by Rowan Keats
She looked at him with eyes that were dark pools in her oval face. “Is that it, then?”
He released her hands and stepped back. “Aye.”
A frown creased her brow. “I didn’t find that nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped. My belly is quivering like I am on the brink of experiencing some momentous event. And my blood is hot and hungry with something I cannot name.”
That made two of them. The only difference was that he could name the hunger.
“Those are discoveries to be made on another day. ’Tis time to get some rest. Tomorrow will come all too soon, and I must yet determine a way to free your sister.”
She nodded slowly, but made no effort to retire.
“Go, lass,” he urged, a little more forcefully. His willpower was ebbing. If she didn’t go soon, he might rethink his decision to let her escape.
Her lips pressed against his in a fleeting kiss. “Tomorrow, then.”
His fists clenched at his side. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.
She darted off, finally, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts. Dark, delicious thoughts in which he was able to do all the sweetly depraved things to Caitrina that time and his honor would never allow.
Chapter 6
Caitrina rose the next morning bleary eyed and unrefreshed. She had not slept well. After her midnight tryst in the great hall, it had taken her an age to fall asleep. And when slumber had finally claimed her, her dreams had been filled with lusty images of Bran kissing every part of her naked body. The night had been far from restful.
Normally, she was a cheery sort in the morning, rising before dawn and dressing before the others awoke. Today, it was the hushed chatter of the other ladies that prodded her eyes to open. Her maid looked at her with concerned eyes as Caitrina slid her feet to the floor and stood.
“Are you feeling poorly?” she asked.
“Nay,” Caitrina answered, forcing a smile.
“Good,” the girl said quietly, as she helped Caitrina remove her night rail and don a fresh sark and gown. “I was fearful that you had the same illness as the queen. She looked much as you do when she woke during the night. But she was soon shivering and crying out for more blankets.”
Caitrina’s gaze flew to the queen’s bed. Her Grace’s physician, Chevalier Rodan, was at her side, applying leeches to her bare arms and neck. “A fever?”
The maid nodded. “And a dry cough.”
Caitrina slipped her feet into her silk shoes and waited impatiently for the maid to brush her hair. When the ribbons were finally tied, she scurried across the room to the queen’s bed. Yolande lay limply on her pillow, her eyes closed.
“Is there aught that I can do?” she asked Gisele.
The French noblewoman turned to her with a frown. “Several of the other ladies have adjourned to the chapel with the bishop. He has agreed to hear their prayers. You may join them, if you wish.”
Caitrina nodded. But she could not simply leave her cousin, even when she was in the good care of her physician. She edged a wee bit closer to the bed and took hold of Yolande’s hand. Giving the young queen’s fingers a light squeeze, she leaned in close and whispered, “Retrouver la santé, ma belle.”
Then she stepped back.
Although the queen could not see her, Caitrina offered her a respectful curtsy and then turned and left. She was expecting the great hall to be hushed out of respect for the queen’s illness, but instead it was a hive of busy activity. Soldiers were rushing about, gathering weapons and shields, and donning mail with the help of their squires.
Bran was nowhere in sight, but the constable stood by the hearth giving orders.
“I want every able man attired and ready in the close anon,” Dougal barked, his bushy red eyebrows angled sharply.
She crossed to his side. “May I ask what’s going on?”
“Nothing that need concern you, my lady.”
Caitrina glanced at the two guards positioned at the bottom of the stairs, both armed with poleaxes. They had not been there the night before. “I think anything that poses a risk to the queen concerns me, Constable.”
His lips flattened into a thin line. Then, with a heavy sigh, he nodded. “Several of my men were slain during the night. In a clearing northwest of here.”
Caitrina’s heart skipped a beat. Northwest? Was that not where Giric and his men were camped? “Do you speak of the two men posted in the English camp?”
His frown deepened. “Aye.”
An ice-cold chill ran down Caitrina’s spine. Dear god. If the two men guarding Marsailli had been slain— “What of the lass who was held there? Is she safe?”
Dougal’s eyebrows nearly knit together under the force of his frown. “How did it come to your attention that I had men posted in the English camp? They were assigned there long after sundown.”
“The marshal told me,” she said grimly, well aware that she was tarnishing her reputation with every word. The only time that Bran could have told her was late at night, when respectable ladies were long abed. But her reputation was meaningless in the face of Marsailli’s danger. “Where is the girl, Constable?”
“Gone,” he admitted. “Along with all of the English soldiers. They’ve disappeared.”
A wave of nausea rolled over Caitrina, and she closed her eyes to compose herself. It was the very worst of her imaginings. Giric had Marsailli firmly in his clutches once more, and he could punish her any way he saw fit.
“I’ve not the time to address your concerns further,” Dougal said, with surprising kindness. “I must see to the manor defenses.”
Caitrina opened her eyes and nodded.
As he turned to march off, she caught his sleeve. “Where is Marshal Gordon?”
“In the forest,” he said. “It was he who found the bodies of my men, shortly before daybreak. He’s taken my best tracker with him on the hunt for the Sassenachs.” He spit the word “Sassenachs” as if it were a vile epithet.
“He went out with just one guard?”
Dougal smiled faintly. “Aye, but have no fear, my lady. The man he’s with is a very capable fellow. The best with a dirk I’ve ever seen.”
As he walked away, Caitrina grimaced. The best he’d ever seen might not be good enough. The assassin who had attempted to carve Giric’s throat had likely been a talented knife handler, as well. But, in truth, it mattered naught. Bran was already beyond her reach. She would have to pray that he didn’t run afoul of the huge Englishman.
