AFTER WHAT seemed an interminable day, Caithren and Jason finally arrived at the Bell Inn in Stilton. Leaving him to settle Chiron in the stables, Cait wandered into the inn’s courtyard.
A black cat ambled over and wove through her legs, making her smile. The pretty inn’s walls were enlivened by fragrant flowering plants and a vined trellis. She knelt, absently petting the cat as she read the words engraved in stone above the courtyard’s arched entry.
TO BUCKDEN 14 MILES, HUNTINGDON 12, LONDON 74.
Still such a long way to go, she thought with a sigh.
Spotting a well in the corner, she approached it from the east on the southern side, lest she bring bad luck on herself. At least, she hoped she’d come from the east. In silence she drank three handfuls of water and closed her eyes to make a wish.
Please let me find Adam. And…
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
. . . let Jason kiss me again.
Her eyes flew open. What a perfectly improper wish! Never had she imagined she’d covet a man’s kiss. She hadn’t thought she had it in her.
Lifting the hem of the red gown, she raised the chemise to her teeth to rip off a narrow strip and turned to find Jason’s gaze on her from just inside the open stable doors. Heat flooded her cheeks for what felt like the dozenth time today, but that didn’t stop her from tying the scrap to a nearby tree branch.
The ritual complete, she seated herself on the lip of the well facing Jason. He kept glancing in her direction, a puzzled look in his eyes. A blackbird watched her from the tree, cocking its head as though it were puzzled as well. The cat meandered over and leapt onto her lap.
When Jason finally joined her, the look on his face told her he thought her more than a wee bit daft.
Not that that was anything new.
“Whatever were you doing?” he asked.
She stroked the cat, feeling it purr beneath her hand. “This is a clootie well, isn’t it?”
“It’s a Roman well, I believe.” He placed his portmanteau and the backgammon set, which he’d carried in the burlap bag, atop the well’s ledge. Leaning over, he looked inside. “What on earth is a clootie well?” he asked twice as his voice echoed back up.
“It’s a well where you make a wish.”
“Oh, a wishing well. But then you tear your clothes? What was that about? Or is it only that you hate the dress?”
“When you make a wish at a clootie well, your troubles are transferred to the cloth. Then you tie it to a tree and leave the troubles there.”
“You believe this?” he asked, clearly incredulous.
“Of course I don’t. But it doesn’t hurt to do it anyway. It’s a tradition.”
“Ruining your clothes is a Scottish tradition?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Normally you’d tear a handkerchief or a rag. Ruining these clothes was an extra benefit.”
A brief smile curved his lips—until he tensed and shot a quick look over his shoulder.
“Do you see something?” she asked.
“No. I don’t think so. But for a moment I thought I did.” He blinked and cocked his head like the blackbird. “So…what did you wish?”
If only he knew! She blushed—again—to think of it. “My wish won’t come true if I tell,” she said, then held up a hand. “Nay, I don’t really believe that, either. But I’ll hold to it all the same.”
“Hush a moment.” He turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping the grounds. “I have a strange feeling,” he said low.
She set down the cat and watched it scamper away. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure.” He grabbed the luggage. “Let’s go inside.”
She’d given up hoping for her own room, but she was pleased to see two beds when Jason opened the door to their chamber. Kisses were one thing; sharing a bed, quite another.
She unpacked their wet clothes and smoothed them on the bare wooden floor, hoping they would dry by morning. Her task complete, she turned to him. “Let me guess. You’re hungry.”
“Actually, I’m not. I know you’re shocked,” he teased, “but don’t faint on me, now.” To her complete surprise, he followed up with a lunge to catch her in the imaginary faint.
She giggled, enjoying the warmth of his hands gripping her upper arms. If he could act more playful, so could she. “Emerald MacCallum would never faint.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” he agreed slowly. His hands dropped from her arms, and he stepped back, watching her.
“It was a jest,” she said. When he didn’t respond, her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m not Emerald, but I cannot find the words to convince you.”
He said nothing, only ran a hand back through his hair. Her own hands moved to play with her laces but met the embroidered stomacher instead. Feeling a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with its stiffness, she tucked his handkerchief more securely into her neckline.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said abruptly.
“All right,” she said with no small measure of relief. The time alone would be welcome. Time to think about how she was changing. How both of them were changing.
He turned toward the door, hesitated, and turned back. “I think you must come along.”
She groaned. “We’ve only just arrived. I’d rather stay here and have a wee rest.”
Taking her by the hand, he pulled her toward the door. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
She tugged her hand from his. “I’m not plotting an escape.”
“I’m not concerned you’ll escape. I trust you.” He paused as though he couldn’t believe those words had passed his lips. “But something has me uneasy. We both go, or we both stay here.”
The four walls of the small room seemed to be closing in on her. With him in his present mood, the thought of spending all evening in here was daunting. With a sigh, she followed him.
A coach was departing as they went downstairs, its squeaky springs audible through the lobby’s open front door. As
