Father would have done it that way.
“Father would have handled it,” he muttered in self-disgust and walked across to the window.
THIRTEEN
HEARING A voice, Caithren shifted on the bed, her head in a painful fog.
The voice had been a dark, harsh whisper. She wasn’t sure whether she’d actually heard it or if it had been part of her disturbing dream. She tried to move, but her head hurt. She moaned, struggling against the nausea.
Swift footsteps approached. “You’re awake, then?” It was the same male voice, but rich, comforting, and laced with relief.
Cait tried to roll closer to the sound.
He held her in place with a large, warm hand. “For heaven’s sake, be still.” Tinged with worry, his voice wasn’t quite as nice. “You bumped your head but good.”
She was lying facedown with her nose mashed into the pillow. She couldn’t breathe properly.
The man’s hands gripped her shoulders, gently helping her turn. “Are you dizzy?” he asked, moving to arrange her aching head on the pillow.
She intended to say aye, but when he came into view, her answer got lost somewhere between her mind and her mouth. Clear green eyes—too beautiful for a man—were studying her. He had a slim black mustache that reminded her of the one King Charles wore in a picture she’d once seen. But the man’s shadowed jaw and fine tanned features were framed by glorious, long raven hair that was wavy and prettier than her own. Bent over her as he was, the ends tickled her cheeks.
He looked frustrated and concerned. And she had no idea who he was.
“Can you talk? Emerald, are you all right?”
“Emerald?” she echoed. She supposed she was all right, if she didn’t take her aching head into account. But she couldn’t say for sure, distracted as she was by a faint dimple in the stranger’s chin. There was only one thing she was certain of in that moment. “I-I’m not Emerald,” she managed.
“Oh?” Beneath the silly English mustache, his lips curved, but not in humor. “You’re Scottish,” he said, as though that explained everything.
“You’re English,” she countered, batting his hair from her face. He straightened, and his spicy scent wafted away, leaving her head a little clearer.
The room swam into view. She lay beneath not the dusky rose canopy of her bed at home, but a utilitarian beamed ceiling, the plaster cracked and at least a century older than Leslie Castle.
She was somewhere in England, and Da was dead.
Disoriented, she raised herself to her elbows, then flopped back to the pillow. A fresh burst of pain detonated inside her head, forcing a moan out through her lips.
“I told you to keep still.” With a gentle hand, the man swept her hair off her face.
She pushed his hand away and fingered the ends of her hair, confused. He’d unraveled her plaits. Her other hand drifted up to touch the side of her head where the pain was the sharpest. “I’m not Emerald.”
“You’re Scottish”—he held up a palm to stop her words from tumbling out—“you’re wearing men’s clothes, you’re carrying a pistol, and you’re after a wanted outlaw. Now tell me you’re not Emerald MacCallum.”
“I’m not Emerald MacCallum.”
His mouth curved as though he were amused. “Did the knock on your head damage your memory?”
“My memory is intact, thank you. But my name isn’t Emerald.” Despite her strong denial, her brain seemed impossibly muddled by the throbbing pain. “It’s Caithren,” she managed finally. “Caithren Leslie. Not Emerald.”
“Hmm…” The man raised one black brow. “You do seem rather young for such a line of work. If you’re not Emerald, then can you explain what you’re doing here?”
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” she asked on a huff. “Is there some law against my visiting your country? England and Scotland share a king, last I heard. Though not for long, saints willing.”
Looking less than satisfied, he crossed his arms while one booted foot tapped against the wooden floor. Obviously he was waiting for her to explain herself.
Arrogant cur.
She wouldn’t look at him, then. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the plain whitewashed walls, a simple wood cabinet, a utilitarian washstand, a small tub full of dirty bathwater that should have been carried away.
Pontefract. She was in her room at the inn in Pontefract. She was here in Pontefract…
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out the man so she could concentrate. “I’ve come to find my brother,” she said at last, opening them in relief.
“Hmm, is that so?” he challenged in a calm voice laced with a touch of irony. “Then I suppose you can explain to me how you know Gothard.”
She stared at him blankly. “Gothard?”
“Geoffrey Gothard. The man you tried to shoot in order to collect the reward. I’m not a half-wit, Emerald.”
“I’m not Emerald. And I’m not a half-wit, either, but you’re certainly making me feel so, since I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re blethering about.”
He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her for a while, as though trying to gauge her sincerity. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, rolling her too close to him for her comfort. The queasiness clawed at her stomach again.
She was alone with a strange man. A strange English man. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips.
His eyes darkened, making her nervous. With a sigh, she reached up to fiddle with a plait, then remembered her hair was loose. Her hands curled into fists atop the bedcovers. “It’s the truth I’m telling you, Mr.…”
His mouth twisted up in a hint of a smile. “Chase. But you may call me Jason.”
“I may, may I?” Stuffy, these English. Well, Cameron had warned her. She took a deep breath and decided to try again. “Do you believe me?”
“Would you believe you?” His sarcastic tone irked her. “What is your brother’s name?”
She struggled against the pain in her head. “…Adam.”
“And why do you have cause to think he’d be here?”
“He was invited by…”
As she
