“You’re no treat yourself. I’m only trying to help you.” He shook his head. “India.” The sigh that escaped his lips was so elaborate it ruffled his long black hair.
She sat down on the single bench and dashed impatiently at the wetness on her cheeks. Wheesht! She rarely cried at home, but here she was a veritable fountain.
England was a nasty place. Cameron didn’t know the half of it.
“What am I supposed to do now?” Her shoulders trembled. “Will you take me back to the coach?”
“Forward to the coach. And the answer is no.” His black boots shuffled on the stone floor. He plopped to sit beside her. “Please don’t cry.”
His voice sounded miserable. He hated tears, did he? Good. She let loose a particularly pathetic wail.
He scooted to the far end of the bench. She angled toward him so he could see the tears run down her face. He rose and walked away, pacing the breadth of the wee chapel and back again. When he came to stand before her, arms crossed, she dropped her head into her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.
Or at least she hoped he thought so. She had to convince him to take her to the coach.
“I’ll take you to London,” he muttered.
Tears forgotten, she looked up. “If you think I’d go with—”
“Look, I must go to London regardless.” He frowned at her puzzled glare. “To find Gothard. I can protect you this way. I don’t suppose it will be too much trouble to bring you along.”
She stood and rose on her toes before him, so she could stick her face near his. “Oh, aye?” He flinched. She’d never spoken to anyone—much less a grown man twice her size—with such vitriol before. But he deserved it. She pushed her nose even closer. “Thanks to you, I don’t have any clothes or money—it’s all on the coach. I don’t even have a hat! I expect you’ll be sorry before this is over.”
His face turning red, he swept off his hat and stuck it on her head. “I’m sorry already.”
“Good,” she said through clenched teeth. Because it was good. He was unhappy and he was getting her out of here: both good things, in her estimation.
She tipped the hat’s brim and swiped the tears from her cheeks.
As soon as they caught up with the coach, she’d be off, and best of luck to him in foiling her plans again. Fool her once, he was quick. Twice, she was stupid.
And Caithren Leslie was far from stupid.
SEVENTEEN
JASON SAT Emerald before him on his horse. Not ten minutes later, he knew it was a mistake. It seemed she never stopped wiggling.
He hadn’t considered how the two of them would get to London on one horse. Truth be told, he hadn’t considered much of anything before coming up with this harebrained scheme to detain her—to ensure she didn’t do anything foolish that might get her killed.
Before they left Bawtry tomorrow, he’d have to buy another horse. He hoped mightily he’d have better luck finding one than she’d had.
They rode two long hours before she said a word. As he guided Chiron through a stand of trees and turned back onto the Great North Road, she finally uttered a sentence. Grudgingly.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you took the long way round to avoid the coach.”
He snorted. “To the contrary, Emerald, I’m quite certain you notice everything.”
She leaned back to glare up at him, bumping her head on his sore shoulder. “I’m Caithren.”
Whatever her name was, she smelled good. Like a heady mix of wildflowers. His arm tightened around her waist, even though the close contact made his aches and pains more achy and painful.
Confound it, was there anyplace she hadn’t kicked or hit him?
“How did you find me?” she asked in a prickly tone.
It had been blind luck, but in his present mood he couldn’t resist needling her. “For a tracker, you’re not very good at covering your own.”
“I’m no tracker, whatever that might be.”
“You trail outlaws and bring them in to collect the rewards.” His gaze kept returning to that vulnerable little hollow at the nape of her neck. “Perhaps the Scots have a different word for it, but we call that tracking.”
“Do you mean to say you think I do this regularly? Not just for this Gothard fellow, but for others?”
“It’s exactly what you do, and we both know it. See here, Emerald, you’re becoming legend. There are few hereabouts who don’t know what you do, and I won’t have you telling me you’re one of them.”
She huffed and jerked on the reins, jarring his bruised body and causing Chiron to shy. The end of one of her plaits flew back on the breeze, tickling his face. His stomach growled.
“Hungry, are you?”
“It’s long past time for dinner.” He didn’t know which plagued him worse: his poor abused body or his empty belly. “And I hadn’t time for breakfast this morning.”
“You must be sure to rise earlier next time you resolve to ruin someone’s life.”
He didn’t rise to that bait, and they rode for a while more in uneasy silence. He wondered if he should give in and return her to the coach. But then he noticed her fiddling with her amulet.
Emerald.
Remembering her nick from the scuffle with the Gothards, he stiffened his resolve. She could get herself killed out there alone.
“You’ll thank me for protecting you later,” he murmured under his breath.
“You’re not doing this out of responsibility and kindness.” Emerald’s smug words held a challenge. “Did you really think I’d fall for such an impossibly noble excuse? You want to kill this man Gothard, and you’re afraid I’ll get to him before you do and steal your reward out from under you.” Evidently pleased with her powers of deduction, she leaned back with a grunt of satisfaction, jabbing her shoulder into his wound.
He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Let her believe that nonsense,
