What a Lass Wants

by Rowan Keats

  He pointed to a tall figure standing before the hearth. The marshal was younger than she’d expected, a stalwart fellow with a full head of dark gold hair and a strong, beardless chin. He was also handsome. And something of a charmer. The slow smile he gave the serving girl who brought him a fresh horn of ale bordered on inappropriate.

  “Marshal,” she said, crossing the room.

  He faced her as she approached, his deep brown eyes taking a brazen inventory of her every feature, from the tip of her beaded slippers to the top of her braided hair. Then he offered her a short bow. “Good day to you, Lady . . . ?”

  “Lady Caitrina.”

  “How might I aid you?”

  “I fear this decision to contain us might be a bit rash.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Are you aware, my lady, that there is a thief on the loose?”

  “I am aware,” she acknowledged, trying not to look him right in the eye. My goodness, the man was as forward as the devil. “But one thief is hardly an army of invaders. I cannot see any risk in riding with a proper escort.”

  “I disagree.”

  Caitrina cut short her study of his broad chest—which filled the fine wool of his gray surcote to perfection—and shot him a frown. His dismissal of her opinion was cavalier. “Really? Why?”

  He seemed surprised that she would question his decision—his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared a bit—but he addressed her comment without rancor. “The lads who hunt this fellow say he’s both dangerous and sly. Willing to go to any lengths to get what he wants. To ride outside the manor walls with such a maligner nearby would be an invitation to misfortune.”

  That certainly did not sound like any man she would care to encounter. But she could not allow anyone to stop her from finding Marsailli. Dangerous or no. “Give me four men. Surely even the slyest of thieves cannot best four armed soldiers.”

  “Nay.”

  Caitrina stiffened. “Are you refusing to give me the men?”

  “Return to your rooms,” he said. “There’ll be no riding today.”

  Had she truly thought this man a charmer? He was a cad. “You cannot simply dismiss my request.”

  “I can, and I have. My duty is to keep all within these walls safe, and I’ll not abandon that duty to please a lass.” He smiled. “Even as bonnie a lass as you.”

  Caitrina glared at him. Did he really think a smile would appease her? The wretch had no idea how dire her circumstances were—nor could she confess the reality in an effort to sway him.

  “And if I choose to take a horse and leave of my own accord?”

  The smile left his eyes. “It would be an error to test the bounds of my good nature, Lady Caitrina.”

  All hint of gentleness had vanished, leaving a hard, intense man whom she had no difficulty imagining hauling her up the narrow steps of the keep and locking her in her rooms. “The queen will hear of this, sir.”

  He shrugged. “Share my edict with anyone you must.”

  Teeth on edge, she gave the marshal one last bitter stare, and then turned on her heel. Damn the man. And damn the thief who’d chosen this direction in which to travel. Between the two of them, they had ruined everything.

  She mounted the stairs to the third floor. But she could not be so easily stymied. If riding out the front gate was out of the question, then she’d find another way to search the forest.

  Chapter 2

  Once Lady Caitrina had disappeared into the stairwell, Bran released the breath he’d been holding. A very determined lass, that one. He’d fully expected to have to drag her up the stairs, kicking and screaming like a wildcat. But apparently, ladies-in-waiting didn’t resort to such antics.

  He gave the lady a reasonable lead, then followed her up the stairs.

  The queen had appropriated Marshal Finlay’s rooms, so the seneschal had offered Bran a smaller room at the opposite end of the third-floor corridor. Any room would do, frankly. He’d be here only a night or two. All he needed was a wee bit of privacy . . .

  He opened the door to his chamber.

  The young lad bent over a small oak chest by the window abruptly straightened. “Marshal! My apologies. I thought to be done afore you returned.”

  “What in the bloody blazes of hell are you doing?” demanded Bran. His satchel lay at the young man’s feet, the contents open to view. The fine wool of the two purloined tunics spilled out onto the plank flooring.

