Emerald was nowhere in sight.
He tethered Chiron and poked his head into the coach’s cabin, finding it empty. Neither was she inside the Greyfriars Inn, where other passengers were taking refreshment.
Hang it, had she hired a horse and left already?
Frustrated, he paid for an ale and paced Church Street while drinking thirstily. He decided he should be relieved she’d found a horse—it would have been frustrating following a public coach. Much too slow. Once he found her—assuming he could—it would be much better with her on horseback. He could follow surreptitiously and keep her safe, without worrying about the brothers getting too far ahead.
Yes, it really was quite a relief. Anxious to get on the road, he tilted his head back and drained the rest of the ale. And looked back down to see a maiden across the street.
A maiden who looked rather like Emerald MacCallum.
Instead of breeches, the maiden wore a dark green skirt over a long-sleeved, modest shift, topped by a matching green laced bodice that looked like it belonged in the previous century. A thick brown leather belt circled her slim waist. She rounded a corner of the Church of St. George, disappearing from Jason’s view. He took off after her.
He hadn’t caught sight of her face. But the sun had glinted off dark-blond hair woven into two plaits. He’d thought Emerald had plaited her hair last night only to hide it under her hat, but he could have been wrong.
Perhaps in Scotland this was what passed for a hairstyle.
There she was, standing by the double doors of the majestic medieval building. Stopping in a graveyard a safe distance away, he concealed himself behind a monument and watched.
It was quite definitely Emerald. Perhaps she only dressed like a man when her quarry was in range. Or maybe she hadn’t found time yet to wash the blood off her shirt and mend the slash from his blade.
Gazing up at the massive planked doors, she reached a finger to trace a section of their scrolled ironwork before her hand closed over the latch. But she stopped short of opening it. Instead she heaved a visible sigh and began wandering around the church, toward another graveyard that looked ancient compared to the one where Jason hid. Idly she bent down to pluck off part of a small plant and slip it into her pocket. Strange girl.
It hit him then. As in Pontefract, there must have been no horses available here in Doncaster. She was only biding her time until the coach was ready to leave.
Confound it. He would have to follow the coach after all, until Emerald managed to find herself a horse. And thereby risk Gothard getting to London ahead of him, potentially endangering other people there and along the way.
Setting the empty tankard atop a gravestone, he groaned aloud at the thought. But he had no choice.
Or did he?
SIXTEEN
TILTED, MOSSY stone markers were spaced unevenly on the grass. Caithren strolled the crooked rows, touching one here and there. The same names appeared over and over through the centuries. Mowbray, Southwell, Hodgkinson.
She shivered as she touched the rough headstone of two Southwell bairns. They’d been dead more than two hundred years, one at the age of four, the other listed simply as “Infant Daughter.” Caithren’s throat tightened at the thought of losing family. The recent loss of Da still hurt.
“Boarding!”
Startled, she glanced around the kirk toward the Greyfriars Inn. She’d enjoyed her solitude till the last possible moment, but now the coach had pulled up before the rounded corner of the red-brick building, fresh horses in place, and the first passengers were climbing aboard, that old bawface Mrs. Dochart among them. With a sigh, Cait kissed her fingertips and touched them to the sisters’ gravestone, then turned to make her way back to the inn.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Suddenly the cemetery seemed eerie and forbidding. A soft wheezy sound set her heart to pounding. Was she hearing muffled footsteps?
Spooked, she froze in her tracks.
It’s the wind, she told herself. The wind whistling through the old kirk. Cameron always said she had too active an imagination. But her fingers flew to her amulet as her body tensed, ready to run.
A louder footstep sounded behind her, and a hand clamped on her shoulder. Whirling, she shrieked.
“Whoa, there.” Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the man looked puzzled and apologetic. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
The face registered, and Caithren’s jaw dropped open. Her hands went to her heaving chest. It took a moment to find her tongue, but when she did, she let loose.
“You!” The Englishman had said he felt responsible, but she hadn’t figured he was insane enough to follow her. “You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only—”
“What are you doing here?” Still trembling, she leaned on a gravestone. “Did you follow me? I told you I don’t want your help.”
He shrugged in answer as he gazed around the cemetery. “You’re shaking. I suppose you believe in ghosts?”
“I’ve yet to meet a Scot who doesn’t,” she said shortly.
His lips curved as though he found that amusing. He motioned his head toward the gray stone kirk. “Why didn’t you go inside?”
She glanced from him to the building, then back. “You were watching me?” The thought was disturbing.
She’d wanted to explore the elaborate medieval kirk, not to mention pray there for the stamina to put up with Mrs. Dochart for eight and a half more days. Heaven knew she needed some help. But she’d been afraid the coach would leave without her, so she’d stayed outdoors instead.
And he’d been watching her. A vague sense of unease stole over her. Her hand went into her pocket, feeling for the familiar comfort of Adam’s portrait she’d put there to remind her of her goal.
“I-I must go. Please, just leave me alone.”
“It’s
