Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (9 page)

And now she was injured, thanks to Jason. He owed it to her to follow her, watch over her. Protect her.

Luckily, they seemed to be heading in the same direction.

It would be no trouble.

Jason caught up to Emerald's coach—at least he hoped it was her coach—in Doncaster. Passengers had disembarked. A few walked along Church Street or Greyfriars Road, stretching their legs while the horses were changed.

Emerald was nowhere in sight.

He tethered Chiron and poked his head into the coach's cabin, finding it empty. Neither was she inside the Greyfriars Inn, where other passengers were taking refreshment.

Bloody hell, she must have hired a horse and left already.

Frustrated, he paid for an ale and paced Church Street while drinking it. He decided he should be relieved—it would have been hell following a public coach. Too damned slow. Once he found her—assuming he could—it would be much better with her on horseback. He could follow surreptitiously and keep her safe, without worrying about the brothers getting too far ahead.

Yes, it really was quite a relief. Anxious to get on the road after Emerald, he tilted his head back and drained the rest of the ale. And looked back down to see a woman across the street.

A woman who looked rather like Emerald MacCallum.

Instead of breeches, the woman wore a dark green skirt over a long-sleeved, high-necked shift, topped by a brown laced bodice that looked like it belonged in the previous century. She rounded a corner of the Church of St. George, disappearing from Jason's view. He took off after her.

He hadn't caught sight of her face. But the sun had glinted off dark-blond hair woven into two plaits. He'd thought Emerald had plaited her hair last night only to hide it under her hat, but he could have been wrong in that assumption.

Absurd hairstyle for a grown woman.

There she was, standing by the double doors of the majestic medieval building. Stopping in a graveyard a safe distance away, he concealed himself behind a monument and watched.

It was quite definitely Emerald. Evidently she only dressed like a man when her quarry was in range. Or maybe she hadn't found time yet to wash the blood off her shirt and mend the slash from his blade.

Gazing up at the massive planked doors, she reached a finger to trace a section of their scrolled ironwork before her hand closed over the latch. But she stopped short of opening it. Instead she heaved a visible sigh and began wandering around the church, toward another graveyard that looked ancient compared to the one where Jason hid. Idly she bent down to pluck off part of a small plant and slipped it into her pocket. Strange woman.

It hit him then. As in Pontefract, there must have been no horses available here in Doncaster. She was only biding her time until the coach was ready to leave.

Damnation. He would have to follow the coach after all, until Emerald managed to find herself a horse. And thereby risk Gothard getting to London ahead of him, potentially endangering other people there and along the way.

Setting the empty tankard atop a gravestone, he groaned aloud at the thought. But he had no choice.

Or did he?

Tilted, mossy stone markers were spaced unevenly on the grass. Caithren strolled the crooked rows, touching one here and there. The same names appeared over and over through the centuries. Mowbray, Southwell, Hodgkinson.

She shivered as she touched the rough headstone of two Southwell bairns. They'd been dead more than two hundred years, one at the age of four, the other listed simply as "Infant Daughter." Cait's throat tightened at the thought of losing family. The recent loss of Da still hurt.

"Boarding!"

Startled, she glanced around the kirk toward the Greyfriars Inn. She'd enjoyed her solitude till the last possible moment, but now the coach had pulled up before the rounded corner of the red-brick building, fresh horses in place, and the first passengers were climbing aboard, that old bawface Mrs. Dochart among them. With a sigh, she kissed her fingertips and touched them to the sisters' gravestone, then turned to make her way back to the inn.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Suddenly the cemetery seemed eerie and forbidding. A soft wheezy sound set her heart to pounding. Was she hearing muffled footsteps?

Spooked, she froze in her tracks.

It's the wind, she told herself. The wind whistling through the old kirk. Cameron always said she had too active an imagination. But her fingers flew to her amulet as her body tensed, ready to run.

A louder footstep sounded behind her, and a hand clamped on her shoulder. Whirling, she shrieked.

"Whoa, there." Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the man looked puzzled and apologetic. "You look like you saw a ghost."

The face registered, and Caithren's jaw dropped open. Her hands went to her heaving chest. It took a moment to find her tongue, but when she did, she let loose.

"You!" The Englishman had said he felt responsible, but she hadn't figured he was insane enough to follow her. "You scared me half to death."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you, only—"

"What the devil are you doing here?" Still trembling, she leaned on a gravestone. "Did you follow me? I told you I don't want your help."

He shrugged in answer as he gazed around the cemetery. "You're shaking. I suppose you believe in ghosts?"

"I've yet to meet a Scot who doesn't," she said shortly.

His lips curved as though he found that amusing. He motioned his head toward the gray stone kirk. "Why didn't you go inside?"

She glanced from him to the building, then back. "You were watching me?"

The thought was disturbing. She'd wanted to explore the elaborate medieval kirk, not to mention pray there for the stamina to put up with Mrs. Dochart for eight and a half more days. Lord knew she needed some help. But she'd been afraid the coach would leave without her, so she'd stayed outdoors instead.

And he'd been watching her. A vague sense of unease stole over her. Her hand went into her pocket, feeling for the familiar comfort of Adam's portrait she'd put there to remind her of her goal.

"I-I must go. Please, just leave me alone."

"It's a beautiful building." He gestured at the bell tower, where no less than sixteen pinnacles crowned the battlement. "You really should have a look inside."

The sun came back out, dispelling her nervousness. He was only a man, albeit a misguided one. "I don't have time to go inside. The coach is leaving."

