Cait watched the woman’s ample behind disappear into the coach. “Heaven alone knows how I’ll survive the eight days to Pontefract with that old bawface, let alone nine more to London if need be. Already I cannot abide her, and I met her only this morning.”
“She’s exactly what you need, cousin. I hired well.” Cameron carefully counted eight pounds to pay the two fares. “I can only pray Adam will do as well finding a chaperone for you on the other end.” He glanced at the slate sky, then drew off his hat and settled it over her plaits. “Here, I don’t want to see you go hatless.”
She looked up at the plain brown rim, then grinned. “Do you think I look bonnie?”
“Oh, aye.” His eyes lit with humor. “A man’s hat suits you.” His expression sobered as he rooted beneath his plaid, then pressed a pistol into her hands. “And I want you to take this as well.”
“Da’s gun?” It felt heavy and vaguely menacing, the dull metal pitted, the wooden grip worn smooth from years of use. “But why?”
“I don’t trust the English. Short of accompanying you myself, I’d at least send you with some protection.”
“But I don’t know how to use it.”
He handed her a heavy little pouch and a flask of gunpowder. “Pour a wee smidge of powder into the muzzle, then wrap a cloth patch around a ball, ram it—”
“Nay, that wasn’t what I meant. I’ve seen Da load this pistol hundreds of times. But I’ve never shot at anything, Cam.”
“Confound me, I wish I’d known that. I would’ve practiced with you.” He took back the pouch and flask, hesitated, then reached beneath her plaid and stuffed them into her skirt’s deep pocket. “Take it anyway. You’re a bright lass, Cait. If need be, you’ll figure out how to use it.”
Slowly she slid the pistol into her other pocket. The weight of it did make her feel somewhat safer. And she’d seen Da shoot it often enough; she reckoned she could do it if she had to.
“Take care of yourself.” Cameron leaned to kiss her cheek.
She blinked back the tears that threatened, lest her cousin see them. Thankfully he couldn’t see her heart racing in her chest, or tell that her stomach rebelled at the mere thought of traveling so far with naught but a stranger for company.
She forced a smile. “I’d better go before the old bawface starts shouting at me.”
With a laugh, Cam helped her up the coach steps.
SEVEN
“EGAD, IT WILL take three days to cover Cainewood in this accursed creeping carriage. Pass me that journal, will you?”
“Clever change of subject.” Kendra handed Jason the leather book and one of the pencils made from the graphite mined on their property. She hitched herself forward, frowning at him seated across from her in the carriage. “You’re not well enough to go. It’s been barely two weeks.”
“I’m not waiting any longer.” He flipped open the estate journal and made a note to have the Johnsons’ roof rethatched. “The reward isn’t working. An innocent man is dead, and little Mary nearly so. Thanks to Gothard.”
“Thanks to Gothard? It’s yourself you blame.” As usual, Kendra was too observant for his comfort. “Someone else is hurt, and naturally, it’s all your fault,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
Ignoring her sarcasm, he scribbled reminders to buy another bull and see that Mistress Randall’s spinning wheel was repaired. “Not hurt, Kendra—dead. Their lives stolen from them.” He rolled the pencil between his hands. “I’d have left already if only I had some clue to the Gothards’ whereabouts. They seem to have disappeared.”
“They’ll resurface. And the reward you’ve posted will ensure you’ll hear of it.”
“When?” He banged the journal closed and slammed it onto the seat. “When will I find the blackguard who made me a killer? How many others will die before he’s caught?” His fists bunched between his spread knees. “And who died at my hands? The least I can do is send condolences to his family, make some reparations. Where the deuce is Ford?”
Kendra stared at him. “He’s working on it,” she said carefully.
Her pale green eyes looked so troubled. He consciously relaxed his jaw and, with a sigh, reached to put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” He glanced out the window at the peaceful fields of Cainewood, struggling for the calm that usually came to him so easily. “I feel so powerless.”
Kendra’s gaze followed his and caught what he’d missed in his blind fury. “Look, he’s back.” She leaned to watch her twin gallop up the lane.
Jason knocked on the roof to stop the carriage and threw open the door. “News from Chichester?” he asked. “Do you know who he was?”
“No.” Breathless, Ford shook his head. “His companions bore him away without so much as reporting his identity. That’s not what I rode out to tell you, though.” He swept off his hat and dragged a hand through his wavy brown hair. “There’s a stableman waiting to see you. At home. Two of your horses have been stolen.”
A hard ball of anxiety hit Jason in the stomach. “Not Chiron?”
“No. Pegasus and Thunder.”
“Thank heavens for small favors.”
Although he was relieved his favorite mount had been spared, Jason still cursed the slow carriage a hundred times before it finally rolled over the drawbridge and through the barbican into Cainewood’s grassy quadrangle. A man waited on the wide steps that led to the castle doors, cap in hand and a crude blood-stained bandage tied around his head.
Wrenching his shoulder painfully, Jason bounded from the carriage and toward the double oak doors. “Porter, come in, will you?” He gestured the stableman into the entry.
The man frowned and touched his fingertips to his forehead.
“Come in,” Jason repeated. “You’re no longer bleeding. And these floors
