A man with a squarish head.
Apparently things could get worse.
Letting the drapes drop closed, he dashed for the stables, pulling on his clothes as he ran.
SIXTY-THREE
YOU WILL WAKE to the morning sun. I will bring you breakfast in bed…
Caithren woke to the morning sun, but Jason hadn’t brought her breakfast in bed. Her heart plummeted. Then she decided he must be in the kitchen getting her breakfast.
Until two hours later, when he still hadn’t appeared with it.
Tears stinging her eyes, she finally gave up and rose to get dressed.
After their marvelous evening together, she’d fallen peacefully to sleep, certain he was going to ask her to wed him this morning. She’d been sure that was what he’d meant—that she should remember he loved her when he asked her to be his wife. And he hoped that his declaration of love would persuade her to agree, even though she’d already told him she belonged home in Scotland.
She had yet to decide what her answer would be. But she’d been sure of the question.
But now she realized she’d been wrong. He’d only meant she should remember he loved her when he told her they couldn’t stay together. That he loved her, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many obstacles, too many differences. Her family was too low-ranked. Something.
She could live with that, if she had to—it wasn’t as though she hadn’t been expecting it all along. But after promising the morning together to straighten things out, he’d gone off somewhere and left her alone to wrestle with all her wrenching doubts.
So much for his promises not being given lightly.
The pain and uncertainty were crushing. But Caithren Leslie could bear it.
She should have known not to take an Englishman at his word.
JASON HELD HIS nose as he rode past a ditch that had been used as a communal grave for more than a thousand bodies during London’s last great plague. Though the remains had been covered with dirt, after two years it still seemed to reek.
Everything in his life seemed to be reeking right now.
He’d lost Geoffrey Gothard’s trail.
As he turned the corner into the secondhand-clothing market on Houndsditch, Jason found himself wishing again that Caithren really were Emerald. Emerald MacCallum knew how to track a man. Emerald MacCallum would have captured her quarry.
It had cost him precious minutes to saddle a horse and take off, but Gothard hadn’t ridden away until he’d glimpsed Jason rounding the corner of the town house. Yet Jason had never managed to catch up. And now the man had seemingly disappeared into the maze that was known as London.
Once again they were playing hide-and-seek, but Jason couldn’t figure out the rules of the game. Gothard had chased him all the way to London—why didn’t he come after him now instead of running off? It couldn’t be that Gothard feared confronting him on a public street, because Jason had followed him halfway across town. Gothard had had ample opportunity to lead him somewhere more private.
Cursing his incompetence, Jason kept one hand on his pocket watch as he jostled his mount between two unkempt riders. If Cait were Emerald instead, he wouldn’t have panicked and left her, terrified for her safety. And if she were Emerald, he wouldn’t be muddled by guilt that compounded with every passing hour. It had now been more than thirty-six hours that he’d known Adam Leslie was dead, more than thirty-six hours he’d been maintaining an unforgivable lie. Every one of those hours had taken its toll on his soul.
Piles of garments cluttered the street, guarded by watchful owners. Barking madly, a dog skirted the mounds and darted beneath Jason’s horse, making him shy. A wagon splashed mud as it careened on by, its driver ignoring several vendors who angrily brushed off their soiled goods, yelling obscenities after him.
Once again Jason had proven himself a failure, unworthy of his father’s name.
He’d failed to catch Gothard. He’d failed to tell Caithren the truth yesterday, and he’d failed to be there for her this morning. She had no reason to attend the wedding, yet by now she was probably getting ready, excited to see her brother. He pictured her choosing a gown from Kendra’s clothes press, carefully painting her face, sticking on another adorable heart-shaped patch. All for nothing.
He craned his neck. Was that Gothard’s sandy head he glimpsed through the mass of haggling customers? Thinking it just might be, his hopes lifted. He dug in his heels, racing after the man, then caught up to find himself disappointed yet again.
It wasn’t Gothard, after all. But the blackguard had to be nearby…somewhere.
He would give it one more hour. Then, if he were unsuccessful, he would go home. And—no matter that it would be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life—he’d tell Caithren the whole truth.
SIXTY-FOUR
“HE’LL BE BACK, Cait.”
Caithren looked up from her feet, which were trodding a path through Lincoln’s Inn Fields. “I know he’ll be back,” she replied to her new friend Kendra. “He lives here.” With a sigh, she made her way over to a stone bench. “You just don’t understand. He promised me we would be together this morning. He said he had something to tell me.”
Kendra sat beside her, her features lit with intrigue. “Any idea what?”
Slowly Cait drew her hat off and set it on the bench. Sweeping her hair from her face, she watched a dove flutter from the sky and peck around in the grass, foraging for food. A fresh scent in the air hinted at coming rain, reminding her of home, but the thought did nothing to raise her spirits.
“You’re hiding something,” Kendra insisted. “I can tell.”
“Are you always so observant?”
“Always,” Kendra said smugly. “So what is it?”
“This is going to sound daft.” Cait licked her lips and smoothed
