by Rowan Keats
She nodded. “I do know it. Just as I know that your reasons for hiding a valuable item in such an odd place amount to no good. I suspect that you’re the thief those MacCurran men came looking for. But you may rest easy—I’ll not reveal your secret unless you force me to.”
She spoke gently, almost kindly, but sugar-dusted coercion was still coercion. Bran closed the gap between them and took her chin in his hand. “We return to my original question, Lady Caitrina. What is it you want?”
The faint flush in her cheeks deepened. “I want you to search the woods around the manor.”
“Why?”
“A man, who I believe is a danger to the queen, is hiding there.”
He ran his thumb lightly along her jawbone. Such delicate skin. Softer than the finest velvet purse. “Why would you not have the queen’s guards search for him?”
She took a sharp step back, freeing herself from his grip. “I have my reasons.”
“Reasons that are as shady as my own, I suspect.” Lady Caitrina was an intriguing paradox. She possessed plenty of courage, but it was a reluctant courage. The awkward stiffness in her shoulders said that she would rather be anywhere but here, confronting him. But she was here nonetheless, driven by some internal need. And he found himself curious to know what that need was. “What is this man to you?”
Her lips tightened. “All you need know is that he’s a fiend.”
The bleak look that swept across her face as she uttered the word “fiend” sparked a burn in his chest. Men who threatened lasses were a special breed of blackguard. “Has he harmed you?”
“Nay,” she said, turning away. “Nor do I care to explain anything further. Who he is and what he’s done are none of your concern. Your task is simply to find him.”
Although her back was to him, he could see her small fists clench and unclench in her skirts. Whatever the man had done, it had harmed her—whether she would admit the truth or not. And that bothered him. “And if I provide you with the information you seek, do I have your word that you’ll return the crown?”
She grew still. “Aye.”
Her hesitation told him more than her response did. She had no intention of giving him the crown until she had everything she needed. Whatever that might be. And the man in the woods would be instrumental to a satisfactory ending. “How shall I know if I’ve found the right fellow?”
“He has a large scar on the left side of his face.”
“Have you any sense of where he might be hiding?”
“Nay. I only know that he won’t be alone.”
He crossed the room to the small table by the hearth, picked up the jug of wine that the gillies had left him, and poured a cup. “My men and the MacCurrans are searching every inch of Clackmannan land. I’ll know soon enough where he is.” He offered her the cup. “Would you care for some wine?”
She shook her head. “I’ll drink when I have cause to celebrate.”
Another dark curl slipped free, falling to her nape. Bran’s gut knotted. She was a beautiful lass, one of the loveliest he’d ever seen. And the soft halo of hair around her head gave her an air of vulnerability that belied the unyielding cant of her shoulders and steely look in her eyes. But the desire he felt for Lady Caitrina was inconvenient at best and a huge mistake at worst.
Bran shrugged and downed the contents of the cup himself. The dark red liquid slid smoothly down his throat. “Being alive and free are always cause to celebrate.”
“Not everyone is free.” The words came out quickly, on an impulsive huff of breath, and it was obvious that she immediately regretted them. Her lips tightened and she looked away.
A part of him wanted to go to her, fold her in his arms, and kiss away her worries. The foolish part. He drowned it with another cup of wine. Chivalry would not win him back the crown. Why should he care if someone she knew was imprisoned? Would she care if he were the one in gaol? He placed the empty cup on the table and turned to face her. His gaze trailed over the jeweled pin in her hair, the tiny pearls sewn onto her gown, and the silk slippers on her feet. Nay, she would not.
“Let us be very clear, lass. The deal is this: I find the man, you give me the crown. Attempt to cross me, and you’ll discover that I’m not a very pleasant man.”
Her eyes widened, but she nodded.
He pointed to the door. “Now go, before I give in to my scurrilous past and teach you a lesson about entering a man’s bedchamber without proper escort.”
No further encouragement was needed. She ran for the door. After briefly checking the corridor for witnesses to her poor judgment, she scurried away.
As the door shut softly behind her, Bran allowed his frustration to surface. With a low growl, he snatched the leather pouch from the chair and tossed it into the blazing hearth. Damn it. Why had he not searched the stables thoroughly before hiding the crown? He could have avoided a great deal of trouble had he only taken a little more care. Now he was trapped in an arrangement with a lass who, as brazen as she was, had no experience with dangerous men.
Had anyone else stolen from him, he’d have exacted his revenge with a pointed knife.
But Lady Caitrina was no thug he had to battle on the streets of Edinburgh. She was an innocent noblewoman, mixed up in affairs beyond her comprehension. She had no idea what he was capable of, or the things he was prepared to do in order to survive.
For now, he would play her game. Because it suited him.
But the moment the MacCurrans gave up the chase and freedom beckoned, he would take back his prize—willing lass or no.
* * *
Marsailli labored over the stew for hours. Using only the small knife at her belt, she skinned and gutted two fat hares, chopped the firm neep into tiny squares, and cut up the onions. A handful of herbs and some salt added flavor, and a bit of flour thickened the gravy. For a lass who’d never cooked afore today, the result was as fine as she could have imagined.
