What a Lass Wants (6 page)

Bran took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and reined in the horse. “We walk from here.”

Caitrina stared at him as he dismounted. “Are we close?”

“Another three hundred paces, mayhap a bit farther.”

“That’s yet a distance. Why would we travel afoot?”

He jingled the bridle. “Sounds carry all too well in the forest. Unless our desire is to announce our arrival, we must leave the horse behind.”

“Oh.” She allowed him to help her down, sliding into his arms with a faint blush and quick smile. “I hope my boots are up to the task.”

He glanced at her feet. The boots were well made—the leather smooth and supple, and the stitches evenly placed. They probably cost more than he pocketed in a week. “They’ll do.”

Shaking his head at the direction of his thoughts, he led the way between the trees. A thick layer of moss covered every root and rock along their path, ensuring a muted passage. Bran showed Caitrina how easily the moss could be disturbed, and encouraged her to place her boots gently and carefully. As his father had been fond of saying, no sense leaving a trail if one could be avoided.

Bran held up his hand, halting their progress briefly to allow a family of woodland grouse to scurry by. Curious. He hadn’t thought about his da in quite some time. He’d believed the man’s influence buried with his
body. But here in the countryside, where they’d lived as bandits for several years, old memories were sprouting with a rather relentless prevalence.

Gordon MacLean had been the bane of his existence.

If not for his witless da, his mother and his brother might now be alive. They might yet be dwelling on MacLean land, serving the laird and raising honest families. Instead, his maither had been forced to watch her husband swing upon the gibbet, her heart broken, and his brother had died in gaol.

But his da had taught him a few very useful lessons.

Like the proper way to approach a camp to avoid making the horses restless. And how to disarm a guard swiftly and silently.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Caitrina as they halted once more. “I’ll return anon.”

He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just darted through the trees toward the helmeted Englishman patrolling the woods in front of him. A beefy fellow with arms like tree trunks. But even the largest man can fall, if taken by surprise. And Bran was an expert in surprise.

He slid up behind the hapless guard, wrapped an arm around the man’s throat, and with a tight hold cut off his air. The man thrashed a bit, but Bran held him firm until the flailing slowed and then ceased entirely. As the guard went limp, Bran lowered him gently to the ground and allowed him to breathe once more. Thievery could cost you a hand if you were caught, but murder meant the gibbet.

He bound and gagged the guard, then headed back to the spot where he’d left Caitrina.

To his dismay, she was no longer there. He scanned the woods left and right but could see no sign of her. A few bent fern fronds told him where she’d gone, however. Straight toward the camp.

Bollocks.

C
aitrina had every intention of following Bran’s directive until she caught a glimpse of several colored tents through the trees. Fluttering sheets of blue and green stripes. There was obviously a clearing up ahead—quite possibly the very place where Giric was holding Marsailli. The woolen brat she wore was a loose weave of green and brown. If she kept to the forest and moved carefully the way Bran had taught her, perhaps she could peer into the camp and find her sister.

She chewed her lip and stared into the woods where Bran had disappeared.

He had told her to stay here. No doubt for her own safety.

But wouldn’t it be best to catch that first sight of Marsailli while she was alone? If she waited until Bran returned, he might glean the personal connection she had to the English soldiers—a disaster by all accounts. She would lose her leverage over him, and with it, his aid.

Drawing the brat tightly around her shoulders, Caitrina ducked under the arching branch of a holly bush
and made for the clearing. If she was quick, she might make it back before Bran realized she had gone. Moving swiftly and hugging the trees for protection, she approached the edge of the forest. The clearing was long and narrow, with a small burn running through the middle. Four tents were pitched on the west side of the stream where the ground was flatter, the blue one directly in front of her. Unfortunately, it blocked her view of the campfire, which was in the center, based on the thin ribbons of greasy smoke rising into the cloudy afternoon sky. Even when she stood on the tips of her toes, she could see only three men, none of them Giric. Two were chopping wood for the fire and stacking split wedges. A third was seated on a fallen log avidly cleaning mud from his boots. If there were others, they must be gathered around the fire.

She sighed.

To have a hope of spotting her sister, she needed a better viewpoint. Like the top of that boulder twenty paces to her right. It was partially hidden behind a drooping pine bough, so she wouldn’t risk discovery should one of the soldiers look up.

Caitrina scrambled through the brush toward the rock. There were a number of smaller rocks at the base of the boulder, and she used them to help her reach the top. She was just about to sweep aside the pine bough and take a peek at the camp when a hand grabbed her ankle. She only barely restrained a shriek.

“What do we have here?”

It was one of the soldiers, a tall, gangly fellow with a scattering of blemishes across his chin.

She kicked at him, determined to get free. If Giric
found her here, there was no telling what he would do. But despite his youthful appearance, the soldier had a manly grip. He yanked her to her rump and then pulled her down from the rock. Bitter tears sprang into Caitrina’s eyes.

Satan’s beard. Her impatience had ruined everything.

