What a Lass Wants (8 page)

“He were a lad. Short and dark haired, wearing breeks and a woolen brat.”

“You’re certain it wasn’t a woman?”

“What?” Davie’s eyebrows soared. “A wench? Nay. Not a tittie in sight.”

Giric sat back on his heels. It was not the first time Davie had been brought before him. The lad was not particularly observant and errors in judgment were his forte. The spy might well have been Caitrina de Montfort. “Shoulder-length hair? Or longer?”

Davie shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. He had his brat over his head.”

“Of course he did.”

The soldier jogged back to the tent and handed Giric Davie’s helm. Giric turned it over in his hands, studying the craftsmanship. A basic raised dome with a nosepiece. No riveted reinforcements, no painted finish. Simple but solid, it offered reasonable protection to a fighting man.

“Put it on,” he ordered Davie.

The lad grabbed the helm and plunked it on his head. “I’ll wear it faithfully, Sir Giric. That I swear.”

“As you should.” Giric put his hands on either side of the helm. Hands that were, like the rest of him, large, scarred, and brutal. But reassuringly capable. “I don’t tolerate failure.”

He pinned the lad’s gaze with his own, then began to press.

Davie released a low, agonized moan.

A moan that quickly escalated into a bloodcurdling shriek as Giric squeezed his hands together with greater force and slowly bent the helm. It took every
ounce of his strength to bend the metal, but bend it he did—until it cut into the boy’s flesh. When the lad began to thrash and tiny rivulets of blood were running down both sides of his neck, Giric thrust the screaming boy aside. “If I ever see you without a helm again, I will crush your skull like a grape. Understand?”

He glared at the two senior guards.

“Get him out of here.”

Returning to the table, he snatched up his goblet of wine and downed the contents in a single swallow. It would seem that Caitrina had not taken his threats at the abbey seriously. Perhaps it was time to send a stronger message.

“Bring me the girl!” he snarled.

C
aitrina was greeted at the door to the queen’s antechamber by a very worried Gisele. “Where have you been?” the older woman cried in French. “Her Grace has been feeling poorly all day. Tired and listless, barely able to sit before the fire. I had to call for the midwife.”

“I was in the cellars—”

“It no longer matters,” Gisele snapped. “She has been asking for you. Wash the filth from your hands and see to her.” Then she flounced off in the direction of the kitchens.

Caitrina nodded to Bran. “Just leave the items here. I’ll collect them later.”

“Is all well?” he asked.

“I’m not certain,” she confessed.

He arched a brow. “Are you in need of a champion?”

“Nay,” she said, with a light laugh. “My worries are not so dire as that.”

Setting his armload down, he offered her a crooked smile. “If you change your mind, seek me out. I’m off to revisit the English camp. I’ll report back with my plan to rescue your sister.”

She watched him leave, entranced by his every
move. He had a natural grace that was a pleasure to watch, and a smooth charm that left smiles in his wake. The young maid he passed in the hall beamed when he but nodded in her direction. When he had disappeared into the stairwell, she pushed open the inner doors and entered the queen’s chambers.

Yolande was lying abed, her long auburn hair spread across the pillows, her eyes dark pools in her pale face. She was surrounded by a small group of people that included the royal midwife and her confessor, William Fraser, the bishop of Saint Andrews.

The moment the queen spied Caitrina, she attempted to sit up.
“Ma cousine,”
she called.

Caitrina quickly washed her hands in rosewater and joined the queen at her bedside. “My humble apologies, Your Grace. I spent the day in the cellars searching for appointments for the nursery. Had I known you had need of me—”

Yolande’s eyes lit up. “Appointments?
Très bien!
What did you discover?”

“Please, Your Grace,” admonished the midwife. “You must rest.”

A worried frown dulled the excitement in the queen’s eyes. “But you assured me the babe was healthy.”

“He moves,” the midwife said, “but not as vigorously as he once did. You must preserve your strength to ensure a successful birth.”

“Am I to remain abed now until the babe is born?”

“Aye,” the old woman said. “’Twould be best.”

“I concur.” The bishop leaned over the bed and took the queen’s hand in his own. “Although the birth is
several weeks away, I also think it would be wise to consider gathering the Guardians of Scotland, Your Grace.”

The queen lay back against her pillows with a huge sigh. “One simple bout of weariness and suddenly disaster looms.”

“Nay,” the bishop protested. “God shines his blessings upon thee, but it will take time to send messengers, and the Guardians should be present at the birth.”

“Fine,” she said. “Send for them. They should bear witness to the event that my dearest Alexander will never know. The birth of his son.”

Tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes, a rare moment of weakness from the young royal. To protect her cousin from unwarranted judgment, Caitrina began closing the bed curtains. “Her Grace will sleep now,” she said, ushering the bishop and the midwife away. “I will inform you the instant she awakens.”

