Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (5 page)

Kendra pulled the shirts back out and folded them neatly. "You should have let Claxton pack."

"I may be surrounded by servants, but I'm capable of caring for myself." Bending over his chest, he selected two fine lawn shirts and a snowy cravat, depositing them into his sister's outstretched hands. He threw open his tall, carved clothes press and took a dark blue velvet suit from a hook. Three pairs of his plainest breeches and a couple more workaday shirts found their way into his bag. The boots on his feet would do.

"Geoffrey Gothard must be stopped." Jason paused in his packing to gaze out the diamond-paned window. In the sunshine beyond lay his land, his people. "I cannot face my own villagers until it's done."

"You sent broadsides near and far," Kendra argued. "It's common knowledge Gothard is a wanted outlaw. For the hundred pounds you've offered—"

"—that MacCallum woman will see it done," Ford finished for her.

"Emerald MacCallum? That fabled Scot who wears men's clothing and carries a pistol?" Jason blinked and dragged his gaze from his land back to the dim room. "Don't tell me you've fallen for that claptrap. A woman tracking outlaws for the reward—why, you'd have to be maggot-brained to believe such fancies—"

"Then someone else will see it done." Kendra crossed her arms.

Jason could feel his face heating. Part of him agreed with her, but the expectations he'd been raised with overrode her cool logic. "I cannot wait for
someone
to see it done. Since King Charles abolished Cromwell's Major General districts, there's no central authority of any kind." His sturdiest stockings joined the pile of clothing. "For God's sake, didn't you see it with what happened in Chichester? A man was killed, and no one even knows who he was."

"Charles did well to abolish the districts," Ford protested. "Their main activity was to tax us Royalists." He raised a finger to make another point, then shook his head as though realizing this was not the time for their old argument. "Jason, think about what you're doing."

"I've thought of little else. England has never seen such lawlessness." Jason paced the red and blue carpet, snatching up an ivory comb and his shaving kit as he moved past his dressing table. "There's no provision for passing vital information from one county to another. Depending on a reward offer—someone's greed—in order to see this man put away…no, I cannot do so."

He dropped to sit on the bed, fighting to marshal his temper. "I killed an innocent man. I won't able to live with myself until Gothard is behind bars, never to murder again. And I'll hear from him just what he thinks my part is in this debacle."

Kendra came to stand before him. "I've checked the church's birth records, and, contrary to popular belief, your middle name is not 'Responsible.'" She smiled, a gentle smile that tugged at his heart. "Gothard is gone from this area—you can be sure of it. You're injured. You have people here, people who need you. And family. Jason—"

"That's enough, Kendra." He couldn't let her sway him. Rising from the bed, he grabbed a ball of hard-milled soap from his washstand, threw it into the portmanteau, flipped the bags closed, and secured the latches. "No more arguments." He went to his sister and gave her a hard hug, ignoring the jolt to his shoulder. "They've singled me out—how can I turn away? What kind of man would that make me?"

Kendra opened her mouth, but Jason cut her off. "You cannot stop me, Kendra sweetheart." He smoothed her dark red curls. "Just wish me Godspeed."

"If you won't wait to heal, then at least wait an hour or two for Ford and me to get ready. You've never gone off without us. I can care for your wound—"

"This isn't a holiday, Kendra. You would slow me down."

He saw her take a deep breath before the fight drained out of her. When she nodded up at him, he turned to Ford. "Find out who I killed, will you? Ask around again in Chichester.
Someone
must know the identity of his two acquaintances. Then locate them, follow up. Send word to Pontefract if you hear anything."

"Jason, it wasn't your fault."

"Do it," he ordered. He jammed his sword into his belt, tucked a small pistol into his boot top, lifted the portmanteau. "Watch over Cainewood for me. God willing, I won't be long."

"And then we can lay this nightmare to rest?" Kendra asked.

He stared at her a long time while the chamber filled with an oppressive silence. Then, unable to make that promise, he kissed her cheek and strode from the room.

"Godspeed," she whispered after him.

Her back to the other passengers straggling in and queuing to rent rooms, Caithren stared at the innkeeper in disbelief. "Are you telling me there are no horses for hire in this town?"