  “Unpacking your belongings.”

  Was that a glint of silver he spied in the corner of the satchel? Lord. If the lad but touched the bag once more, the crown would be revealed.

  “This is how you mind my effects?” he asked coldly, pointing at the satchel. “Allowing my clothing to wipe the mud from the floor?”

  A flush rose in the lad’s cheeks. He immediately bent and reached for the spilled cloth, but Bran halted him.

  “Nay,” he snapped.

  The young man straightened. His lips were twisted with regret, but Bran could not allow a moment of sympathy to undo all his hard work. He’d paid a high price to acquire that crown.

  “Do not touch my things again. Get out.”

  The lad bobbed his head and scrambled for the door.

  Bran watched him flee down the corridor, then closed the door and sighed. A thousand ways for this ruse to go astray, and he’d just tripped over one of the simplest. He had forgotten that well-born men had others unpack their bags. Fool. And sending one lad running would not save his treasure. With the queen in residence, there would be gillies constantly underfoot, sweeping cobwebs and delivering firewood and lighting candles. He could not continue to keep the crown inside the manor.

  The safest place was the stables. He’d noted several dark spots up in the rafters.

  But he’d have to wait for nightfall to move the crown.

  Bran placed his clothing in the chest and looked around for a temporary hole to hide the crown. Not in the bed—gillies might warm the sheets before he retired for the night. Not under the bed—the bed stood on a platform. He slowly spun around. A cushioned chair, a small table, the hearth . . . Not a lot of choices. His gaze tilted upward. The bed hangings were really his only alternative—there was a chance the gillies would ruffle them to rid them of dust, but he suspected that was not a frequently performed chore.

  A sharp rap sounded on the wooden door. “Marshal?”

  Bran shoved the crown under the bed pillows. “Aye?”

  The door swung open. The cook stood there, a white cloth wrapped around his substantial middle and a worried frown upon his brow. “Murtagh, sir. The cook. I wonder if I might have a word regarding this eve’s meal?”

  “Have you consulted with Her Grace’s cook?”

  The man’s frown deepened. “Oh, aye. That I have. And there lies the root of my difficulty. The wee Frenchie’s demands are quite unreasonable, Marshal. He’s asking for delicacies we’ve no hope of acquiring.”

  “What sort of delicacies?”

  “Almond paste and sea bream.” Murtagh wrinkled his nose. “Apparently Her Grace is particularly fond of fish at the moment, but the salmon from our rivers will no satisfy her delicate needs. She’ll only eat white-fleshed fish. And where am I to get almonds? Or the spices her cook is insisting upon? The man is a witless knave. We’ve only—”

  “Haud your wheesht.” Bran folded his arms over his chest. “Hosting the queen at Clackmannan is the greatest of honors. I’ll not allow Her Grace to suffer whilst under our roof. You will find a way to satisfy her cook, or die in the attempt. Is that clear?”

  “Aye,” said Murtagh, flushing. “But I cannot conjure items I do not have.”

  “There are always options.” Bran nodded at the open door. “Collect the queen’s cook and meet me down in the manor stores.”

  “I will also need several fire pits dug. The kitchen hearth
is not large enough to feed the queen’s retinue. I must put a boar, two lambs, six geese, and forty capons on the spit.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Murtagh nodded. “Thank ye, Marshal.”

  Bran said nothing, just stared at the cook, hard.

  And Murtagh got the message. He backed out of the room. “I’ll fetch the queen’s cook.”

  When the door was shut and Bran was once again alone, he retrieved the crown. Boot to the bed platform, he lifted himself up and tucked his prize in a swath of cloth draped over the forward bedposts. A discerning eye might notice the lump, but not in the next few hours. Satisfied, he leapt down.

  Now all he had to do was organize a feast fit for a queen and stop two opinionated cooks from killing each other in the process.

  He grinned.

  Or perhaps their battle would serve as entertainment for the festivities. So long as they did each other in after the meal was cooked, all would be well.

