The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (15 page)

She could still feel the awful man’s hands on her, and her ankle throbbed. But she wouldn’t cry. The Englishman had already said she was trouble, and she knew he hated her tears almost as much as she did.

Apparently satisfied she was unharmed, he set her away. Reluctantly, she let go. Her ankle shot fire as soon as she put weight on it, but she clenched her teeth and made no sound.

His voice was as calm as ever. “What on earth did you think you were doing, wandering alone in the middle of the night?”

He had the nerve to be outraged on her behalf? Protective? The cur. Anger coursed through her anew. “I was going back to the coach! To get my things and complete my journey! I was almost there, too. Just leave me be!”

He stared at her, his mouth working as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t think how to word it.

“I don’t need your help,” she added, though she wasn’t at all sure what would have happened if he hadn’t charged in on his silver horse. “I was taking care of myself just fine. I had a knife.”

“I could see that.” He eyed the dull gray blade in the mud. “And I saw you, um…with your knee…”

“Um-hmm.” She gave him a smug smile.

“But I’d expect that from Emerald MacCallum.”

“Very well, then,” she forced through gritted teeth. “I appreciate your gallant rescue, but now I’ll be on my way.”

Gathering what little was left of her composure, she swiveled, hobbled over to fetch the knife, and began limping down the road. She could feel his eyes on her back. One, two, three steps…four, five, six…

“Emerald.” His voice wasn’t reproving any longer—instead it sounded mocking. “Oh, Emerald…”

She didn’t stop. Her name wasn’t Emerald. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…

“You’re walking in the wrong direction.”

She dropped the knife back to the mud. He was behind her in a flash, his hands large and heavy on her suddenly trembling shoulders. “That’s London ahead. We passed the coach. Most likely it stopped in Rossington, north of where we slept.”

“I knew that.” Staring into the distance, she fished the amulet out of her sleeve and slipped the chain back over her head. She rubbed a wet finger over the smooth rectangular stone. “I wasn’t walking north?”

“No.” He came around to face her, his expression softening. “You’ve been walking south.”

Tears welled in her eyes; she couldn’t seem to stop them. She hoped they were disguised by the rain.

His hand went up to stroke his missing mustache, then dropped and curled into a fist. “Didn’t you notice the landscape was different?”

“Different?” Her voice went higher than she would have liked. She struggled to control herself as she scanned the drenched countryside. “It’s flat, just the same as yesterday. All England is flat and ugly.”

He shook his head and gestured at the gently rolling land. “Between Doncaster and Bawtry, it’s flat planted fields, bordered with trees. Here, there are hills used for grazing.”

“Hills, hah!” she said, even though he was right. Oh, why must she suffer from such a terrible sense of direction? It was the most inconvenient of faults. Why couldn’t she have a lisp or poor eyesight instead?

“Where I come from, this is flat.” She sniffed back the tears, determined not to let them fall. “W-will you take me there, then? To Rossington, where the coach is?”

She hated herself for the wobble in her voice.

“No.”

She hated
him
for being so disagreeable.

“Why not? What do you want from me?”

“I don’t have time to backtrack. And I want to keep an eye on you.” Rain dripped off his wide-brimmed hat, but he didn’t look nearly as miserable as she felt. “I cannot allow you to face Gothard alone.”

“Gothard!” The name was the last straw, the end of her hopeless struggle. The tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. “I don’t want this man Gothard,” she wailed. “I want my brother, Adam! I want my bed at Leslie, and my cousin, Cameron. I want something—one thing!—to go right for a change! And my name is Caithren!”

Her chest heaved with a sudden sob, and the Englishman reacted immediately, wrapping her into his arms.

“I hate you!” Reaching up, she pounded on his shoulders.

