THE SILVER blade flashed, vibrations sang up his arm, and the man before him crumpled to the ground. Blood pumped, sickeningly slick and bright—
His heart racing, Jason sat straight up in bed, sweat breaking out to coat his clammy skin. His breath came in short, hard pants.
Who was this man he’d killed? Had he been a husband, a father? Certainly he’d been a son.
How many lives had Jason ruined with that fateful thrust of his sword?
Hopefully not as many as when his own parents had been slain on the field of battle. Heaven forbid he should put another family through something like that. Not even, as his parents had, for honor.
Senseless honor. They’d died fighting for the king, yet Cromwell had prevailed.
He raked a hand through his hair and swung his shaky legs off the bed. Dust motes floated in the brightness that streamed through the crooked shutters. Sunshine. Daylight. He’d overslept. Another restless, too-short night, like they all seemed to be since he was shot.
He stumbled to his clothing, pulled out his pocket watch, and flipped open the sapphire-adorned lid. Nearly noon. Egad, Gothard would be long down the road by now.
And Emerald after him.
He threw on a shirt and breeches, then padded across the corridor to knock on her door. Silence. He tried the latch, and the door swung wide to reveal an empty room.
Cursing himself, he returned to his own room and pulled on his boots.
His family had been right—he had no business going after Geoffrey Gothard. But it had nothing to do with the state of his health. The truth was, he was much happier at his desk or riding his land. He’d always preferred calm and order; he didn’t know how to do this, this gallivanting around the country, courting trouble and violence. He was ill-suited to such a mission.
And he was botching this one good and proper.
Downstairs in the taproom, the early dinner crowd was much too cheerful for Jason’s mood. A quick glance failed to reveal Emerald among the diners. The harried innkeeper was rolling a fresh barrel of ale into place behind the counter. When he paused to mop his red face, Jason jumped behind to help him upend it. It settled into place with a thump, displacing more than its share of dust.
Jason coughed. “Do you know where I might find the maiden who was injured last night?”
The man wiped his shiny brow with a handkerchief. “She left this morning. On the public coach.”
“The coach? Not a horse?”
“No horses available in Pontefract. Told her that yesterday when she wanted to hire one.”
“She had no horse of her own?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “She arrived on the coach.”
Jason rubbed his aching shoulder. One didn’t use public transportation to track outlaws. If Emerald had arrived here looking for a horse, something must have happened to hers. She must be on her way to the next town to find herself another.
His hand dropped. “The coach towards where?”
“London.”
“London?” Surely she’d gone in another direction; she’d only said London to confuse him, hadn’t she? “Are you certain?”
But the moment the question was out of his mouth, he knew the innkeeper was right. The old stableman had told him Scarborough was in London. If the Gothards had come to West Riding to speak with their brother—to get something from their brother—it made sense that now they’d head to see him in London instead. And of course Emerald would go after them.
The man dabbed at his dripping nose. “London, yes. It’s Thursday, no? The coach leaves for London at eight every Thursday.”
“Eight. Confound it.” She had a four-hour lead. But the public coach was slow as a condemned man mounting Tyburn gallows, and Chiron, Jason’s silver gelding, had won his last three races in Sussex. If Emerald hadn’t found a horse yet, he might be able to catch up to her. “How much do I owe for the room?”
He slapped coins on the counter and ran upstairs to fetch his belongings, then headed back down to the stables. Deuced girl thought she could fool him, did she? The Gothard brothers were riding for London, and here she was, going after them at her first chance.
She was Emerald MacCallum, all right, no matter the lies that tumbled from her lips. And he had to keep an eye on her, lest she beat him to their quarry and attempt to capture Gothard—no doubt getting herself killed in the process. She might have a reputation for tracking men—indeed, she’d done a credible job of it so far, tracing the brothers to here—but she’d never come up against the likes of Gothard before. She was no match for such evil.
And now she was injured, thanks to Jason. He owed it to her to follow her, watch over her, whether she liked it or not. Her safety was more important than her pride.
Luckily, they seemed to be heading in the same direction.
It would be no trouble.