She nodded.
“I have a good head for people, sir…er, miss?”
“Aye.” Caithren sighed. Her disguise wasn’t working after all.
Mr. Brown piled some discarded trenchers on a tray and lifted it to his shoulder. “I’m sure I would have remembered your brother had I seen him.”
Another lump was rising in her throat. She’d never been a crybaby, and she didn’t intend to take up the practice now. She pulled the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, scanning the worn page. “He was traveling with two other gentlemen, Lords Grinstead and Balmforth. Might you have seen them?”
“I’m afraid their names aren’t familiar, either.”
“Oh.” A burst of laughter in the background seemed to mock Caithren’s distress. Her hunger had faded…although she could very much use a mug of ale.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s no fault of yours.” Slipping the letter and painting back into her pocket, she glanced about. She couldn’t face the other travelers eating and socializing in this room—she’d spent the best part of a week with some of them already, with more forced togetherness promised to come.
And what if Mrs. Dochart came downstairs? The old bawface didn’t know Cait was back yet—with a quick escape and any luck at all, she could spend one night alone in her peaceful, solitary room.
She turned back to the innkeeper. “Might you have some supper sent up? Room three.”
“Certainly, Miss…Leslie, is it not?”
“Aye. Thank you.”
“No trouble a’tall.” With another appraising glance, he disappeared into the kitchen, and she decided to order an ale before heading upstairs.
ELEVEN
“THANK YOU kindly.” Jason slipped a coin into the serving maid’s hand and settled back with his ale, rubbing tired eyes. Heaven knew he wasn’t good for much more than people-watching this evening.
He downed a second gulp as a boy, tall for his age, turned dejectedly from the taproom’s bar and made his way to the stairs. The lad was overly pretty, way too thin, and young—not even shaving yet. Strange to find him in a taproom alone, but perhaps his family were waiting upstairs. Jason hoped so—he knew what it was like to be a child alone, and he wouldn’t wish it on anybody.
Massaging his sore shoulder, he took another sip. It was aggravating to find himself so weary, weeks after the injury. But having pushed himself to the limit to beat the Gothard brothers here, he was relieved to know he’d managed it.
Obviously they weren’t overworking his horses. When they arrived, tomorrow or the next day, they’d be in for a rude surprise. He’d get the answers to his questions, and this chapter in his life would be closed.
Or almost. Ford had not yet sent word from Chichester.
He took another sip of his ale, watching the boy start up the bare wooden steps, a mug of ale in one hand. Two men came down and met the lad halfway, blocking his progress on the staircase’s tiny landing.
Geoffrey and Walter Gothard.
Jason bolted up, his heart beating a wild tattoo.
The poor lad began visibly shaking. He tightened the blue and green shawl he had wrapped about his shoulders, squaring his slender frame. “I know who you are,” he told the brothers bravely in a distinct Scots accent, his voice high as a girl’s with tension. “You won’t get away with your wicked plans.”
The wean sounded like he meant it. Halfway to the staircase, Jason froze. Was the boy after Gothard as well? There was, after all, the hundred-pound reward he’d offered—an absolutely vast sum to someone like this lad.
The boy took a step back, then suddenly dropped his ale. It spilled down the stairs as he reached beneath the plaid wool and pulled something out, brandishing it daringly.
The soft glow of metal spurred Jason to action. A strangled yell tore from his throat as he drew his rapier and reached the stairs in four running strides. No doubt drawn by the racket, Geoffrey’s eyes met his and went wide with recognition. The coward turned and bolted up the steps.
Shouldering the lad aside, Jason yelled, “Send for the authorities!” and seized Gothard by an arm. He whipped him back around, then deliberately dropped his sword—another death was not the way to end this. Instead, his fingers closed around Geoffrey’s neck as the sword slid clattering down the stairs. Walter tried to sidle past, but Jason shot out a foot and tripped the younger Gothard, who thumped down with a piteous whine.
Still holding Geoffrey by the throat, Jason held Walter hostage with a boot pressed into his gut. A sickening crunch and a short, sharp cry of pain drew his attention to the bottom of the stairs. He looked down, startled to see the boy had fallen sometime during the scuffle. Even worse, Jason’s rapier lay dangerously nearby, and a bright splotch of blood stained the lad’s shirt.
He lay still as death, face up amidst the tangle of his unwrapped plaid shawl. His hat had fallen off…
No, her hat.
Egad, it was a girl! A girl with girlish tawny plaits. When Jason half-turned to get a better look, his fingers loosened.
Walter squirmed from beneath his foot and stumbled down the stairs. “It’s the ghost of Cainewood!” he yelled as he reached the bottom and ran for the door.
“Dunderhead!” Geoffrey rasped, one hand flying up to cradle his abused throat. Murder in his eyes, he dealt Jason a mighty shove that sent him to his knees and clunking down two steps. While Geoffrey pushed past to follow his brother to freedom, Jason righted himself and made his way down the stairs after them.
But at the bottom of the steps, the girl moaned softly at his feet. With a regretful glance at the door, he knelt by her side. Blood still trickled from the cut on her shoulder—a cut from his sword that had tumbled downstairs in her wake.
A minor injury,