With a grunt, he shoved her away. “Confound it, will you stop beating up on me?” he said much more calmly than the words would imply. “I told you I’d take you to London. I’ll replace your clothes and your precious satchel and whatever else was inside. I’ll repay your money, and should it turn out you really do have a brother”—his face showed what he thought were the chances of
that
—“I’ll hire a solicitor to draw up your deuced papers. Just stop hitting me, will you?”

He paused for breath, and his voice dropped, nearly to a whisper. “I’m not out to hurt you. I want only to get to Gothard first. I cannot get on with my life—whatever is left of it—until I do so.” The eyes that bore into hers were filled with pain. “Can you not try to understand that?”

Despite herself, she nodded, hot tears trailing down her face to mix with the cold rain. When she swayed, he caught her close once again.

She melted against him willingly, her tears flowing faster. What would she have done if he hadn’t come after her? She was so far ahead of the coach now—far too far to go back. It made much more sense to head for London. But with no coin, she had no way to get there by herself, even if she managed to keep going the right direction. She couldn’t walk there in time, and horses and food and beds all cost money.

But she hated the fact that she needed him, especially because his arms felt so reassuring around her. He was a rogue who wouldn’t believe a word she said. A bullying rogue who’d kept her off the public coach, endangering the future of Leslie and stranding her with nothing. A maddening rogue who kept calling her Emerald.

And still, she felt safe in the circle of his arms. Beneath his chilly, wet cloak, his spicy scent warmed her numb nose while rain pattered all around them.

“Have we a bargain?” he asked quietly.

She nodded against his chest.

He joggled her until she looked up. “Was that a yes?”

“Aye, it was.” She drew a shaky breath.

“And you won’t disappear on me again?”

“I won’t try to escape you.”

“And you won’t hit me again?”

A tiny smile threatened to burst free. “That I cannot promise.”

He heaved an elaborate sigh. “I suppose I will have to take what I can get, then.”

“I suppose you will.” Despite her best efforts, and the cold, and the wet, and her ankle, she smiled, after all.

He was staring at her mouth. “Shall we seal this agreement?” he asked softly.

“What?” Was he fixing to kiss her? Nay, that couldn’t be. “I said we have a bargain, Mr. Chase.”

He blinked. “Mr. Chase? Didn’t I tell you to call me Jason?”

“I haven’t been calling you anything. I’ve been trying my best to ignore you, if you hadn’t noticed. Out loud, that is. In my head, I’ve been calling you all sorts of things.”

“I’ll bet you have.” Setting her away gingerly, he bent and fished the knife from the mud, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the blade. “I’m thinking you should have leave to call me Jason.”

“Oh, aye?”

A gleam came into his eyes. “After all, we have slept together.”

Her cheeks flushed hot. “Not exactly.
You
slept.” Looking down, she adjusted the soggy bow at the top of her laces. “I was taught to address my elders with respect.”

“Your
elders
? Do you think me so old and decrepit?”

He sounded so disconcerted, Cait’s gaze shot up to his face. It took all she had not to laugh. She wished she had the talent to paint; if she could capture his expression on canvas, she could laugh at it forever.

“Very well, then,” she said, keeping her voice businesslike. “Since I’ve no other means to get to London—thanks to you—I will stay with you willingly. As your equal.” He opened his mouth, but she rushed on. “And as such, I will call you Jason. Out loud. I cannot promise what I’ll call you in my head.”

Frustration and amusement mingled on his face as he shoved the knife into his belt. “Here,” he said gruffly, shrugging out of his cloak and settling it over her shoulders.

“You’ll get wet,” she protested even as she snuggled into it. It felt heavy and blessedly warm from the heat of his body. But his brown surcoat was becoming peppered with the dark splotches of raindrops. “I’m already soaked. It will do me no good.”

“You’re shivering. It will cut the cold.” He removed his hat and plopped it on her head. “I won’t have you catching a chill.”

He’d tied his hair back with a ribbon, making a short, neat tail at the nape of his neck. She watched as it became soaked, too. “Now we’ll both be miserable,” she said. “But I thank you for your gallantry. Why you deserve thanks is beyond me, but Mam always said ‘guid manners suffer bad yins.’”

