The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (9 page)

A minor injury, but his fault nonetheless.

“Wake up!” Jason shook the girl’s other shoulder, but her eyes failed to open.

He couldn’t help but gape. How on earth had he ever thought she was a boy? She was a maiden full-grown, with a woman’s curves beneath her men’s clothes.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Why, that sorry excuse for a disguise wouldn’t fool a living soul…well, perhaps only one as travel-weary as he was. It seemed the ache in his shoulder was muddling his brain.

He rose, shoved the rapier back into his belt, and crouched to try to rouse her once again. No luck.

A pair of dusty shoes strolled into his vision and stopped by the girl’s head. Jason straightened. “Did you send someone to fetch the authorities?”

“The magistrate’s in Lancashire. Visiting his ill mother.”

Typical, Jason thought in disgust.

The innkeeper, a wiry, balding man, rubbed his nose. He eyed the girl with sympathy. “She took room three. If you wouldn’t mind bringing her up?”

“I expect I owe her that, at least,” Jason agreed gruffly.

He grabbed the girl’s pistol off the floor—the oldest, ugliest gun he’d ever seen—and lifted her into his arms. A limp bundle she was: slim, soft, and smelling of flowers. Feminine.

So why the boy’s clothing?

It hit him like a bolt of summer lightning: She was after the reward.

Of all the deuced—rotten—foolish—

He thought of a dozen more oaths as he stared at her, picturing Geoffrey Gothard already miles down the road.

The beast had eluded him again, and all because of an incompetent Scottish reward hunter who would certainly bungle the capture—if she didn’t get herself killed outright.

Jason had laughed at the ridiculous rumors, but the joke was on him…because here was Emerald MacCallum, right in his arms.

WITH A GRUNT,
Jason laid Emerald on the bed, then lit a candle and set it on the plain wooden table beside her. Rubbing his aching shoulder, he stood staring at her chalk-white face.

The flickering flame cast a sense of movement he knew was only an illusion. He lifted one slender wrist and let it drop back to the bed. Limp and deathly still.

Just like little Mary.

A strange hollowness opened in his gut. He reached to feel for the pulse at her throat, relieved to find it warm and steady beneath his fingers. After drawing a deep breath, he untangled the plaid shawl. As he tossed it over the spartan room’s only chair, Emerald’s soft floral scent wafted to his nose.

He supposed he should make her comfortable. His face feeling hot, he drew off her shoes and dropped them on the planked wood floor, then rolled her stockings down and off her small, arched feet. The room seemed suddenly short of air.

He’d never noticed a girl’s feet before.

Studiously ignoring them, he focused on her cut shoulder. He loosened the laces of her shirt, eased it down—only enough to uncover the wound, though his face seemed to grow even hotter anyway—and brought the candle close to the cut. It was small and shallow, the blood already clotted against her smooth skin.

Quickly, he set down the candle and tugged the shirt back into place, noticing a pendant nestled in the loose-laced opening.

He lifted her head and drew off the necklace. Warm from the heat of her skin, a rectangular green stone shone in an ornate gold setting. The simple link chain had seen much wear. Candlelight glinted off the stone’s rubbed surface.

An emerald. Emerald MacCallum.

He set the pendant on the bedside table with a little
click
that seemed to reverberate in the quiet room. A soft noise from the girl lifted his hopes and drew his gaze back to her.

Asleep, Emerald looked very sweet. And
young,
like a little dairymaid, with her plaited hair. She wasn’t at all like he’d pictured the fabled Emerald MacCallum, but then, it weren’t as though anyone knew what she looked like. Drawings on broadsides were of the outlaws, not their pursuers.

But the thought of such a petite young woman capturing outlaws was laughable. Though she had to be older than she looked—for she looked no older than Kendra—he couldn’t imagine what desperation might drive a maiden like her to take up such a profession. Guilt lodged in his stomach as he looked at her long, full lashes, wondering what color her eyes were. He ran a thumb along her soft cheek.

Then snatched his hand back in alarm.

What on earth was he doing?

Shaking off the strange impulse, he reached to roll his patient onto her stomach, then wrestled the thin quilt from beneath her and settled it over her back. His hands gingerly explored her head for the lump he knew must be there, given that she’d been knocked unconscious. He winced when he found it, hard and large and warm to the touch. The tight plait on that side couldn’t be comfortable.

He set to undoing it to relieve the pressure. Straight and shimmering, hair every hue of blond and brown slid between his hands. When the first side was loose, his fingers lingered at the place where her white part ended at the nape of her neck. Baby fine hairs glimmered gold in that spot.

No matter that the girl was Emerald MacCallum, the downy little hollow looked innocent and vulnerable. Anger flared. At himself, at the Gothards.

He’d thrown down his sword to avoid bloodshed, and now someone else was hurt.

It seemed no matter what he did, he only caused more harm.

His fingers absently loosed the second plait while he seethed at the whole situation. Though he tried to block a vision of poor little Mary, the effort only led him to picture Emerald in the same state. The thought made him shake.

And those deuced blackguards had slipped away. Again! He rose and paced around the room, lighting more candles and cursing his mistakes.

His attempts at mercy only led to more suffering. He should have gone in with loaded pistols and blade at the ready, prepared to handle the brothers once and for all, with no thought to avoiding violence.

