Read Online The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) by Lauren Royal, Devon Royal - Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Royal, Devon Royal
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straightened, and his spicy scent wafted away, leaving her head a little clearer.
The room swam into view. She lay beneath not the dusky rose canopy of her bed at home, but a utilitarian beamed ceiling, the plaster cracked and at least a century older than Leslie Castle.
She was somewhere in England, and Da was dead.
Disoriented, she raised herself to her elbows, then flopped back to the pillow. A fresh burst of pain detonated inside her head, forcing a moan out through her lips.
“I told you to keep still.” With a gentle hand, the man swept her hair off her face.
She pushed his hand away and fingered the ends of her hair, confused. He’d unraveled her plaits. Her other hand drifted up to touch the side of her head where the pain was the sharpest. “I’m not Emerald.”
“You’re Scottish”—he held up a palm to stop her words from tumbling out—“you’re wearing men’s clothes, you’re carrying a pistol, and you’re after a wanted outlaw. Now tell me you’re not Emerald MacCallum.”
“I’m not Emerald MacCallum.”
His mouth curved as though he were amused. “Did the knock on your head damage your memory?”
“My memory is intact, thank you. But my name isn’t Emerald.” Despite her strong denial, her brain seemed impossibly muddled by the throbbing pain. “It’s Caithren,” she managed finally. “Caithren Leslie. Not Emerald.”
“Hmm…” The man raised one black brow. “You do seem rather young for such a line of work. If you’re not Emerald, then can you explain what you’re doing here?”
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” she asked on a huff. “Is there some law against my visiting your country? England and Scotland share a king, last I heard. Though not for long, saints willing.”
Looking less than satisfied, he crossed his arms while one booted foot tapped against the wooden floor. Obviously he was waiting for her to explain herself.
Arrogant cur.
She wouldn’t look at him, then. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the plain whitewashed walls, a simple wood cabinet, a utilitarian washstand, a small tub full of dirty bathwater that should have been carried away.
Pontefract. She was in her room at the inn in Pontefract. She was here in Pontefract…
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out the man so she could concentrate. “I’ve come to find my brother,” she said at last, opening them in relief.
“Hmm, is that so?” he challenged in a calm voice laced with a touch of irony. “Then I suppose you can explain to me how you know Gothard.”
She stared at him blankly. “Gothard?”
“Geoffrey Gothard. The man you tried to shoot in order to collect the reward. I’m not a half-wit, Emerald.”
“I’m not Emerald. And I’m not a half-wit, either, but you’re certainly making me feel so, since I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re blethering about.”
He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her for a while, as though trying to gauge her sincerity. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, rolling her too close to him for her comfort. The queasiness clawed at her stomach again.
She was alone with a strange man. A strange English man. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips.
His eyes darkened, making her nervous. With a sigh, she reached up to fiddle with a plait, then remembered her hair was loose. Her hands curled into fists atop the bedcovers. “It’s the truth I’m telling you, Mr.…”
His mouth twisted up in a hint of a smile. “Chase. But you may call me Jason.”
“I may, may I?” Stuffy, these English. Well, Cameron had warned her. She took a deep breath and decided to try again. “Do you believe me?”
“Would you believe you?” His sarcastic tone irked her. “What is your brother’s name?”
She struggled against the pain in her head. “…Adam.”
“And why do you have cause to think he’d be here?”
“He was invited by…”
As she strained to come up with the name, he shook his head, sending the glorious
The room swam into view. She lay beneath not the dusky rose canopy of her bed at home, but a utilitarian beamed ceiling, the plaster cracked and at least a century older than Leslie Castle.
She was somewhere in England, and Da was dead.
Disoriented, she raised herself to her elbows, then flopped back to the pillow. A fresh burst of pain detonated inside her head, forcing a moan out through her lips.
“I told you to keep still.” With a gentle hand, the man swept her hair off her face.
She pushed his hand away and fingered the ends of her hair, confused. He’d unraveled her plaits. Her other hand drifted up to touch the side of her head where the pain was the sharpest. “I’m not Emerald.”
“You’re Scottish”—he held up a palm to stop her words from tumbling out—“you’re wearing men’s clothes, you’re carrying a pistol, and you’re after a wanted outlaw. Now tell me you’re not Emerald MacCallum.”
“I’m not Emerald MacCallum.”
His mouth curved as though he were amused. “Did the knock on your head damage your memory?”
“My memory is intact, thank you. But my name isn’t Emerald.” Despite her strong denial, her brain seemed impossibly muddled by the throbbing pain. “It’s Caithren,” she managed finally. “Caithren Leslie. Not Emerald.”
“Hmm…” The man raised one black brow. “You do seem rather young for such a line of work. If you’re not Emerald, then can you explain what you’re doing here?”
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” she asked on a huff. “Is there some law against my visiting your country? England and Scotland share a king, last I heard. Though not for long, saints willing.”
Looking less than satisfied, he crossed his arms while one booted foot tapped against the wooden floor. Obviously he was waiting for her to explain herself.
Arrogant cur.
She wouldn’t look at him, then. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the plain whitewashed walls, a simple wood cabinet, a utilitarian washstand, a small tub full of dirty bathwater that should have been carried away.
Pontefract. She was in her room at the inn in Pontefract. She was here in Pontefract…
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, blocking out the man so she could concentrate. “I’ve come to find my brother,” she said at last, opening them in relief.
“Hmm, is that so?” he challenged in a calm voice laced with a touch of irony. “Then I suppose you can explain to me how you know Gothard.”
She stared at him blankly. “Gothard?”
“Geoffrey Gothard. The man you tried to shoot in order to collect the reward. I’m not a half-wit, Emerald.”
“I’m not Emerald. And I’m not a half-wit, either, but you’re certainly making me feel so, since I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re blethering about.”
He sat at the edge of the bed and studied her for a while, as though trying to gauge her sincerity. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, rolling her too close to him for her comfort. The queasiness clawed at her stomach again.
She was alone with a strange man. A strange English man. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips.
His eyes darkened, making her nervous. With a sigh, she reached up to fiddle with a plait, then remembered her hair was loose. Her hands curled into fists atop the bedcovers. “It’s the truth I’m telling you, Mr.…”
His mouth twisted up in a hint of a smile. “Chase. But you may call me Jason.”
“I may, may I?” Stuffy, these English. Well, Cameron had warned her. She took a deep breath and decided to try again. “Do you believe me?”
“Would you believe you?” His sarcastic tone irked her. “What is your brother’s name?”
She struggled against the pain in her head. “…Adam.”
“And why do you have cause to think he’d be here?”
“He was invited by…”
As she strained to come up with the name, he shook his head, sending the glorious
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