But her efforts did not please Giric. The mountainlike warrior took one spoonful of the stew and tossed aside his bowl with a howl of rage. “Bah! Who dares to feed me this dredge?”
His men pointed to Marsailli.
“Bring her to me. Now.”
A shudder ran through her. The last time the Bear had demanded to see her, he’d cut off a hank of her hair and she’d wept all night. What would befall her now? Would he shear off the rest of her hair? Beat her senseless? She squeezed her eyes shut. Or would he plunge his dirk into her chest and bury her in the woods—as he’d done with that old tinker who’d had the misfortune to cross their path a sennight before?
Two of his men marched into the tent she shared with the midwife, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her across the muddy clearing, their fingers digging into her flesh. When she stumbled, wrenching her right knee, they paid no mind, continuing to pull in spite of the sharp cry she emitted.
Giric seized her chin in his brutish hand and forced her to meet his gaze. A painful tilt upward. “Are you trying to poison me, girl?”
“Nay,” she cried, tears springing into her eyes. “I did the best I could, but I’m no cook.”
He shoved her away so roughly that she would have fallen had his men not still held her arms. “The best you could? I would feast better at the midden heap, you feckless wench!” Unsheathing his dirk, he pointed it at her. “Have I not made your position here clear? You are at the mercy of my good graces.”
Marsailli stared at the sharp tip of the blade, unable to look away. This was it. He was about to stab his dirk into her. She would die alone in these strange woods, without ever seeing Caitrina again. A violent tremble shook her legs, and her head grew faint.
But, to her great relief, he stepped no closer, apparently content to rage from a distance. “Your sister abandoned you—have you forgotten that? She sent you off with King Edward to waste away with a bunch of nuns. Had I not
come to claim you, you would be there still. I’ve brought you home to Scotland and cared for you at my own expense—but even my generosity has its limits. If you are to remain in my camp, you must serve a purpose. Do you understand?”
“Aye.” Marsailli blinked back her tears.
“Then serve a bloody purpose,” he snarled. “Learn to cook a meal worth serving or you will find yourself serving me in ways you will find much less comfortable.”
Marsailli stared at the ground, her shoulders bowed. She was doomed, then. Without an experienced cook in camp, who would teach her? Her next effort would surely give rise to the same anger and disdain as this one.
The Bear’s hand cupped her chin again. “Perhaps that would be the best solution, eh?”
She lifted her gaze to his scarred face.
“You’re a pretty enough girl,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and gentle. “No breasts or hips to speak of, but fair skinned and bright eyed. And you did a fine job of arranging your hair to hide your baldness.”
A heavy sense of uneasiness flooded Marsailli’s body. The look in his eyes was dark and expectant, and a strange smile curved his thin lips. She stiffened in his hold, resisting a powerful urge to leap away, to run as far and as fast as she could.
“Would you prefer to serve me in my bed, little dove?” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “That might be a better use of your talents.”
Marsailli swallowed a mouthful of sour spit. Serve him in his bed? Even without knowing exactly what that meant, she knew the suggestion was horribly inappropriate. A woman did not lie with a man outside of wedlock—and it was quite clear he wasn’t offering to wed her. “Nay,” she said, choking on the word. “I’d prefer to cook.”
His smile vanished. He stared at her lips for a long moment, all suggestion of warmth and kindness gone. “So be it. Return to your cauldron. But disappoint me with your offerings again and your desires will bend to mine.” He released her and walked away.
Marsailli breathed a deep sigh of relief.
She still had no idea how she would produce a meal that would satisfy Giric, but she was happier dealing with that problem than resisting the man’s troubling interest in her lips. If she could learn a few simple recipes, she might be able to keep him at bay. The challenge was finding those recipes. She slowly scanned the camp, eyeing the faces of the Bear’s men one by one. Someone had done the cooking before she was assigned the duty. But who?
She rubbed her aching right knee.
Was it the barrel-chested soldier with the missing thumb? He’d shown her how to start a fire and where to find the cauldron and cooking utensils. Or perhaps the fair-haired lad with the large front teeth? He’d helped her sort through the selection of herbs and spices, ably identifying each by its smell. Or perhaps it was the tall, thin man with the balding pate and shoulder-length dark hair? She regularly found him spying upon her with his arms folded over his chest and a frown upon his face—very disapproving of her every action.
The same way that he was staring at her now.
Of course, he glanced away the moment she met his gaze.
He didn’t look the least bit friendly, and she had no reason to believe that he would help her, but she had to start somewhere. Marsailli straightened her shoulders, lifted her skirts so they wouldn’t drag in the mud, and limped across the camp toward the tall, thin man.
What did she have to fear?
Anything would be easier than facing an angry Bear.
Chapter 3
Bran unrolled the parchment map and spread it across the table. With a corked inkpot in one corner and a pewter cup in another, he held it open while he studied the thin black lines that represented the boundaries of Clackmannan. “The northwest forest, you say?”
“Aye,” Dougal said, pointing to the map. “Right here. We found a dozen Englishmen camped in a small clearing.”
“Was the thief among them?”
