Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (6 page)

"Maybe I am."

They were planning to
murder
someone? Cait's breath seemed stuck in her chest.

"You would kill him?" Wat squeaked.

"I don't believe it will come to that. But it would be his fault for kicking us out. Just as it's his fault we're in this trouble. And his money we'll be using to get out of it."

Wat had nothing to say to that.

Or maybe he was shocked speechless.

"With Cainewood's death on our hands, we've nothing to lose," Geoffrey added gruffly. "Come along."

As she listened to them mount their horses, Cait began to tremble. It wasn't long before they rode around the corner of the mansion at a slow walk, heading straight past the front door where she hid. She scurried into a corner of the arched entry.

"I cannot do it." Even through Cait's fear, Wat's whine was grating on her. It was a wonder Geoffrey didn't put killing him next on his list of misdeeds.

But evidently Geoffrey chose not to listen, because he ignored the protest. "We have enough coin left to pay for a night at the inn. We'll let everyone see us."

"See us?"

"We'll leave for London come morning. People will remember us here, and if we ride like the dickens, no one will believe we could have gotten there in time. We won't be suspected of hurting our dear brother."

"But Geoffrey…" Wat's voice was so drawn out and plaintive, Caithren almost felt sorry for him. As they rode before her and then past, she risked inching forward to get a look at them.

Two men, both rumpled and sunburned. They spoke like quality, and looked it, too—overly proud, even if their clothes could use a washing. But they were robbing, murdering scum. English scum.

Cameron had been right about Englishmen.

"Now let's find some women." As they moved down the drive, the last of Geoffrey's words drifted back, faint but intelligible. "The last kitchen maid the housekeeper hired on before we left—she was a comely one, wasn't she? If she's not visiting her mama while Lucas is gone, she must be staying in Pontefract."

Women. The scum were in search of women. Caithren hugged the tops of her crossed arms in a futile attempt to stop herself from shaking.

England was as evil a place as she'd always heard. What was she doing here all alone? She should have let Mrs. Dochart accompany her out here to Scarborough's. Or Cameron—she should have let Cameron make the journey. This certainly had been an ill-conceived undertaking.

Though she couldn't hear another word the men said, she was still shaking when they disappeared from view, still shaking when she started the long, lonely walk back in the dark. Still shaking after she'd reclaimed her satchel, paid for a room at the inn and extra for a bath, and trudged upstairs to wash off the dust of a week's travel.

She slipped into her plain room, shut the door and leaned back against it, a palm pressed to her racing heart. She had to get herself in hand.

Nothing—leastwise a couple of scummy Englishmen—was going to stop her from finding her brother.

Jason slowly slid off Chiron, feeling stiff as a day-old corpse. It seemed the ache in his shoulder had extended to every bone in his body. He detached his portmanteau and set it on the stable's dirt floor, then stretched toward the rough-beamed ceiling, a delicious pull of his abused muscles.

"Will you be stayin' at the inn, sir?"

His arms dropped, and he looked down into the lined face of a gnarled old stableman. "Only long enough to eat and wash. Then I'm headed to the Scarborough estate in West Riding. I understand it's nearby?"

"Aye, but no one's there." The little man's face split in the involuntary grin of someone imparting bad news. "Scarborough shut the house and made off for London two days ago."

Jason could barely keep himself from groaning aloud. After six days of hard riding, had he arrived only to leave again?

He forked some hay beneath Chiron's nose. Perhaps the man was misinformed. "How come you to know this?"

The smile turned self-satisfied. "Cousin Ethel's worked there thirty-odd years. She's staying hereabouts while the lord is gone—likes to stop by to pass the day." He puffed out his scrawny chest. "Servants, we know everything."

Jason rubbed his stubbled jaw. "Then old Cuthbert is gone?"

The stableman blinked. "Old Cuthbert is dead."

"Dead?"
Dead?
At the hands of his relatives, the Gothard brothers?

"A month past. He and Lady Scarborough—they died crossing the channel. Young Lucas is the new earl. 'Course he's not so young, exceptin' compared to me." He eyed Jason up and down. "About your age, I suspect."

He bent to unbuckle Chiron's saddle. "Things over there be different now. Took the new earl no more 'n a week to toss his brothers out on their ears, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and some pocket change." With a little grunt, he lifted the saddle and hung it on a hook. "Deserved it, they did. Cousin Ethel tells stories…that Geoffrey tormented Lord Scarborough—the new one—from the day he was born. Geoffrey hated Lucas, he did, because Geoffrey was older but couldn't inherit."

Interesting. The little man was a fountain of information, if only Jason could keep it flowing. He reached for a currycomb and ran it through Chiron's glossy silver coat. "Why was that?"

"Rumor has it he be Lady Scarborough's son from another marriage, you see." When the stableman filled the trough, Chiron drank greedily. "That Geoffrey, he had it in for Lord Scarborough—the new one—before the lad was walkin'."

"And the younger son?" Jason probed. "Walter, is it?"

"Wat? Dumber than a box of hair. Geoffrey led him around by the nose since he teethed his first tooth. Two against one it was, and Lord Scarborough—the new one—just waitin' till the day came he could toss the two of them out. 'Course it's sad that was sooner rather than later."

"Does everyone in the village know all this?"

"All I know is what Cousin Ethel's told me." The man looked up from where he was crouched, cleaning Chiron's hooves. "But I know how to keep my own mouth shut. You can lay odds on that."

