JASON CAUGHT up to Emerald’s coach—at least he hoped it was her coach—in Doncaster. Passengers had disembarked. A few walked along Church Street or Greyfriars Road, stretching their legs while the horses were changed.
Emerald was nowhere in sight.
He tethered Chiron and poked his head into the coach’s cabin, finding it empty. Neither was she inside the Greyfriars Inn, where other passengers were taking refreshment.
Hang it, had she hired a horse and left already?
Frustrated, he paid for an ale and paced Church Street while drinking thirstily. He decided he should be relieved she’d found a horse—it would have been frustrating following a public coach. Much too slow. Once he found her—assuming he could—it would be much better with her on horseback. He could follow surreptitiously and keep her safe, without worrying about the brothers getting too far ahead.
Yes, it really was quite a relief. Anxious to get on the road, he tilted his head back and drained the rest of the ale. And looked back down to see a maiden across the street.
A maiden who looked rather like Emerald MacCallum.
Instead of breeches, the maiden wore a dark green skirt over a long-sleeved, modest shift, topped by a matching green laced bodice that looked like it belonged in the previous century. A thick brown leather belt circled her slim waist. She rounded a corner of the Church of St. George, disappearing from Jason’s view. He took off after her.
He hadn’t caught sight of her face. But the sun had glinted off dark-blond hair woven into two plaits. He’d thought Emerald had plaited her hair last night only to hide it under her hat, but he could have been wrong.
Perhaps in Scotland this was what passed for a hairstyle.
There she was, standing by the double doors of the majestic medieval building. Stopping in a graveyard a safe distance away, he concealed himself behind a monument and watched.
It was quite definitely Emerald. Perhaps she only dressed like a man when her quarry was in range. Or maybe she hadn’t found time yet to wash the blood off her shirt and mend the slash from his blade.
Gazing up at the massive planked doors, she reached a finger to trace a section of their scrolled ironwork before her hand closed over the latch. But she stopped short of opening it. Instead she heaved a visible sigh and began wandering around the church, toward another graveyard that looked ancient compared to the one where Jason hid. Idly she bent down to pluck off part of a small plant and slip it into her pocket. Strange girl.
It hit him then. As in Pontefract, there must have been no horses available here in Doncaster. She was only biding her time until the coach was ready to leave.
Confound it. He would have to follow the coach after all, until Emerald managed to find herself a horse. And thereby risk Gothard getting to London ahead of him, potentially endangering other people there and along the way.
Setting the empty tankard atop a gravestone, he groaned aloud at the thought. But he had no choice.
Or did he?