Dougal shook his head, his thick red beard swinging with the motion. “Which sorely disappointed the MacCurrans. There was no sign of the wretch. They now believe he entered Black Devon Burn and headed west.”
“Are they bound for Stirling, then?”
“Aye.” The constable grimaced. “I invited them to return to the manor and feast with us, but they declined. They’re keen to find their man.”
Bran resisted a smile. The departure of the MacCurrans was excellent news, but sharing his joy would be inappropriate. “And what reason did the English give for being in Clackmannan?”
“They are riding north to Fort William, but broke a cartwheel in the mud.”
Moving the inkpot and the pewter cup, Bran allowed the map to curl up. He handed Dougal the rolled parchment. “Did we offer them our assistance?”
“Of course,” said Dougal, scratching his chin beneath his beard. “But they were no interested. Said they had their own wheelwright.”
“Was there anyone of note among them?”
“I saw only soldiers, but they had several tents.”
He could ask Dougal about the man with the scar, but that would suggest he knew more than he should about the men in the forest. Better that he look for himself. Alone and discreetly. “Were it only a small party, I’d leave them to make way on their own. But twelve Englishmen? We can take no chances, not with the queen in residence. Post guards in the forest.”
“Aye, Marshal. I’ll see to it right away.” Dougal offered him a short bow and then marched off.
Bran looked up and met Lady Caitrina’s gaze across the great hall. She and another of the queen’s ladies were consulting with the two cooks, but she had been casting quick glances in his direction the entire time Dougal had been making his report. She raised a single eyebrow, and he nodded in response.
Had he believed it feasible to keep Caitrina at a distance, he would have. But he knew she would not be easily dissuaded.
Upon excusing herself to her companions, she crossed the room to his side. She walked with a natural grace and sway that held his attention every inch of the way. “What have you found out?”
“There is indeed a party of men in the forest,” he confirmed, lifting his gaze to her face. An equally entrancing view. Especially that pert little nose. “I can’t be certain it includes the man you seek, but I’ll verify that when I ride out to see for myself.”
“I’ll ride with you.”
“Absolutely not.” His stealth skills did not include hiding a lass in skirts, especially skirts of pale purple satin. Caitrina would be a beacon in the dark green of the woodland. A very lovely beacon, but a beacon just the same. “You’ll remain here in the manor, where it is safe.”
“There is only one way I’ll be convinced you have the correct man,” she said, “and that is if I see him for myself.”
“Don’t be difficult, lass. There is real danger in approaching these men.”
“I’m well aware of the risks.” She cocked her head. “But I doubt that you intend to march openly into his camp. Spying on him from a distance would seem to be the wiser course.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve no intention of bringing you along.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” she said quietly. “If I cannot confirm that the man you’ve found is the man I seek, then I’ll not return the crown.”
He sighed. How quickly he’d forgotten. Bonnie as a bluebell, to be sure, but also prickly as a gorse bush. “Fine. Accompany me if you must, but find another gown. Something less . . . obvious.”
Caitrina glanced down at her dress, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Of course,” she said. “Browns and greens would be far more suitable. I’ll make the change immediately. When do we leave?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
“We won’t wait until nightfall?”
“Nay,” he said. “Our objective is to see, and seeing in t
he dark is near impossible.”
“Our objective is also secrecy,” she pointed out. “How do you intend to leave the manor and approach the men in the forest without being seen?”
“Leave that to me.”
Her eyebrows soared. “You expect me to simply put my faith in your abilities?”
“Aye.”
“Why? Are you conveniently a woodsman in addition to being a thief?”
Bran briefly closed his eyes. As tempting as it was to bend the lass over his knee and teach her a thing or two about respect, he dared not. The great hall was full of curious eyes. Instead, he pictured the wealthy young lasses he had often charmed on the High Street in Edinburgh, and he produced a lazy smile. “You’ll discover soon enough that I’m a very capable man, lass.”
Her gaze met his, and a rosy bloom spread across her cheeks.
The color softened her features in an unexpected way—fine and delicate became warm and sensual. Less sharply cut diamond and more sultry pink pearl. “Go,” he said, pleased with his efforts. “When you’re ready, meet me at the postern gate.”
She hesitated, clearly not used to being dismissed.
“Go,” he repeated. “We must make the most of the day.”
Perhaps it was the suggestion of passing time, but she finally let go of her misgivings and nodded. “The postern gate,” she confirmed. Then she headed for the stairs.
Bran watched her until the last bit of purple satin had disappeared into the stairwell. Now all he had to do was find a way to secrete the lady out of the manor. Slipping out on his own would have been easy enough, but Caitrina would pose a challenge. She was hardly the sort of lass who could move about without drawing notice, even if she rid herself of the brightly colored gown.
He tapped a finger on his chin.
Unless, of course, she wasn’t a lass.
* * *
Caitrina dug through the chest until she found the gown she was looking for: a dark green kirtle with a brocade bodice of brown and cream. Much more subtle than purple. She shook out the gown and laid it on the bed. “This is the one,” she said to one of the young maids who had accompanied them to Clackmannan.