He nodded. "I'll walk you through."

"There's a door on the other side?" She frowned but followed him, dimly wondering why she was cooperating with an Englishman. But she supposed he was trying to help.

Inside, it was cool and deathly quiet. Deserted as well, at two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. The flames of votive candles made shadows dance in the dim light that filtered through the kirk's beautiful stained-glass windows. She paused to silently admire the ancient grandeur, loathe to disturb the utter peacefulness with unnecessary words.

With a tug on her hand, he urged her down a side aisle.

"Last call!" The driver's voice managed to pierce the thick stone walls. Looking up, Cait could see that some of the colorful windows were old and broken, no doubt letting in the sound, as well as the wind that had frightened her in the graveyard.

"Let go of me," she whispered, trying to pull from the Englishman's grasp. He had no business touching her. "I must go."

He held tight and continued doggedly toward a small private chapel that projected outside the main wall. It would be near Church Street and the inn. That must be where the door was.

But when they stepped through an archway and inside, a scan of the wee chapel revealed only a single wooden bench and a simple altar with three small burning candles. Afternoon sun shone through a cracked window, projecting brilliant colored patches on the stone floor.

Alarm skittered through her. "There's no door."

"I never said there was a door."

She stifled her urge to yell—she couldn't be making a racket in the kirk. "I must
go
."

"I think not."

He wanted to
keep
her here? She moved for the main sanctuary and front door, but he was faster and blocked her path. Losing patience, she shoved at his arm. "Please move out of my way."

"I'm not going to hurt you." He wedged himself into the archway, spreading his feet at the bottom and his hands at the top. "I want only to protect you."

Protect her?
The man was daft. She beat both fists against his chest, and he yelped. But he was solid and immovable.

Through a high cracked window, she heard the call of her name. Panic welled in her throat. She needed to be on the coach. Her future depended on finding her brother. She didn't have time for this stranger and his accusations and claims of responsibility.

She gave him another shove and kicked at his shins, but he stood firm, his mouth a straight line beneath his thin mustache. She heard her name called again and wished she hadn't left Da's pistol in her satchel on the coach.

When she heard the creak and groan of the coach departing, her panic blended with white-hot anger. Frantically she tried to duck under his arms, through his legs, and finally turned her back, sputtering incoherently. Only when the sound of the wheels faded into the distance did he step from the archway.

No matter they were in a kirk—she whirled and slapped him hard across the face.

"Holy Christ!" His hand came up to cover his cheek where her finger-shaped imprints were already making a blotchy, red presence. "You've got a hell of an arm."

"Don't you blaspheme in the kirk!" she yelled, bringing her hand up again.

Neatly he caught her by the wrist. "Once, you're quick. Twice, I'm stupid," he said drolly.

"You're stupid, all right! I missed my coach!" She wrenched free and shrank away from him, back into the wee chapel.

"There's nowhere for you to go," he said calmly. "I won't hurt you."

"Why should I believe you?" But she did, though it made no sense. "How am I going to get to London?"

"There will be another coach."

"In three days! And I must be in London by next week!"

He rubbed his injured cheek. Absurdly, she noticed he hadn't shaved. He must have been in a hurry this morning.

"Next week," he mused, as though to himself. "What for?" He came close, his hand dropping from his face to clamp her shoulder, holding her from bolting. As if she had anywhere to go. "Why do you need to be in London? Think fast—I'm sure you can come up with a good one."

"My brother is expected there." She twisted from his grip. "I told you I'm looking for him. I need him to sign some papers."

"That story's getting old, Emerald."

"It's God's truth!" Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. She didn't know whether she was more enraged that he'd detained her or that he insisted on calling her Emerald. Both made her spitting mad. "If I miss him in London, he might go to India. And how will I find him then, I ask you? What will I do then?"

"India? Your creativity knows no bounds." Wincing, he bent to rub one of his shins, and she was gratified to think she'd damaged him. "India," he muttered, his voice unmistakably disgusted.

The tears did fall then, fast and furious. All she'd wanted was to find Adam. It had seemed such a simple matter to go to him and have him sign the papers. Now everything had gone awry.

"I must get to London!" The Englishman's face looked all blurry through her tears. "Why did you keep me here?" she wailed. "Whatever for?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "I told you last night. I feel responsible—"

"I'm not your responsibility!"

"—for seeing to your safety," he continued unperturbed. "I only hoped to delay you a few days, to allow me to deal with Geoffrey Gothard before he can do you harm."

"Gothard again?" She stamped her foot, hard. It seemed the candle flames wavered, but the Englishman didn't budge. "I hate you!"

"You're not my favorite person, either. I'm only trying to help you." He shook his head. "India." The sigh that escaped his lips was so elaborate it ruffled his long black hair.

She sat down on the single bench and dashed impatiently at the wetness on her cheeks. Wheesht! She rarely cried at home, but here she was a veritable fountain.

England was a very nasty place. Cameron didn't know the half of it.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Her shoulders trembled. "Will you take me back to the coach?"

"Forward to the coach. And the answer is no." His black boots shuffled on the stone floor. He plopped to sit beside her. "Please don't cry."

His voice sounded miserable. He hated tears, did he? Good. She let loose a particularly pathetic wail.

He scooted to the far end of the bench. She angled toward him so he could see the tears run down her face. He rose and walked away, pacing the breadth of the wee chapel and back again. When he came to stand before her, arms crossed, she dropped her head into her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

Or at least she hoped he thought so. She had to convince him to take her to the coach.