The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (32 page)

HER NAME
truly
was
Caithren. She’d been honest all along.

And Jason was a fool.

A colossal fool. A gargantuan fool. The greatest fool that ever lived.

How had he not seen it sooner? Had he simply been too stubborn to admit such a grave mistake, even to himself? Even when the evidence was overwhelming?

She was shorter than Emerald MacCallum was rumored to be, not to mention too young for motherhood and completely unsuited for Emerald’s profession. She didn’t know north from south or right from left. She cried far too easily, and she had no business carrying a pistol. For heaven’s sake, the girl couldn’t shoot an outlaw from arm’s length!

None of that had convinced him.

Neither had her earnest protests.

But the events of this afternoon had exploded his entire view of Emerald.

His view of Caithren, that was.

Caithren.

Somehow, she didn’t seem like a Caithren.

But she most certainly wasn’t an Emerald. An Emerald would not have idled in that courtyard while the Gothard brothers fled. An Emerald would not have sent others after her quarry. Wounded or not, an Emerald would have been hot on the trail before Jason could even catch his breath.

He hated that at times like this his father came to mind. A father who had been forever dutiful and honorable.
He’d
certainly never made a mistake on the order of this one.

Jason swore at himself for two solid miles.

If he hadn’t already been certain he was ill-suited for this quest of justice, he had the proof riding in front of him. First he’d taken the life of an innocent man, then he’d endangered that of an innocent maiden by mistakenly dragging her into this mess.

If only he could turn back time and leave Caithren on that public coach. He would—honestly, he would—even though that would mean they’d never have kissed as they just had.

His arms tightened around her waist at the mere idea.

Unfortunately, going back in time was naught but wishful thinking. The hard truth was, now that the Gothards had seen them together, protecting her was more important than ever.

And their, uh, romantic entanglement—if that’s what it was—only complicated matters. New and confusing feelings were an unwelcome distraction, besides which, it was now more than obvious that he couldn’t trust himself alone with Caithren. Alone with Emerald, he’d maintained self-control only by thinking of her as the mercenary tracker.

Alone with Caithren, he had no such protection.

For both their sakes, they needed some distance from each other.

They rode through Southoe, a sleepy village with three moated manor houses and a single old brick inn. “Are you hungry?” Caithren asked as they passed it, jarring him out of his thoughts.

“Hardly.” He pushed back his hat. “I’ve been thinking—”

“I cannot say I’m surprised. You seem to do that a lot. Did the Gypsy not say you plan too much?”

“Hush.” He swatted one of her plaits. “And listen, please. We’ve no need to rush anymore. We don’t have to worry about the brothers reaching London before us.”

“What makes you think that?”

“They’ve been following me. They tried today to kill me.”

“Not a very competent attempt,” she said doubtfully.

“Walter isn’t known for his brains. Still, they obviously had a plan, with Walter doing the deed and Geoffrey then spiriting him away. Geoffrey wouldn’t want another murder laid at his feet, and Walter is a biddable sort.”

“So…”

“So they won’t be racing off to London the way they planned when they thought I was dead. They’ve evidently decided to do away with me first. Alive, I can bear witness to their deeds, and well they know it. They’re desperate. If either of them ever had a decent bone in his body, it’s disappeared now that they’re backed into a corner.”

She was silent as she took that in.

He drew a deep breath. “Another change in appearance would be prudent. And they’ll recognize Chiron as well. I’ll have to board him and buy another horse.” Another thought occurred to him. “Two. They won’t expect us to be riding two.”

“I won’t try to escape you,” she said, reading his mind.

“I’m glad of it.”

He would miss riding with her, though. The feel of her body against him, the scent of her hair, the little hollow at the nape of her neck. Unconsciously he pulled her closer.

Then remembered he had to keep his distance.

“We’ll stop in the next town and stay the night—Emerald.” he said. Perhaps continuing to call her the hated misnomer would help keep her at arm’s length. “You can rest and tend to your wound while I gather what we need.”

She grunted. “We?”

“You’ll have to change your appearance as well. They’ve seen you with me now—they’ll assume you could bear witness too.” His voice dropped. “I’m sorry. It’s for your own good.”

“Whatever you say, Jase,” she said softly. Her hands closed over his where he held the reins. When she squeezed his fingers, his insides squeezed in reaction.

Egad, she was maddening! How did this troublesome girl manage to stir up such tenderness and concern in him? He’d known Caithren less than a week, and yet the thought of beastly Gothard nearby and meaning her harm was enough to make him shake with fear. She had already been hurt more than once, and today she could have been killed.

And it would have been Jason’s fault for dragging her off that coach.

He was caught in a trap of his own making, and he felt the jaws closing—teeth of steel that he’d sharpened himself.

“HOW IS YOUR
arm?” Jason asked the next morning as he tied back his hair. He swept something long and shaggy off a table and took it over to the mirror.

Caithren sat up in bed and flexed her arm, perusing the breakfast tray he’d just brought her. “Not too bad. I used up everything I collected in the woods, though. I hope to find more today.” She watched him shake out the shaggy thing and hold it high in the air. “What
is
that?”

“A periwig,” he said, settling it on his head. “What do you think?”

Popping a radish into her mouth, she stared at the reddish wig. Crimped and curly, it draped far down his chest, longer than his own hair had been before she cut it. She chewed and swallowed before answering him. “You look different,” she said diplomatically.

He smiled as he dug through his portmanteau, scattering clothing all over the other bed as he worked his way to the bottom. A dark blue velvet suit with gold braid trim came out, then a fine lawn shirt with lace at the cuffs, and finally a snowy cravat.

