What a Lass Wants

by Rowan Keats

  The lass fingered the dark material with a frown. “Are you certain, my lady? A trifle dull this is, for a day gown.”

  “It is indeed,” Caitrina agreed. Not that she’d always thought so—it had been one of her favorites back in Atholl, before she’d been chosen as a lady-in-waiting. There had been few occasions to wear satin and lace there, especially after her maither took ill. A much simpler time, requiring much simpler attire. “But if I’m to venture into the cellars, then I’ll not risk one of my better gowns.”

  The maid unlaced Caitrina’s purple gown and tugged it gently over her head, taking care not to muss her braided hair. “And why must a lady enter the cellars?”

  “To find furniture for the nursery.” Caitrina ducked into the dark green gown and helped the maid smooth the material over her white linen sark. “The queen has commissioned the master carpenter to craft an oak creidle worthy of a prince, but there’ll not be time to hew everything we will require. I’ve been assured there are numerous items in the storerooms below the manor that might prove suitable.”

  The maid wrinkled her nose. “May I suggest, then, that you don boots instead of slippers? There’ll be all manner of dust and dirt below the stairs.”

  “A fine idea.” And just what she would need for her ride into the forest.

  But she had to make the exchange swiftly—left to his own, Marshal Gordon might depart without her. He wasn’t a real marshal, after all. He was a thief. A contemptible wretch. How could she have any faith that he would honor his word? Caitrina waited impatiently for the maid to lace up her boots and then scurried downstairs.

  The postern gate was a narrow wooden egress behind the stables. It was used mostly by the huntsmen and the gardeners to perform work outside the manor walls, but they typically left at first light and returned at sunset. In the middle of the day, the portal saw little movement. Indeed, when Caitrina arrived, it was closed and there was no one about.

  Not even her thief.

  She slowly pivoted, scanning every shadow. Where was he? She hadn’t entirely taken him at his word—she’d hidden the crown where he’d never think to look—but she had believed this was the easier option for him. With the constant flow of ladies and servants, entering the queen’s rooms would be a challenging feat. But what if he didn’t come? She knew roughly where the men were camped. Was she prepared to go alone?

  “Hallo, lass.”

  Caitrina spun around. Her wayward thief stood immediately behind her, holding a small bundle of cloth in his hands. How could a man living a lie look so calm and worry-free? Not a single line marred his handsome brow. “Where are the horses?”

  He smiled that smile again. The slightly crooked one that made her pulse leap and her belly tighten in anticipation. “We’ll get to the horses soon enough. First, I’ve had another think on your attire. I need you to wear these.”

  She accepted the bundle of cloth, fingering the rough-spun material. “Are these trews?”

  “Aye.”

  Her gaze shot up to meet his. “Are you mad? I cannot wear such a garment.”

  “If you want to accompany me, you must.” He nodded to the soldier visible on the wall just to their left. “The guards will think nothing of two lads departing the manor. But a lass—even one dressed in a dark gown—will be cause for comment.”

  “The comments will be far more damning when they find me in a man’s clothing.”

  His smile deepened. “Then let us not be caught.”

  “You jest,” she said. “But there is nothing amusing about being hauled before the magistrate, or muddying my reputation beyond repair.”

  The twinkle left his eyes. “I’ll not allow that fate to befall you.”

  He spoke with such confidence that she almost believed him. But unfortunate events had a cruel way of coming true. Caitrina’s fingers tightened around the coarse twill trews. Discovery was a very real risk, but not enough of a risk to walk away. Not when Marsailli’s life hung in the balance. “Fine,” she said. “Where shall I dress?”

  He pointed to the stables.

  She took a step in that direction and halted. “This is uncomfortable enough without adding to my worries. I struggle each time I call you Marshal Gordon. Can you offer me another name?”

  “Bran.”

  An uncomplicated name that was a little at odds with such a complicated man. But she liked it. “Well, Bran. Please keep the stable hands at bay while I don my disguise.”

  He nodded. “Just be swift, lass. The daylight hours are passing.”

  Caitrina found an empty corner of the stables and, with several nervous glances over her shoulder, exchanged her gown for the clothing he had given her. The attire was simple and it didn’t take long to lace up the sark and belt the trews about her waist. But the slide of the rough material between her legs and over her rump made her face burn. Even fully dressed, she felt naked. No, worse than naked—exposed. And the sark did nothing to hide her very feminine bosom.

  Hugging the wall of the stables, she made her way to the door and quietly called out to Bran, “Your plan is flawed. These clothes will fool no one.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” he said. “Step out.”

  Caitrina wanted to step outside; she truly did. Marsailli was counting on her. But the very thought of anyone spying her in this scandalous attire made her light-headed. Imagine what she must look like. A harlot, no doubt. Or some other type of fallen woman. She gripped the door frame with both hands and stared at the patch of sunlit dirt swimming just outside the entrance. “I cannot,” she admitted breathlessly.

  “You’re a truly difficult lass,” he said, marching into the stables with a scowl. “And given some of the lasses I’ve met—” He halted as he caught a look at her face. Without hesitation, he folded her into his arms. “Are you ill?”

  “Just having . . . a wee bit of trouble . . . breathing.”

  “So I see.” He pushed her head down. “Head between your knees. That’ll set things right.”

  “I’m already top over terve,” she protested. But she didn’t resist the gentle push, and to her amazement she almost immediately felt less woozy. “What a curious remedy.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “But it does the deed.”

  “How did you learn such a trick?”

  He shrugged. “My da. The first time I went to battle at his side, I very near emptied my spleen on his boots. Training in the lists does not prepare you for the moment when you must stare into the eyes of the lad you’ve impaled upon your sword.”

  It was hard to imagine him as a trembling, pale-faced young man. If his tale was true, that lad had been long lost to experience. The man who held her in his warm, unwavering embrace was anything but weak. Steadfast and secure came to mind.

  “Can you stand now?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  He released her and stepped away. “Let’s have a look at you, then.”

  Grateful for the dim interior of the stables, Caitrina straightened. “I do not look like a lad.”

  He stared at her for a long moment—such a long, uncomfortable moment that Caitrina wished she had something hard to hit him with.

  “Well?”

  “You’ve the right of it,” he said slowly. “I’d never have believed it possible, but you look more like a woman in those clothes than you do in your own.”

  A wave of heat rolled up her neck and into her cheeks. Was that a hint of admiration in his eyes? Surely not. “Then we’re in agreement,” she said, pushing past him and reaching for her gown. “I’ll wear the gown I came in.”

  “Nay,” he said. “You’ll go as a lad, or not at all.”

  Caitrina spun around to face him. “But we both agreed this disguise was a poor choice.”

  “It needs some adjustment,” he admitted.

  “Don’t be daft. No amount of
adjustment could possibly make this work.”

  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.”