The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (17 page)

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he fairly choked out, reaching for the stomacher. He came into the room and shut the door without a single snort, which she imagined was some feat.

“Hold it here,” he instructed, plastering the stomacher against her front. “And then you attach the tabs, like this—”

“I cannot breathe.” The stiff stomacher flattened her belly and pushed up her bust, which made her even happier for the cover of her shift. Experimentally she leaned forward, grunting when the pointed bottom dug into her lower abdomen. “What’s in this thing?” she asked. “Wood?”

“Yes. Or bone.”

Though she’d been half-fooling, Jason sounded serious.

“I don’t suppose you brought me dry stockings?”

“Stockings. Oh, hang it, I—”

“No matter,” she said quickly, preferring not to discuss intimate clothing. “Mine are almost dry.”

While he made their damp garments into a bundle he could hang from his portmanteau, she pulled on the stockings and her garters, lifting her skirt as little as possible. It was no easy task since the stomacher prevented bending over. “How is one supposed to sit a horse while wearing this contraption?”

“Ladies generally ride sidesaddle—”

“Balanced precariously for miles and miles?” Finished, she stood straight and arched her back, her body already protesting the anticipated hours on horseback. “Not a chance. I’ll manage.”

Closing the portmanteau, he slanted her an assessing glance. “Achy, are you?”

“Nay, only practical.” She stepped into her still-wet shoes.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Emerald MacCallum would be practical.”

“Caithren Leslie is practical.” She dug beneath the pillow and slipped his pistol and Adam’s portrait into the gown’s pockets. “Shall we go?”

THREE TEDIOUS
hours later, Emerald tugged up on the stomacher for the dozenth time. “All England is not flat fields,” she admitted wonderingly. “We’re actually riding through a forest.”

The shadows of leaves overhead made pleasing patterns of light and dark on the road. “Sherwood Forest,” Jason told her.

“Oh!” Her cry of discovery delighted him. “Robin Hood rode here, did he not? I’d like to stop and have a wee look around Robin’s forest.”

He sighed. “Your nap this morning cost us hours. We haven’t even made it to Tuxford. There’s no time for wee looks.”

“By all the saints! First you keep me off my coach, leaving me with no money or belongings so I’m stuck with the likes of you.” She twisted to shoot him a glare. “Now you reckon you can make all the decisions?”

Confound it, she made him sound—and feel—like a tyrant. He pushed on her shoulder to face her forward again. “We cannot afford to let Gothard get too far ahead.”

“I wish to go into the woods.” With a huff, she leaned back against him as she had for much of the ride. She claimed it eased the discomfort of the foreign stomacher. “I hope to find plants I may be needing. My box of herbs was left in my satchel—”

“On the coach. I know,” he said irritably. Her closeness was unsettling. “Is that why you plucked leaves off a plant by the church yesterday?”

“Aye. Featherfew, for the headache. I believe I feel one coming on.” She made a great show of rubbing her forehead, and the movement ran through him like a tremor. “Ten minutes. If I haven’t found what I need by then, we’ll be on our way. I wish to find something to relieve the swelling of my ankle. And something to heal wounds.”

He scooted back in the saddle, but it didn’t help. “Wounds?”

“Like the one I have,” she pointed out, “thanks to your sword.”

“Very well, then,” he muttered, annoyed. She was entirely too talented at triggering his guilt. “Ten minutes.”

He guided Chiron off the road and dismounted, tethering him to a tree. Then he reached to help her down.

She pushed his hands away. “I can do it.” But after a few clumsy attempts, she folded her arms over her well-covered chest, looking even more annoyed than he was. “Nay, I cannot. How am I supposed to move with this board strapped to my middle?”

Hiding a smile, he reached for her again, catching a whiff of her rain-washed scent. As soon as her feet hit the ground he released her, grateful to break the contact.

She flexed her knees, stroking Chiron’s silvery mane. “What do you call him?”

“Who?” he asked, distracted.

“Your horse.” She slanted him a look, took a few tentative, limping steps, then headed off into the woods.

“Chiron,” he said, following her. “I call him Chiron.”

A giggle floated back through the trees. “Think yourself a hero, do you?”

“A hero?” His answering laugh was humorless. “Not a chance.”

“Jason, the Greek hero.” She knelt to inspect some small plants by the base of a tree, allowing him to catch up to her. “One-blade,” she murmured, sounding pleased. “Jason’s guardian was the centaur Chiron, aye?”

“Aye. I mean, yes. My sister loves the legends; it was she who named my horse.” Leaning against the tree, he frowned at the top of her head as he watched her pick a few blue-green leaves. She seemed surprisingly knowledgeable about plants. Knowledgeable about lots of things. “How is it you know that tale? A Greek myth. And the English tales of Robin.”

Slipping the leaves into her pocket, she rose and wandered off, her gaze trained on the damp, dark earth. “You think me an ignorant fool then, do you?”

“No.” That wasn’t what he’d been thinking at all. Far from a fool, she was quick and creative—at least when it came to inventing lies. “I don’t know what to think of you,” he said honestly, following her again. “Or what to do with you, for that matter.”

She whirled so fast he nearly ran into her. The dress she detested swirled around her legs. “What do you mean, what to do with me? You promised you’d take me to London.”

“And I will—”

“This arrangement wasn’t
my
choice.” She appraised him for a few heartbeats before crouching to inspect another bit of greenery. “But I don’t mean to be trouble.”

Despite himself, his gaze was drawn to the nape of her long, slim neck. “Of course you’re trouble.” He shrugged uncomfortably, grateful her eyes were on the plant. He didn’t want to know what color the hazel had turned to now. “But it’s no fault of yours. All girls are trouble.”

She straightened to face him. “All girls?” The two words were laced with challenge.