Why hadn’t she waited for Bran?

The soldier grabbed a fistful of her sark and began to drag her through the bracken. “The Bear ain’t too fond of stinkin’ Scots,” he said. “You’d best pray he’s in a merciful mood.”

Nothing Caitrina did gained her freedom—not kicking, not scratching, not biting. The soldier did not seem to care that her nails and teeth dug into his flesh; he continued on his merry way with a smile on his face. No doubt imagining a pleasant reward for capturing a spy.

Caitrina was just about to slump with despair when a rock the size of a small neep hit the lad neatly in the temple, and he fell headfirst into the bracken with little more than a sigh. She tore free of his limp grip and scrambled back into the trees, where she came face-to-face with a rather stony-eyed Bran.

“I know,” she said morosely. “I’m a fool.”

He folded his arms over his chest and continued to stare at her.

“I made a grievous error in not minding your direction, and I sincerely beg your pardon,” she said. He still did not look appeased, so she added, “I’ll not do it again.”

“Did he harm you?”

“Nay.” A wee lie—her arse hurt like the devil—but it eased the icy glare in Bran’s eyes.

He nodded sharply, then pointed to the boulder. “Good. Since you were so determined to climb, let us take advantage of your eagerness. Up you go.”

Her bruised rump protested as she clambered back atop the boulder, but she dared not complain. “You’re a very good shot with a rock. Where did you learn such a skill?”

“On the streets of Edinburgh.”

She tried to image how or when he might have thrown a rock in town, but failed. Thieves apparently led interesting lives. “Why did you not slay him?”

He shrugged. “Never draw your dirk when a blow will do it. What can you see?”

Caitrina peered between the long needles of the pine tree. As she had guessed, the bulk of the soldiers were seated around the fire, eating soup from wooden bowls and quaffing horns of ale. “A dozen men in all, most of them half in their cups.”

“Can you spy the man you seek?”

She could not. None of the men in sight had a misshapen ear and a scar across his cheek. But what did it matter? The soldier had mentioned the Bear by name—this was definitely Giric’s camp. And if she was not mistaken, the slim woman bent over the cooking cauldron was none other than Marsailli. Caitrina smiled.

“Aye,” she said. “The one I seek is standing right before my eyes.”

“Excellent,” Bran said. “Then let us return to the manor. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. It is now time for you to fulfill yours.”

Her heart sank. It was true. He’d met his obligation—he was due his prize.

But
she
would not be satisfied until Marsailli was free. Until she could be certain her sister was beyond Giric’s grasp. How was she to accomplish that? Caitrina watched the woman by the fire chat briefly with a tall, thin man with a balding pate and then limp across the muddy field to the green-striped tent. It was definitely Marsailli. The gentle tilt of her head, the way she lifted her skirts as she moved, and the curl of her nut-brown locks were all familiar. But she was hurt—she favored her right side as she walked.

A bittersweet ache filled her chest.

Seeing her sister, even from a distance, was a joy beyond imagining, but witnessing her pain was unbearable. She had to set Marsailli free. And soon. The task would not be an easy one, however. The tent she had entered backed onto the burn, and the only way to reach it was straight through the camp—right past all the guards.

With a grimace, Caitrina turned away from the view and joined Bran at the base of the boulder. She’d been so sure that a route to success would become obvious once she saw the layout of the camp. But she had nothing. Bran offered his hand as they stepped over a rotting log and she slid her fingers into his warm palm. Not even an unwilling ally. Bran would disappear the moment she handed over the crown. Now that the MacCurrans had ridden for Stirling, he had no reason to remain.

“What will you do with the crown once you have it?” she asked.

He glanced at her. “What does it matter?”

“I’m simply curious.”

“You’ve no need to know,” he cautioned her. “And as you can personally attest, curiosity can sometimes lead you to dangerous places.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you threaten me?”

He tossed her one of his charming smiles, and she melted a little. “Nay. But the less you know of me and my troubles, the safer you’ll be from those who might come looking for truths.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “But would I be off the mark to suggest your troubles are the sort that are influenced by large quantities of coin?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

But it was. She needed to find some way to keep her ally-cum-thief in her pocket. Coin had seemed an obvious enticement, but he had barely blinked at her broad hint. If Bran was not driven by greed, then what
was
he driven by?

They reached the horse, and Bran gave her a leg up.

The sun had finally broken through the clouds and bright splashes of sunlight littered the forest floor around them. As he checked the cinch on the saddle, Caitrina studied the play of light on his golden hair. “The MacCurrans are Highlanders,” she said thoughtfully. “I believe their clan seat is deep within the Red Mountains. The crown must hold great meaning for them if they chased you this far south in an effort to reclaim it.”

Bran lifted his gaze. His expression was calm, but there was an unusual stillness to him that told her she
had hit the mark. “Wounded pride,” he said with a shrug. “They’ll give up soon enough.”

“I am acquainted with the Lady of Dunstoras, Isabail,” Caitrina said. “I attended her wedding to Andrew Macintosh a number of years ago.”