  * * *

  Supper was an interesting affair.

  Queen Yolande chose to eat in her rooms, citing weariness from the day’s travels, which left Caitrina and the other ladies to join Marshal Gordon and the most senior of the queen’s courtiers at the high table. As the most recently appointed lady-in-waiting, Caitrina ended up at the far left end of the table, next to the elderly and hard-of-hearing Chevalier Artois.

  Lady Gisele claimed the spot next to the handsome young marshal and the pair appeared to find no challenge in making pleasant conversation. Indeed, Gordon proved quite the raconteur—he drew many a smile from the countess. Quite a feat, as the lady rarely displayed any signs of amusement, even in the company of some of the queen’s most seasoned courtiers.

  Caitrina focused her attention on the food.

  The cooks had quite outdone themselves. ’Twas simple fare compared with the queen’s usual meals, but it was well prepared and tasty. There was a fine selection of meats, including roast boar, capon with ginger and cinnamon, and herring served with parsley sauce. Ale flowed freely, the pages frequently filling all cups to the brim.

  Perhaps if the conversation with Chevalier Artois had been easier, Caitrina would have spent less time looking down the table. But even the simplest comment, be it about the food or the bard’s choice of song, was a chore. Everything had to be repeated. Several times. After a few struggling efforts, their talk fell silent and Caitrina was left to listen to the laughter emanating from Gordon and Gisele’s end of the table.

  She was relieved when supper was over.

  In the midst of the dancing and piping that followed the meal, it was surprisingly easy to slip out of the manor. It was a quiet moonlit night, with plenty of stars scattered across the late-October sky. Caitrina pulled her soft woolen brat over her shoulders. Several guards stood atop the manor walls, but all were looking out at the surrounding countryside, not inward. No one stopped her as she made her way to the stables.

  She ducked into the dim confines, not entirely certain of her plan. Was she truly going to leave the manor unattended and ride off into the night? It hardly seemed wise. But how else would she find Marsailli? Perhaps it was a moot point. To have a hope of succeeding, she had to first locate a suitable mount. Not an easy task. Horses were huge beasts, capable of crushing a wee thing such as herself. What she needed was a placid mount of short stature. She made her way from stall to stall, peering at the animals within. Surely the monks would own such a beast? She stared up at the massive dapple gray destrier standing in the stall before her.

  It snorted, and she took a quick step back.

  By the heavens. Its head was as large as her entire body.

  The sharp rap of a boot heel striking the wooden threshold shook her from her reverie. Someone was coming! She ducked into an empty stall and buried herself as best she could in a pile of straw. Who would be entering at this hour? The stable lads and the grooms were partaking of the ale up at the manor—she’d made certain they were well into their cups and enjoying the festivities before heading out the door.

  Peering through her blanket of straw, she watched a tall shadow make its way to the back of the stables. A man, with a lean build and broad shoulders. All other features were obscured by the dim light. One of the grooms, perhaps? Although he held himself a little too cocky for a mere stable hand. And he wore a cloak, which suggested a degree of furtive behavior. This man had something to hide.

  Quite literally, it appeared.

  As she watched, he tucked a leather-wrapped bundle in the rafters above the darkest corner of the stables. He positioned it quite carefully, neatly between two posts, ensuring that it would not be seen even in the brighter light of day. When he was satisfied that it was well hidden, he turned and scanned the narrow confines of the little wooden building. Caitrina shrank back a little. Was any piece of her skirt visible in the hay? She prayed not.

  Her prayers were answered.

  He marched past her, unaware of her presence. But as he passed by, Caitrina caught a glimpse of a strong chin and a long, thin nose. It was a face she recognized. Marshal Gordon. But why would the marshal be hiding something in the stables? Especially in the dead of night?

  Perhaps a better question was, what was he hiding?