Father would have done it that way.

“Father would have handled it,” he muttered in self-disgust and walked across to the window.

HEARING A
voice, Caithren shifted on the bed, her head in a painful fog.

The voice had been a dark, harsh whisper. She wasn’t sure whether she’d actually heard it or if it had been part of her disturbing dream. She tried to move, but her head hurt. She moaned, struggling against the nausea.

Swift footsteps approached. “You’re awake, then?” It was the same male voice, but rich, comforting, and laced with relief.

Cait tried to roll closer to the sound.

He held her in place with a large, warm hand. “For heaven’s sake, be still.” Tinged with worry, his voice wasn’t quite as nice. “You bumped your head but good.”

She was lying facedown with her nose mashed into the pillow. She couldn’t breathe properly.

The man’s hands gripped her shoulders, gently helping her turn. “Are you dizzy?” he asked, moving to arrange her aching head on the pillow.

She intended to say aye, but when he came into view, her answer got lost somewhere between her mind and her mouth. Clear green eyes—too beautiful for a man—were studying her. He had a slim black mustache that reminded her of the one King Charles wore in a picture she’d once seen. But the man’s shadowed jaw and fine tanned features were framed by glorious, long raven hair that was wavy and prettier than her own. Bent over her as he was, the ends tickled her cheeks.

He looked frustrated and concerned. And she had no idea who he was.

“Can you talk? Emerald, are you all right?”

“Emerald?” she echoed. She supposed she was all right, if she didn’t take her aching head into account. But she couldn’t say for sure, distracted as she was by a faint dimple in the stranger’s chin. There was only one thing she was certain of in that moment. “I-I’m not Emerald,” she managed.

“Oh?” Beneath the silly English mustache, his lips curved, but not in humor. “You’re Scottish,” he said, as though that explained everything.

“You’re English,” she countered, batting his hair from her face. He straightened, and his spicy scent wafted away, leaving her head a little clearer.

The room swam into view. She lay beneath not the dusky rose canopy of her bed at home, but a utilitarian beamed ceiling, the plaster cracked and at least a century older than Leslie Castle.

She was somewhere in England, and Da was dead.

Disoriented, she raised herself to her elbows, then flopped back to the pillow. A fresh burst of pain detonated inside her head, forcing a moan out through her lips.

“I told you to keep still.” With a gentle hand, the man swept her hair off her face.

She pushed his hand away and fingered the ends of her hair, confused. He’d unraveled her plaits. Her other hand drifted up to touch the side of her head where the pain was the sharpest. “I’m not Emerald.”

“You’re Scottish”—he held up a palm to stop her words from tumbling out—“you’re wearing men’s clothes, you’re carrying a pistol, and you’re after a wanted outlaw. Now tell me you’re not Emerald MacCallum.”

“I’m not Emerald MacCallum.”

His mouth curved as though he were amused. “Did the knock on your head damage your memory?”

“My memory is intact, thank you. But my name isn’t Emerald.” Despite her strong denial, her brain seemed impossibly muddled by the throbbing pain. “It’s Caithren,” she managed finally. “Caithren Leslie. Not Emerald.”

“Hmm…” The man raised one black brow. “You do seem rather
young
for such a line of work. If you’re not Emerald, then can you explain what you’re doing here?”

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” she asked on a huff. “Is there some law against my visiting your country? England and Scotland share a king, last I heard. Though not for long, saints willing.”

Looking less than satisfied, he crossed his arms while one booted foot tapped against the wooden floor. Obviously he was waiting for her to explain herself.

Arrogant cur.

She wouldn’t look at him, then. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the plain whitewashed walls, a simple wood cabinet, a utilitarian washstand, a small tub full of dirty bathwater that should have been carried away.

Pontefract. She was in her room at the inn in Pontefract. She was here in Pontefract…

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out the man so she could concentrate. “I’ve come to find my brother,” she said at last, opening them in relief.

“Hmm, is that so?” he challenged in a calm voice laced with a touch of irony. “Then I suppose you can explain to me how you know Gothard.”

She stared at him blankly. “Gothard?”

“Geoffrey Gothard. The man you tried to shoot in order to collect the reward. I’m not a half-wit, Emerald.”

“I’m not Emerald. And I’m not a half-wit, either, but you’re certainly making me feel so, since I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re blethering about.”

He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her for a while, as though trying to gauge her sincerity. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, rolling her too close to him for her comfort. The queasiness clawed at her stomach again.

She was alone with a strange man. A strange
English
man. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips.

His eyes darkened, making her nervous. With a sigh, she reached up to fiddle with a plait, then remembered her hair was loose. Her hands curled into fists atop the bedcovers. “It’s the truth I’m telling you, Mr.…”

His mouth twisted up in a hint of a smile. “Chase. But you may call me Jason.”

“I may, may I?” Stuffy, these English. Well, Cameron
had
warned her. She took a deep breath and decided to try again. “Do you believe me?”

“Would you believe you?” His sarcastic tone irked her. “What is your brother’s name?”

She struggled against the pain in her head. “…Adam.”

“And why do you have cause to think he’d be here?”

“He was invited by…”

As she strained to come up with the name, he shook his head, sending the glorious hair swinging. “You’ll have to invent these lies more quickly if you expect them to sound believable.”