Jason Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, doesn’t know the first thing about hunting outlaws, but he won’t let that stop him from bringing a murderer to justice. Disguised as a commoner, he takes to the road, where he crosses paths with a hapless Scottish lad—who turns out to be a lovely Scottish lass, and none other than the renowned bounty hunter Emerald MacCallum. Realizing they're after the same man and fearing Emerald may be in over her head, Jason resolves to keep her close…
But all Caithren Leslie wants is to be as far away from her new “protector” as possible. No matter how many times she informs him she’s just an ordinary country girl traveling to see her brother—and definitely not some Emerald woman pursuing a dangerous outlaw—the pigheaded Englishman will not see sense. The road is perilous, but accepting Jason’s protection may mean jeopardizing her urgent mission. Not to mention her sanity, her personal property, and worst of all, her heart.
Read an excerpt…
Chichester, England
August 1, 1667
“JASON, YOU cannot mean to kill him.”
Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched out of Ford’s grasp. “Of course I don’t. But I’ll bring him to justice if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I’ve never seen you like this—”
“Because I’ve never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or the look on her mother’s bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard’s name over and over.” Trembling with rage, Jason’s hand came up to smooth his slim black mustache. “My villagers.” He met his brother’s gaze with his own. “My responsibility.”
“You’ve plastered the kingdom with broadsides.” Ford’s blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. “The reward will bring him in.”
“I’ll be satisfied to bring him in myself,” Jason said with more confidence than he felt.
They turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester’s vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. Carved from limestone, it was arguably the most elaborate edifice in all of England…but its intricate beauty could not distract Jason from the ugliness lurking inside.
An ugliness he intended to deal with.
He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slender with an elegant sneer; Walter, shorter and bony.
Jason’s footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following behind. Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news in the shade beneath the dome, paused to glance their way. People seemed to stream from all four corners of town, rushing to catch the show.
Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit, but his brother merely stared.
With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a furious gaze. “You’ll come with me to the magistrate,” he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.
For a moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.
Gothard continued to stare.
Jason’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Now, Gothard.”
His stare held hard and unwavering. Finally his thin-lipped mouth curved in a smile. “My nearest and dearest enemy,” Gothard drawled.
A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn’t uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut. He looked to have but a handful of years on Jason’s twenty-three.
Confusion churned with the anger in Jason’s stomach. “Why should you call me your enemy?”
Gothard’s gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. “The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?”
“I am,” Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to Cainewood, back to his calm routine, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.
Blue eyes that might never open again.
And there stood the beast who had hurt her. Smiling at him from the shadows.
“I’ve done nothing to draw your malice—we’ve never even met.” Jason peered at the shaded figure. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled in the sun—and it looked as though they’d been much in the sun of late. “Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest.”
Gothard’s blue eyes went flat with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.
Maybe they had crossed paths.
“A pox on you, Cainewood.”
Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. For Mary and Clarice. The questions could wait—for now.
Responsibility weighing heavily on his mind, his focus shifted to the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
Father would have expected this of him. To defend his people, stand up for what was right—no matter the cost.
Deliberately he slid the rapier from its scabbard.
Gothard drew his own sword with a quick screak that snapped the expectant silence. “We’ll settle this here and now.”
Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade’s thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.
His free hand trembled at his side.
With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.
Vibrations shimmied up Jason’s arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm’s way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.
Like most young men of his class, he’d been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.
Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.
Leslie, Scotland
“MARRIED? I’m not getting married!”
The last strains of the funeral bagpipes were still echoing in Caithren Leslie’s ears when she found herself facing the family lawyer across her father’s desk.
As though it weren’t enough she had to bury Da today, now this. She rubbed her eyes, still itchy from this morning’s tears. “Have I misheard you?”
Lachlan MacLeod sighed and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. “There’s nothing wrong with your hearing, Miss Leslie. All of Leslie is Adam’s…that is, unless you see fit to wed within the year. Then the larger portion that came through your mother will revert to you and your husband. In which case you’ll provide for your brother, of course. The minor lands entailed with the baronetcy aren’t sufficient to support a man.”
“At least not in the style to which Adam is accustomed,” Cait’s cousin Cameron put in dryly.
“Heaven forbid my brother should put Leslie before pursuing his own pleasure,” Cait said, pensively twirling one of her dark-blond plaits. “It’s been five years since he’s been home for more than a visit.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Crivvens, this cannot be.”