When the room was once again the domain of women, Caitrina carried the wooden baby basin over to the quietly weeping queen. “Look,” she said. “Lilies.”

Yolande bit her lip and wiped her eyes with a linen and lace cloth. She smiled tremulously at the fine carving that edged the basin. “You have a kind heart, Caitrina. In spite of all that has befallen you and your family, you remain a generous soul.”

Caitrina shook her head. “You are a far kinder soul than I, Your Grace. You welcomed me into your entourage when none else would acknowledge me.”

“Bah! It is not your fault that your grandfather’s titles were seized, or that your father disgraced his
family. The blood of kings runs in your veins. You deserved more than to rot away on your uncle’s estate.”

“Atholl was good to us.”

The queen shrugged. “He ignored you.”

“He’s young, and he has his own battles to fight.”

Yolande snorted. “He’s an earl. Age has no bearing on obligation.” Her expression turned thoughtful and she ran a slow hand over the mound of her belly. “My son will also have battles to fight.”

Caitrina set the basin down. “You fear the English?”

“Nay,” the queen said. “The Guardians. King Alexander had a strife-torn minority. I do not wish the same for his son.”

“Is not the bishop of Saint Andrews one of the Guardians?” Caitrina asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Have you reason to doubt him?”

Yolande smiled. “They are all fine men, the Guardians. Strong champions of Scotland. But each has his own vision, and each has a desire to make his mark on history. My son will be pulled in many directions at once, and it will be a challenge for him to find his own way.”

Caitrina nodded. But if she feared ambitious men, surely King Edward was worthy of alarm? “Is the lion to the south not a worry?”

“Scotland’s relations with England are very cordial. King Edward was fond of Alexander, having once been related to him by marriage. He was most gracious at the state funeral and promised to deliver any aid I might require.”

“How very kind of him.” He had approached Caitrina at the same time. Offering sweet condolences to
the queen one moment and coercing a lass into treason the next. A true paragon.

“I should like to see what other bounty you unearthed in the stores, but not just now.” The queen lay back and closed her eyes. “I am truly weary.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Her gut knotted, Caitrina tucked the blankets around the queen and stepped back to close the last bed curtain. How she longed to confess what she knew about the men in the woods and Edward’s plans, but that wasn’t possible. Not until Marsailli was safe.

All she could do was pray those wicked plans never bore fruit.

She found her embroidery, claimed a chair before the fire, and began adding snow-white stitches to her winter forest scene. The evening meal would take place without her. She wouldn’t go hungry—trays were typically delivered to the rooms when the queen was resting. But she
would
be missing an opportunity to see Bran.

A flush rose in her cheeks.

How mad to be looking forward to stolen moments with a wanted thief. But that kiss had been truly marvelous. The intrigues of the past several months were shaping her in ways she could not possibly have imagined. She pushed the needle through the linen backing and pulled the silk thread taut. But her handsome scoundrel would not be pleased to discover that the Guardians of Scotland were about to descend upon Clackmannan.

He’d promptly renege upon his promise to aid her.

Perhaps it might be better not to mention that wee bit of news.

*   *   *

Marsailli’s legs shook.

She had not expected to be dragged before the Bear again—Ulric had helped her craft a simple but tasty soup, and the mighty commander had downed several bowls of it at the midday meal. Without a single grimace.

But here she was.

And the dark scowl that distorted his ruined face did not bode well.

“Your sister is a fool,” he snarled, seizing her long braid. He tilted her head so far back that she thought her neck would snap. “She thinks to thwart me.”

“I don’t understand,” she whimpered, the words a burning rasp in her throat. What had Caitrina done?

“Have you seen her?”

“Nay!” Much to Marsailli’s disappointment. Even a glimpse of Caitrina would have made these last few weeks more bearable.

“You lie.”

He dragged her across the tent by her hair, uncaring that her wounded knee slammed into the corner of a table. “But no matter. You are about to learn who truly has the upper hand.” With a low growl reminiscent of his namesake, he threw her down on his pallet.

Cruel intent thinned his lips and left deep furrows in his brow. Her heartbeat stumbled. She scrambled to leave the bed, but she wasn’t quick enough. He caught her about the middle and flung her back on the sheets.

“You will know what it is to cross me!” Grabbing her
neckline with both hands, he rent her gown right down the middle, splitting it with three decisive yanks.

Now bared to his eyes, Marsailli squeezed her eyes shut.

“No!” she screamed.

*   *   *

Bran slipped through the trees and past Dougal’s guard with nary a sound. It was easier than it should have been—the old man was staring into his fire, his ability to see in the dark weakened by the bright light.

It was more of a challenge to bypass the English sentries.

