Emerald (Jewel Trilogy, Book 2) (21 page)

It lit up his face, and a place in her heart.

She smiled in return, lifting her goblet to hide the blush that threatened.

"Wait." He set his goblet on the bench between them. "Just wait right here."

At a loss, she sat and watched him take off, threading his lean form through the teeming crowd. Not a minute later he was walking toward her with his hands behind his back. He stepped up close, so close their knees almost touched, and leaned to tuck a small bunch of violets behind her ear.

"Ah, lovely," he said. "Of a sudden, I thought that would complete the picture."

"Picture?" Now she really blushed.

What was happening to them?

"When you smiled, it was like a…oh, never mind." He looked away.

"Thank you," she said, drawing his gaze back to her. She reached up to touch the soft, fragrant petals. "I do love violets."

Behind them, wives haggled over herrings, oysters, and mackerel. Across the way, feathers flew as a hundred chickens squawked their protest at being crammed in a wooden pen. But when Jason took the game off her lap and held her hands to pull her to stand before him, it was as though they were the only two beings there.

Her breath caught, and she'd swear her heart stopped for a moment, then pounded so hard she wondered if he could hear it.

His eyes burned into hers. Slowly he ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders, squeezed, then trailed back down to lace their fingers together. When he lowered his head, her lips parted in anticipation.

But he only kissed her on the forehead.

Her heart plummeted. The gesture was warm and sweet, but she'd yearned for more.

"We'd best be going," he said. "It's almost dark, and with the fair in town, I expect the inns will fill up early around here."

Caithren popped an orange section into her mouth and licked her sticky fingers before rolling the dice.

"Double sixes!" she crowed. Removing four white markers from the backgammon board, she added them to her stack with a gleeful
clink
.

Looking wary and distracted, Jason shook the dice as he scanned the large, plush common room at the George of Stamford.

Cait separated another section of the orange. "What are you looking for?"

"Not what. Who." The leather dice cup stilled in his hand. "The Gothard brothers."

"You think they're here in Stamford?" She hoped not. "Have you seen any sign of them?"

"No." He rubbed the back of his neck, still glancing around. "It's just a feeling. I know they could be far ahead or behind us, but something tells me they're near."

She made her own survey, seeing nothing alarming. People conversed in pairs and groups. They went in and out of the taproom or through the double doors into the more formal dining room. Two men played cards in one corner. A couple made their way up the stairs, laughing, their arms full of purchases from the fair.

"Well," she said, "I'm thinking those brothers cannot afford a coaching inn as nice as this one. Or any of the other inns you've chosen along the way." The patrons in the common room looked well-heeled and groomed, not rumpled like she remembered the Gothards. "Is that why you've been choosing as you have? In order to avoid them?"

A ghost of a smile curved his lips as he rattled the dice. After a moment it became obvious he wasn't going to answer. But she'd bet he was attempting to steer clear of them.

To keep her from getting the reward?

She'd never understand him.

He rolled a one and a two. With an exaggerated groan, he advanced one of his black markers a paltry three pips. "Why did I buy this backgammon set?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad you did. Though Lord knows how we'll manage to carry it."

She rolled again, a three and a five. Two more white markers came off her side. She held out a piece of orange. "Would you like some?"

He tossed the section into his mouth and rolled the dice. Double fours, and he was finally able to remove three of his black markers. But three rolls later the orange was finished and the match was over.

Two up on him now, Caithren celebrated her victory with naught more than a yawn. "What time is it?" she asked sleepily.

The watch he dug from his coat pocket brought her wide awake. The mere sight of it made her jaw drop. Solid gold, the thing was, with blue jewels stuck on the lid.

"Eight o'clock," he said and snapped it shut.

"May I see?"

"I know it's early." He handed the pocket watch over. "But if you're wanting that bath I promised, you'd best head up and take it now. We'll have to get an early start tomorrow if we want to be sure of catching the Gothards."

She stared at the watch, turning it gingerly in her hands, then flipped it open. "Eight o'clock," she murmured. That wasn't why she'd asked to see it—she'd believed it was eight o'clock. She'd just wanted to feel it, to touch such a wonderfully beautiful thing.

Maybe there was no cause for concern on Jason's behalf. Maybe he had more money than she'd imagined.

But he was a miller.

"Where did you get this?" she couldn't help asking.

Taking the watch from her, he pocketed it with a smile. "It was a gift from a lovely woman."

"Oh." A gift from a lovely woman. Why should that matter to her? Three days from now they'd reach London, and then they'd part company. It was what she'd wanted all along, wasn't it?

"My sister-in-law," he added.

"Pardon?"

His grin widened. "The watch. It was a gift from my sister-in-law. You do know what a sister-in-law is? The woman who married my brother."

"I know what a sister-in-law is, Jase." She rose and snatched up the backgammon set. "I simply cannot imagine you having one, let alone her being fond enough of you to gift you with a watch like that."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes," she said, heading for the stairs. "You're too ornery by half."

His laughter followed her up all the way up.

An hour later Jason knocked on the door and entered to find Emerald sitting by the fire, swishing her new comb through her long, silky, bath-damp hair.

He'd never seen anything quite like Emerald's hair. The women in Cainewood's village always bound up their hair or hid it beneath a cap. And the court ladies of his acquaintance were always fussing with theirs, cutting it and curling it and crimping it and twisting it into all sorts of unnatural creations.

But Emerald's hair was straight and thick and shining.
Swish.
The ivory comb he'd bought her ran along its gleaming length.
Swish. Swish.

Her eyes were downcast, but he remembered them lighting up at each of the small things he'd bought her. He pictured them sparkling with delight when she tasted the syllabub, crinkling when she laughed at the ropedancers, and flashing when she tsked at the mountebank.

