Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (34 page)

She nodded again.

"It's not far at all." He swung her up into his arms, as one would carry a small child. "You're going to be fine."

"Jason!" Despite her distress, she giggled, making his heart lift a bit. "Put me down!"

"I'll hear none of it," he told her with mock sternness, starting down the steps and forcing himself to ignore the rush of vertigo. "We'll have you in a room in no time. Can you sit your own horse?"

"Of course I can. I rode all the day, did I not?" Warm laughter rang through the hollowed trunk, bringing him waves of relief.

But the feeling was short-lived once he looked down the steep, winding stairs.

There was nothing for it, he told himself sternly. One step after another, he ordered his feet to comply. With the drop looming before him, the way down was always worse than the way up. And doubly worse carrying Caithren, leaving no hand free to balance against the wall.

His breath came in embarrassingly short pants, and the arms that cradled her were shaking. Mercifully, she didn't comment on any of that or his lack of speed. "Put me down," she repeated quietly instead. "I'm not an invalid. I only wish to rest."

He didn't put her down, and somehow he made it to the bottom. He didn't have the luxury to let his knees buckle or to sit a spell and recover his composure. Silently congratulating himself, he perched her on her reddish mare and mounted his own black steed.

Afraid to jar her, he led her slowly back over the heath and up the hill to the white, weatherboarded inn. Securing a room seemed a process that took forever. And he knew that forever to him must have seemed forever and an eternity to her.

At last he closed the door of their oak-paneled room, and she dropped into a chair, white-faced.

"That bad?" he asked.

She put on a brave smile. "It hurts. But mostly because I'm so tired, I'm sure. I didn't sleep much last night." Color sprang to her cheeks as she doubtless remembered why. "We should have gone on to London. I'm sorry I made you stop."

He wasn't falling for her false bravado. "Let me have a look."

Without waiting for her agreement, he crouched before her and detached the tabs of her stomacher. As he began loosening the gown's laces, a flush came to her skin. Her heart sped up beneath his fingers, as clear an indicator of her desire as if she had told him outright. Despite his worry, answering need rushed through him.

Damnable, unconscionable need.

He clenched his teeth and forged ahead, carefully lowering the dress's bodice and the chemise underneath, helping her pull her arms from the sleeves. She pressed the gown to her chest with a hand and held out her injured limb.

All lust fled when he lifted the edge of the linen bandage and glimpsed what lay beneath. A soft moan escaped her lips.

"Christ." Jason unwound the fabric as gently as he could. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Cait whispered. "I know you don't mean to hurt me."

He smiled a little, then grimaced as the wound was revealed. Not long, but deep. Deeper than he remembered and surrounded by angry, dark pink flesh. A drop of red blood seeped out when the bandage fell away, and he could see a sickening taint of white inside.

"I should have been checking on this." Yet another failure on his part.

"You wanted to last night—"

"It's getting infected."

She glanced down, then averted her gaze. "It looks very bad." He watched her jaw tighten with determination. "I'll be fine, Jason. Don't worry for me. It will heal. I'll make a poultice." Her face brightened. "So close to London, there might even be a shop. I can tell you what I need—"

"I imagine it hurts like hell." He rose and paced away, then turned back. "I'd best fetch a surgeon. I believe it should be stitched."

"Stitched?" Her pretty forehead wrinkled, making his gut twist with sympathy.

"It's getting worse rather than better." He stared at her colorless face. "The doctor will know for sure. Bloody hell, I'm sorry."

Cursing himself for messing up yet again, he went downstairs to send a man to find a surgeon.

Jason returned a few minutes later with a goblet and handed it to Caithren. She sniffed at the contents suspiciously.

"What is it?"

"Whiskey."

"I thought as much." She handed it back. "Nay, but I thank you for the thought."

He frowned. "You don't like whiskey?"

"Have you seen me drink whiskey before now?"

"No, but…you're Scottish."

