The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (8 page)

The smile turned self-satisfied. “Cousin Ethel’s worked there thirty-odd years. She’s staying hereabouts while the lord is gone—likes to stop by to pass the day.” He puffed out his scrawny chest. “Servants, we know everything.”

Jason rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Then old Cuthbert is gone?”

The stableman blinked. “Old Cuthbert is dead.”

“Dead?”
Dead?
At the hands of his relatives, the Gothard brothers?

“A month past. He and Lady Scarborough—they died crossing the channel. Young Lucas is the new earl.” He eyed Jason up and down, then bent to unbuckle Chiron’s saddle. “Things over there be different now. Took the new earl no more ’n a week to toss his brothers out on their ears, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and some pocket change.” With a little grunt, he lifted the saddle and hung it on a hook. “Deserved it, they did. Cousin Ethel tells stories…that Geoffrey tormented Lord Scarborough—the new one—from the day he was born. Geoffrey hated Lucas, he did, because Geoffrey was older but couldn’t inherit.”

Interesting. The little man was a fountain of information, if only Jason could keep it flowing. He reached for a currycomb and ran it through Chiron’s glossy silver coat. “Why was that?”

“He’s bein’ Lady Scarborough’s son from another marriage, you see.” When the stableman filled the trough, Chiron drank greedily. “That Geoffrey, he had it in for Lord Scarborough—the new one—before the lad was walkin’.”

“And the younger son?” Jason probed. “Walter, is it?”

“Wat? Dumber than a box of hair. Geoffrey led him around by the nose since he teethed his first tooth. Two against one it was, and Lord Scarborough—the new one—just waitin’ till the day came he could toss the two of them out. ‘Course it’s sad that was sooner rather than later.”

“Does everyone in the village know all this?”

“All I know is what Cousin Ethel’s tellin’ me.” The man looked up from where he was crouched, cleaning Chiron’s hooves. “But I know how to keep my own mouth shut. You can lay odds on that.”

“Be an interesting wager.” Despite his disappointment, Jason’s lips twitched beneath his mustache. “Geoffrey and Walter, they’re in the area?”

“Nah.” He dropped a hoof and moved around to lift another. “Disappeared the day after the funeral. I’ve yet to set eyes on ‘em since.”

If anybody would know the brothers had returned, it would be this man. Some of the stiffness left Jason’s shoulder. “I think they may have found trouble,” he said carefully. “Talk has it there’s been a reward posted for Geoffrey.”

“That so?” The man’s eyes lit up. “Well, then, I’m hopin’ he’ll come back and that Emerald MacCallum woman after ’im. A Scottish lass taking our own son, born and bred. Now that’d be a sight to see, here in little old Pontefract. We’d be talkin’ about it for years.”

“I imagine you would.”

If Emerald MacCallum even existed.

Jason leaned to hand the groom the comb. “I reckon I’ll be staying the night here, after all.” Fetching his pouch from his coat pocket, he pressed a silver coin into the man’s age-spotted hand and patted the horse’s flank. “Keep an eye on him for me, will you? His name’s Chiron. Appreciate the chat.”

He lifted the portmanteau and headed from the stables. Now he knew why the Gothards had it in for their brother.

But what they had against
him
remained a mystery.

IT SURELY FELT
good to be clean, Caithren thought. Even if she’d had to fold her knees up to her chin to fit into the inn’s small wooden tub.

She tipped the wee bottle of oil she’d pressed from Leslie’s flowers, pouring a few more precious drops into the bath. Scooping a palmful of the lukewarm scented water, she smoothed it over her shoulders.

It smelled like Scotland. Like home.

When the water grew cold, she donned the clothes she’d brought for riding: soft brown breeches and a coarse white shirt, castoffs outgrown by Adam years ago. After plaiting her dark-blond hair, she piled it atop her head and jammed Cameron’s hat on top.

There was no mirror in her room, but she hoped she looked enough like a lad that the men downstairs would leave her alone. She’d had her fill of English men tonight. Just her luck, the scum brothers would be staying at this inn. And still in search of girls.

She ducked out the door, then turned and went back in to paw through her satchel and find Da’s pistol. It was an ugly thing of cold, mottled steel, made for naught but utility. It felt heavy in her hands—heavy and surprisingly reassuring. Bless Cameron for making her bring it; how had he known how alone and out of place she’d feel so far from home?

Remembering how Da had done so, she made sure the pistol was loaded, then half-cocked it and stuck it in the back of her breeches.

She dug her plaid out of the satchel to cover it. Unlike the English cloaks, a plaid was neither masculine nor feminine; Cam’s looked exactly the same as hers. With any luck, she might pass.

As an afterthought, she tucked both the miniature of Adam and his letter into her breeches pocket, then headed downstairs to the taproom, doing her best to swagger like a lad.

The paneled room was lit by oil lamps burning cheerfully on each of the round wooden tables. Pewter spoons clinked on pewter plates, and the buzz of leisurely conversation filled her ears. Homey scents of meat pie, fresh-baked bread, and brewed ale hung in the air. Her stomach growled.

She made her way to the taproom’s bar. “Mr. Brown?”

“Yes?” The innkeeper looked up from wiping the counter. His brow creased, as though he were wondering how she knew his name. So he didn’t recognize her; her disguise must be working.

She felt better already. “I’m looking—” She cleared her throat and deepened her voice. “I’m looking for my brother, an Adam Leslie. He was staying with Scarborough this week past.”

“Adam Leslie?” The man set down his fistful of rags and wiped his hands on the front of his breeches. “I don’t recall a man by that name.”

