The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (21 page)

The carved stone angel was brightly gilded, giving it the look of solid gold. It perched over the gateway of an inn called—appropriately enough—The Angel.

“Whose heads are those?” she asked.

Jason halted and squinted up at the corbel above the winged cherub. “King Edward the third,” he decided. “So that must be his queen, Philippa of Hainault.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I see you’re not completely uneducated.” Before he could protest that thinly disguised insult, she added, “Edward was brutal to the Scots.”

“Everyone was brutal in those days,” he pointed out. “Edward was after revenge for Bannockburn.”

“He got it,” she said dryly.

“So this is what comes of educating girls,” Jason quipped as he guided Chiron through the archway, earning himself a hard pinch on the knee.

He helped Emerald down and led her inside. The Angel’s taproom had a fine timbered ceiling and an enormous stone hearth, but no fire this summer day. Since the weather was warm, Jason opted for a cold dinner of bread, cheese, and small pickled onions. He carried it to where Emerald had seated herself by a stone vaulted window.

“There are so many people,” she marveled, watching them pass by on horses, in carriages, and on foot.

“Wait till you see London.” He sliced the thick slab of cheddar. “So, what happened after the woman showed up?”

“Pardon?” She dragged her gaze from the window.

He handed her a piece of bread topped with cheese. “The mermaid.”

“Oh. The Maid-of-the Wave.” She took a bite. “Well, when we left her she was standing there in her blue dress, greeting. I mean, crying.”

“Greet means to cry?”

“Aye. And she said, ‘Won’t you have pity and return my tail, so I can go home to the Land-under-Waves?’”

“Let me guess.” He popped an onion into his mouth. “He couldn’t stand to see the woman cry, so he returned her tail.”

“Nay.” Her eyes danced, looking turquoise today. “Maybe that’s what you would do. But not this young farmer. He thought she was so gentle and beautiful that he couldn’t bear to let her go. He told her, ‘What I have I will keep. But shed no tears, fairest of the fair, for you may stay with me and become my bride.’”

She paused for a sip of The Angel’s strong ale.

“Did she marry him?” Jason asked.

Cocking her head, she studied him. “Would
you
marry someone who kept you forcibly?”

He nearly choked on his own ale. An uneasy silence stretched between them until he wiped his mouth and said, “So, what happened?”

“She walked away and returned to the sea, but without her tail she couldn’t join her people. Instead of standing up for herself, in the morning she went back and agreed to be the man’s bride. She begged him to be kind and never tell anyone who she was or how she came to be there, and he promised.”

“And they lived happily ever after?”

“Nay. I told you it was a sad story.” A faraway look in her eyes, she touched her emerald. “All the people of the village loved the Maid-of-the-Wave, but the man kept his promise and didn’t tell them where she came from. They believed she was a princess, brought to them by the fairies.”

“Half-witted fools,” he said and ate another onion.

A frown appeared on her forehead. “You don’t believe in fairies, either?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then, that makes two of us,” she said with a grin.

He laughed. “So, were they happy together?”

“Oh, aye, for a spell. They lived in peace for seven years and had two bairns, a lad and a lassie. The Maid-of-the-Wave loved them dearly. Then came a time the farmer went to town to trade. It was a long journey, and he was gone several days. The mermaid was lonely without him, so she wandered the seashore with her little ones. As she sang to her wee lass, she remembered her people who lived in the Land-under-Waves.”

“Very sad. Are you going to finish that?”

With a roll of her eyes, she handed him the rest of her bread. “One evening her son came to her and said, ‘I found a key. It opens Father’s box, and I looked inside. There’s a tail in there, a big, shiny, beautiful tail that looks like a salmon’s.’ She gasped with shock and excitement and asked for the key.”

“And he gave it to her?”