“It can be, Miss Leslie, I assure you.” MacLeod’s arthritic hands stacked the papers on the desk. “While it’s rare for a daughter to hold title, it isn’t unprecedented. Your father’s wishes will stand against a challenge.”
“Nay, that wasn’t what I meant.” Caithren stared at her father’s desktop. It had always been littered with papers, reflecting the goings-ons at busy Leslie. Now it was neat. Too neat. Her heart ached at the sight. “Da told me that if Adam didn’t mend his ways, one day Leslie would be mine. That part isn’t surprising.” She looked toward Cameron for strength, feeling a bit better when their hazel eyes met. He’d always been there to lean on. “It’s the marriage requirement that makes no sense.”
Cam perched his tall form on the arm of her chair, slipping his own arm around her shoulders. He looked toward the lawyer. “Might you read that wee portion of the will again? I don’t think Cait quite heard it.”
MacLeod shuffled pages, then cleared his throat. “‘I am sorely sorry for this requirement, dear daughter, but it is my hope that you will grow to understand my position. As you’re sixteen now—’” The lawyer broke off and tugged at one pendulous earlobe. “He wrote this last year, you understand, before he—”
“Aye, while I was naught but a bairn.” Caithren crossed her arms and legs. Beneath her unadorned black skirts, the leg on top swung restlessly back and forth as she talked. “Now, having attained the advanced age of seventeen, I imagine I’m a confirmed spinster—”
“‘As you’re sixteen now,’” MacLeod rushed to continue, “‘it’s time you looked to securing your future. In addition, I promised dear Maisie on her deathbed that I would see you safely wed. Since you’re hearing these words, it’s apparent I failed to live long enough to do so. Caithren, my love, you cannot but admit to a certain streak of stubbornness and independence, and bearing such, have left me no other avenue to make certain your dear mother’s wishes are granted. I know you’ll do right by your mother, myself, and your own life, rather than see Leslie fall into your brother’s incompetent hands. Please forgive me my duplicity and know it’s for your own good.’”
Silence enveloped the small study, the pitter-patter of the rain unnaturally loud against the window. Caithren stared up at the timber-beamed ceiling.
Cameron’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “It’s sorry I am for you, sweet. This is a hard day for you, I know.”
“Da suffered. It’s a blessing he’s passed on. Didn’t everyone tell me that today?”
But despite having decided she was done crying, her throat seemed to close painfully, and her eyes grew hot as well as itchy.
She blinked hard. “I have no intention of marrying.”
Rising to tower over her, Cameron straightened the dark blue and green Leslie kilt he’d worn for the funeral. “Never?”
“Ever.”
“But you’ll have your pick of the young men.” Cam ran a hand back through his straight, wheaten hair. “Surely there must be some fellow…” He frowned, then smiled. “Duncan. Maybe you’d consider Duncan? He has land of his own, and the village maidens are forever tittering over his good looks—”
“He’s a fool.” When Caithren stood, Cam took a step back. “He’d be no better for Leslie than Adam. And he’d never let me have a hand in running things, or you, for that matter.”
“James, then. James is no fool.”
“Aye, you’ve the right of it there. But James isn’t one for the land. He keeps his nose in a book all the day. He’d be no better than Adam, either.”
Cam walked to the window and gazed out at the pouring rain. “Surely there must be someone.” His voice bounced muffled off the uneven glass. “What sort of life would you live, then? Your folks were so happy…don’t you want as much for yourself?”
She joined him there and watched familiar gray clouds glide slowly over the green rolling hills where her family had lived for generations. Beyond a stone wall, the ponies she and Cameron were breeding fed in a nearby field, swishing their long tails. Tenant farmers worked in the distance—people she knew as well as her own kin.
She’d lived her entire life in this fortified house that looked like a wee, turreted castle. Da had built it for her mother—he’d always treated Mam like a queen. Love owercomes the reasons o’ mind, Mam used to murmur when she walked up the path to her home; the heart always rules the head. But she’d said it with a laugh and a blush of pleasure.
Aye, Mam had been loved. But she’d still been the property of a man.
“For all Da loved her, Mam had nothing to call her own. I want no master. And I want us to run Leslie together, you and me, the way we’ve been doing since Da fell ill. Any husband of mine would inherit my property upon marriage, and no man would allow you an equal partnership.” One of her fingers traced the crooked line of a raindrop as it trailed down the pane. “We’d never realize our grand plans. Even my own father plotted to manipulate me from the grave. All men are the same.”
