What a Lass Wants (14 page)

“Nay,” he said, pulling the gown over his head. “I can’t.”

He pressed the gown into her hands and stalked off in nothing but his lèine.

Caitrina stared at the soft puddle of purple silk, wondering what to do. Was there another man of a similar size that she could convince to don the dress? A gillie, perhaps? But how could she ask a man unfamiliar with a sword to step into battle? What use would such a man be to Bran and the others?

And how sure could she be that Giric would fall for the ruse?

She couldn’t, of course . . . unless
she
was the one to attend the meet. But when it came to sword arms, she would be even less useful than a gillie. Unless she brought a guard. A gentlewoman did not typically travel anywhere unaccompanied, even for short distances. Giric would expect her to bring a man along.

She would not be abandoning the queen. Although she couldn’t be certain the broth made by the two cooks deserved the credit, the queen’s health had improved to the point that she was once again spending time seated before the fire. Caitrina was free to spend longer periods away from Her Grace’s side. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that she be the one to go.

But the truth was, Caitrina did not want to go. The
very thought of climbing atop a horse and facing more of Giric’s men cinched her throat so tight she could barely breathe. If Bran’s entire plan did not hinge upon the arrival of a woman purported to be her, she would not consider it, not even for an instant.

Her fingers clenched the silk gown.

Someone had to go, and she could not ask some innocent gillie to do what she was too craven to do herself. She lifted her gaze to the door of the barracks where her bearded young soldier had disappeared. So it would be her, and she knew just who to conscript as her guard.

I
t was tedious, waiting for Giric and his men to appear.

Bran and Dougal played the roles of the crofter couple, threshing the fall grain harvest in the barn with flails. They kept the doors, both front and back, wide open to reduce the chaff dust and keep a clear view of the surrounding countryside. The soldiers had found a variety of suitable places to hide, some distance from the bothy. Some were in evergreen bushes, some in tall brown grasses, and some beneath piles of fallen leaves.

The hours passed slowly and uncomfortably.

Bran was confident that Giric was coming, however.

Not long after Dougal had planted the white flag in the roof of the bothy, a lone rider had stopped by to ask what it was for. When Dougal explained that it was a message from a lady at the manor, the rider had collected the note and immediately headed north at a gallop.

The sun was on its descent, the shadows reaching across the fields, when he spied horses approaching from the manor. It surprised him to see two horses, when he was expecting only one. The lass in the purple dress was obviously young Jamie, but who was the
second? He squinted into the setting sun. A bearded fellow; beyond that, he was impossible to identify.

Dougal nudged him with his elbow.

Bran looked north. Sure enough, a group of horses had left the trees and were crossing the field toward them. Giric had taken the bait.

“Wait until they are nearly upon us before you give the signal,” he said to the constable.

Dougal nodded. “Who is that with Jamie?”

Bran’s gaze again turned west. The lass in the purple dress looked surprisingly bonnie. He frowned. Nay, it couldn’t be. Caitrina would never take such a needless risk. But the longer he looked, the more he became convinced that it was indeed Caitrina mounted on the small bay mare. In part, because the bearded fellow began to look more and more like Jamie.

“I think it’s Lady Caitrina,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“Bloody hell.”

There was no time to consider the implications or recalibrate their plans. Giric and his band of helmeted soldiers galloped into the yard, and Dougal ran for the bell they had hung at one end of the barn. With several sharp tugs on the rope, he signaled his men to attack.

Bran flung off his disguise, leapt on his horse, and drew his sword. Hoping that Jamie had the good sense to turn Caitrina around and head back to the manor, he dove into the fray. His swordsmanship was a wee bit rusty—it had been years since he had been called upon to do battle with a long blade—but he successfully dispatched one of Giric’s men and moved on to a second.

Dougal’s men rode in from all directions,
surrounding the Englishmen, and the clash of sword on sword rang through the clearing.

They outnumbered the Englishmen and the fight was going well. Bran was winning his battle against a second soldier when he caught a glimpse of purple silk in the corner of his eye. He prayed desperately that it wasn’t what he thought it was, and parried a jab from his opponent. But it was—he spied Caitrina race into the yard a moment later, urging her escort to join the fracas. Despite the distraction, Bran defeated his foe with a swift downward slice. He paused, weary but triumphant.

Only to hear Caitrina scream, “Behind you!”

He spun around just in time to block a bone-rattling blow from Giric’s sword. The Englishman was a full head taller and at least four stone heavier than he, and although Bran attempted to angle his edge away, Giric’s sword bit into the steel of Bran’s weapon. Normally, such edge-on-edge swings were avoided—the damage to fine swords too severe—but Giric didn’t seem to care.