“Of course. She was his mother. After supper she put her children to bed and sang them to sleep. Then she opened the box and took out her tail. She sat by the fire for a long, long time, for she wanted so badly to go home to her people, but she didn’t want to leave her bairns.” She paused for a heavy sigh. “But then she heard the sound of singing coming from the sea. Her sister mermaids were calling to her. She kissed her two children and wept—”

“Greeted.”

She smiled, though her eyes looked sad. “—greeted over them until their precious faces were wet with her tears. And still she heard the songs from the sea. With a heavy heart, she took her tail and hurried to the Land-under-Waves.”

“Abandoning her children,” Jason put in with no small measure of disgust.

“Aye,” she said and nodded. “When the farmer returned the next morning, the sounds of joy and laughter floated to him from the sea. In his cottage, his children were fast asleep. But the box was open and empty. He sat down and wept, because he knew that the Maid-of-the-Wave had gone.”

She released a shaky breath. Without thinking, Jason leaned to cover her hand with his. “You must miss your own children.”

A puzzled look came over her face. “What do you mean?”

“Your children. Your…bairns. A lad and a lassie, like the mermaid’s, yes?”

“You think I have bairns?” She tugged back her hand. “Me? I’m only seventeen. I’ve never even—”

“Never mind.”

His face felt as warm as hers looked. He hated the feelings of doubt that had been niggling at him ever since he’d overheard the men at breakfast. But his gaze dropped to her amulet. A ray of sunshine through the window made the old stone glint green. Emerald green.

Of course she was Emerald. Emerald would deny this, like everything else.

He cursed the aggravating niggle and drained the rest of his ale. “Did the mermaid ever come back?”

One of her fingers traced her crisscrossing laces while she studied him a moment. He shifted uneasily. He didn’t like being studied.

“Nay,” she said at last. “But it’s told that she often returned in the night to peek through the cottage windows at her bairns as they slept. She left trout and salmon outside the door. The farmer told his children that their mother was far away but would never forget them. When her son grew up, he sailed the seas, and no harm ever came to him, even in the fiercest storms, for the Maid-of-the-Wave followed his ship and protected him.”

“That’s not quite so sad, then.”

A wan smile emerged. “Nay, I suppose it isn’t. She had to go back to her place, didn’t she? Her home, where she belonged.” A muddy green now, her eyes met his. “Even though they’d never see her again.”

Like Emerald would go back to Scotland. Her home, where she belonged. “Yes, she had to go,” he agreed, though hang it if the thought of never seeing her again didn’t seem somehow incomprehensible.

THE ROAD FROM
Grantham was hilly with lots of trees and sheep, a welcome change after traveling through flat land all the day.

At Stoke Rochford they took a wee bridge over a wee river—Jason didn’t even hesitate—and rode up to the Church of St. Mary, which was perched on high land with a spectacular view. The village had no inns or taverns, though—no excuse for Cait to get off the horse and ease her aching legs and bottom. Her teeth were aching as well, from gritting them against the discomfort. But she wouldn’t admit that to Jason.

Stretton had enormous trees and a lovely field of yellow wildflowers, but nothing else of note. They plodded on. A sleepy stone village called Casterton boasted a pretty Norman kirk, but Jason didn’t suggest they stop and have a look.

After hours in the saddle, Caithren thought she would scream if she didn’t get some relief. The sun was on its downward slide when she spotted a jumble of stone and patted Jason’s knee.

“Do you think I might stretch my legs?”

“Why?” he asked, sounding amused. “Is something wrong with them?”

“Nay.” She set her jaw. “It’s only that I’ve a mind to explore that ruin over there.”

“Oh. I see.” By his tone, she guessed he saw all too much. “I suppose we could do that,” he said, steering Chiron off the road and up the grassy rise that led to the crumbling castle. “We’ve made excellent time today. And I could do with a bite.”

“I thought I heard your stomach rumbling,” she said as he dismounted. “Are you always hungry, then?”

He spanned her waist with his big hands to swing her down. “Seems so,” he said with a grin.