Having learned a lesson from the failures of the afternoon, the guards were now patrolling in pairs. These two were heavily armed, wore solid helms upon their tender brows, and scanned the woods with true dedication. But the night was Bran’s ally. A canny sense of timing and dark clothes had gotten him past many a guard in Edinburgh, and they did so now as well.

Each time the men’s heads turned, even briefly, he darted to another tree. He made slow but steady progress through their line to the edge of the clearing, where he paused to determine his best route into the camp.

That’s when his clandestine survey mission became something else entirely.

Down in the firelit center of the camp, Caitrina’s sister was dragged out of one tent, across the muddy field, and into another. Bran was too far away to see faces, but the stiff reluctance evident in the girl’s shoulders and the sharp yanks the soldier made on her arm put his teeth on edge. Something unpleasant was about to transpire.

He had to get closer.

Bran swiftly counted the men visible in the camp. Five, if he included the fellow who had just escorted Marsailli into the tent. Six others were patrolling the perimeter. That left one unaccounted for, if Dougal’s original assessment was accurate. One soldier who was likely inside the tent with the leader.

A loud male voice raged from the tent.

The words were indistinguishable, but the fury that shook every syllable gave wings to Bran’s feet. A man with such anger bottled inside him would find some way to unleash it. Bran dove for the soldier closest to him, unsheathing the dirk at his belt as he ran. A man wearing a mail hauberk was protected against attack, save for in two places: the loins and the neck. Reaching the loins required an adroit knife thrust up and under the hem of the hauberk. The neck was a much easier target.

The man was seated on a fallen log.

Bran swiftly silenced him and dragged his body back into the shadows. Four more to go. The three huddled around the fire would be the true test of his skills. But the one tending the horses would be an easy—

“No!”

The desperate cry froze Bran’s blood. He knew that sound—he’d heard it before. Once. In a dark wynd in Edinburgh. It was the hopeless plea of a lass who believed she was doomed. He was out of time. If he didn’t intervene right now, Caitrina’s sister would be ruined or dead.

He grabbed the dead soldier’s sword, spun on his heel, and raced for the rear of the tent where Marsailli
was being held. A decisive slice of his dirk parted the canvas, and he stepped inside. The scene was just as he’d imagined—the lass was pinned to a pallet by a very large scar-faced man, who had turned his head at the sound of ripping canvas.

Bran pointed his sword at the man’s naked back. “On your feet.”

The lout ran a finger down Marsailli’s tearstained face. “I do not answer to nameless curs, especially in my own tent.”

“As long as you are on Clackmannan land,” Bran said, “you answer to me. My name is Marshal Gordon, and my soldiers surround your camp even as we speak.”

The man made no attempt to stand. Instead, he kissed the lass’s cheek. “You overstep your bounds, Marshal. Even the king has no right to interfere in the matters between a man and his wife.”

Marsailli’s pale, thin arm, visible beneath the man’s large body, trembled violently.

“The lass appears unwilling,” Bran noted. “You’ve proof, I trust, of this union between you?”

The man threw him a scowl. “I have twelve men who will vouch for me.”

Eleven men, actually. Bran shook his head. “I’ll need more than statements from your men. This lass is a Scot, and as such, is owed my full protection. I assume the vows were made before a church?”

Rising to his feet, the big man faced him, quite unabashed by his state of undress. The scar across his cheek formed a ragged line from the edge of his mouth
to his mangled ear. Caitrina’s Giric, no doubt. “Nay, they were made here, just moments ago.”

Bran grabbed a blanket and tossed it to Marsailli. “Moments ago, I heard a man’s voice raised in anger and a woman’s plea for rescue.”

“A marriage in Scotland is made by mutual consent,” Giric said, dismissing Bran’s comments with a wave of his hand. “By law, the word of a man and his wife is proof of the union. So, ask the girl to verify my tale. Ask her to confirm that we are wed.”

Bran glanced at Marsailli. The girl was cowering beneath the woolen throw, still shaking badly. Her word
should
be enough—but her fear made her an unreliable witness. She was a captive in Giric’s camp, surrounded by his soldiers. What would she say if he asked? “I should like a moment with her alone.”

A thunderous frown descended on Giric’s brow. “Absolutely not. No man shall be alone with my wife, save I.”

There it was, then—Bran had no choice but to ask Marsailli for the truth and let her words fall where they may. He crouched beside the pallet. “Lass,” he said softly. He tried and failed to meet her gaze. “I swear I will protect you with my life, should you need it. Tell me the truth. Did you willingly wed this man, or no?”

*   *   *

It was late when Caitrina descended the stairs to the great hall. The evening meal had been cleared away and only a handful of gillies remained at work, banking the fire in the hearth and dousing most of the candles. Bran was seated near the hearth, with an ale in hand and a heavy frown upon his brow.