“She’s wed to Aiden MacCurran now.”

“So I’ve heard.” She waited until he had gained the saddle before adding, “I’ve been quite remiss in sending her my good wishes. I must remedy that.”

He said nothing, just urged the horse into motion and followed their trail back to the old guard. “I saw no sign of a wheelwright,” he informed the gray-haired man. “The cart is still stuck in the mud.”

“So they might be here a while yet.”

“Aye. Give them a day or two to settle their own affairs. If they’ve made no progress by then, send someone to repair the wheel.” Bran sat back in the saddle. “You should be aware that we ran into a spot of trouble.”

The old guard frowned. “What sort of trouble?”

Bran explained what had happened, sticking very close to the truth. “The young Sassenach will have a wee sore head come morn. If they complain about a lack of hospitality,” he said, smiling, “fetch me. I’d be pleased to address their concerns.”

Dougal’s man snorted. “Serves the bloody fool right.”

“The lad here,” Bran nodded over his shoulder, “will meet the rewards of his poor judgment back at the manor. I’ll make certain he can’t sit for a day.”

The old man’s gaze met Caitrina’s over the edge of her brat. “As it should be, I suppose.”

They left without further ado. When they had been plodding along for a while, she asked, “I trust you weren’t actually thinking to take a switch to my behind?”

“Nay. I’ve no desire to be arrested for striking a lady.”

“That’s good to hear. You sounded quite convincing to the guard.”

“One of my many talents,” he said dryly.

The horse stumbled in a rut and Caitrina slammed against Bran’s sturdy back. Only for a moment, but long enough for her to take the measure of every masculine sinew she’d glimpsed in his rooms the night before. He was the very opposite of the sort of man she should desire. A cad. A bounder. A rogue. But her body reacted to the press of his flesh without care, sending a hot sizzle to the very core of her being. There was something delightfully reassuring about his strength. He was magnificent, really. “So, when we reach the manor, you’ll just collect your prize and be on your way?”

“Aye.”

Caitrina tightened her grip around his waist. Well, then. There it was—he was leaving. Unless she found some way to stop him. As they left the woods and followed the path across the meadow toward the postern gate, she sighed. Cruelly, she could think of no other option but to betray him. “What if I choose not to relinquish the crown?”

“You won’t make that mistake.”

A shiver ran down her spine. His response was icy cool and edged with steely promise. Exactly the sort of
response she might expect from a dangerous criminal. If it had been a matter of personal gain, Caitrina would have shut her mouth and pursued her cause no further. But Marsailli might even now be enduring another beating. Especially if Giric had cause to believe it was she who had spied upon the camp.

“I’m afraid I must,” she said bravely. He wouldn’t attack her in full view of the guards on the manor walls. Nay, of course not. That would be madness. “I will only give you the crown if you help me with one more task.”

He halted the destrier and stared at the sunlit manor for a long moment. Then he sighed heavily. “What task would that be?”

“There is something I need to retrieve from within the English camp.”

He twisted in his saddle. “Something? Or some
one
?”

Caitrina stiffened. How had he guessed?

“The time has come for complete honesty, Lady Caitrina. I’ve had my fill of lies. Now I want to hear the truth. All of it.”

The
whole
truth? Impossible. She was a spy for King Edward. Even half-truths would condemn her as a traitor.

Caitrina mulled over several possible stories in her head, seeking one that did not make her look like a fool or a faithless Sassenach-lover. Sadly, none of them met her requirements. And as she hemmed and hawed and debated exactly what to tell Bran, he dismounted the horse and strode off down the path toward the manor. Leaving her alone astride a massive beast that she had no hope of controlling.

“Wait!” she cried.

He stopped but did not turn around.

“They are holding my sister,” she said. “Her name is Marsailli.”

He pivoted. “And what could they possibly hope to gain by threatening your sister?”

Caitrina’s shoulders slumped. “Details about the queen.”

Bran marched back to her side. “Why do they do this? What is their aim?”

“They are henchmen of Edward Longshanks,” she told him. “I do not know their precise aim, but rest assured, with Giric the Bear as their leader, they can be up to no good.”

He frowned up at her. “Giric is the man who beat a man to death for insulting the English king?”

“Aye.”

“Saints be.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Why force
me
to help you? Why not enlist the aid of the queen’s guard?”

“Because her guards have only one goal: to protect the queen. They care naught about Marsailli.” And the moment Giric was interrogated, he would point the finger at Caitrina. She would hang right alongside him, branded a traitor like her father. An utterly unbearable thought, especially as it would leave Marsailli alone. “And I would prefer the queen never know of my failings.”

“As a man with many failings myself, I well understand.” Bran put a gentle hand on her leg. “Were this a different time and place, I might be persuaded to aid you. Regretfully, I must decline. I never intended to
play the role of Marshal Gordon for more than a day or two. People talk, and it won’t be long before someone questions my credentials.”