While he tethered Chiron to a tree, she flexed her knees and looked around. The remnants of the castle’s walls meandered up and down gentle, grassy slopes, loosely connected by steps that seemed to lead nowhere. It struck her as both sad and terribly romantic.

From a corner of the site rose the keep, a square tower that was tall but open to the sky.

Rather than sharing her enchantment, Jason was digging in the portmanteau for the chicken, bread, and cheese he’d bought before leaving Grantham.

“Come up the keep,” she said. “I’d wager there’s a lovely view.”

“Go ahead.” He pulled a flask from one leather bag. “I’ll arrange our supper.”

With a shrug, she started up the winding stone steps. Though in better shape than the rest of the castle, the keep was far from habitable. The floors were half gone, and big chunks of the walls were missing. The narrow stairs bore deep depressions from centuries of feet, and there was no rail, but the steps themselves felt solid and safe.

She trudged up painfully, wondering if this was really a good idea after so many hours in the saddle. When she finally reached the top, puffing from exertion, she leaned on the crenelated wall and gazed out over the countryside.

“Oh, it’s glorious!” The land rolled away in all directions, dotted with trees and houses, divided by glistening ribbons of rivers and streams. “You can see from here like a bird in the sky. You must come up!”

“Take your time,” he called to her. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“Nay, come join me!” She rushed to the other side, saw the endless, brown swath of the road, steeples of churches, a working mill. “You can see a mill from up here, Jase! It’s running. The top of a mill—wouldn’t that be interesting?”

He was a miller, after all.

But his chuckle floated up the ancient stone walls. “I’ve no need to see a mill. I have one of my own.”

“I knew that. But there’s a big river too, and”—she worked her way around the perimeter—“a town, Jase! A bonnie large town!”

“Stamford,” he told her. “We’re nearly there.” From her high perch, he looked small as he walked around to her side. The sun glinted off his hair. “I can see the town from here,” he called up. “The keep is built on a hill. They usually are, you know. A motte, the hill is called.”

“You cannot see it as well as I can,” she argued. “It’s a lovely town. With wee toy carriages going all over it.”

Laughing, he seated himself on what was left of a crumbling stone wall. “Enjoy. Come down when you’ve seen enough.”

“Please come up,” she begged. She wanted to share this with someone. The beauty, the wonder. “Please.”

He stared up at her for a minute. She wished she could see his expression better, especially when he released a long-suffering sigh. Finally he said, “Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood and brushed off his breeches, then disappeared around the other side of the keep.

A few footsteps echoed up the stairwell, slow and measured. Then…faltering? There was silence for a minute before the footfalls resumed, then stopped again. More silence, followed by the padding sound of walking on grass.

Then the sun was glinting off his hair again. He was standing below her, outside the keep.

“I changed my mind,” he called up.

Realization slowly dawned.

How very wrong she’d been. Ashamed, she slowly made her way down the tower. He met her at the bottom of the steps with a shrug and a self-deprecating grin.

“You’ve a fear of heights,” she said softly. “That’s why you won’t ride at the edge of a high bridge, isn’t it?”

Warm color flooded his cheeks. “Well, I did tell you I’m not superstitious.”

It was just like a fellow not to come out and say it. “You should have told me the truth. I wouldn’t have teased you so.”

“You’d pass up that opportunity?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s hardly a manly admission.”

“But I understand. Though it’s not exactly the same, my mother feared small spaces.”

“Did she, now?” He raised a brow. “And I imagine she quoted you wisdom for this sort of thing?”

Caithren smiled. “A common blot is nae stain.”

“Come again?” He started toward where he’d left Chiron and their food.

She trailed after him. “Don’t fret about small faults that are common to everyone.”

“I see.” Handing her a round of bread, he took the chicken and cheese and seated himself on a broken stone wall. “Well, I thank you for not laughing. I’ve never admitted this particular fault to anyone.”