Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (28 page)

"Go back!" With her good arm, she gestured sharply. "You cannot have looked well enough. You cannot give up so soon."

"What I cannot do is leave you bleeding while I play hide-and-seek. I never did make a very good 'It.'" He tugged at the neckline of her bodice and swore when it wouldn't budge. His fingers went to loosen the laces. "What the hell happened?"

"Wat," she said. "He sliced me, but I think he was going for you. He pulled back when he saw who I was." Frantically she pushed at his hands. "Oh, will you not just leave? Go after them! I can tell you the story later!"

Stuffing the backgammon pieces into the bag, the stable boy glanced up. "She punched the bastard but good," he told Jason.

"You what?" Jason's gaze shot from her arm to her face. "You hit him?"

"You want I should stand there and let him kill me?"

Tossing the hair from his eyes, the boy stood straight and snorted in approval. "She was fixing to unman him as well, I believe."

Jason stared at her a moment, then reached for her laces again.

"Jason!" Her gaze flickered toward the stable boy.

Jason's green eyes flashed with impatience. "Come inside, then." He leaned to retrieve Wat's sword. The stable boy thrust the burlap sack into his hands and moved to take Chiron.

The innkeeper stood gaping in the doorway.

"If I may see to the lady's wound," Jason prompted him.

"Of course." He ushered them indoors, alternately gasping with horror and clucking with sympathy. "Buckden is a quiet town."

"I will require a room for the lady."

The lady?
Since when did Jason refer to her so? And in such an authoritative tone?

The innkeeper showed them up a flight of wooden stairs to a small chamber. "Shall I bring water and towels?"

"Please do."

"As you wish, my lord." The man bowed and backed away.

My lord
. Jason didn't seem wont to correct the mistaken form of address. He simply shut the door, turned, and met Cait's eyes.

Her head swam. From the pain, the shock, the intensity of Jason's gaze locked on her own? She couldn't tell. It all seemed muddled in her brain.

She stood silent and limp while his fingers went to unlace her bodice. He eased it off and dropped it to the bed. She shivered in only her shift, like last night—except this time, instead of turning away, he reached to loosen the neckline and draw it down to expose the cut on her arm.

His breath hissed in, then fanned warm over her bare shoulder. "Sliced you good, didn't he?"

Her heart racing, she held the shift to her chest and glanced down. "Not too bad, I'm hoping."

A knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer, returning with a bowl of warm water, towels, and bandages. As he set everything on the bedside table, the door closed with a quiet
snick,
and they were alone again.

With a doleful shake of his head, he sat her on the bed. She listened to the innkeeper's heavy footfalls retreating as Jason dipped a towel in the bowl of water and dabbed at the bloody wound.

"It's clean, but deep."

She hadn't known a man's hands could be so gentle. "I'll make a poultice for it when we stop tonight."

He dabbed some more, for all the world looking helpless. "Would it be better to do it now?"

"My herbs are outside, in the portmanteau." She swallowed hard. "I'll be fine."

Nodding, he wound a clean cloth around her upper arm. Used to blood she was, but not necessarily her own. She felt dizzy, from that or from Jason's proximity—she wasn't sure which.

He looked very businesslike as he tied the bandage. Apparently he didn't notice she was about to expire from wishing he would kiss her.

"Why didn't you go after the Gothards?" she asked.

"Geoffrey Gothard will get his due." His eyes bore into hers. "But I won't see you hurt in the interim. Never that. Never again."

His voice wasn't loud, but she detected a tremor beneath the control. She was finding it hard to breathe. His hand went to the neckline of her shift, and she released her hold on it, watching his long fingers draw it up to cover her shoulder.

Suddenly she saw that her nipples stood out dark against the shift's delicate fabric. Her breath hitched in shock. Grabbing her bodice from the bed, she stood and shoved her arms into it, sending a surge of fresh pain up her shoulder and down to her hand.

"Hush," Jason soothed, helping her ease into the garment. Trembling, she stared at his chest as he slowly threaded the laces and tied a crooked bow. When he was finished, his fingers trailed up her neck, leaving shivers in their wake, until his hands came to rest on her cheeks.

He cradled her face, tilted it up, drew her closer. He was going to kiss her again, Caithren realized with a heady rush of anticipation. For real, this time, with no excuse of being followed.