Thin rivulets of water ran down his blank face and dripped off the end of his nose. She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw while she waited for him to ask for a translation.

“Courtesy outshines poor manners,” she finally said.

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, only swung her back into his arms. Before she could protest, he marched to his horse and deposited her on the saddle with a bit more force than was necessary.

She let out a little yelp.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Are you all right?”

“I reckon I’ll live.”

He looked up at her from below, a strange reversal of perspectives. “Why didn’t you pull your gun on that wretch?”

“It’s in my satchel, in—”

“—the coach.” He sighed. “I know. My fault. I’m sorry.” He reached down to draw a pistol from his boot. It was the smallest gun she’d ever seen, much fancier than Da’s, with a brass barrel and a mother-of-pearl grip inlaid with brass wire scrollwork. “Here, take this one,” he offered.

It looked very expensive. “Nay, I—”

“Take it. You should have something to protect yourself.” When she didn’t move to claim it, he reached beneath the cloak and tucked it into her belt.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, clutching the cloak closed in front with two cold fists. “It may be that I’ll need it; there seem to be a high proportion of unscrupulous men about England.”

He fixed her with an assessing green gaze, then mounted behind her. His arms came around her waist, altogether more comforting than she expected, and they took off at a decent clip down the muddy road.

Caithren concentrated on holding her ankle as still as possible.

“You seem to paint all Englishmen with the same brush,” Mr. Chase—Jason—said presently. “Tell me, Emerald, are there not bad people in Scotland as well?”

“My name is Caithren,” she snapped. “And we save our aggression for the English.”

It wasn’t even close to the truth, but it sounded good.

SEATED BEHIND
Emerald in the saddle, Jason watched her head bob as she drifted in and out of sleep. He found himself leaning close, hoping for a whiff of the flowery scent he’d already come to think of as hers. Whatever it had been—bath oil, perfume, or the like; he was certainly no expert on women’s toiletries—the rain had washed away every trace.

But plain Emerald smelled nearly as good.

He glanced at the sky, happy that the rain had let up. The road in this area was clay, normally stiff and easy to travel, but the miserable wet had made it into a path of mud. On both sides of the slushy mess, barley fields glistened green in the dwindling drizzle.

When he stood in the stirrups to relieve his stiffness, Emerald came awake with a start. He grabbed her to keep her from falling. She yawned into a dainty hand.

It certainly wasn’t a hand that looked accustomed to holding a pistol, but he supposed that was to her advantage. The less she looked like a threat, the more likely outlaws wouldn’t notice her coming after them.

“Tired, are you?” he drawled, resettling both her and himself and adjusting again to Chiron’s rhythmic sway.

“I didn’t sleep, if you’ll remember.”

“Ah. You must be sure to have a nap next time you resolve to sneak off and get yourself killed.”

“Humph. What’s it to you if I get myself killed, as long as you get to Gothard first?”

Jason heaved a sigh. “Emerald—”

“How many times must I tell you I’m not Emerald MacCallum?” She twisted around to see him. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“You tell a pretty story, but it doesn’t wash. For one thing, it hinges on you or your brother inheriting some land. Besides the fact that I cannot imagine you as a landowner”—that earned him a glare before she turned away, her chin tilting up—“you’re from Scotland. Land there isn’t owned by individuals,” he said smugly. “It’s owned by the clans.”

“A fat lot you know.” Her voice was unmistakably scornful. “I’m from the east, not the northern Highlands. Can you not tell from my accent?”

That lilting accent was muddling his brain. “You sound like a Scot to me.” He guided Chiron back to the center of the road, away from the dangerous bogs that plagued the edges. “Scots are Scots.”

Before him, her back went stiff. “Curious,” she said softly. “You don’t strike an initial impression of an uneducated fellow, yet you seem to be unaccountably lacking in knowledge.”