What a Lass Wants (5 page)

A slow smile spread across his face. “’Twill be a challenge, indeed, to hide such a lovely feminine form. But it can be done. With these.” He handed her two long panels of linen.

She blinked. “How, exactly?”

“Wrap one loosely about your bare middle to give it a wider appearance. Wrap the second about your bosom, tight as you can. Draw the sark over the top and belt it at your hips, not your waist.”

Heat flooded into her cheeks again. Dear lord. The man threw out words like “bare” and “bosom” with complete nonchalance. As if they were discussing the weather, and not the intimate details of her body. How could she ever look him in the eye again? “Fine,” she said sharply. She pointed a finger at the exit, wordlessly instructing him to leave.

He headed for the door. “Hail me if you require assistance.”

Her cheeks scorched with embarrassment. What kind of assistance did he imagine he would offer? The man was a miserable cur. A handsome cur, but a cur nonetheless. The moment he disappeared, she shucked the sark and wrapped the linen about her body as he had instructed. It took several tries before she got the
linen secured about her bosom in a satisfactory manner, but within a few minutes she was once again fully dressed. She tucked her long braid into the back of her shirt and then called to Bran.

“You may return.”

Surprisingly, with the addition of the linen, she felt much more comfortable. When he entered, she was able to meet his gaze with only a slight warming in her cheeks. Until his stare once again lengthened beyond appropriate. “How does it look?”

He nodded. “Excellent. With a brat over your hair, you’ll do just fine.”

“You truly think I’ll pass for a lad?”

“Not under close inspection,” he said, taking her arm and leading her deeper into the stables. “But you’ll gull the guards on the wall, sure enough. How well do you ride?”

Caitrina peered into the stall before them. A long-legged roan mare stood quietly inside, her rope halter tied to a large iron ring on the wall. Not the short and placid mount she had hoped for, but certainly calm. “I can stay a horse well enough, as long as it maintains a smooth, unhurried gait.”

“So, if she breaks into a trot, I’ll be picking you up from the ground?”

She frowned. Her riding experience was limited to occasional hunts, and they were generally done at a leisurely pace. “What reason would we have to trot? Surely we have enough time to reach the camp and return before dark?”

“I can think of several reasons we might need to ride fast and hard,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped
to the next stall. “I think it best we take one mount, not two.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, following him. “Where will I ride?”

“With me.”

Caitrina stared up at the huge dapple gray stallion, her heart pounding. “Surely you jest.”

He laid a blanket over the horse’s back and then picked a saddle from the selection of tack hanging on the wall behind them. “’Twill be much safer than riding apart.”

“Safer for whom?” she asked, aghast.

“For both of us,” he replied, cinching the saddle with two sharp tugs. “Discretion is our ally in this endeavor.” Unhooking the destrier’s rope halter from the ring, he led the horse out of the stall.

Caitrina took several steps back. The beast was even larger than she’d first thought.

Bran completed his preparations and then leapt upon the horse’s back. Leaning down, he extended his hand. “Let’s have at it, lass.”

Oh, lord. The moment of truth was upon her. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs. “I’m still not certain how this is to be done.”

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “You’ll ride behind me.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Are you mad? I’ll surely fall off.”

“Not if you hold on.”

“To what?” she asked.

He grinned. “Me.”

A picture rose in her mind and she gasped. “You expect me to ride astride?”

“Aye,” he said. “Just behind the saddle. A lad does not ride like a lady.”

Well, of course not. But that realization had been very slow in coming. Caitrina ignored the heat rising in her cheeks and held out her hand. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

“Brave lass.” He took hold of her arm. “Leap up.”

She bent her knees and sprang, not remotely hopeful that she would reach her seat. But with his strength behind her, she swung easily onto the horse’s back. She barely had time to lift her brat over her hair and grab his waist before Bran urged the great horse out into the close.

Caitrina kept her face hidden as they made their way to the postern gate. No one stopped them, but they passed several stable lads mucking straw—lads who might well recognize her, given the chance. She was so fearful of being hailed a charlatan that she gave little thought to the placement of her hands until they were well clear of the manor walls.

