The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (29 page)

THE BIRDS WERE
singing by the time they reached Sawtry. A small, sleepy town, its few public buildings bordered one side of the village green, the other three sides lined with thatched-roof houses. There was naught but one tavern, a rectangular stone building called Greystones.

Jason chuckled when he saw the sign.

“Whatever do you find so amusing?” Cait asked.

“My brother—um, he…lives in a place called Greystone.”

“So?”

“It just struck me as funny, is all.” He swung himself down to the street. “We’ll stop here for breakfast.”

“Why don’t we eat it on the road?” she suggested, looking at the square, at the sky, at anything but him. “I’ll wait here with Chiron while you go inside and get something.”

“The Gothard brothers were in Stilton, which means they’re not making better time than we are. I’m certain they’re fast asleep. We have time to stop and eat.”

“I’d rather not, if you wouldn’t mind.” She didn’t want to face him across a table. “I’ll stretch my legs while you fetch the food.”

Without agreeing, he helped her dismount. She took his horse by the reins. “I’ll just walk Chiron over there”—she indicated the village green and a post with a sign in its center—“and wait for you.”

“I’d rather you come inside. After yesterday—”

“You said the brothers will still be sleeping. How unsafe could it be? You can watch me from the window.”

He fixed her with a penetrating gaze that made her quickly look elsewhere. “Very well,” he said at last. “But stay in sight.”

The grass was soft and springy, and it felt good to walk after more than an hour in the saddle. She was delighted to discover that she wasn’t really sore anymore. After four days on horseback, her body was finally adjusting.

She tethered Chiron to the signpost, which was topped by a fancy wrought-iron affair with letters spelling not only
SAWTRY
, but also
SALTREIAM
, the village’s name from Roman times.

Doffing her shoes and stockings, she wiggled her toes in the grass and wondered what Jason was thinking of her after last night. He was acting normal. Perhaps he’d never fancied her in the first place, so her behavior meant nothing to him. She couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than the other possibility—that he
had
fancied her before last night, and now he was politely concealing his revulsion.

Neither option was appealing.

In an effort to cheer herself, she rolled her shoulders, reached for the sky, then bent to touch her feet, coming face to face with a fresh, white daisy. She plucked it from the grass and brought it to her nose, smiling at the sweet, familiar scent. Sprinkled liberally throughout the green, the flowers reminded her of a childhood pastime, and she picked a handful, tucking up her skirt to collect them.

Jason found her sitting cross-legged and working industriously. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice. “A daisy chain?”

She slit the last stem and slipped the first daisy through it, completing the circle. Then she looked up into his smiling eyes, finding it easier than she’d expected.

“For you,” she said, rising. “A peace offering.” Standing on tiptoe, she crowned him with it. “A daisy chain is supposed to protect you from the fairies.”

Instead of teasing her about another superstition, he turned pink beneath his tan, revealing freckles she hadn’t noticed before. “We’ve found peace between us already,” he said. “Have we not?” With a sheepish smile, he removed the daisy chain and put it on her own, smaller head.

It slipped right down and around her neck. He leaned closer, taking his time arranging it into a uniform curve atop her bodice, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

A frisson of confusion ran through her. She licked her lips and looked down, then reached to grasp the amulet that lay framed within the flowers. Something solid and familiar to cling to in the midst of all this foreignness.

When she glanced up, he was contemplating her bare feet. He bent to pluck another daisy and tucked it into the plait behind one ear. Stepping back, he grinned.

“You look very Scottish,” he said.

“Do I, now?” She made herself meet his gaze and smile. “Well,
you
look very English.”

“Hmm…” he said in a thoughtful tone. “Both of us managed to say that without sounding insulting.” He turned to untie Chiron. “Imagine that.”

“Imagine that,” she echoed.

Imagine that, indeed.

WHITE AND
yellow wildflowers dotted the gently rolling land on either side of the narrow lane leaving Sawtry. As they rode, Jason could see Emerald lazily toying with the daisy chain around her neck, silent as the peaceful landscape. But for once it wasn’t an adversarial silence, merely the silence born of exhaustion, the comfortable silence that comes to pass when two people coexist without the need to fill it with senseless chatter.

Indeed, the only sounds were those of Chiron’s hooves on the rutted road and the occasional travelers who passed. Until there came a wild yell, and three young bareback riders came racing down the road right at them, all but forcing Chiron into the stream that ran alongside.

“Gypsy lads!” Emerald came alive. “They pass through Leslie every year, and oh, they play the most lovely music.” She cocked her head. “Can you hear a lute?”

“Easy, boy.” Jason reined in. “I can hear nothing except—egad, here they come again.”

From the other direction, they thundered past.

“Follow them,” she urged. “They must be encamped nearby.”

Sure enough, over the next hill came the delicate notes of the lute she’d heard. The lively tune grew more distinct as they turned off the road and followed the trail of clumps kicked up by the racing horses.

The Gypsy boys halted and slid from their mounts beside a makeshift community of people milling among tents, carts, and pack animals. Smoke rose into the air above the encampment. The lads bent over in laughter, pointing at Jason and Emerald.

An old woman motioned them closer, flashing a gap-toothed grin.

Emerald turned and tilted her head back, one hand on her hat to secure it. “Have we time to stop? Just for a minute?”

He’d never seen her so excited. How could he deny those dancing turquoise eyes? “Ten minutes.”

Emerald was already waving to the short, round-faced woman. “Hallo!” she called as they pulled close.

“Hallo, me lady,” the Gypsy woman returned. She wore a long, many-layered skirt in a myriad of bright colors and a head scarf of another color altogether. Thick gold loops hung from her ears. “Will you buy?”

“I could have told you that’s what she wanted,” Jason muttered.