“Not all men, Cait.”
When she turned to him, Cam’s eyes held a challenge.
“Maybe not all,” she conceded. “Not you.” Turning back to the window, she traced another raindrop…two…three.
Sudden hope made her gasp. “You!” She whirled to face him. “I shall marry you! Leslie should be yours in any case—how many times have I said it?”
Cameron stared, incredulous. “Me? Are you daft? We’re kin.”
“So? Kin often marry. We’re cousins, not brother and sister.”
“First cousins.” MacLeod’s voice came stern across the room. Caithren had forgotten all about him. “I’ve heard it said that such inbreeding can result in diseased children.”
“Inbreeding?” Cam was still sputtering beside her. “Cait, I…I love you, but not that way. Not the, er, breeding sort of way. More like a sister.” He was red as a cherry.
“I knew as much. And my love for you is the same.” She sighed. “I never expected to wed at all, much less for romantic love.” She felt a lump rise in her throat as her excitement gave way to defeat. “It’s hopeless.”
Her fingers went absently to play with her laces as she wandered back to MacLeod, tears swimming in her eyes. “Is there no other way? Must I wed or see it all go to Adam?”
“Well…” The family lawyer met her gaze, then looked away.
“Aye? What are you thinking?” Slapping her palms onto the desk, she leaned toward him. “You’ve an idea, don’t you?”
MacLeod glanced heavenward. “May your father forgive me for circumventing his plans.” He smoothed his fine wool doublet. “If you could persuade your brother to sign over his rights—”
Caithren’s heart galloped in her chest. “That would work? Such a paper would be legally binding?”
“I cannot see why not. It wouldn’t be signed under duress, and who would there be to challenge? I assume, in exchange for a generous allowance for his keeping, that Adam would jump at the chance to relinquish his responsibilities. If I know your brother at all—”
“Aye, you do,” Cameron said in wry confirmation. He walked closer to Cait. “And he’d still have the title. Sir Adam Leslie, Baronet. Not that he deserves it.”
“I don’t care about that, but it’s all he cares about, which is why this should work.” Caithren turned around to think. “I must go to Adam.” She spun back to her cousin. “My letters never seem to reach him, and he may be off to India soon.”
“India?” Cameron frowned. “Do you know where he is now?”
“A letter came just yesterday.” She hurried to the desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. “He mailed it the first of August, from Chichester.” She scanned the single page. “He said he was in the company of two friends on their way to West Riding near Pontefract, where Lord Scarborough had invited them hunting. Then to London for Lord Darnley’s wedding on the thirtieth. And he hopes to make it home for Hogmanay, but there’s talk of a voyage to India.” She looked up. “He should still be at Scarborough’s. Pontefract is about halfway to London, isn’t it? Not so far.”
“I’ll go.”
“Nay, Cam. I must ask this of Adam myself.”
“You don’t trust me to ask him to sign a piece of paper?”
Caithren winced at the hurt look on her cousin’s face. “It wouldn’t be the same request, coming from you.” Setting the letter aside, she put a hand on his arm. “I do love him, you know, but I also see him for what he is.”
Cam’s hand covered hers and squeezed. “Then I’ll accompany you—”
“Nay, it’s here you’re needed. The harvest approaches.” She raised a palm to stem his next protest. “You may see me to Edinburgh and put me on the public coach, but then it’s back to Leslie where you belong. I can deal with Adam.”
“I don’t like to think of you traveling alone.”
The thought of a solo journey did make a wee tingle of fear flutter in her stomach. But she pushed it away. “We’ll hire a chaperone in Edinburgh. You can choose her personally, if that will make you feel better.”
When Cam’s shoulders slumped, she sensed her victory. “There’s no arguing with you, is there, dear cousin?”
“Nay, and there never was.” She rose to her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m thinking it’s about time you learnt it.”
He shook his head, then gave a speculative smile. “Do you know, I reckon you may be right.”
“Aye?”
“There may be no man willing to take you to bride, you stubborn lass.”
“Crivvens! Be off with you!” She swatted him playfully. “You know what Mam used to say.”
“I cannot wait to hear this one.”
“Ha freens and ha life.”
“Good friends make a full life,” Cameron murmured.
She nodded, feeling the hot press of tears behind her eyes again. All she had left to love were Cameron and Leslie.
She would not lose either.
“You’re a fine friend, Cam. The best. Leslie will fare well in our hands.”
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