Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (15 page)

Slipping the leaves into her pocket, she rose and wandered off, her gaze trained on the moist, dark earth. "You think I'm an ignorant fool then, do you?"

"No." That wasn't what he'd been thinking at all. Far from a fool, she was quick and creative—at least when it came to inventing lies. "I don't know what to think of you," he said honestly, following her again. "Or what to do with you, for that matter."

She whirled so fast he nearly ran into her. The dress she detested swirled around her legs. "What do you mean, what to do with me? You promised you'd take me to London."

"And I will—"

"This arrangement wasn't
my
choice." She appraised him for a few heartbeats before crouching to inspect another bit of greenery. "But I don't mean to be trouble.

Despite himself, his gaze was drawn to the nape of her long, slim neck. "Of course you're trouble." He shrugged uncomfortably, grateful her eyes were on the plant. He didn't want to know what color the hazel had turned to now. "But it's no fault of yours. All women are trouble."

She straightened to face him. "All women?" The two words were laced with challenge.

He took a defensive step back. "Are you not going to take any of that plant?"

"It's useless. I was hoping it was moonwort, but of course it's too late in the year." With a look that said the conversation was far from over, she meandered along and knelt by another plant. "Surely your mother wasn't trouble?"

"Her above all." He sighed, his mind far in the past—a past he preferred to forget. "She abandoned four children, effectively leaving me, as the eldest, to raise the rest."

She glanced up. "Abandoned you?" she asked softly.

He surveyed the fragrant forest, the cloudy sky, anything to avoid the pity in her gaze.

The last thing he wanted was this woman's sympathy.

"Well, she died, which amounted to the same thing. She insisted on following my father into battle against Cromwell. Not a woman's place, but—"

"Not a woman's place?" Shading her eyes with a hand, she sent him a glare clearly meant to intimidate. "Who are you to tell women where their places are, Jason Chase?"

He blinked. "I imagine I should expect such an attitude from a woman who does a man's job."

"If running Leslie is a man's job, then aye, I do one." Fallen leaves crunched beneath her as she rose. "Given your attitude toward women, I expect your three siblings are sisters?"

"Only one." Thinking of his sister prompted a smile. "But Kendra was enough trouble for three. And still trouble—she refuses to get married, at least to anyone remotely suitable."

"Poor, poor Jason." Her commiserating noises were clearly less than sincere. "Imagine a woman wanting to choose her own husband." She came near, her skirts swishing again, drawing his attention to the curves underneath. "Imagine a woman wanting a husband at all. They're all like you, thinking they can keep their women in place."

Those changeable eyes looked green now. He backed up until he bumped smack against a tree and could go no farther—at least not without looking like more of a fool than he already felt.

She moved closer again. Too close. "It's sorry I am if your mam was a halliracket, but—"

"A what?"

"An irresponsible person." She fixed her gaze on his. "But
my
mam would say a scabbit sheep canna smit a hail herself."

He crossed his arms and stared back at her, his mind a complete blank when confronted with such gibberish.

"One evil person cannot infect the whole. You cannot judge all women by your own isolated experiences."

He cleared his throat. "I suppose your mother is an angel on earth?"

Shrugging, she lowered herself to inspect another plant. After a moment, her voice drifted up, quiet and subdued. "She's an angel in heaven. Mam died when I was but twelve." Slowly she tilted her face until her gaze was locked on his. "And my Da died a few weeks ago."

A faint glaze of tears seemed to brighten her eyes. Though he didn't know how much of her story he believed, he found himself drowning in those eyes, wanting to reach for her and offer comfort.

He blew out a breath. "I'm sorry."

Thankfully, she focused back down, fingering a small whitish leaf. "It was a blessing." He watched her pluck it, her fingers both graceful and deft. "He had a fit last spring and couldn't move but to blink his eyes and swallow." She looked up again. "I wouldn't care to live like that."

"Nor I," he assured her, not knowing what else to say.

"Now my family is only Adam."

"Right, you told me about him." A few too many times. "Adam MacCallum."

"Adam Leslie." With a huff, she stood. "By all the saints, you have got to be the stubbornest man I've ever met."

"Runs in the family," he said dryly, watching her pull her amulet from under her shift and fold one hand around it. It looked ancient. He wondered how many Emeralds had worn it over the years. "Have you no other family at all?"

"A cousin, Cameron." The necklace fell from her fingers. "Leslie," she added before he could suggest otherwise.

He was beginning to think he'd never trip her up; she was a bright one, all right. And she asked way too many questions. Personal questions. "What is that?" he asked, indicating the leaf in her other hand.

"Bifoil." She added it to her pocket. "Good for wounds."

He bent and touched the plant's second leaf. "Why didn't you take this one?"

"I must leave some to grow and flourish for the next person who needs it. Removing too much is rude. We must respect Mother Earth if we wish her to provide."

She ambled off again, her gait made awkward by more than a twisted ankle. It was clear she was suffering from the long ride. Though he'd felt the same his first few days on the road, he wouldn't tell her that, any more than she'd admit to her pain.

It struck him that in some ways they were all too similar. Not particularly good ways, either.

She paused by a tall plant with a spiky bush of pale flowers, but left the blossoms alone, instead plucking off their ash-colored leaves. "Snakewood," she told him, the word trailing off into a yawn.

That reminded him she'd had no sleep in two days, other than the one short nap. He could see the weariness etched in her face, the dark circles under her eyes. Responsibility weighed heavy on his conscience, mingling with that tender feeling he found so confusing and disturbing.

His stomach rumbled, and he remembered they were almost to Tuxford. "Your ten minutes are up. Are you hungry?"

When she shook her head, his gaze raked her slim frame.

"You need to eat more."

"The gown is too big."

Her pert nose went into the air, a gesture so amusing it dispelled his strange mood.

"It's no fault of mine if you're no judge of women's sizes." She hugged herself around her loose waistline and started back toward Chiron. "You shall have to find me some decent clothes, Jase."

"Don't call me that," he said, following her. "Jase Chase. It rhymes. It's disgusting. What were my parents thinking when they named me?"

The question was rhetorical, but she responded anyway. "Evidently they weren't thinking at all." She turned and walked backward, watching him avidly, her grin too fetching for his comfort. "Or maybe they had a ripe sense of humor, Jase."

He growled deep in his throat. "Nobody calls me Jase."

At that, she turned back around. "I do," she called over her shoulder, sounding altogether more cheerful than she had since they'd met. "So long as you call me Emerald."

"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 toward 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 very 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 just threw back his beautiful dark head and laughed.

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 places. 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, courageously 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."