When the guards on the walls were some distance behind them and the shadowed edge of the forest loomed several hundred paces ahead, Caitrina relaxed her fisted hold on the front of Bran’s lèine. The warmth of the skin beneath his clothes had leached into her fingers in a very pleasant manner.
Too
pleasant. Pulling away suddenly seemed like a good notion, but not if it meant falling off. Which was a very real risk—the big horse had a rather jarring gait. Still, there seemed to be no proper place to put her hands. If she let them fall
loosely, they would end up in his lap. Definitely not appropriate. If she splayed them across his chest, she would swiftly map every hill and valley of his firm body. Enjoyable, perhaps, but hardly acceptable. And try as she might, she could not clasp her hands together—his chest was too broad. So where, then?

“Cease your squirming,” he said gruffly.

Caitrina glared at the nubby linen weave of his lèine. An easy admonition for him to make. A thief would not concern himself with propriety. “This is not my usual mode of travel,” she said. “So forgive me if I can’t settle.”

“You’re forgiven,” he said. “But I’m a man, you ken? And despite your fine wrappings, I’m very aware that you’re a woman.”

She grew still. Although she was yet a maid, talk among the queen’s ladies tended toward the salacious. Conversation frequently turned to affairs of the heart, and as such she was quite familiar with the ebb and flow of desire. Especially as it pertained to the male form. “Perhaps you need to focus your thoughts on our objective,” she said, moving her hands to his sleeves. It was still a fascinating terrain to explore, but safer, somehow. “The man I seek is a very dangerous sort.”

“Some detail would be welcome.”

How much could she tell him about the Bear without revealing the bitter truth? “I’ve seen him kill a man with his bare hands. He beat the fellow near to death, then broke his neck.”

“An assailant?”

They entered the woods to the raucous caw of a protesting jay. The canopy of leaves above their heads
cooled the air and returned a faint echo of the horse’s plodding hoofbeats.

“Nay, simply a man who dared to insult the king.” It had been a deeply offensive slur, involving Longshanks and a goat, but in the end, only words. But to Giric, the punishment had been justified—a worthless Scot did not malign the King of England and live to tell the tale.

“Why did no one stop him?”

Caitrina had tried to stay his hand and had earned a bruised cheek in the process, but no man in the street had interfered. And she understood why. The Bear stood a head taller than most other men and had shoulders as broad as a barn door. He was a formidable foe, and the scars on his face were a warning to any who dared oppose him—even a sharp blade wielded by a sure hand would not prevail.

“He was surrounded by six armed men.” True, but even his own men had been uneasy with the justice Giric had meted out. Not enough to challenge him, of course.

“And how did he escape the constable?”

“He accused a traveling merchant of the crime and his men stood witness.”

At a fork in the trail marked by a large pine, they turned west.

“Why do you believe him a danger to the queen?”

Caitrina had given some thought to the story she would tell if he pressed her for details. Sticking as closely to the truth as she dared, she said, “The queen has traveled the width and breadth of Scotland these past several months in search of spiritual guidance, and I’ve spied this man in almost every burgh we’ve
stopped. Were he a Scotsman, I’d be less concerned. But he’s a Sassenach, and I’ve no love for the English.”

He tossed a frown over his shoulder. “Scotland has been at peace with England for many years. What reason would this man have to harm the queen?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “Save that these are turbulent times, with the king dead and his son yet unborn. And as I said, he’s a dangerous man.”

Bran lifted a low-hanging branch to ease their passage. “The party up ahead may not include the man you seek. Dougal says they’re soldiers on their way to Fort William.”

Caitrina ducked as the branch swung back into place. “I hope you’re right.”

But it was unlikely. Giric was out here somewhere, and this was the only party reported by Dougal and his men. Her heartbeat fluttered. If it
was
Giric and his men, Marsailli would be among them, and she could make real plans to set her sister free.

“How do you plan to approach them?” she asked.

“Quietly.”

She waited for him to say more, and frowned when nothing was forthcoming. “Surely you have a plan?”

“Plans have a way of going awry,” he said. “I prefer to think on my feet.”

