The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (18 page)

“WHAT ARE THEY
gawking at?” Caithren said irritably a few hours later.

Waiting at the end of the bridge into Newark-on-Trent, she yanked up on both the stomacher and her shift, giving the evil eye to the two shabby men who were crossing. “I’m not wearing this doxy’s dress again.”

She smiled to herself when Jason guided Chiron down the exact center of the bridge.

“Careful, you’re going towards the right—I mean, left. You wouldn’t want to risk something bad happening should you veer from the middle.”

“Very funny.” His tone was dry, but she thought she could feel him laughing behind her. “It’s clouding up again, so I think we’ll stop here and try to make up the time tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It isn’t dark yet. Though the thought of a bed is appealing.” And in the last twelve miles she’d learned the folly of turning down dinner in Tuxford. It felt as though a hole sat in the place where her stomach was supposed to be.

The sky did look menacing. After the soft, rain-soaked road, Chiron’s hooves sounded loud on the town’s cobblestones as he carried them down Beast Market Hill and onto Castlegate. “If we’re going to stop, then I see just where to stay,” Cait teased. On their right, the street’s namesake loomed over the riverbank. “Since you seem wont to choose the most impressive place.”

Now he laughed aloud. “It’s Newark Castle, and after the war, Cromwell ordered it demolished. Fortunately, the people refused to complete the job, so the face of the castle remains. But behind it, nothing. I expect you wouldn’t be comfortable.”

“It’s a beautiful facade.” She mourned the loss. “We’ve many large castles in Scotland.”

They jostled their way through Chain Lane, a narrow alley of a street lined with tiny shops of all sorts, and on into the marketplace. Jason rode through an archway beside a large inn called the Saracen’s Head.

When Caithren slid to the cobblestones, her knees threatened to buckle. She sternly forced them to comply. Jason wouldn’t see any weakness on her part—not if she had any say in the matter.

The Saracen’s Head boasted fine stables. A liveried ostler came forward to take Chiron in hand, and Cait and Jason hurried toward the inn just as the first raindrops were falling.

Spotting bright yellow by the windows, she paused to snap off a couple of marigolds. Jason frowned. “I don’t expect the proprietor will appreciate that.”

“Earth’s bounty is for all to share,” she argued. “This is just what I need for my ankle. I’ll ask for some vinegar to mix with the juice, and by morning I’ll be right as rain.”

“We’ll both be
soaked
with rain if we don’t get inside.” When she would have reached for another flower, he took her by the hand and dragged her through the door and to the innkeeper’s desk.

Jason set his portmanteau and their bundle of damp clothing on the floor. “One room,” he told the seated man, a large fellow with a huge smile and a pockmarked face. “If you please, Mr. . . ?”

“Twentyman,” the man said.

“Two rooms,” Caithren corrected.

“One,” Jason repeated.

With a huff of disgust, she decided he could handle this alone and wandered off to the taproom. Something smelled wonderful, and her poor belly was just begging to be filled.

“Good eve,” a jolly, rotund woman greeted her. She had round red cheeks and a round brown bun that shone in the well-lit room. “We’ve a lovely mushroom pie this evening.”

Caithren glanced toward the lobby. The way she saw it, Jason owed her whatever she wanted to eat. And then some. “I’ll try it, then,” she said happily. “And a sallet. And…”

“Spice cake?” the woman suggested.

“Aye. And a tankard of ale. I thank you.”

“I thank
you
, milady,” the woman said. “Seat yourself, if you please.”

Milady. Though Caithren wasn’t a lady, it was nice to be mistaken for one. Especially after the treatment she’d received thus far in this country. Smiling at the woman, she seated herself at a fine, polished table. When Jason came in and asked what she wanted, she was pleased to tell him she’d taken care of herself already.

He might think he was calling all the shots, but she would prove otherwise.

He ordered for himself and joined her at the table.

“Twentyman,” she mused. “Where does one get a name like that?”

“That’s a story,” the jolly woman said, coming up from behind Cait to set two ales before them. “My husband’s family was originally called Lydell. It’s said that one of the Lydells pole-axed twenty men, hence the name Twentyman.”