None of it was at all similar to any of the other garments he’d worn. Had the clothes been there all along? Or had he brought them back last night? She’d fallen asleep hours before he returned.

“You don’t like it, then.” Turning back to the mirror, he adjusted the wig’s crown and flipped a hank of curls over his shoulder.

Giggling, she hid her face in her cup of chocolate.

“Many men wear periwigs, you know.”

“But not such long ones.” She chewed slowly on a bite of bread, studying him in the mirror. “It looks like you’re trying to pass as a nobleman.”

He raised a brow at that.

“And—it’s red!”

“You’re hurting my feelings.” Though he pouted, the eyes in the looking glass were a sparkling green. “Does it look so out of place, then? My sister is a redhead, and my mother was as well. Myself, I was a skinny, freckled lad—I expect red hair would have been more fitting than the black.”

She reconsidered. “The red isn’t too bad. But I cannot picture you skinny and freckled.”

“It’s no lie. I was awkward, too. Gangly.” As he fussed with the wig, Cait watched the muscles move beneath his shirt. He wasn’t gangly now. “Took me years to grow into my looks.”

“Ah,” she said with a teasing smile. “And here I thought it was the mustache that transformed you.”

“That as well.” He leaned closer to the mirror and rubbed his bare upper lip. “But I think I’m getting used to its loss.” Turning, he reached to steal a cube of cheese off her tray.

“I thought you had breakfast downstairs.”

“That was an hour ago.” He filched another cube and chewed thoughtfully. “Do you like me better with or without?”

“Without. Both the mustache and the wig.” She set the tray aside. “Supposing I like you at all, that is.”

“Supposing.” An inscrutable look came over his face. He turned his back and moved to the other bed, then lifted the velvet surcoat and shook out the creases. “Your new clothing is waiting behind the screen, Emerald.”

“Is it?” Suppressing a twinge of annoyance, she climbed from the bed and went to have a look.

She blinked and looked again.

“By all the saints,” she breathed. “It’s worse than the red dress.”

Draped across a chair lay a bright turquoise brocade gown trimmed with a gaudy wide edging of embroidered silver ribbon. A purple underskirt and stomacher were tossed on top. Even without trying it on, she could tell the dress’s scooped neckline would reveal a lot more skin than she was comfortable displaying.

After she’d made such a fuss over the red dress, she couldn’t believe he’d brought her this. She stepped out into the room to give him a piece of her mind—

“Crivvens! You’re in the scud!” she exclaimed, dashing back behind the screen.

“Translate?” he called.

“You…you’re half-naked!”

“One does have to undress to change clothes,” he said reasonably. “Are you putting on the gown?”

Touching her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them, she dragged her mind from its vivid picture of Jason’s bare chest. “You expect me to wear this?”

“You’d better. It wasn’t cheap.”

“Just who am I supposed to be posing as in this monstrosity?” She grabbed the gown and held it up to her body, gazing down at herself in horror. “Queen Catharine?” She kicked at the hem.

“No.” He laughed. “My wife.”

The gown slipped from her fingers. “Your
what
?”

“My wife. A nobleman’s wife. Are you undressed?”

His wife.

“Nay. Not yet.” Self-conscious, she fluffed Mrs. Twentyman’s night rail. “Are you?”

“Not anymore. Come out and have a look.”

Cautiously she stepped from behind the screen—and burst out laughing.

He glanced in the mirror critically, then back to her. “What’s so funny?”

“You—as an aristocrat.” Tears ran from the corners of her eyes. “Y-you expect people to f-fall for that disguise?”

A small smile quirked at his lips. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Just because one innkeeper called you
my lord
yesterday—”

“And don’t forget the Gypsy.”

She laughed even harder. “O-oh, aye. The Gypsy called you milord as well!”

He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the screen, giving her a little push in that direction. She yelped, looking back over her shoulder to giggle at him again.

“Go get changed,” he said with mock sternness.

“Very well.” She hiccuped and went behind the screen.

She was thankful the long puffed sleeves didn’t rub her injured arm, but the gown hugged her upper body like a second skin. The neckline was low and scooped. The stomacher was stiff and uncomfortable.

No surprise there.

“Don’t forget the shoes,” Jason called.

The shoes. Embroidered silver brocade with pointed toes. And high heels. The only positive thing she could find to say about them was that they fit.

A pity. She would have liked an excuse not to wear them.

“Very practical for riding around the countryside,” she said sarcastically. She took a deep breath. “I’m coming out.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

His smile died and a low whistle sounded as she stepped from behind the screen. His eyes widened. “Whoa.”

She teetered to the mirror and pulled her plait forward to unravel it, stilling when he came up behind her. He stared at her in the mirror, standing close enough that she could smell his spicy scent and feel the heat given off by his body.

Something about the way he watched her niggled at Cait. She swallowed hard. “Could I be cast as your servant instead?”

“Hmm? Oh. No, I think not.”

She took the Gypsy-lace handkerchief and started stuffing it into her neckline.

“Uh-uh.” Reaching over her shoulder, he plucked it out of her hands. “My wife wouldn’t wear that.”

Her exposed skin broke out in goose bumps. “Maybe I could pose as your little sister, then?”

“Wouldn’t help. Kendra dresses much like this, sweet.”

Sweet.
Her gaze met his in the looking glass.

“And you don’t look like my little sister,” he added softly.

“I don’t feel like your little sister, either.”

He flexed his hands. “No, you most certainly do not.”

Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon on her plait. Clumsily untying it, she watched his reflection back away to sit on one of the beds.

He didn’t take his gaze off her.

She’d never before had difficulty unraveling her nighttime plait. It might help if her hands would stop shaking. She grabbed her ivory comb and reached to part her hair in the back.