There was murder in his eyes.

He swung again and again, raining blows upon Bran’s blade.

Bran’s sword arm began to weaken under the unrelenting attack, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Not in a traditional fight. He palmed his dirk in his left hand and looked for opportunities to break through the huge warrior’s defenses. But Giric was not an easy man to study—his fighting style was erratic and punishing. He left little room for any kind of opportunity, and Bran began to worry that the end was nigh. His
arm ached and throbbed with such ferocity that could only mean it was about to collapse.

And then, just when he thought all was done, his opportunity came. For the briefest of moments, Giric paused and glanced over Bran’s shoulder.

Bran took advantage. He ducked under the big man’s sword and slashed his dirk along the back of one thigh. It might have been a defining blow, except for the terrified shriek that rose into the air as he swung in for the final attack.

Caitrina.

He pivoted and spied one of Giric’s men hauling Caitrina out of her saddle. And as quick as that, Giric no longer mattered. Bran raced across the yard, reaching the English soldier just as the fiend struck a vicious blow to her chin. She slumped and Bran saw red.

His blade had slipped between the man’s ribs before Bran had consciously decided the fellow’s fate. He caught her before she hit the ground, then turned to face the battle, his knife at the ready. But Giric had not followed him; the big Englishman had seized the moment and hobbled for a free horse. As a growl of frustration rose in Bran’s throat, Giric spurred the horse into a gallop and took off for the northern forest. Only one of his men followed suit—the others all lay dead or injured.

“Go after them,” he ordered several of Dougal’s men. “He’s holding a young lass in need of rescue. Do not rest until you find her.”

They took off after Giric.

Bran sheathed his blades. Crouching, he brushed a stray tendril of hair from Caitrina’s face. A second
bruise now marred the tender flesh of her jaw. He was doing a rather poor job of protecting her.

A firm hand patted his shoulder.

He looked up.

“’Tis but a matter of time before that timorous knave is captured,” Dougal said.

Bran wished he could feel as confident. While the bulk of Giric’s men had been defeated, there were others hiding in the northern woods, and the big Englishman was still a formidable opponent. It wasn’t cowardice that had sent him scurrying, but rather a deep-seated determination not to fail his liege lord—of that he was certain. Giric would not give up. Not before Queen Yolande’s bairn was born. But he could not share that reasoning with Dougal.

“Likely true,” he agreed. “But I recommend we remain vigilant, in case he mounts a secondary attack.”

Dougal shrugged. “As you wish. Shall I send for a cart to transport the lady?”

“Nay,” Bran said. “Darkness will be upon us soon. Better that we return her to the manor as quickly as possible.” He lifted Caitrina into his arms. Her limpness knotted his gut, especially when her head rolled back, exposing the pale flesh of her throat. Helpless was not a word he would normally use to describe her. And it was his fault that she’d been so sorely abused.

He handed her to Dougal while he mounted, and then took her back into his arms.

Cradling her in the curve of his shoulder, he made her as comfortable as he could manage as he rode. But that comfort was fleeting. Once the sun slipped toward the horizon, the autumn air grew cooler and she began
to murmur incoherently against his collarbone. Only when he wrapped his brat about the two of them, lending his heat to her body, did she settle into a quiet sleep.

Bran held her close to his heart the entire ride home, and enjoyed every moment of her nearness. The soft sighs, the warm press of her body, the complete dependence on him for her safety. He found renewed strength in his sword arm and had almost convinced himself he was champion material by the time they rode through the manor gate.

He wasn’t sure what Dougal thought of the arrangement, nor did he ask.

But the look he got from Lady Gisele when he carried Caitrina into the great hall was quite telling. “Put her down immediately, monsieur. It is inappropriate to hold an unmarried woman so intimately.”

“She is injured,” he explained.

“Put her down,” she repeated.

“Where?” he asked, glancing around. “I cannot simply lay her on the floor.”

Gisele pointed to a chair in front of the hearth.

He frowned. “But she cannot sit without support.”

“Then we will support her,” the lady said. “But if you do not release her promptly, Monsieur Marshal, her reputation will be in tatters.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Her undergarments are on display.”

Bran peered over his arm. “Oh.”

He deposited Caitrina in the chair. Almost immediately, he was pushed aside as the ladies-in-waiting took over her care. He stood there for a moment, feeling distinctly bereft, but could find no reason to remain. Indeed, he appeared quite unneeded.