He rubbed a hand over his bald head. "That's what I'm telling you, madam."

Mrs. Dochart took Cait by the arm. "Come along, lass. Maybe the situation will change on the morrow." With her other hand she set down her valise and dug inside for coins. "We'll take a room upstairs, Mr. Brown."

Caithren shook off the woman's hand and leaned farther over the innkeeper's desk. "Are there no hackney cabs, either?"

"No hackney cabs."

"But Pontefract is a stage stop!"

"We've extra horses for the public coach, naturally. But not for hire."

Behind her, Caithren heard feet shuffling impatiently on the gritty wood floor. "Hurry up, there," someone grumbled.

"Hold your tongue," Cait shot over her shoulder. "I've spent eight days shut up in a hot coach"—with a crotchety, meddling old woman, she added silently—"just to get here and visit with my brother at the Scarborough estate in West Riding."

Rubbing his thin, reddish nose, the innkeeper slanted her a dubious look. "The
Earl
of Scarborough's estate?"

"Aye, the same."

He shrugged. "You can walk. It's nice enough weather and naught but a mile or so." The man opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound registration book. "Out there, then head east. The road will take you straight past the Scarborough place. You'll find it set back on the right side, perhaps a quarter mile from the road. An enormous stone mansion—you cannot miss it." With a dismissive thump, he set the book on the desk and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. "You may leave your satchel if you wish. Should Scarborough invite you to stay"—his tone conveyed what he thought were the chances of
that
happening—"I reckon he'll send a footman to fetch it."

He waved her aside and the next person forward.

"Come along, lass. We'll be losing the light soon." Mrs. Dochart set her own bag alongside Cait's behind the desk. "Unless you'd prefer to wait for the morn?" she added hopefully.

Cait reached up a finger to twirl one of her plaits. "Nay, I wish to go immediately."
Without
a chaperone. "But I'm…I mean to say…well, I expected we'd part company here. Not that I haven't enjoyed yours," she rushed to add, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike with that lie.

She couldn't remember ever uttering a more blatant falsehood.

The old bawface looked dubious. "Your cousin hired me to look after you, lass, and—"

"Only so far as Pontefract. He was well aware I was getting off here, aye? My brother will hire a chaperone for the return journey."

Though Mrs. Dochart sniffed, it was clear she had no wish to tramp over the countryside. "If you're certain, then—"

"I'm certain." For want of another way to end their association, Caithren executed a little curtsy. "It's pleased I am to have met you, Mrs. Dochart, and I thank you for keeping me company."

That lie might have topped the first one; Cait wasn't sure. Feeling a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, she crossed the inn's taproom and headed out into the waning sunshine and down the road.

She hadn't progressed ten feet when the woman's voice shrilled into the quiet street. "Ah, Caithren, lass!"

With a sigh, Cait composed her face and turned back to the inn. "Aye, Mrs. Dochart?" The bawface stood framed in the doorway. A cracked wooden sign swung in the light wind, creaking over her head. "I told you I shall be fine."

"But the innkeeper said east. It's west you're walking."

"Oh!" Her cheeks heated. "Right."

"Nay, left."

"Right. I mean to say, aye. Left, east."

Reversing her direction, Cait hurried past, murmuring "Thank you" over her shoulder. She heard the woman mutter under her breath and was soon relieved to be out of earshot.

The evening was warm, and the slight breeze felt wonderful after the stuffy, confining coach. It was passably pretty country, the land green and flatter than at home. She much preferred the harsh contours of Scotland—the beautiful glens, the blues and purples of the wooded mountains, the little lochs and streams and waterfalls everywhere. But she didn't have to live here, after all. She could enjoy the land for what beauty could be found.

Her heart sang to be free at last, on her way to meet Adam and perhaps rest a few days, depending on the returning public coach's schedule. In two weeks' time she'd be back at Leslie, signed papers in hand, giving Cameron the tongue-lashing he deserved for saddling her with that irritating old woman.

Glancing down, she spotted the distinctive red-green leaves of meadow rue poking from the edge of a ditch. With a gasp of delight, she knelt to pick some, wrinkling her nose at the strong, unpleasant scent. Bruised and applied, it was good to heal sores and difficult to find near home. Pleased, she tucked it into her pocket and continued on her way.