She walked away.

“You English are strange,” Cait said flatly.

Jason snorted, shaking his beautiful dark head.

Though Mrs. Twentyman had three serving maids to help her, she made it a point to bring Jason and Caithren’s supper herself. The pie smelled divine. Its flaky crust was filled with gingery mushrooms and melted cheese, and Cait was in heaven with the first bite.

“Delicious,” Jason told their hostess. “Newark was Royalist during the war, was it not?”

Mrs. Twentyman took that as an invitation to seat herself. “Aye, we were. Hull, Coventry, and Nottingham turned against King Charles in the troubles, but Newark was a loyalist stronghold.” Warming to her subject, she hitched herself forward. “In 1642 the king paid a visit here, and the whole town turned out to greet him. There are secret underground passages where the wealthy people deposited their deeds, jewelry, and valuables during the war for safekeeping. One leads from our cellar,” she confided.

“Secret passages?” Her curiosity piqued, Cait focused on Mrs. Twentyman while she stabbed blindly at her lettuce. “Where do they lead to?”

“They crisscross beneath the marketplace, connecting in various spots. Besides stashing their treasures there, some Royalists used them to hide.”

Cait took a sip of her ale. “Were they in danger?”

Mrs. Twentyman glanced around, making sure her serving maids were doing their jobs. “Most certainly they were in danger. As long as I live, I shall never forget one morning when their worst fears were confirmed. A party of Roundheads were spotted on Beacon Hill, waiting to attack.”

Caithren toyed with her cake. “What happened?”

“My husband’s grandmother brought an old army drum out of her house. It needed repair, but it could still make a racket. Her young grandson, my husband’s cousin, sounded the alarm, boldly striding through the town, beating the drum loudly, shouting, ‘Who will stand up for King Charles?’”

“And they did,” Jason told Cait. “They supported him courageously.”

“Yes, indeed. They had few guns but put on a brave show with their pitchforks and staves and whatever they could find. That day their luck was in. The Roundheads took one look at the mob and made a hasty retreat. Thanks to the loyal citizens and their little Twentyman drummer boy, Newark was still free.”

“Sadly, only for a while,” Jason put in.

“We withstood three sieges,” Mrs. Twentyman said proudly. “Of course, I was but a babe at the time.”

Feeling full after half her pie, Cait leaned back in her chair, lulled by the storytelling lilt of their hostess’s voice and the quiet roar of the other guests eating and conversing around them. She yawned behind her hand.

Mrs. Twentyman began to rise. “Poor dear, you’re sleepy. And here I am yapping away.”

Cait shook her head. “Your stories are wonderful, really.” When another yawn forced her mouth open, she blushed. “But I
am
tired.” She glanced at Jason, then back to the nice woman. “Do you think you might spare a little vinegar?”

“Vinegar, milady?”

“To mix with the nectar from these.” Caithren pulled the marigolds out of her pocket. “My ankle is a wee bit swollen, and it will help.”

“Will it, now?”

“Aye.”

When Mrs. Twentyman began stacking the plates, Cait noticed something on her hand. She reached across the table and touched the woman’s thumb. “And if you squeeze a wee smidge of juice from a dandelion stalk on this wart, it will clear up in no time.”

A little gasp came from Jason at her forwardness, but the innkeeper’s wife looked pleased. “I will try that, milady. First thing tomorrow.”

Cait smiled. “I would love a bath.” She looked to Jason. “Assuming you can afford it?”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Mrs. Twentyman had been treating them like husband and wife, but a wife would know what her husband could afford. Cait was mortified, thinking now the woman might realize they were sharing a room but not married.

Jason exchanged an embarrassed glance with their hostess. “I think I can manage that,” he said carefully.

“And I shall be needing some decent clothes.”

She wasn’t surprised when Jason didn’t argue. “I’ll do my best to find some while you bathe. Let me just see you up to the room.”

“You’ll be needing clothes?” Mrs. Twentyman asked.

“Aye. And a night rail. Mine went…missing,” Cait explained feebly.

Mrs. Twentyman looked between them, obviously curious. “I can lend you one of my sleeping gowns,” she said generously.