Quite the opposite of what he’d felt on the journey home.

But accurate.

He had once again fallen into the trap of believing his own ruse. He was
not
Marshal Gordon. He had no right to inject himself into Caitrina’s life, no right to direct her care, no right even to inquire about her health. He was merely a thief, and she was a lady.

Bran backed away from the little group in front of the fire.

No matter how right she felt in his arms, Caitrina de Montfort was not for him. Once Marsailli was recovered—which could be at any time now—he would depart for Edinburgh and that would be the last they would see of each other.

Why did he keep forgetting who he really was?

Before he’d met Caitrina, he’d been rather proud of what he’d accomplished. He’d started with nothing, after all. After his father had met the rope, Bran, his mother, and his brother had escaped to Edinburgh, hoping to make an honest wage. But jobs had been scarce. And then his maither took ill. It was while stealing food that he discovered he possessed unusually clever fingers. A useful skill for a wee lad from the country trying to make his way among toughs born and raised on the streets.

But not a useful skill for winning the hand of a lady.

He grimaced.

It would be best if he stayed away from the lass as much as possible. She had a soft heart, and as surely as the law would one day catch up with him, he would end up breaking it.

He offered Caitrina the smallest of bows, then turned and strode for the stairs.

*   *   *

She woke up hungry and sore.

It was dark as sin when Caitrina opened her eyes, the only light a flickering torch near the door. Soft snores filled the air around her, and it swiftly became clear that she was lying on her pallet in the queen’s room. Safe and secure. The battle that had been raging when she fell was apparently over, and, judging by her current location, the outcome had proved favorable for Bran and his men. Which meant that Giric had been defeated.

Fingering her bruised jaw, Caitrina sat up.

But if that was true, what of Marsailli? Was her sister here in the manor?

She slid her feet to the cold floor and snatched up her woolen brat from the end of the bed. There was only one way to find out—she needed to speak to Bran. Now.

It took her a moment to locate her slippers in the dimness, but once her feet were encased, she eased open the door and entered the anteroom. The two guards eyed her with heavy frowns.

“It appears that I missed supper,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I’m headed for the kitchens.”

The frowns deepened.

“Were the Englishmen not defeated?” she asked.

They nodded slowly.

“Then I have nothing to fear. I shall return anon.”

Not giving them any further opportunity to naysay her, she grabbed a candle and left the room. The
corridor was equally dim, with only one torch lit at the top of the stairs. Bran’s room was at the opposite end of the hall, and she scurried to his door, hoping that the queen’s guards were not listening for her tread upon the stairs.

She rapped as lightly as she dared on the door.

No answer.

When a second light knock produced the same result, Caitrina took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.

She remembered the room well enough from her last visit. A good thing, as the feeble light from her taper did little to brighten the room. She could barely make out the large platform bed and the two chairs standing before the banked fire, but there certainly seemed to be someone asleep under the covers. Tiptoeing over to the bed, she set the candle down on a side table.

“Bran,” she whispered.

That single, hushed word got her far more than she’d bargained for.

In a blink of an eye, she was yanked off her feet, rolled onto the mattress, and crushed beneath the weight of a wide-eyed, angry man. Caitrina felt the prick of a sharp blade at her throat, and she swallowed tightly.

“It’s Caitrina,” she squeaked.

The knife vanished and he released her, rolling to his back. “Bloody hell, lass. I almost killed you. What are you doing here?”

She sat up and, despite her shock, admired the way the light of the candle traced the lean contours of his arm and chest. In her admittedly limited experience,
few men looked as good without their shirts. “Looking for answers,” she said. “I didn’t expect to be attacked.”

He grimaced. “If you enter a man’s bed in the middle of the night, that’s exactly what you should expect.”

A rather short-tempered response, which she attributed to his being rudely awakened. “Did you find Marsailli?”

“Nay,” he said, turning his head to look at her. “I’m sorry.”

Disappointment flooded her chest and she grabbed his arm. “But Giric is dead, aye?”

He ran a light finger over the bruise on her chin. “Nay,” he said softly. “He escaped.”

Caitrina slumped against the pillows, her eyes closing. She had risked her life for naught—they had failed. “How is that possible? We had them surrounded.”

He said nothing, allowing the circumstances to speak for themselves.

For a time, there was only the sound of her heartbeat, heavy and mournful, in her ears. “You are aware, are you not, that he will punish Marsailli for my rebellion?”

“
My
rebellion,” he insisted, scooping her into his arms and holding her tight. “And harming her will not win him your cooperation. He will know that now.”