Interesting. The little man was a fountain of information, if only Jason could keep it flowing. He reached for a currycomb and ran it through Chiron’s glossy silver coat. “Why was that?”
“He’s bein’ Lady Scarborough’s son from another marriage, you see.” When the stableman filled the trough, Chiron drank greedily. “That Geoffrey, he had it in for Lord Scarborough—the new one—before the lad was walkin’.”
“And the younger son?” Jason probed. “Walter, is it?”
“Wat? Dumber than a box of hair. Geoffrey led him around by the nose since he teethed his first tooth. Two against one it was, and Lord Scarborough—the new one—just waitin’ till the day came he could toss the two of them out. ‘Course it’s sad that was sooner rather than later.”
“Does everyone in the village know all this?”
“All I know is what Cousin Ethel’s tellin’ me.” The man looked up from where he was crouched, cleaning Chiron’s hooves. “But I know how to keep my own mouth shut. You can lay odds on that.”
“Be an interesting wager.” Despite his disappointment, Jason’s lips twitched beneath his mustache. “Geoffrey and Walter, they’re in the area?”
“Nah.” He dropped a hoof and moved around to lift another. “Disappeared the day after the funeral. I’ve yet to set eyes on ‘em since.”
If anybody would know the brothers had returned, it would be this man. Some of the stiffness left Jason’s shoulder. “I think they may have found trouble,” he said carefully. “Talk has it there’s been a reward posted for Geoffrey.”
“That so?” The man’s eyes lit up. “Well, then, I’m hopin’ he’ll come back and that Emerald MacCallum woman after ’im. A Scottish lass taking our own son, born and bred. Now that’d be a sight to see, here in little old Pontefract. We’d be talkin’ about it for years.”
“I imagine you would.”
If Emerald MacCallum even existed.
Jason leaned to hand the groom the comb. “I reckon I’ll be staying the night here, after all.” Fetching his pouch from his coat pocket, he pressed a silver coin into the man’s age-spotted hand and patted the horse’s flank. “Keep an eye on him for me, will you? His name’s Chiron. Appreciate the chat.”
He lifted the portmanteau and headed from the stables. Now he knew why the Gothards had it in for their brother.
But what they had against him remained a mystery.
TEN
IT SURELY FELT good to be clean, Caithren thought. Even if she’d had to fold her knees up to her chin to fit into the inn’s small wooden tub.
She tipped the wee bottle of oil she’d pressed from Leslie’s flowers, pouring a few more precious drops into the bath. Scooping a palmful of the lukewarm scented water, she smoothed it over her shoulders.
It smelled like Scotland. Like home.
When the water grew cold, she donned the clothes she’d brought for riding: soft brown breeches and a coarse white shirt, castoffs outgrown by Adam years ago. After plaiting her dark-blond hair, she piled it atop her head and jammed Cameron’s hat on top.
There was no mirror in her room, but she hoped she looked enough like a lad that the men downstairs would leave her alone. She’d had her fill of English men tonight. Just her luck, the scum brothers would be staying at this inn. And still in search of girls.
She ducked out the door, then turned and went back in to paw through her satchel and find Da’s pistol. It was an ugly thing of cold, mottled steel, made for naught but utility. It felt heavy in her hands—heavy and surprisingly reassuring. Bless Cameron for making her bring it; how had he known how alone and out of place she’d feel so far from home?
Remembering how Da had done so, she made sure the pistol was loaded, then half-cocked it and stuck it in the back of her breeches.
She dug her plaid out of the satchel to cover it. Unlike the English cloaks, a plaid was neither masculine nor feminine; Cam’s looked exactly the same as hers. With any luck, she might pass.
As an afterthought, she tucked both the miniature of Adam and his letter into her breeches pocket, then headed downstairs to the taproom, doing her best to swagger like a lad.
The paneled room was lit by oil lamps burning cheerfully on each of the round wooden tables. Pewter spoons clinked on pewter plates, and the buzz of leisurely conversation filled her ears. Homey scents of meat pie, fresh-baked bread, and brewed ale hung in the air. Her stomach growled.
She made her way to the taproom’s bar. “Mr. Brown?”
“Yes?” The innkeeper looked up from wiping the counter. His brow creased, as though he were wondering how she knew his name. So he didn’t recognize her; her disguise must be working.
She felt better already. “I’m looking—” She cleared her throat and deepened her voice. “I’m looking for my brother, an Adam Leslie. He was staying with Scarborough this week past.”
“Adam Leslie?” The man set down his fistful of rags and wiped his hands on the front of his breeches. “I don’t recall a man by that name.”
Caithren’s heart sank. Adam was fond of frequenting public taprooms, so she’d been hoping the innkeeper would know where he’d gone, what route he might have taken. Maybe she wouldn’t need to travel all the way to London.
The man ran a hand across his bald head. “What does he look like?”
“Tall, fair, longish blond hair…” She dug in her pocket and brought out the portrait. “Here,” she said, holding forth the wee oval painting. “I’m wondering if he told anyone where he was headed next.”
Brown took it and considered,