She rubbed a hand across her forehead and tried not to think about how tired she was. Instead she focused on the hours ahead. Following what promised to be her first decent meal in weeks, tonight she'd luxuriate in a big tub of clean, steaming water. She couldn't wait to wash off the dust of the road. And she couldn't wait until tomorrow morn, when she'd be snug in a soft feather bed at Scarborough's, imagining the public coach rattling down the road toward London with that bawface tucked inside.

The thought was so vivid and appealing, she nearly missed the gravel drive that led to a yellowish stone mansion in the distance.

The building threw a long shadow. The sun was setting. She tucked her plaid tighter around her black bodice and skirt. When Adam saw her dressed in mourning, he'd understand right off how completely he'd neglected his family and home. It would be a simple matter to persuade him to sign the papers MacLeod had drawn up.

In the fading light she hurried along the path, marveling at the way the gravel was so raked and pristine. Scarborough must employ an army of servants. But they weren't here now, she realized as she drew close.

The mansion was shut up tight as a jar of Aunt Moira's preserves!

The sun sank over the horizon as Caithren stared at the heavy, bolted oak door. Hearing the call of a single hawk overhead, apparently the only living creature in the vicinity, she stifled a sob.

So much for her happy daydreams. She would have to stay the night in Pontefract, steel herself to climb back on the coach in the morning, then somehow survive the nine days it would take to reach London.

She counted on her fingers. She should arrive on the day of Lord Darnley's wedding, just in time to present herself as an uninvited guest. It was the only place she knew for certain she'd be able to find Adam.

Touching her amulet, she prayed there'd be no summer storm or anything else to delay the coach, because God only knew where Adam would be headed the morning of August thirty-first.

A scuffling sound on the roof made her glance up. Probably some sort of wee animal. Or rats.

Cait shuddered. "Set a stout heart to a steep hillside," she said aloud, imagining her mother saying the words. She squared her shoulders and was turning back toward the road when there came the snort of a horse and an answering neigh.

Horses meant people. Her spirits lifted. Maybe Adam and his friends were here after all, and they'd just been out hunting. And even if it were strangers, maybe they could spare her the long walk—

She heard a muted
thump
and the crunch of gravel, as someone apparently dropped from the roof. Then another
thump
.

"Sealed up. Cannot even get inside and snatch a few trinkets to pay our way. Damn it to bloody hell." Coming from around the side of the mansion, the man's voice sounded cultured. But he was cursing a string of oaths the likes of which Cait had never heard.

She scooted into the archway that housed the front door and pressed herself against the cold stone wall.

"I'm glad it's sealed up." The second man's voice was whiny. "I don't fancy taking things, Geoffrey."

"Everything here is ours, Wat. Or should be. You crackbrain."

The man called Wat didn't respond to the insult. "But Cainewood's horses? What about those?"

"The horses are rightly mine." The first man kicked at the ground, or at least Caithren thought he did. It was difficult to tell from around the corner. "We had to take them. We were low on funds with no way to get here. Can't you get that through your thick skull? Did you want to walk? Sleep in the open and beg for our supper?"

"We could have found work."

"Work? When hens make holy water. Should we stoop to chopping wood for a living? Baking bread? Shoeing horses?"

"Geoff—"

"Enough!"

Caithren heard the crunch of gravel beneath someone's shuffling feet. "So. Lucas is gone. What now, Geoffrey?"

"He'll be at the London town house, I reckon."

Cait heard the sound of pacing. Then a prolonged silence, followed by a low whistle.

"What are you thinking?" Wat sounded wary. "I don't care for the look in your eyes."

"We'll go to London." There was a significant pause. "And we'll get what belongs to us."

A chill shot through Caithren, though the night was still warm. Apparently Wat felt the same way. "You cannot mean to hurt him?"

"Whatever it takes. He's got it coming, and you're next in line. When you're the earl, we'll be sitting pretty."

"When
I'm
the earl?" Cait could hear her heart pounding while Wat mulled that over. "Geoffrey," he said slowly, "you're not…you're not talking…murder?"