He took it from her and set it back on her head. “The shops are closed on a Sunday, but I’m hoping to persuade someone here to part with a hat in exchange for a generous payment.” They both scanned the patrons in the inn’s sunny courtyard, well-off ladies and gentlemen sharing conversation or lingering over news sheets. “Perhaps a more feminine design would suit you?” he added, tilting the hat’s brim up with a finger.
Since their sojourn by the burn, she’d acted cold as a Scottish winter—and he repaid her by being thoughtful. Flustered, she tucked his handkerchief deeper into her neckline. “Sometimes you’re too nice.”
“I’m not nice.” He drew back his shoulders. “I’m doing what I have to do. No more, no less. I’m responsible for you, and for everything you lost due to my actions.”
“For my things, yes. But how many times do I have to tell you you’re not responsible for me? I can take care of myself.”
His mouth opened, closed, then he turned on a heel and strode into the cool, shadowed lobby to make inquiries at the desk.
Cait trailed behind him and stared at his back while he explained his problem to the innkeeper. Her legs were aching again, and her brain felt muddled.
She went closer and tapped Jason on the shoulder. “I’m away for a wee dander.”
He stopped mid-sentence and turned. “A wee what?”
“A walk.” She gestured toward the door. “Down the street a bit, to stretch my legs.”
“Stay on the High Street,” he told her.
Wansford boasted only the High Street, so far as she could tell. She wandered down it, enjoying the sunshine and the solitude she’d lacked the past few days. Her irritation with Jason melted away as her feet put distance between them.
Charming stone cottages with tiny gardens lined the road, bees buzzing around carefully tended flowers. There was one other inn, the small Cross Keys. Farther down the street, a little kirk sat with its door open.
A service was in progress. Cait sidled closer to listen. The murmur of the vicar’s sermon sounded peaceful and familiar. It was comforting to find that Sunday rituals, at least, were the same here as in Scotland. She slipped inside and into the back pew, feeling at home for the first time since she’d stepped onto the coach in Edinburgh.
THIRTY-SEVEN
AT THE END of a frantic search, Jason found Emerald in the church. Dozing.
Taking her by the arm, he pulled her up and out the door. “I was worried sick,” he told her in hushed tones, tugging her away from the building. Once out of earshot, he turned her to face him. “I couldn’t find you.”
“Your face is red,” she said, wrenching her arm from his grasp. “You’re angry.”
“You bet I’m angry.”
“But you’re not yelling.”
One of the two of them belonged in Bedlam. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You should just show it. Why don’t you show it?” She clutched her emerald necklace as if it could ward him off. “And you’re angry because you thought I’d escaped and gone after Gothard on my own.”
Amazing how she clung to that image of him.
He took a calming breath. He’d grown weary of bickering and of the ill feeling between them this day—and he was big enough to admit it was partially his fault.
Not in her hearing, of course.
When he’d composed himself, he said, “Stay with me from now on, will you? I don’t want you out of my sight.” Sweeping his hat from her head, he drew one with a white feather from behind his back and set it atop her plaits. “There. Now we’d best get back on the road.”
“I’ve never owned a hat with a feather.” Hurrying down the street beside him, Emerald pulled off the hat and turned it in her hands. “It’s bonnie. I thank you.”
He donned his own hat. “Don’t lose it.”
“Have I lost anything yet? Without your help?”
“No.” He looked down at her and, despite himself, grinned. “I’ve been a great help in that area.”
With a reluctant smile, she jammed the hat back on her head. “The Gothard brothers were sunburned.”
He slanted her a look of confusion.
“You were talking about getting sunburned,” she explained.
“An hour ago.” He would never understand how female minds worked. “What of it?”
“Well, they were both sunburned.” They turned a corner and continued toward the stable yard. “Do you think the Gothards cannot even afford two hats?”
“From what I understand of their circumstances, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Chiron was brought forward, and he handed the groom a coin.
“Then they really wouldn’t be able to change horses,” she mused as he hoisted her up and mounted behind her. “And he’s a blockhead.”
“Who’s a blockhead?”
“Geoffrey Gothard. We were talking about him, aye?”
“Were we?” He tapped her on the shoulder. “Gothard is not as stupid as you think. You’d best keep that in mind.”
“I didn’t mean to say he was stupid. I meant he is literally a blockhead. He has a square head.”
He squinted, trying to picture the man, and decided she was right. Delighted, he laughed until his stomach felt weak and hollow. Then, without conscious thought, he tilted her hat forward and pressed his lips to that tender spot on the nape of her neck.
“What was that?” she squeaked.
He snapped upright, startling poor Chiron, who tossed his mane and pranced.
Jason calmed the horse as he tried to devise an answer.
What was that?
And more to the point, why did that keep happening? What was there between Emerald and him—besides utter incompatibility? Quite apart from her dubious background and occupation, she was prickly and prideful, impulsive and superstitious. She believed in ghosts. She hated the king he served. And between her accent and all those unintelligible Scottish words, he couldn’t understand half the things she said.
Why was he cursed with this incomprehensible pull toward someone wrong for him in every way?
“I don’t know,” he replied at last, meaning it.
THIRTY-EIGHT