  Caitrina stood and shook the straw from her clothing. There was only one way to find out: take a peek inside the bundle. The only problem was, she wasn’t quite tall enough to reach it. Searching the stables, she found a small three-legged stool that gave her just enough added height. But getting the bundle down was harder than she’d thought. He’d wedged it tightly in place, and she had to wriggle the package to get it loose. Fortunately, it wasn’t heavy, and she soon held it in her hands.

  Aware that time was swiftly passing, Caitrina leapt down from the stool and peered inside the leather pouch. The object inside was shiny and hard, but she could not make out exactly what it was. Something valuable, no doubt.

  But still, why was the marshal hiding it in the stables?

  The marshal had many resources at his disposal, including the keys to the manor coffers. Why would he not place his valuables there? Under key and under guard would seem to be safer than a darkened corner of the stables. Unless he was hiding an object he did not want discovered by other souls among the manor staff.

  Caitrina clutched the pouch to her chest.

  But that suggested the marshal was not the honest man he portrayed. And it made her hungry to know exactly what it was that the pouch contained. Better light would be useful, which she would find only up at the manor. It was risky to take the pouch, but she had a feeling its contents would prove useful. She needed help to rescue her sister, and the marshal—honest man or no—might be just the aid she required.

  Tucking the pouch under her brat, Caitrina scurried back to the manor.

  It was time to discover the marshal’s secret.

  * * *

  Bran was about to turn in for the night when a soft knock sounded on his door. Although he was bare chested and clad only in his braies, he bid his guest to enter.

  The door creaked open.

  He raised his brows. Not a maid with linens, nor a gillie with firewood.

  “Lady Caitrina,” he said, waving her into the room. “This is quite unexpected.”

  “I’m certain that it is,” she responded, stepping through the portal and shutting the door behind her. The silver ribbon in her brown hair had come loose, allowing several dark curls to escape, but she was still fully dressed in a blue gown with white lace trim. Which left him at something of a disadvantage.

  Not that he minded. “You’ve something to discuss, I take it.”

  Her gaze dropped from his face to his chest and then glanced away. “I do. But I would prefer to discuss it with you fully attired.”

  Bran grabbed his linen sark off the bed and slid it over his head. “I apologize if I’ve offended you, my lad
y. But I was not expecting company at this late hour.”

  She nodded, a flush rising in her cheeks. “Quite understandable.”

  “What is it you wish to discuss?”

  She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and turned to face him. “I would like to strike a bargain.”

  “What room is there to bargain? My reasons for keeping you within the manor are sound.”

  She pulled something from beneath her brat and held it out to him. “I believe this is yours.”

  Bran stared at the leather pouch, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. The large scrape across the front flap was recognizable from his leap off the horse—the satchel was his. The one he’d just hidden in the stables. But now it was clearly empty. He lifted his gaze to her face and gave her a hard, cold stare. “What is it you want, Lady Caitrina?”

  When he didn’t take the pouch, she lowered her hand. “A bargain, I told you.”

  “Be more specific.”

  The tone of his voice clearly unnerved her—her bottom lip quivered a wee bit—but she didn’t back down. She tossed the leather pouch onto a nearby chair and faced him squarely. “I have the crown stored safely in my rooms. If you would like to have it returned, you will do as I ask.”

  Bran briefly considered denying that the crown was his, but the look in her eyes told him that would be pointless. She was far too certain. She must have seen him in the stables. Very unfortunate. “Nay, madam. You’ll return the item, or I’ll have the constable arrest you for theft.”

  She tilted her head. “Truly? You’re going to pretend that an honest marshal would hide valuables in the stables?”

  Bran said nothing.

  “Well, then.” She crossed her arms over her chest. A perfectly lovely chest that rose and fell with every shaky breath. “I suppose I must call your bluff. Call the constable.”

  Bloody hell. The lass might be bonnie, but she was as difficult as they came. He could no sooner call the constable than he could walk off without the crown. “I cannot have the constable searching the queen’s rooms, and you know it.”