AFTER WHAT seemed an interminable day, Caithren and Jason finally arrived at the Bell Inn in Stilton. Leaving him to settle Chiron in the stables, Cait wandered into the inn’s courtyard.
A black cat ambled over and wove through her legs, making her smile. The pretty inn’s walls were enlivened by fragrant flowering plants and a vined trellis. She knelt, absently petting the cat as she read the words engraved in stone above the courtyard’s arched entry.
TO BUCKDEN 14 MILES, HUNTINGDON 12, LONDON 74.
Still such a long way to go, she thought with a sigh.
Spotting a well in the corner, she approached it from the east on the southern side, lest she bring bad luck on herself. At least, she hoped she’d come from the east. In silence she drank three handfuls of water and closed her eyes to make a wish.
Please let me find Adam. And…
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
. . . let Jason kiss me again.
Her eyes flew open. What a perfectly improper wish! Never had she imagined she’d covet a man’s kiss. She hadn’t thought she had it in her.
Lifting the hem of the red gown, she raised the chemise to her teeth to rip off a narrow strip and turned to find Jason’s gaze on her from just inside the open stable doors. Heat flooded her cheeks for what felt like the dozenth time today, but that didn’t stop her from tying the scrap to a nearby tree branch.
The ritual complete, she seated herself on the lip of the well facing Jason. He kept glancing in her direction, a puzzled look in his eyes. A blackbird watched her from the tree, cocking its head as though it were puzzled as well. The cat meandered over and leapt onto her lap.
When Jason finally joined her, the look on his face told her he thought her more than a wee bit daft.
Not that that was anything new.
“Whatever were you doing?” he asked.
She stroked the cat, feeling it purr beneath her hand. “This is a clootie well, isn’t it?”
“It’s a Roman well, I believe.” He placed his portmanteau and the backgammon set, which he’d carried in the burlap bag, atop the well’s ledge. Leaning over, he looked inside. “What on earth is a clootie well?” he asked twice as his voice echoed back up.
“It’s a well where you make a wish.”
“Oh, a wishing well. But then you tear your clothes? What was that about? Or is it only that you hate the dress?”
“When you make a wish at a clootie well, your troubles are transferred to the cloth. Then you tie it to a tree and leave the troubles there.”
“You believe this?” he asked, clearly incredulous.
“Of course I don’t. But it doesn’t hurt to do it anyway. It’s a tradition.”
“Ruining your clothes is a Scottish tradition?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Normally you’d tear a handkerchief or a rag. Ruining these clothes was an extra benefit.”
A brief smile curved his lips—until he tensed and shot a quick look over his shoulder.
“Do you see something?” she asked.
“No. I don’t think so. But for a moment I thought I did.” He blinked and cocked his head like the blackbird. “So…what did you wish?”
If only he knew! She blushed—again—to think of it. “My wish won’t come true if I tell,” she said, then held up a hand. “Nay, I don’t really believe that, either. But I’ll hold to it all the same.”
“Hush a moment.” He turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping the grounds. “I have a strange feeling,” he said low.
She set down the cat and watched it scamper away. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure.” He grabbed the luggage. “Let’s go inside.”
She’d given up hoping for her own room, but she was pleased to see two beds when Jason opened the door to their chamber. Kisses were one thing; sharing a bed, quite another.
She unpacked their wet clothes and smoothed them on the bare wooden floor, hoping they would dry by morning. Her task complete, she turned to him. “Let me guess. You’re hungry.”
“Actually, I’m not. I know you’re shocked,” he teased, “but don’t faint on me, now.” To her complete surprise, he followed up with a lunge to catch her in the imaginary faint.
She giggled, enjoying the warmth of his hands gripping her upper arms. If he could act more playful, so could she. “Emerald MacCallum would never faint.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” he agreed slowly. His hands dropped from her arms, and he stepped back, watching her.
“It was a jest,” she said. When he didn’t respond, her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m not Emerald, but I cannot find the words to convince you.”
He said nothing, only ran a hand back through his hair. Her own hands moved to play with her laces but met the embroidered stomacher instead. Feeling a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with its stiffness, she tucked his handkerchief more securely into her neckline.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said abruptly.
“All right,” she said with no small measure of relief. The time alone would be welcome. Time to think about how she was changing. How both of them were changing.
He turned toward the door, hesitated, and turned back. “I think you must come along.”
She groaned. “We’ve only just arrived. I’d rather stay here and have a wee rest.”
Taking her by the hand, he pulled her toward the door. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
She tugged her hand from his. “I’m not plotting an escape.”
“I’m not concerned you’ll escape. I trust you.” He paused as though he couldn’t believe those words had passed his lips. “But something has me uneasy. We both go, or we both stay here.”
The four walls of the small room seemed to be closing in on her. With him in his present mood, the thought of spending all evening in here was daunting. With a sigh, she followed him.
A coach was departing as they went downstairs, its squeaky springs audible through the lobby’s open front door. As they approached the innkeeper’s desk for Jason to leave the key, another coach pulled up. Neither of them were Cait’s coach, though. In truth, she’d given up looking. She knew it had to be days behind them by now.
“Busy place,” Jason remarked to the clerk.
“A mail-posting station.” The pale man shrugged. “The postmaster makes no wage—he paid forty pounds to obtain the position. Keeps the inn full.” He nodded toward the door, where three more guests were straggling in.