"And…?"

"It's whiskey, which the Scots invented if my—"

Caithren burst out laughing—until the movement pained her arm. "We don't all fancy whiskey, Jase. It's not a law. And here you accuse me of painting all the English with one brush." She watched him slowly turn red. "Some ale wouldn't be amiss—"

A sharp knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer it.

Cait felt the blood drain from her face as the surgeon marched in, a burly man clutching a bag of implements. But she told herself to be brave. She didn't want to embarrass herself before Jason.

He thought little enough of her as it was.

"I'm told of an injury," the surgeon said. "A slash wound, is it?"

"Aye." Clutching her bodice to her chest, she held forth her bare arm.

The surgeon came closer, yet gave it but a cursory glance. He looked to the goblet in Jason's hand. "What've you got there?"

"Whiskey." Jason's voice sounded weak to Cait's ears. Or maybe the blood pounding in her head was muffling the sound. "Here," he said more clearly and offered the goblet to the doctor.

The man took it and downed a healthy gulp. "Decent stuff," he declared, then poured a thick stream over Caithren's wound.

Her breath hissed in, but she wouldn't cry. She'd shed the last tears she would in front of Jason.

"Wh-what did you do that for?" she managed to stutter.

"To cleanse it. Stop infection."

"What?" It stung like blazes. "My cousin Cam would skin you alive if he saw you wasting good whiskey like that. Give it here." She snatched the goblet from the surgeon's hand and gulped greedily, feeling the liquor burn a hot path down her gullet and into her empty stomach.

Jason appeared to be holding back a laugh. A dark glare took care of that. "I have always practiced gentle healing," she told him. "I cannot believe he did that."

She sipped again. The stuff wasn't nearly as nasty as she'd thought.

"It's not unheard of, sweet. Ford did the same for my bullet wound, and he's no surgeon, though he does fancy himself a scientist."

"Ford?" She drank again. The warmth in her stomach was spreading, and her arm seemed to hurt less. Her head was beginning to feel as though it might detach itself and float away.

"My youngest brother, Ford." Jason crouched down and gazed into her eyes. A tiny smile emerged on his face. "Never mind."

He stood and motioned the surgeon closer.

She sipped once more, then set her jaw and angled her arm out. "Have at it," she declared.

The man rummaged in his bag and came out with a needle and black thread.

Caithren winced and looked up at Jason. "Are you sure he has to do this?"

"I'm sure. Drink." He shoved the goblet closer to her lips, and she complied. "It won't take long."

She nodded and steeled herself for the pain. When it came, a sharp prick and a scraping sting as the raw edges of flesh were bound together, it wasn't as bad as she'd anticipated. Not nearly as hurtful as when the surgeon had doused her arm with the whiskey. Or maybe the whiskey had numbed it some.

Jason put a hand on her good shoulder. "You're doing fine." His voice sounded proud, or maybe impressed. It made the whiskey curl warmer in her belly. It seemed all she wanted was his trust, his approval.

Nay, not all, not if she were to be honest with herself. She also craved his arms around her, his lips on hers.

His love.

Everything—her whole world—seemed so confused. When had her goals changed? Where had this yearning come from, and why was it so overwhelming?

She didn't know. She knew only that it was wrong—wrong for her, for her plans, for her life. She belonged home with Cameron, tending their land, their heritage. Not far away in England with this exasperating man.

Her thoughts turned to Jason more every day…her thoughts and her heart. But staying with him was impossible. Even if Jason wanted her, it would be impossible. And he didn't want her, which should have made it easier. But it didn't make it easier; it made it worse.

Much, much worse.

The hated tears flooded her eyes, and one rolled warm down her cheek. She dashed it away with her good hand.

"Nearly there," Jason soothed, stroking her hair. "He's almost finished."

She felt another jab and tug on her arm, and the tears flowed faster. Not from the pain, though…

Oh, aye, from the pain. The pain that weighed heavy as a brick in her chest. The pain in her heart.