When Jason eyed Mrs. Twentyman’s ample form, Cait kicked him under the table. “I’d surely appreciate it,” she said.

“Then I’ll fetch one and send it up along with a bath and the vinegar.” With one last puzzled glance, the woman smiled and took herself off.

Jason leaned to rub his ankle, eyeing Cait’s half-eaten pie. “Are you going to finish that?”

She shoved it toward him wordlessly. He ate three bites, then looked up with a question in his gaze, and she passed him her leftover sallet as well. She sipped at the last of her ale while she watched him make her food disappear.

“If you’re wanting to go upstairs,” he said, “I’ll be needing to keep the key.” He eyed the remnants of her cake, then shook his head and sat back. “In case you fall asleep before I return.”

The thought of sharing his room made her nervous, but she knew she had no choice. Her gaze wandered to the door in the corner. She was exhausted, aye, but not quite ready to go upstairs and face the night.

“Do you think that door leads to the cellar?”

“Probably.” His brow furrowed. “Why?”

“I’ve a hankering to check out those tunnels.” She rose and started toward it.

“Wait.” Leaping from his chair, he caught her by the wrist. “I thought you were tired.”

She shrugged. “I’m curious. Maybe we’ll find some treasure.”

“I don’t think the Twentymans would appreciate—”

“Wheesht!” When she tried to pull away, she only succeeded in pulling him along with her. Other supper guests turned to watch. She lowered her voice. “Don’t you have any sense of adventure?”

Without waiting for any reply, she tugged open the door and started down the cellar steps. She heard him mutter to himself as he grabbed a candle off an empty table and followed.

The door above them shut, and the flame pierced the sudden darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, she swiveled to face him. “Do you always do what you’re supposed to?”

“Pretty much.”

“Boring,” she pronounced. With a swish of her English skirts, she turned and looked around. The cellar’s walls were lined with provisions, the air chilly. A shiver rippled through her, born of the cold or a tiny frisson of fear; she wasn’t sure which. But it felt a wee bit forbidden and exhilarating to be down here.

Jason looked annoyed and tense. And darkly handsome in the cellar’s shadows, if she were to be honest. “Has anyone ever told you you’re impulsive?” he asked.

“Cameron. Every day. He finds it endearing.”

Jason’s response was a muted snort.

A narrow wooden door was set into one corner.

“That must be it.” Her voice trembled a little.

He moved between her and the door and folded his arms across his chest, looking much like the man who had kept her from the coach. “I really think we should go back upstairs.”

“You don’t want to see the tunnels? There could be treasure—jewelry or money left since the war.”

He widened his stance. “It wouldn’t belong to you if you found any.”

“Of course it wouldn’t. I wasn’t planning to keep it. But it would be exciting to discover, all the same. Aren’t you intrigued?”

“No.”

With a small huff, she skirted around him. “Then I’ll meet you upstairs. Which room number?”

“Four. But—”

She pushed open the door.

A musty smell came from the cramped, dark passage beyond. A rush of excitement made her knees weak and forced a giddy chuckle through her throat as she stepped inside.

Jason slipped past her and held the candle high. “Come along, then,” he muttered.

Smiling to herself, she followed him along the dank, earthen tunnel. The curved walls oozed with moisture, and the place had a mildewy odor that spoke of long disuse. Something scurried across her path, and she jumped and let out a squeak, reaching for Jason’s arm.

Bobbling the candle, he turned to her and cupped the flame to prevent it from blowing out. “It’s only a mouse.” His smile was disarming. “Ready to turn back?”

“Nay. I wasn’t afraid, only startled.”

“Very well.” He cleared his throat and looked pointedly down at where her fingers were still clamped on his arm.

When she snatched her hand back, he proceeded.

His footsteps sounded loud on the deserted pathway. After a few yards, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “See any treasure yet?”

“Nay.”

He walked twenty more feet. “Any treasure now?”

In answer, she blew out an amused breath.

Ten more feet. “Now?”

She half-groaned, half-laughed. The candlelight disappeared as he took a sharp turn. She followed him around the corner.

And caught sight of something over his shoulder that made her stop short.