In order to avoid all the activity in the front, they went out the back way and into the courtyard again. Once more Caithren’s gaze was drawn to the engraved archway. LONDON 74.
“How many more days?” she asked.
Jason’s gaze followed hers. “Two, I’m hoping.” Propping one booted foot on a bench, he glanced around distractedly.
“You’re worried the Gothards’ll get there before you?”
“Pardon?” He looked back to her. “No, not really. I sent Scarborough a letter. Even should he not have received it, I think we’ll have ample time to warn him. The brothers might beat us there by half a day, but I doubt they’ll ride straight to his home and shoot him.” He plucked a large leaf off the climbing vine overhead. “They’ll want to plan first.”
“It sounds like you’re more concerned about saving Scarborough than finding the brothers.”
“Scarborough’s life is at immediate risk.” As though he were uncomfortable, he rolled his shoulders, then winced and put a hand to where she knew the wound was hidden beneath his clothes. “The rest can wait. But not too long…the Gothards have gone too far already. Heaven alone knows what they’ll plan next.”
Cait nodded. “I’m thinking we should rise early tomorrow and try harder to outpace them.”
“I won’t complain about leaving this place at first dawn.” His fingers worried the leaf as he scanned the courtyard. “There’s something eerie here.”
She grinned, trying to lighten his mood. “Are you sensing a ghost, Jase?”
With a thud, he brought his foot down from the bench. “How many times must I tell you—”
“—there’s no such thing as ghosts,” she finished for him and laughed. “Is this where you wanted to walk?”
He tossed the shredded leaf to the gravel. “We’ll walk around to the High Street.”
They strolled out of the courtyard and around the corner. As they crossed the street, Cait glanced back at the Bell. It was a long range of stone-built bays and gables, with two massive chimney stacks and an impressive coach entrance. An ornate wrought-iron bracket supported a heavy copper-plate sign, painted with a large red bell.
There was nothing sinister about the place. But her hand went to her amulet, just in case.
Another mail coach pulled away as they started down the bustling road. There were fourteen public houses and inns along the High Street, and sounds of laughter and frivolity drifted out as they walked past. Beyond the candlelit windows, Caithren could see people eating, conversing, conducting business. Living their lives. Unlike her, none of them seemed to be questioning the very foundations of their future happiness.
This night she hardly recognized herself and her feelings.
Jason’s boots slapped the packed dirt road; her own shoes made a softer, shuffling sound. Had he really kissed the back of her neck? She couldn’t be sure. It had all happened so quickly.
Past the Talbot, the street became residential and quiet, two neat rows of stone cottages with carefully tended gardens. Beyond that, nothing but the dusty Great North Road, stretching all the way to Scotland.
Caithren was so far from home. Her hand slipped into her pocket, feeling for Adam’s portrait. She wondered what Cameron was doing right now. Dusk was falling, casting shadows along the street; Cam was probably having supper. He’d want to find his bed soon, to get an early start and take advantage of the long summer day. There would be a lot to do, with her not home to help him.
“What are you thinking?” Jason asked.
“Of home.” The black cat from the inn came strolling up beside her. She reached down and picked it up.
“You sound melancholy.” His tone was apologetic. “We’ll be in London soon. Once I’ve…done away with Gothard”—he shrugged uncomfortably—“I’ll give you the reward. For all your assistance. I don’t need it.” He stopped walking and turned to her. “That’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it? For the money? I assume glory isn’t nearly as important?”
When her fingers tightened in the cat’s fur, it squealed and jumped from her arms. “How much did you say the reward is?”
“It said on the broadsides.” He shot her a sharp glance. “A hundred pounds.”
“And you’re not needing that kind of money?”
He shook his head.
“Very prosperous mill you have there, Jase.”
Mill? Jason thought. What did his mill have to do with this? For the life of him, he couldn’t guess what she meant.
They’d reached the end of the village now, and he led her across the road. In silence, they headed back toward the Bell. Another coach creaked by, this time from the north. The sun was setting, and he saw Emerald shiver at a sudden chill in the air. Their footsteps sounded loud in this sparse end of the village. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, reached up to twirl a plait.
The faint sound of plodding hoofbeats followed the coach. Two horses. Feeling the hair prickle on his neck, Jason turned and walked backward to have a look. Two men. Too distant to see their faces, but they were hatless, and hang it if one of them didn’t have a square head.
Although somehow he’d known all afternoon, he gaped in astonishment.
A cold knot formed in his stomach. His thoughts only of Emerald, he swiveled and grabbed her arm, dragging her between two houses.
“What are you doing?”
“Hush,” he whispered. “We’re being followed.” His hands went to her shoulders, and he backed her against the side of the nearer house. “Hold still.”
As they waited, he felt her quivering beneath his fingers. One of his hands went to the hilt of his rapier, the other itched to reach for the pistol he’d hidden in his wide-topped boot.
But if he confronted Geoffrey Gothard here and now, what would become of Emerald? Torn in two directions, his thoughts raced incoherently. What would Father do? Protect the woman or stand up to the brothers like a man?
The hoofbeats came closer.
Panic.
Releasing his grip on the sword, he angled Emerald away from the street, tilted her face up, and crushed his mouth to hers.