The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (26 page)

AN HOUR LATER,
Caithren dismounted at the Haycock Hotel and followed Jason into a charming courtyard with stone archways and mullioned windows. “A hat?”

“Yes, a hat. While you were busy provoking the boar, I checked on the map, and this is the only sizable village between here and Stilton. Should we ride all that way on a day like today with but a single hat between us, one of us will end up sunburned and suffering.” He nodded at his hat, which was perched atop her plaits. “I’d as soon it not be me, though common decency dictates it will be.”

“Oh.” She slowly drew off the hat and held it out to him.

He took it from her and set it back on her head. “The shops are closed on a Sunday, but I’m hoping to persuade someone here to part with a hat in exchange for a generous payment.” They both scanned the patrons in the inn’s sunny courtyard, well-off ladies and gentlemen sharing conversation or lingering over news sheets. “Perhaps a more feminine design would suit you?” he added, tilting the hat’s brim up with a finger.

Since their sojourn by the burn, she’d acted cold as a Scottish winter—and he repaid her by being thoughtful. Flustered, she tucked his handkerchief deeper into her neckline. “Sometimes you’re too nice.”

“I’m not nice.” He drew back his shoulders. “I’m doing what I have to do. No more, no less. I’m responsible for you, and for everything you lost due to my actions.”

“For my things, yes. But how many times do I have to tell you you’re not responsible for
me
? I can take care of myself.”

His mouth opened, closed, then he turned on a heel and strode into the cool, shadowed lobby to make inquiries at the desk.

Cait trailed behind him and stared at his back while he explained his problem to the innkeeper. Her legs were aching again, and her brain felt muddled.

She went closer and tapped Jason on the shoulder. “I’m away for a wee dander.”

He stopped mid-sentence and turned. “A wee what?”

“A walk.” She gestured toward the door. “Down the street a bit, to stretch my legs.”

“Stay on the High Street,” he told her.

Wansford boasted
only
the High Street, so far as she could tell. She wandered down it, enjoying the sunshine and the solitude she’d lacked the past few days. Her irritation with Jason melted away as her feet put distance between them.

Charming stone cottages with tiny gardens lined the road, bees buzzing around carefully tended flowers. There was one other inn, the small Cross Keys. Farther down the street, a little kirk sat with its door open.

A service was in progress. Cait sidled closer to listen. The murmur of the vicar’s sermon sounded peaceful and familiar. It was comforting to find that Sunday rituals, at least, were the same here as in Scotland. She slipped inside and into the back pew, feeling at home for the first time since she’d stepped onto the coach in Edinburgh.

AT THE END
of a frantic search, Jason found Emerald in the church. Dozing.

Taking her by the arm, he pulled her up and out the door. “I was worried sick,” he told her in hushed tones, tugging her away from the building. Once out of earshot, he turned her to face him. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Your face is red,” she said, wrenching her arm from his grasp. “You’re angry.”

“You bet I’m angry.”

“But you’re not yelling.”

One of the two of them belonged in Bedlam. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You should just show it. Why don’t you show it?” She clutched her emerald necklace as if it could ward him off. “And you’re angry because you thought I’d escaped and gone after Gothard on my own.”

Amazing how she clung to that image of him.

He took a calming breath. He’d grown weary of bickering and of the ill feeling between them this day—and he was big enough to admit it was partially his fault.

Not in her hearing, of course.

When he’d composed himself, he said, “Stay with me from now on, will you? I don’t want you out of my sight.” Sweeping his hat from her head, he drew one with a white feather from behind his back and set it atop her plaits. “There. Now we’d best get back on the road.”

“I’ve never owned a hat with a feather.” Hurrying down the street beside him, Emerald pulled off the hat and turned it in her hands. “It’s bonnie. I thank you.”

He donned his own hat. “Don’t lose it.”

“Have I lost anything yet? Without your help?”

“No.” He looked down at her and, despite himself, grinned. “I’ve been a great help in that area.”

With a reluctant smile, she jammed the hat back on her head. “The Gothard brothers were sunburned.”

He slanted her a look of confusion.

“You were talking about getting sunburned,” she explained.

“An hour ago.” He would never understand how female minds worked. “What of it?”

“Well, they were both sunburned.” They turned a corner and continued toward the stable yard. “Do you think the Gothards cannot even afford two hats?”

“From what I understand of their circumstances, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Chiron was brought forward, and he handed the groom a coin.

“Then they really wouldn’t be able to change horses,” she mused as he hoisted her up and mounted behind her. “And he’s a blockhead.”

“Who’s a blockhead?”

“Geoffrey Gothard. We were talking about him, aye?”

“Were we?” He tapped her on the shoulder. “Gothard is not as stupid as you think. You’d best keep that in mind.”

“I didn’t mean to say he was stupid. I meant he is
literally
a blockhead. He has a square head.”

He squinted, trying to picture the man, and decided she was right. Delighted, he laughed until his stomach felt weak and hollow. Then, without conscious thought, he tilted her hat forward and pressed his lips to that tender spot on the nape of her neck.

“What was that?” she squeaked.

He snapped upright, startling poor Chiron, who tossed his mane and pranced.

Jason calmed the horse as he tried to devise an answer.

What
was
that?

And more to the point, why did
that
keep happening? What was there between Emerald and him—besides utter incompatibility? Quite apart from her dubious background and occupation, she was prickly and prideful, impulsive and superstitious. She believed in ghosts. She hated the king he served. And between her accent and all those unintelligible Scottish words, he couldn’t understand half the things she said.

Why was he cursed with this incomprehensible pull toward someone wrong for him in every way?

“I don’t know,” he replied at last, meaning it.

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.”