It wasn't long at all before the surgeon knotted the thread and cut it with a knife. He tied a bandage around her arm to protect his handiwork. Then, mindful of his patient's distress, he collected his things quietly and went to Jason. "Go to Hampstead Wells and ask to see Dorothy Pippen. She sells medicinal water."

"My thanks." Jason pressed a few coins into the surgeon's hand and followed him to the door, closing it softly behind him. Cait put her arms back in her sleeves and tightened her laces.

"There." Jason came close and patted her shoulder. "It wasn't so bad, after all, was it? And now it's done."

She shook off his hand. She couldn't bear his touch. Not when she knew they'd reach London tomorrow and go their separate ways, with no regret on his part. Only pride, she imagined, that he'd kept her where he wanted her, ensuring his successful, unimpeded capture and murder of Geoffrey Gothard.

Oh, it was not to be borne! Despite a heroic effort to rein in her emotions, she rose and wandered away in tears. Her hand went into her pocket and found the miniature of her brother.

She pulled it out and stared at it, drifting to the window, where she could see the picture better in the failing light. Her thumb caressed the glass that protected Adam's familiar face.

Adam. Where was he? Though Lord Darnley's wedding wasn't until Friday, Adam might well be in London by now. Maybe she would find him tomorrow, and when she saw him, her world would be set to rights. Her plans would be back on track, and she wouldn't feel as though her life were so out of control.

Adam. Dear, familiar Adam. She gazed at his oval face, his wheaten hair, his hazel eyes. All just like hers. The foppish outfit he'd posed in, all velvet and ribbons and snowy linen, brought a smile through the tears. So unlike herself and Da, but typical Adam.

"Adam," she said softly.

"Who is that?" Jason asked from behind her.

"Adam," she said louder, feeling better just saying her brother's name. She had a goal—a worthy goal—and at last it was within reach. So close. "Adam. My brother."

When she turned to look at Jason, his face was whiter than the lace on Adam's cravat.

"What is it, Jase?" She'd never known a man to faint, but he looked as though he might keel over at any second. "Is something amiss?"

"Yes." He blinked and shook his head. "No. No." He drew a long breath, and his lips curved in a forced smile. "You're tired. Let me go downstairs and bring up some supper. Then I'll pay Dorothy Pippen a visit and get you the water."

Cait's hand went to her amulet. "I don't need special water. And I'm not hungry. Just stay with me, all right?"

His gaze skittered away. "I must at least make some inquiries and see if I can find out where we need to go tomorrow. Where Scarborough lives, I mean." He made as though to reach for her, then pulled back. "Sleep well. I'll be up later." With a distracted kiss to her forehead, he left her to go to bed.

Alone and reeling.

Gasping, he checked his momentum, but not in time. His silver blade flashed, sliced in, sending a shiver up his arm. The man before him crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pumping into the dirt. His eyes stared unseeing at Jason… hazel eyes… Emerald's hazel eyes… Caithren's hazel eyes…

Caithren's brother's hazel eyes.

His heart racing, Jason let out an anguished yell as he awakened. He curled up on the bed. His breath heaved. He couldn't recall what he'd eaten for supper, but it felt like it were about to come back up.

"Jason?" Caithren leaned over him, patting his shoulder uncertainly.

He moaned. His head pounded from overdrinking last night—something he
never
did—and a frustrated dampness squeezed from beneath his clenched eyelids.

Dear God in heaven, he'd killed her brother.

She would never accept him, never love him, never stay with him, never marry him. As though killing an innocent man hadn't tainted him enough, the man had been
her brother
.

With all his might, he wished she'd really been Emerald. He would still love every stubborn inch of her, and he might have a chance with Emerald. Emerald would understand the driving need for justice that had turned him into another man. Emerald would understand the way killing, even unintentional killing, changed a person.