She released a shuddering breath. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it in the still, dim room.

He lowered his mouth to hers.

His lips were soft, gentle, tender, his hands caressing. Her heart fluttered in her chest, her blood sluiced through her veins, and she pressed closer, wanting to feel him. Her arms went around him, wanting more. Wanting, wanting…

Wanting.

With a sudden clarity she knew she wanted Jason more than she'd wanted anything in her life. His hands, his mouth…all of him. Just this once, to know what it was to give herself to a man. To
this
man.

Astounding herself with her daring, she parted her mouth, darting her tongue out to trace his bottom lip. His kiss turned wild and demanding, making her pulse race. When he eased her down to the bed, she felt no pain. She felt nothing but his welcome weight, his warmth, his strength—and a strange and marvelous exhilaration inside her.

As his mouth plundered hers, one hand inched around to the back of her neck to pull her closer and deepen the kiss. She sank into it, into him.

Another knock came at the door, and he bolted upright.

"Is the lady all right?" the innkeeper called. "Will you be needing aught else?"

As Cait sat up more slowly, Jason ran a ragged hand through his hair. He rose and went to open the door. "She's fine," he said. "We were just leaving."

When the man's footsteps faded once more, Jason turned to her. "We have to leave," he said, his voice husky and…apologetic? She couldn't be sure. "Are you all right to ride?"

The door was still open. She stood and took a steadying breath. "I'll survive."

Her arm throbbed, but she wouldn't have admitted to the pain were she like to faint from it. She wouldn't be a burden on his journey, and she had to get to London herself.

There would be time to tend to the injury later. When she wasn't reeling from his kiss. And its abrupt ending.

"Let me know if you start hurting, all right?" He looked shaken. "Emerald—" He broke off.

She wouldn't answer to that name. Not after what had just happened between them.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking like he meant it. "For…for letting things get out of hand." Somehow she was sure he'd intended to say something else, but he barreled on. "It was wrong of me to—"

"I've forgotten it. Like you forgot last night. We're even now." She pushed past him out the door. "And my name is Caithren, whether you believe it or not."

He did believe it. Now.

And he cursed himself for not believing it sooner.

She was shorter than Emerald MacCallum was rumored to be, not to mention 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. Why, she wouldn't hit an outlaw from arm's length.

None of that had convinced him.

Neither had her ongoing protests.

But seeing her reaction to the Gothard brothers had exploded his entire view of the woman he'd thought was Emerald.

Though she'd defended herself, she'd urged him to go after them. She hadn't even tried to do so herself. Bleeding or not, Emerald MacCallum would have been hot on their trail before Jason even stepped into the courtyard.

She was Caithren, as she'd said all along.

He didn't like that at times like this his father came to mind. A father who had never made mistakes. Certainly not a mistake on the order of this one.

He 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 woman 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 he'd never have held her in his arms. An almost unthinkable thought.

His arms tightened around her waist at the mere notion.

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. Their wild attraction only complicated matters.

He needed a clear head to see this through. Distance, both emotional and physical. He'd proven that to himself back at the Lion in Buckden. Only by thinking of her as Emerald had he been able to check his emotions.

And only by continuing to call her Emerald aloud could he ensure she kept her distance as well.

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 tugged on one of her plaits. "And listen to what I have to say. 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 death on his hands, and Walter is a malleable sort."

"So…"

"So they won't be racing off to London the way they planned when they thought I was dead. It seems they've decided to do away with me first. Alive, I can bear witness to their deeds, and well they know it. They're desperate. If ever they had a decent bone in their bodies, 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 to hear that."

He would miss holding her before him, though. The feel of her warm body, the scent of her hair, the tantalizing nape of her neck. Without thought, he pulled her closer.

Then reminded himself he had to maintain distance.

"We'll stop in the next town and stay the night," he said. "You can rest and tend to your wound while I gather what we need."

"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 heart squeezed in reaction.

He felt a maddening concern and tenderness for this infuriating woman. But the gentle, nurturing emotions did nothing to calm the shakes that assaulted him at the thought of Gothard following them. Christ, Caithren had been hurt and might have been killed. And it would have been his fault for making her part of this.

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."