“Wheesht!” Emerald admonished. She slid from Chiron. “I haven’t any money.”

The woman patted Chiron’s flank. “A beauty.” She pulled an apple from her pocket and held it out for the horse to munch. “How much?”

Jason dismounted and held the reins possessively. “He’s not for sale.”

“Pity.” She sighed. “Trade?” With an expansive gesture, she offered several horses grazing nearby. “Two for one?”

Jason laughed. “No trade, either.”

“Pity.” Giving a dismissive wave, the woman turned and walked into the tent village.

Emerald shrugged. “Come, let’s find the music. They don’t usually mind visitors.”

He lifted Chiron’s reins. “Is it safe to leave him here?”

“They won’t be stealing him, if that’s what you mean.”

It felt deucedly strange to be asking Emerald for advice, but the truth was, he felt completely out of his element. As a boy in exile he’d lived all over the Continent, but he’d never felt as much at odds with his environment as he did in this little pocket of foreignness here in his native land.

He tethered the horse, then followed her into the encampment. They wove between tents made from fresh-cut hazel pushed into the ground and bent over, which formed a resilient frame the Gypsies covered with colorful blankets. Delicious smells came from a huge iron kettle suspended over a stick fire. Women sat on stools around it, weaving lace and chattering in the Romani language, guarded by soft-eyed lurcher dogs.

As they walked by, a woman rose to stir the soup. When she set down the wooden spoon, a dog came up to lick it. “Bah!” she said, throwing the spoon into the fire.

At Jason’s sound of surprise, Emerald turned to face him, walking backward. “It’s
mockadi
,” she explained. His face must have registered his confusion, because her laugh rang out over the lute’s music. “Dogs and cats are unclean,” she clarified. “You really are a
gaujo
, aye?” She laughed again. “A house-dweller.”

“The woman fed Chiron by hand,” he said. “Horses are not mock”—he frowned as he searched unsuccessfully for the word—“unclean?”

“Nay. Horses are revered. And they’re not
mockadi
because—” She stopped walking backward, and when he nearly ran into her, she put a hand to his chest and raised on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “They cannot lick their own backsides.”

He laughed so loudly they attracted several stares. A tall, gaunt man with a wide mustache ducked out of a tent. He wore ordinary breeches and a shirt topped by a colorful vest. His black eyes fastened on the sword hanging at Jason’s side. “Sharpen it, milord?”

“No, thank—” Jason started.

“Oh, for certain it should be razor sharp,
my lord
.” The sparkle in Emerald’s eyes revealed her amusement at the thought of him bearing such a title.

If only she knew.

“You must let him do it.” Reaching for the hilt, she pulled the rapier from his belt. “Since you’ll be wanting to”—she cleared her throat conspicuously—“take care of Gothard with it.”

It was plain she still thought he was out to kill, but Jason didn’t argue. He let her hand the sword to the fellow, though he had no intention of killing anyone with that blade ever again. One man was more than enough.

The man sat at a portable whetstone and began grinding. Over the sound of the wheel, the delicate notes of the lute were joined by other instruments: a guitar, a violin, drums, maybe something else. The music rose, becoming even livelier. After Jason retrieved his sword and handed the man a coin, Emerald took off in search of the musicians, leaving him to follow.

In a small clearing, dancers swirled, a wild mass of colors. Emerald turned to him eagerly. “Shall we dance?” She took both his hands, held them up between them, and pulled him toward the clearing.

He took several tentative steps, then stopped. “This isn’t the minuet, nor even a country dance.”

She giggled up at him. “Nay, it’s not. Can you feel the music?” Indeed, it seemed to vibrate from the grass beneath their feet. “Cameron and I dance with them every year. Doesn’t the music make you want to move like they do?”

They
were whirling in circles, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, snapping their fingers. “No, it doesn’t,” he said honestly.

“Come, try it!” She tugged his hands harder, until he stumbled into the midst of the dancers. But his feet refused to move like theirs, no matter how hard he tried. After a few halting steps, he pulled his hands from hers and backed away with a small bow and a sheepish smile of apology.

And he watched. Watched her swirling and dipping, swaying to the music that quite clearly spoke to her. Others watched as well, their own feet slowing as they watched hers fly.

Her hat flew off, and he ducked into the fray to retrieve it, then hurried back out. Her plaits whipped around, shimmering in the summer sunshine. The daisy chain about her neck whirled in her breeze, swooping up and down and around with her.

Murmured conversations sprang up all around him. Though he didn’t know a word of Romani, he did know admiration when he heard it. Emerald was a—
gaujo
, had she called the house-dwellers?—connecting with the essence of their vibrant music.

He shifted on his feet, his eyes riveted to her lithe body, a blur against the backdrop of colorful clothing, tents, and trees. She’d come alive, an effervescence he’d never seen before spilling out of her.

Here was a small piece of England where she was more comfortable than he. What a difference it made. And, in contrast, how difficult it must be for her to operate in
his
world.

When the music ended and she stopped, the Gypsies burst into wild applause. Her cheeks reddened, she made her way over to him, stumbling and laughing at her dizziness. Another tune took up where the last one had left off, and she swayed to the beat.

“It’s like a fair, isn’t it?” she said breathlessly. “Except we’re the only ones in attendance.” She twirled in an exuberant circle, her arms wide, the daisy chain flying again. When she stopped, her eyes sparkled to rival the sunshine. “Imagine living like this every day.”

He moved closer to straighten the ring of flowers around her neck. “It would be exhausting.”

A frown flitted across her features. “There you go again, seeing the world in black and white.”

“Right here I see it as most colorful.” He rearranged her plaits, then set the hat back on her head. “And quite lovely.”