Caithren’s heart sank. Adam was fond of frequenting public taprooms, so she’d been hoping the innkeeper would know where he’d gone, what route he might have taken. Maybe she wouldn’t need to travel all the way to London.

The man ran a hand across his bald head. “What does he look like?”

“Tall, fair, longish blond hair…” She dug in her pocket and brought out the portrait. “Here,” she said, holding forth the wee oval painting. “I’m wondering if he told anyone where he was headed next.”

Brown took it and considered, frowning. “I’m sorry, but I recall no man named Adam Leslie, nor anyone who looks like this picture.” He handed it back. “Is it a decent likeness?”

She nodded.

“I have a good head for people, sir…er, miss?”

“Aye.” Caithren sighed. Her disguise wasn’t working after all.

Mr. Brown piled some discarded trenchers on a tray and lifted it to his shoulder. “I’m sure I would have remembered your brother had I seen him.”

Another lump was rising in her throat. She’d never been a crybaby, and she didn’t intend to take up the practice now. She pulled the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, scanning the worn page. “He was traveling with two other gentlemen, Lords Grinstead and Balmforth. Might you have seen them?”

“I’m afraid their names aren’t familiar, either.”

“Oh.” A burst of laughter in the background seemed to mock Caithren’s distress. Her hunger had faded…although she could very much use a mug of ale.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“It’s no fault of yours.” Slipping the letter and painting back into her pocket, she glanced about. She couldn’t face the other travelers eating and socializing in this room—she’d spent the best part of a week with some of them already, with more forced togetherness promised to come.

And what if Mrs. Dochart came downstairs? The old bawface didn’t know Cait was back yet—with a quick escape and any luck at all, she could spend one night alone in her peaceful, solitary room.

She turned back to the innkeeper. “Might you have some supper sent up? Room three.”

“Certainly, Miss…Leslie, is it not?”

“Aye. Thank you.”

“No trouble a’tall.” With another appraising glance, he disappeared into the kitchen, and she decided to order an ale before heading upstairs.

“THANK YOU
kindly.” Jason slipped a coin into the serving maid’s hand and settled back with his ale, rubbing tired eyes. Heaven knew he wasn’t good for much more than people-watching this evening.

He downed a second gulp as a boy, tall for his age, turned dejectedly from the taproom’s bar and made his way to the stairs. The lad was overly pretty, way too thin, and young—not even shaving yet. Strange to find him in a taproom alone, but perhaps his family were waiting upstairs. Jason hoped so—he knew what it was like to be a child alone, and he wouldn’t wish it on anybody.

Massaging his sore shoulder, he took another sip. It was aggravating to find himself so weary, weeks after the injury. But having pushed himself to the limit to beat the Gothard brothers here, he was relieved to know he’d managed it.

Obviously they weren’t overworking his horses. When they arrived, tomorrow or the next day, they’d be in for a rude surprise. He’d get the answers to his questions, and this chapter in his life would be closed.

Or almost. Ford had not yet sent word from Chichester.

He took another sip of his ale, watching the boy start up the bare wooden steps, a mug of ale in one hand. Two men came down and met the lad halfway, blocking his progress on the staircase’s tiny landing.

Geoffrey and Walter Gothard.

Jason bolted up, his heart beating a wild tattoo.

The poor lad began visibly shaking. He tightened the blue and green shawl he had wrapped about his shoulders, squaring his slender frame. “I know who you are,” he told the brothers bravely in a distinct Scots accent, his voice high as a girl’s with tension. “You won’t get away with your wicked plans.”

The wean sounded like he meant it. Halfway to the staircase, Jason froze. Was the boy after Gothard as well? There was, after all, the hundred-pound reward he’d offered—an absolutely vast sum to someone like this lad.

The boy took a step back, then suddenly dropped his ale. It spilled down the stairs as he reached beneath the plaid wool and pulled something out, brandishing it daringly.

The soft glow of metal spurred Jason to action. A strangled yell tore from his throat as he drew his rapier and reached the stairs in four running strides. No doubt drawn by the racket, Geoffrey’s eyes met his and went wide with recognition. The coward turned and bolted up the steps.

Shouldering the lad aside, Jason yelled, “Send for the authorities!” and seized Gothard by an arm. He whipped him back around, then deliberately dropped his sword—another death was not the way to end this. Instead, his fingers closed around Geoffrey’s neck as the sword slid clattering down the stairs. Walter tried to sidle past, but Jason shot out a foot and tripped the younger Gothard, who thumped down with a piteous whine.

Still holding Geoffrey by the throat, Jason held Walter hostage with a boot pressed into his gut. A sickening crunch and a short, sharp cry of pain drew his attention to the bottom of the stairs. He looked down, startled to see the boy had fallen sometime during the scuffle. Even worse, Jason’s rapier lay dangerously nearby, and a bright splotch of blood stained the lad’s shirt.

He lay still as death, face up amidst the tangle of his unwrapped plaid shawl. His hat had fallen off…

No,
her
hat.

Egad, it was a girl! A girl with girlish tawny plaits. When Jason half-turned to get a better look, his fingers loosened.

Walter squirmed from beneath his foot and stumbled down the stairs. “It’s the ghost of Cainewood!” he yelled as he reached the bottom and ran for the door.

“Dunderhead!” Geoffrey rasped, one hand flying up to cradle his abused throat. Murder in his eyes, he dealt Jason a mighty shove that sent him to his knees and clunking down two steps. While Geoffrey pushed past to follow his brother to freedom, Jason righted himself and made his way down the stairs after them.

But at the bottom of the steps, the girl moaned softly at his feet. With a regretful glance at the door, he knelt by her side. Blood still trickled from the cut on her shoulder—a cut from his sword that had tumbled downstairs in her wake.