“Down the center?” He could hear the smile in her voice. “And you say you’re not superstitious.”
“The bridge is clear now,” he muttered and started across.
“Down the center,” she repeated with a giggle. “I’d never have thought you’d keep a ritual like that. A man who scoffs at ghosts and superstitions.”
He kept his eyes trained on the far side of the river. “I’m pleased to entertain you.”
Though her shoulders shook with mirth, she kept her counsel as they rode through the town to the square.
The marketplace bustled with commerce. Sellers hawked wheels of yellow and white cheeses while buyers haggled over fresh produce. Cattle for sale crowded a smelly pen, and farm laborers stood around, waiting to be hired. Noticing a booth filled with a mishmash of household goods, Jason thought he spotted a few garments in the mix. With any luck, a dry skirt for Emerald.
Perched along one edge of the square, Ye Olde Sun Inn was a timber-framed building with a central chimney and a narrow upper story beneath a steeply sloping roof. “Olde,” indeed. But delicious scents wafted out the open door.
“Egad, I’m hungry,” he said.
“When are you not?”
“Since I met you? Never. You’ve a disconcerting habit of keeping me from my breakfast.” As she drew breath to protest, he added, “I’ll buy us a meal and take a room for a couple of hours. You can wash off the mud and then sleep while I find you dry clothes.”
“Sleep,” she breathed, apparently placated for the moment. “Oh, a wee sleep sounds heavenly.”
TWENTY-THREE
“EMERALD. IT’S nearly noon. Time to wake up.”
“I’m not Emerald,” Caithren moaned, batting Jason’s hand from her shoulder. Her nap had been entirely too short—after walking all night, she could have slept the day away and then some. But there was no time to waste. No matter how tired she was, she needed to get moving in order to find Adam.
She forced her eyes open.
Dressed in clean, dry breeches and a fresh white shirt, Jason leaned over her, too close for her comfort. His broad shoulders blocked her view of the room, and suddenly she felt frightened, alone with this stranger. It had been different last night when she was planning to leave. Now she would have to forge some sort of relationship with him. Sharing a room at an inn was an intimidating way to start.
Even groggy, she was utterly aware that, because her clothes were all wet, she was naked beneath the sheets. And she was already bruised with the marks of an Englishman’s fingers. But she remembered Jason’s pistol tucked beneath her pillow. Proof that he wouldn’t be taking advantage of her, because surely he wouldn’t have given her the means to defend herself.
She drew a shaky breath.
“Emerald?” He leaned closer yet, unsettling her even more. “I brought you something from the marketplace.”
Yawning, she struggled to sit up while self-consciously clutching the quilt beneath her chin. “What is it?”
“A Shropshire cake.” He held out a flat yellow pastry with a diamond pattern scored into the top. “Try it.”
She stared at his hand, transfixed by the sheer size of it—the sheer size of him—until a delicious scent drifted to her nose, shifting her gaze to the cake. “Very thoughtful,” she allowed. She leaned forward to have a bite. “Mmm. It tastes like shortbread.”
“Well, take it.”
Not wanting to disappoint, she bravely risked releasing a hand from the quilt to hold it and eat more. “Scottish shortbread,” she said around a mouthful.
He smiled. “I’m glad you like it. I bought four.”
The buttery pastry seemed to melt on her tongue. “Where are the other three cakes, then?”
With a sheepish smile, he pointed to his stomach.
“I see.” She took another bite. “It’s honored I am that you saved me one.”
“It was a sacrifice,” he said solemnly. “And a peace offering.”
“For what?” The last morsel went into her mouth, and she licked her fingers. “I thought we already had a truce.”
“For this.” From behind his back, he produced a large, soft packet and set it on her lap.
Slanting him a sidewise glance, she used the same hand to slowly unfold the paper. When it lay open across the quilt, she could only stare. “You don’t expect me to wear this, do you?”
This was a scoop-necked crimson gown, complete with an indecently sheer chemise and an embroidered stomacher—a long triangular contraption worn on the front of the dress to cover the laces. Cait looked wistfully at her sturdy shift, skirt, and bodice where they hung on three wall pegs drying. Or rather, no longer dripping. They were far from dry.
“It was all I could find,” he said apologetically. He swept the gown from the bed, shook it out, and held it up. “It’s not all that bad.” He frowned at what was surely a look of pained disbelief on her face. “Is it?”
“It’s fit for an English doxy.”
Despite what looked like a heroic effort to control himself, his lips twitched. “If you think that, I’m forced to conclude you’ve never seen an English doxy.”
Cait closed her eyes and touched her fingertips to her forehead. “It will have to do, I suppose. Temporarily.”
“I’ll leave you to get dressed.” Quickly he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Resigned, she rose from the bed, wincing as she put weight on her ankle. When she slipped the chemise over her head, it slithered down her body, feeling like less than nothing. The gown went on next. She tightened the laces, then stared down at the deep, curved neckline. The chemise’s lace trim barely peeked out over the edge. Unlike her shift, it was mere decoration, apparently not meant to preserve the wearer’s modesty.
No chance was she going into public with so much skin exposed. She loosened the dress and wiggled out of it, then took her shift off the wall and wrung it out mercilessly.
Jason’s voice came muffled through the door. “Are