Caitrina blinked. He thought to engage a brute like Giric with nothing more than his wits? Was he mad? “Do not mistake this man for a fool. His actions may imply a certain rashness, but he is far from simpleminded.”

“We’re not completely without resources,” he said. “I had Dougal post guards in the woods around the
camp. They have orders to keep their distance, but if we run into trouble, they’ll be within easy reach.”

That was reassuring. But it was hardly a plan. “Will we seek a high point from which to spy upon the camp?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“When will you decide?” she asked, frowning.

“I’ll know when I get there.”

Caitrina clenched her fingers on his arms. He had no idea what sort of monster they were up against. “Stop. That simply won’t do. We cannot approach this man unprepared.”

Bran tugged on the reins and brought the horse to a halt. He twisted in the saddle and favored her with a narrow-eyed look that instantly wilted her resolve. “Lass, I’ve expended great effort to bring you this far. But make no mistake. I’ll not hesitate to unhorse you right here if you insist on challenging me further.”

Caitrina swallowed tightly.

He would do it; the chill in his eyes made that very clear. Having come this far, being so close to seeing Marsailli, she was left with no option. Bran might well be underestimating Giric, but it made no difference. She had to go on. Dropping her gaze, she said demurely, “I understand.”

“Good.” He settled back into the saddle and urged the horse forward. “It’s not much longer now. I see one of Dougal’s men in the trees up ahead.”

Caitrina peered around his shoulder. “How do you know it’s one of Dougal’s men?”

He pointed. “They all wear a white band painted with a black cross tied about their right arm.”

“That’s quite inventive.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Pull your brat close and cease your blether now, lass. I’ll do the talking to the guard.”

Caitrina did as he bade. She did not entirely cover her face—that would have raised the suspicions of the guard—but she made sure that her hair and her rather feminine chin were hidden in the folds of the cloth. Her belly was knotted, but she did her best to sit on the horse with a casual confidence as they rode up to the guard.

*   *   *

Dougal’s man was a grizzled fellow, bowed slightly by his advancing years. Bran did not recognize him, and judging by the suspicious frown he wore as they approached, the guard knew naught of him, either.

“Latha math,”
he greeted the old man in Gaelic.

The wariness in the guard’s eyes eased. “A good day to you, as well.”

“I’m Marshal Gordon,” Bran said. “Late of Feldrinny. Did Dougal mention me to you?”

“Aye, he did,” responded the old man. “But he said naught of you traveling in this direction.” His gaze slid over Bran’s shoulder. “Nor did he say anything aboot this young laddie.”

“The lad is just a stable hand I’ve brought to care for my horse,” Bran said dismissively. “My aim is to take a closer look at our English visitors. Their tale of a broken wheel rings false to me.”

The guard’s gaze lingered on Caitrina for a moment before returning to Bran. “Should we hasten them away, then?”

“Not the now,” said Bran. “But keep your sword
sharp and your wits about you. With the queen at Clackmannan, we must be especially diligent.”

“True enough.”

“I’ll pass this way on my return and relay all that I discover.” And with that, Bran nodded his good-bye and prodded his horse into a walk. When they were far enough away that he was confident the guard could not overhear, he said to Caitrina, “He’s a canny old fellow. I’m not certain he believes you are a lad.”

“Will he report my presence to Dougal, do you think?”

“Not likely,” he assured her. “But if he does, his description of you will be sorely lacking.”

She relaxed against his back, both hands loosely clasped about his middle. There was plenty of linen padding between them to disguise her shape, but the soft press of her face and the warmth of her breaths through his lèine stirred him with remarkable ease. The fault lay with his imagination. One solitary moment in the stables had done him in. Despite his determined efforts to think of something else, the vision of her body draped in nothing but a sark and trews kept resurfacing. He’d never seen a lass so beautiful, so sweetly curved, so unaware of her own charms.

He closed his eyes.

Why did he insist on torturing himself? Nothing could happen between Lady Caitrina and himself. She was a noblewoman and he was a common thief. No amount of hard work or ingenuity would change that. And he had plans that did not include a woman at his
side. Dangerous plans. Plans that he could execute only once he had the crown.