Jason could feel his face heating. Part of him agreed with her, but his father’s expectations of him overrode her cool logic. “I cannot wait for someone to see it done. Since the king abolished Cromwell’s Major General districts, there’s no one to see it done.” His sturdiest stockings joined the pile of clothing. “Didn’t we see that in Chichester? A man was murdered in the middle of a crowded square, and no one even knows who he was.”
“Charles did well to abolish the districts,” Ford protested. “Clarendon says their main purpose was to tax us Royalists.” He raised a finger to make another point, then shook his head as though realizing this was not the time for a debate. “Jason, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”
“I’ve never been more sure. Such lawlessness cannot be borne.” Jason paced the red and blue carpet, snatching up an ivory comb and his shaving kit as he went. “The counties don’t cooperate, don’t share information with one another. Gothard could be off somewhere leading a blasted parade and not draw any official’s notice!”
Kendra came to stand before him. “And you could chase a violent lunatic to Constantinople and back without stopping to think about whether his crimes are your responsibility!” She tried to smile, a gentle smile that tugged at his heart. “Jason, the Gothards are gone from this area—you can be sure of it. You’ve done all you can. You’re injured. You have people here, people who need you.”
He dropped to sit on the bed, fighting to marshal his temper. “He made me kill an innocent man. Perhaps the reward will bring him in, perhaps not. But I cannot just wait and see; I won’t be able to live with myself until Gothard is behind bars, never to murder again. And I’ll hear from him just what he thinks my part is in this debacle.”
“But—”
“No buts, Kendra.”
“You’re worse than Colin,” she grumbled, referring to their other brother, who said that all the time.
Rising from the bed, Jason grabbed a ball of hard-milled soap from his washstand, threw it into the portmanteau, flipped the bags closed, and secured the latches. “No more arguments.” He went to his sister and gave her a hard hug, ignoring the jolt to his shoulder. “They’ve singled me out—how can I turn away? What kind of man would that make me?”
Kendra opened her mouth, but Jason cut her off. “You cannot stop me, little sister.” He gripped both her shoulders. “Just wish me Godspeed.”
“If you won’t wait to heal, then at least wait an hour or two for Ford and me to get ready. You’ve never gone off without us. I can care for your wound—”
“This isn’t a holiday, Kendra. You would slow me down.”
He saw her take a deep breath before the fight drained out of her. When she nodded up at him, he turned to Ford. “Find out who I killed, will you? Ask around again in Chichester. Someone must know the identity of his two acquaintances. Then locate them, follow up. Send word to Pontefract if you hear anything.”
“Jason, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Do it,” he ordered. He jammed his sword into his belt, tucked a small pistol into his boot top, and lifted the portmanteau. “Watch over Cainewood for me. With any luck, I won’t be long.”
“And then we can lay this nightmare to rest?” Kendra asked.
He stared at her a long time while the chamber filled with an oppressive silence. Then, unable to make that promise, he kissed her cheek and strode from the room.
“Godspeed,” she whispered after him.
EIGHT
HER BACK TO the other passengers straggling in and queuing to rent rooms, Caithren stared at the innkeeper in disbelief. “Are you telling me there are no horses for hire in this town?”
He rubbed a hand over his bald head. “That’s what I’m telling you, madam.”
Mrs. Dochart took Cait by the arm. “Come along, lass. Maybe the situation will change on the morrow.” With her other hand she set down her valise and dug inside for coins. “We’ll take a room upstairs, Mr. Brown.”
Caithren shook off the woman’s hand and leaned farther over the innkeeper’s desk. “Are there no hackney cabs, either?”
“No hackney cabs.”
“But Pontefract is a stage stop!”
“We’ve extra horses for the public coach, naturally. But not for hire.”
Behind her, Caithren heard feet shuffling impatiently on the gritty wood floor. “Hurry up, there,” someone grumbled.
“Hold your tongue,” Cait shot over her shoulder. “I’ve spent eight days shut up in a hot coach”—with a crotchety, meddling old woman, she added silently—“just to get here and visit with my brother at the Scarborough estate in West Riding.”
Rubbing his thin, reddish nose, the innkeeper slanted her a dubious look. “The Earl of Scarborough’s estate?”
“Aye, the same.”
He shrugged. “You can walk. It’s nice enough weather and naught but a mile or so.” The man opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound registration book. “Out there, then head east. The road will take you straight past the Scarborough place. You’ll find it set back on the right side, perhaps a quarter mile from the road. An enormous stone mansion—you cannot miss it.” With a dismissive thump, he set the book on the desk and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. “You may leave your satchel if you wish. Should Scarborough invite you to stay”—his tone conveyed what he thought were the chances of that happening—“I reckon he’ll send a footman to fetch it.”
He waved her aside and the next person forward.
“Come along, lass. We’ll be losing the light soon.” Mrs. Dochart set her own bag alongside Cait’s behind the desk. “Unless you’d prefer to wait for the morn?” she added hopefully.
Cait reached up a finger to twirl one of her plaits. “Nay, I wish to go immediately.” Without a chaperone. “But I’m…I mean to say…well, I expected we’d part company here. Not that I haven’t enjoyed yours,” she rushed to add, waiting for a