Swish.

Jason didn't think he could stand it a moment longer. His fingers itched to bury themselves in that silk. He wanted to wrap the strands around his hands, pull her head back, and expose her creamy throat for his lips to plunder.

Bloody hell, he wanted to kiss her until she was breathless.

He'd dreamt of kissing her and hadn't wanted to wake. The real experience couldn't possibly be as good as the dream, but damn if he wasn't tempted to find out.

Stiffly he crossed the chamber and began loosening his cuffs. It didn't help that, thanks to the many bookings by fairgoers, the only room he could get had naught but one bed. Neither did it help that Emerald wore nothing but Mrs. Twentyman's night rail. Her old clothes and the red gown were wet, draped over the backs of two chairs to dry.

At last she stood and set the comb on a bedside table, beside the violets he'd given her, which she'd stuck into a pewter cup filled with water. The sight of them, bedraggled but saved, made his heart turn over.

He turned away and sat on the bed to pull off his boots, chucking them across the floor.

Her hair waterfalled when she bent to retrieve them and set them side by side against the wall. "You really should learn to be neater."

He loosened his shirt and lay back, crossing his hands behind his head and staring up at the beamed ceiling.

Her head swam into view. "May I have one of the ribbons?"

"Of course. Bring me my pouch."

She fetched the brown leather pouch and brought it over. God's blood, she looked beautiful standing above him, her thick hair bunched in one hand, the firelight revealing hints of her slender form beneath the white night rail. He could barely tear his gaze away long enough to fish in the pouch and pull out the blue ribbon.

It was much too long to simply tie back her hair, but she used it anyway, leaving the long ends to dangle down her back. He'd been right: the blue suited her perfectly.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, listening to the little sounds of Emerald readying herself for sleep.

When she crawled into bed next to him, he made no move to get under the covers. His blood was too hot; he couldn't trust himself to keep his hands off her. The dream had done that to him.

The dream and the woman beside him.

Whenever she looked at him, whether outdoors by that ruined castle or over a backgammon board, it was with eyes that pleaded, a mouth that begged to be kissed.

He wouldn't allow himself.

He
couldn't
allow himself. Emerald MacCallum was not the sort of woman he was looking for—not that he was looking at all.

Emerald was a liar and she was Scottish. Scottish, of all things! It didn't matter that she felt soft and smelled sweet. That was only part of the deception.

His eyes flew open when she turned to him and levered up on an elbow. A true hazel now, her gaze was riveted to where his shirt lay open across his chest, revealing the angry puckered scar. "Does it still hurt?" she asked softly.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But it's healing. It's been more than three weeks."

"I should make a poultice for you." She reached out, making his breath catch, but then her hand dropped away. "What happened?"

He couldn't tear his gaze from her concerned face. And that luscious wide mouth. He was sure it was soft. It had been soft in his dream.

"Geoffrey Gothard shot me."

"He shot you?" She sat up in bed and shook her head violently. The dark blond tail of her hair shimmered as it swished back and forth. "You said he hurt, perhaps killed a wee lass. And nearly raped—"

"That he did—all of that. And when I went after him to bring him in to the authorities, he shot me."

Twisting to face him, she moved his shirt aside with gentle fingers and touched the pink, ridged tissue lightly.

Something melted in his gut.

"It was dangerously close to your heart," she said seriously.

A choked laugh escaped his lips. "No, it's only my shoulder. But I was already covered in another man's blood, so Gothard figured he'd hit his mark."

"It's no wonder you're after killing him, then." Her fingers exploring, she leaned closer. Her hair fell forward, and the ends of the ribbon tickled his chest.

"No, I…" He couldn't seem to think. "I'm after him because he killed a little girl, and he'll kill others if he isn't stopped." Absently he pulled one end of the blue ribbon until the bow came untied. Her eyes widened, but she didn't back away. "And—bloody hell, I know this is weak of me—but I cannot forgive him for causing me to kill a man. It's a burden I'll carry the rest of my life. But that he shot me…no.
That
I blame on my own carelessness. I wasn't fast enough; I was stunned." His fingers combed through her hair as the words tumbled out. "And perhaps I shouldn't have been taking the law into my own hands to begin with. It's not…not the sort of man I am. Though you've seen no other, so I cannot fault you for believing so."

"Nay, I believe you. I've seen the man you are, Jason Chase." Her fingertips brushed his jaw. "I've seen a man of honor and compassion, and sometimes, when you let it slip, even a wee bit of charm."

Reversing their positions, he came up on an elbow and hovered over her. She fell back to the pillow, and her lips curved into the sweetest smile, her eyes filled with blue light. Free from her customary plaits, her hair was a mass of colors shimmering against the sheets. She trembled beneath him, and his name escaped her lips in a breathy murmur.

Of its own volition, it seemed, his hand moved to cup her face. His mouth descended toward hers. "Emerald…"

The light in her eyes died, and she jerked her head away.

Unsure what had happened, he gazed at her a moment longer, then flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, saying nothing. There was nothing he could possibly say. He had no business kissing her in the first place, so he could hardly fault her for disallowing it.

Not that he was worried for her reputation. She was no chaste virgin, but a woman of…a woman of…

What was she, exactly?

A Scot, a mother, a daughter, and a sister—if he could believe her. A…businesswoman? What did one call a female who made her living tracking outlaws?

Well, whatever she was, he needn't worry about ruining her. Whether husband or lover, someone else had gotten there first. But that didn't mean it was all right to kiss her. It was very much not all right. Beyond her sensibilities, he had reasons of his own to keep his distance.