He took a defensive step back. “Are you not going to take any of that plant?”

“It’s useless. I was hoping it was moonwort, but of course it’s too late in the year.” With a look that said the conversation was far from over, she meandered along and knelt by another plant. “Surely your mother wasn’t trouble?”

“Her above all.” He sighed, his mind far in the past—a past he preferred to forget. “She abandoned four children, effectively leaving me, the eldest, to raise the rest.”

She glanced up. “Abandoned you?”

He surveyed the fragrant forest, the cloudy sky, anything to avoid the pity in her gaze.

The last thing he wanted was this girl’s sympathy.

“Well, she died, which amounted to the same thing. She insisted on following my father into battle against Cromwell. Not a woman’s place, but—”

“Not a woman’s place?” Shading her eyes with a hand, she sent him a glare clearly meant to intimidate. “Who are you to tell women where their places are, Jason Chase?”

He blinked. “I imagine I should expect such an attitude from a girl who does a man’s job.”

“If running Leslie is a man’s job, then aye, I do one.” Fallen leaves crunched beneath her as she rose. “Given your attitude toward women, I expect your three siblings are sisters?”

“Only one.” Thinking of his sister prompted a smile. “But Kendra proved enough trouble for three. And still trouble—she refuses to get married, at least to anyone remotely suitable.”

“Poor, poor Jason.” Her commiserating noises were clearly less than sincere. “Imagine a lass wanting to choose her own husband.” She came near, her skirts swishing again, drawing his attention to the curves underneath. “Imagine a lass wanting a husband at all. They’re all like you, thinking they can keep their women in place.”

Those changeable eyes looked green now. He backed up until he bumped smack against a tree and could go no farther—at least not without looking like more of a fool than he already felt.

She moved closer again. Too close. “It’s sorry I am if your mam was a halliracket, but—”

“A what?”

“An irresponsible person.” She fixed her gaze on his. “But
my
mam would say a scabbit sheep canna smit a hail herself.”

He crossed his arms and stared back at her, his mind a complete blank when confronted with such gibberish.

“One evil person cannot infect the whole. You cannot judge all women by your own isolated experiences.”

He cleared his throat. “I suppose your mother is an angel on earth?”

Shrugging, she lowered herself to inspect another plant. After a moment, her voice drifted up, quiet and subdued. “She’s an angel in heaven. Mam died when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling bad for asking while wondering if she was telling the truth. He cast about for a change of subject. “What of your father?”

Slowly she tilted her face until her gaze was locked on his. A faint glaze of tears seemed to brighten her eyes. “My Da died a few weeks ago.”

Egad! Was she still trying to guilt him? If so, it was working beautifully. Though he didn’t know how much of her story he believed, he found himself drowning in those eyes, wanting to reach for her and offer comfort.

He blew out a breath. “I’m very sorry.”

Thankfully, she focused back down, fingering a small whitish leaf. “It was a blessing.” Her voice was flat. He watched her pluck the leaf, her fingers both graceful and deft. “He had a fit last spring and couldn’t move but to blink his eyes and swallow.” She looked up again. “Would you care to live like that?”

He shook his head, not knowing what to say.

“Now my family is only Adam.”

“Right, you told me about him.” Over and over. “Adam MacCallum.”

“Adam Leslie.” With a huff, she stood. “By all the saints, you have got to be the stubbornest man I’ve ever met.”

“Runs in the family,” he said dryly, watching her pull her amulet from under her shift and fold one hand around it. It looked ancient. He wondered how many Emeralds had worn it over the years. “Have you no other family at all?”

“A cousin, Cameron.” The necklace fell from her fingers. “Leslie,” she added before he could suggest otherwise.

He was beginning to think he’d never trip her up; she was a bright one, all right. And she asked way too many questions. Personal questions. “What is that?” he asked, indicating the leaf in her other hand.

“Bifoil.” She added it to her pocket. “Good for wounds.”

He bent and touched the plant’s second leaf. “Why didn’t you take this one?”

“I must leave some to grow and flourish for the next person who needs it. Removing too much is rude. We must respect Mother Earth if we wish her to provide.”

She ambled off again, her gait made awkward by more than a twisted ankle. It was clear she was suffering from the long ride. Though he’d felt the same his first few days on the road, he wouldn’t tell her that, any more than she’d admit to her pain.

It struck him that in some ways they were all too similar. Not particularly good ways, either.

She paused by a tall plant with a spiky bush of pale flowers, but left the blossoms alone, instead plucking off their ash-colored leaves. “Snakewood,” she told him, the word trailing off into a yawn.

That reminded him she’d had no sleep in two days, other than the one short nap. He could see the weariness etched in her face, the dark circles under her eyes. Responsibility weighed heavy on his conscience, mingling with that tender feeling he found so confusing and disturbing.

His stomach rumbled, and he remembered they were almost to Tuxford. “Your ten minutes are up. Are you hungry?”

When she shook her head, his gaze raked her slim frame.

“You don’t eat enough.”

“The gown is too big.”

Her pert nose went into the air, a gesture so amusing it dispelled his strange mood.

“It’s no fault of mine if you’re no judge of a lass’s size.” She hugged herself around her loose waistline and started back toward Chiron. “You shall have to find me some decent clothes, Jase.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, following her. “Jase Chase. It rhymes. It’s disgusting. What were my parents thinking when they named me?”

The question was rhetorical, but she responded anyway. “Evidently they weren’t thinking at all.” She turned and walked backward, watching him avidly, her grin too fetching for his comfort. “Or maybe they had a ripe sense of humor, Jase.”

He growled deep in his throat. “Nobody calls me Jase.”

At that, she turned back around. “I do,” she called over her shoulder, sounding altogether more cheerful than she had since they’d met. “So long as you call me Emerald.”