"Be an interesting wager." Despite his disappointment, Jason's lips twitched beneath his mustache. "Geoffrey and Walter, they're in the area?"

"Nah." He dropped a hoof and moved around to lift another. "Disappeared the day after the funeral. I've yet to set eyes on 'em since."

If anybody would know the brothers had returned, it would be this man. Some of the stiffness left Jason's shoulder. "I think they may have found trouble," he said carefully. "Talk has it there's been a reward posted for Geoffrey."

"That so?" The man's eyes lit up. "Well, then, I'm hopin' he'll come back and that Emerald MacCallum woman after 'im. A Scottish lass taking our own son, born and bred. Now that'd be a sight to see, here in little old Pontefract. We'd be talkin' about it for years."

"I imagine you would."

If the rumors of Emerald MacCallum were any more than fanciful nonsense.

Jason leaned to hand the groom the comb. "I reckon I'll be staying the night here, after all." Fetching his pouch from his coat pocket, he pressed a silver coin into the man's age-spotted hand and patted the horse's flank. "Keep an eye on him for me, will you? His name's Chiron. Appreciate the chat."

He lifted the portmanteau and headed from the stables. Now he knew why the Gothards had it in for their brother.

But what they had against
him
remained a mystery.

It surely felt good to be clean, Caithren thought. Even if she'd had to fold her knees up to her chin to fit into the inn's small wooden tub.

She tipped the wee bottle of oil she'd pressed from Leslie's flowers, pouring a few more precious drops into the bath. Scooping a palmful of the lukewarm scented water, she smoothed it over her shoulders.

It smelled like Scotland. Like home.

When the water grew cold, she donned the clothes she'd brought for riding: soft brown breeches and a coarse white shirt, castoffs outgrown by Da's stable lad. After plaiting her dark-blond hair, she piled it atop her head and jammed Cameron's hat on top.

There was no mirror in her room, but she hoped she looked enough like a lad that the men downstairs would leave her alone. She'd had her fill of English men tonight. Just her luck, the scum brothers would be staying at this inn. And in search of women.

She ducked out the door, then turned and went back in to paw through her satchel and find her father's pistol. It was an ugly thing of cold, mottled steel, made for naught but utility. It felt heavy in her hands—heavy and surprisingly reassuring. Bless Cameron for making her bring it; how had he known how alone and out of place she'd feel so far from home?

Remembering how Da had done so, she made sure the pistol was loaded, then half-cocked it and stuck it in the back of her breeches.

She dug her plaid out of the satchel to cover it. Unlike the English cloaks, a plaid was neither masculine nor feminine; Cam's looked exactly the same as hers. With any luck, she might pass.

As an afterthought, she tucked both the miniature of Adam and his letter into her breeches pocket, then headed downstairs to the taproom, doing her best to swagger like a man.

The paneled room was lit by oil lamps burning cheerfully on each of the round wooden tables. Pewter spoons clinked on pewter plates, and the buzz of leisurely conversation filled her ears. Homey scents of meat pie, fresh-baked bread, and brewed ale hung in the air. Her stomach growled.

She made her way to the taproom's bar. "Mr. Brown?"

"Yes?" The innkeeper looked up from wiping the counter. His brow creased, as though he were wondering how she knew his name. So he didn't recognize her; her disguise must be working.

She felt better already. "I'm looking—" She cleared her throat and deepened her voice. "I'm looking for my brother, an Adam Leslie. He was staying with Scarborough this week past."

"Adam Leslie?" The man set down his fistful of rags and wiped his hands on the front of his breeches. "I don't recall a man by that name."

Caithren's heart sank. Adam was fond of frequenting public taprooms, so she'd been hoping the innkeeper would know where he'd gone, what route he might have taken. Maybe she wouldn't need to travel all the way to London.

The man ran a hand across his bald head. "What does he look like?"

"Tall, fair, longish blond hair…" She dug in her pocket and brought out the portrait. "Here," she said, holding forth the wee oval painting. "I'm wondering if he told anyone where he was headed next."

Brown took it and considered, frowning. "I'm sorry, but I recall no man named Adam Leslie, nor anyone who looks like this picture." He handed it back. "Is it a decent likeness?"

She nodded.

"I have a good head for people, sir…er, madam?"

"Aye." Caithren sighed. Her disguise wasn't working after all.

Mr. Brown piled some discarded trenchers on a tray and lifted it to his shoulder. "I'm sure I would have remembered your brother had I seen him."

Blast it, another lump was rising in her throat. She'd never been a crybaby, and she didn't intend to take up the practice now. She pulled the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, scanning the worn page. "He was traveling with two other gentlemen, Lords Grinstead and Balmforth. Might you have seen them?"

"I'm afraid their names aren't familiar, either."

"Oh." A burst of laughter in the background seemed to mock Caithren's distress. Her hunger had faded…although she could very much use a mug of ale.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"It's no fault of yours." Slipping the letter and painting back into her pocket, she glanced about. She couldn't face the other travelers eating and socializing in this room—she'd spent the best part of a week with some of them already, with more forced togetherness promised to come.

And what if Mrs. Dochart came downstairs? The old bawface didn't know she was back yet—with a quick escape and any luck at all, she could spend one night alone in her peaceful, solitary room.

She turned back to the innkeeper. "Might you have some supper sent up? Room three."

"Certainly, Miss…Leslie, is it not?"

"Aye. Thank you."

"No trouble a'tall." With another appraising glance, he disappeared into the kitchen, and she turned to head upstairs.