Her heart floundered in confusion. The pleasant flutter in her stomach turned to an uneasy jumble of nerves. After everything that had happened between them, still he was holding back.
Crushed, she retreated back into the cottage.
“The horses did fine,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone as he followed her inside. “Get dressed, and we’ll make for Welwyn. I’m famished.”
Obviously, he was going to act as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had changed.
She heard the clink of coins hitting the table. “For the damage,” he explained, indicating the door and the mess of congealed bread in the fireplace. “The owners will have to pay someone to fix it up, wash the bedclothes and all.”
Pay someone? What kind of a man hired people to do his work for him? When something needed doing at Leslie, she or Da or Cameron did it themselves.
Still, leaving the money was so like Jason. He was a decent sort. Despite her uncertain feelings, she felt compelled to try to reach him one more time.
“I want to thank you,” she started.
“For what?”
For what? She wracked her brains. Thank you for kissing me seemed a rather odd thing to say aloud.
Finally she said, “For coming out in the storm to comfort me. And for being honest.” She clutched the quilt tighter, hoping he got her meaning. “I’ll never forget last night.”
“I won’t forget it, either,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it was right. Nothing like that will be happening again.”
Without meeting her eyes, he tramped from the cottage.
FIFTY-THREE
HOURS LATER, somewhere between Highgate and Hampstead, Jason admitted to himself what he’d suspected for days and hadn’t wanted to face: He was in love with Caithren Leslie.
He wasn’t ready for this.
He’d tried so hard to prevent it.
A pox on the Gypsy woman and her deuced prophecies!
Truly, this could not have come at a more inconvenient time. Quite apart from the threat to their lives, Cait hadn’t an inkling of who Jason really was. And he had responsibilities to attend to. Urgent responsibilities: little Mary, her mother, the innocent man he’d killed. Gothard. Less urgent but nonetheless important responsibilities, such as seeing his sister settled.
Distance. Until last night—until he’d taken leave of his senses—he’d maintained it. This morning he’d attempted to recover it. A disastrous attempt. And a hopeless one—he knew that. He knew he’d be unable to stay away.
He wasn’t ready for this.
And he knew he’d hurt her. His heart sinking, he took refuge beneath the shady cover of the trees overhead, thankful Cait couldn’t see his face. Silently they rode past small houses with their shutters closed against the wind, like his mind had been closed to the truth. Cows and sheep in the fields turned as they passed, pinning him with liquid, accusing eyes. Two magpies mocked him from a tree.
He sneaked a glance in Caithren’s direction. She looked pale, miserable, her face pinched and her fingers white-knuckled on the reins. His fault.
Tonight he would leave her safe at his London town house while he took care of Geoffrey and Walter Gothard. Another responsibility—keeping Cait safe. When the Gothards were behind bars, he’d help her find her brother. He’d tell her he believed every word she’d told him, and…
He’d ask her to marry him.
Though the mere thought pulled the breath from his body, quite suddenly he knew that nothing else would do but to keep her by his side forever. Never had he met anyone who could make him laugh and live like she did. His life before her seemed bleak in comparison.
Leslie was a baronetcy—Scottish or no, the match would be considered suitable. Not that he really cared; the Chases didn’t go out of their way to placate society. His own brother had, with his blessing, wed a commoner.
Another glance at Cait tore at him. He didn’t deserve her. He’d kept her off the coach, put her in jeopardy, called her a liar. Then he’d compounded his sins by giving in to his baser urges, rather than treating her with the respect and courtesy she was due.
And then he’d gone and fallen in love with her. Now he would ask her to leave her home, her family, and the country she clearly missed, all because he couldn’t bear to lose her.
She’d resist giving up her independence—she’d made that clear enough. But if she gave him the chance, he would make it up to her. He’d spend the rest of his life making it up to her—making her the happiest woman on earth.
In the aftermath of the storm, the road was disastrous, a muddy mess. The day’s progress had been slow and aggravating—and silent, with Cait mired in gloom, Jason in guilt. It seemed a lifetime before they made it to the tollhouse.
“We’re in Hampstead,” he told Caithren, hoping to cheer her up. “London is in reach.”
“That’s good.” Her voice sounded weak.
He handed a coin to the tollkeeper and motioned Cait down the hill toward the heath. “Soon I’ll be able to warn Scarborough,” he said. “That will be a weight off both our minds, won’t it?”
Though she nodded and forced a smile, he could see her jaw was tight.
The heath was wild land punctuated by weedy ponds—even slower going than the Great North Road. Narrow trodden paths wound through sprawling acres of wooded dells and fields of heather. Since they couldn’t ride side by side, Jason took the lead.
“Could that be a real tree?” Wonder in her voice, Caithren uttered her first unsolicited words since they’d left the cottage that morning. “An elm, is it not? It’s amazing.”
The gigantic elm was perhaps ten yards around, with steps inside leading to a wooden platform that rose above the topmost leaves. He turned to see a smile on her face—a smile he’d been afraid he might never see again. His heart warmed. “Would you like to go up?”
For a
