

"Ready," he called.

She turned, then whirled back away. "You're still half-naked!"

"If you'll hand over my only dry shirt, I can finish dressing," he said drolly.

She hugged the shirt in question around her middle. "Oh, never mind."

Averting her eyes from his bare chest, she fetched the backgammon set and removed it from the burlap bag.

"Sit," she said, plopping the drenched board onto the table. "It's wet, but I reckon it'll survive, seeing as it's made from a cow that likely got drenched in its day." She lined up the markers on their respective pips.

"I reckon it will," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. Taking the dice cup, he rolled two sixes.

She sat across from him, trying not to notice the way his muscles rippled when he leaned across the board to make his moves. Though still a livid pink, his wound looked all but healed. Rain beat down on the roof, and thunder and lightning disturbed her concentration.