Just as she would have to pray that Giric’s anger had been assuaged by the death of the two Scottish guards. She buried her face in her hands briefly. Only then could there be any hope for Marsailli’s safety, because he was not a man to show mercy.
Aware that the gillies must be eyeing her with curiosity, she straightened her shoulders, pasted on a neutral face, and headed for the kitchens. Although prayer was a fine endeavor, good deeds were a better means of keeping the devil at bay. If the queen was suffering from a fever and a dry cough, a cool broth might be just the thing to set her humors aright.
And even if it wasn’t, the task would give her less time to worry.
She pushed open the big oak door and descended the steps to the close. Dougal’s archers were thick upon the walls—all facing outward, quivers full, eyes alert. Another dozen men stood at the ready in the courtyard, but the bulk of the soldiers had marched out the front gate. As Caitrina made her way to the kitchens, the guards closed the gate and laid a heavy timber bar across the latches.
With the gateway sealed, Caitrina had little fear for the queen. Giric’s men numbered only a dozen, and the queen’s garde du corps was made up of seasoned warriors. Combined with the soldiers Dougal had left behind, Her Grace was well protected.
She ducked into the kitchen, a small square room with a large hearth at one end and a work table in the middle. On
one side of the room, the baker and his apprentices were busy kneading, rolling, and baking fresh loaves of bread. On the other, the two cooks were doing silent battle, each with his own small group of gillies. One was preparing venison, the other a trio of fat fall hares. Caitrina could tell by the vivid flush on Master Andre’s cheeks and by the glares the little man kept shooting over his shoulder that he was very unhappy.
“What goes on here?” she demanded.
Master Andre spun around and, upon recognizing her, cast a triumphant smile at the other cook. “See? I told you le lapin was an unacceptable choice. A queen does not eat rodents.”
The other cook scowled. “Did she say that, you bloody French capon?”
“You dare to call me a castrated cock?” Andre’s cheeks flushed an even deeper scarlet. He lifted the large, sharp blade in his hand. “You, whose eyes are like currants in a bowl of suet? Cochon!”
Caitrina quickly stepped between the two men. “Cease.”
Although his eyes glittered and his arm shook with rage, Andre subsided. The other cook was less accommodating. He came toe-to-toe with Caitrina and pointed over her shoulder. “Let me at that wee bastard,” he snarled. “He’s been baiting me for days.”
She met his gaze evenly. “Are you aware, Mr. Murtagh, that using the term ‘bastard’ in the presence of a lady is inappropriate?”
His gaze dropped to his toes. “Aye. My apologies.”
“Accepted,” she said. “Now, what exactly is the problem here?”
“This is my kitchen,” he said hotly. “And I know what stores and what spices we have available.” He pointed to Andre. “He does not.”
“True,” she said, offering him a smile. “But he knows the queen’s tastes. Can not the two of you work together? Surely that would produce the best results?”
Murtagh wrinkled his nose, clearly not enthused by that option.
“Do not make me seek out the marshal, Mr. Murtagh. I doubt his decision on who rules this kitchen while the queen is in residence would go in your favor.”
He blanched.
Apparently, Bran had already shared words with the cook on this subject. Words that closely matched her own. She smiled. Even in his absence, he supported her.
“Now,” she said. “If you can put aside your differences, I would like you to produce a broth for Her Grace. It must be cold, with no lumps, and both of you must taste it and agree that it is worthy of the queen.”
She stared at Murtagh until he nodded. Then she turned to Andre. He nodded, too.
“Perfect. Bring it to me promptly, as soon as it is ready.”
* * *
Bran and young Robbie tracked Giric and his men for hours without success. The English soldiers had traveled light, leaving behind the wagon and the tents, taking only what they could pack on the horses. They had followed the burn in an easterly direction for quite some time, then cut across Clackmannan lands toward the northern boundary. Robbie did a fine job of picking up their trail until they entered a deep burn at the base of a crag. Where the waters ran rough, all evidence of the soldiers’ passing was lost, and although they searched the shoreline, they could find no sign of exit.
“Did they swim?” Bran asked.
The lad lifted his gaze from the turbulent eddies. “They must have.”
Bran watched a waterlogged branch shoot down the burn. The water here ran swift and deep, swirling and burbling as it sluiced between the rocks. It hardly seemed possible that eleven men on horseback, plus one lass, could have made the journey downstream in safety. But what other explanation could there be?
“Then I suppose we must follow.”
Robbie shook his head. “I cannot swim.”
Neither could Bran. It had never been a concern before today. He stared into the foam-flecked water. Danger lurked in those depths, without a doubt. But if he didn’t make an attempt, how would he face Caitrina? How would he explain that he’d given up the search for her sister?
“Wait for me here,” he told Robbie. “I’ll return anon.”
He urged his horse forward. The edge of the burn was rocky and narrow, quickly dropping off into murky oblivion, but his mount faithfully followed his guidance. Until another branch came sailing down the burn and whacked the horse’s foreleg. Then it snorted and fought the bridle.
Bran soothed the animal with quiet words of encouragement that he did not believe. “Easy, laddie. All will be well.”
The stallion snorted one last time and then stepped forward. One pace. Then two. The water rose steadily higher, lapping at the toes of Bran’s boots. He wrapped the reins around his fists and held on tightly. Every step was shaky, and the cold chill of the burn eventually crested the top of his boots and filled them, but the journey was not as precarious as he’d feared. Assuming the horse could swim, he should arrive downstream cold and wet, but in one piece.
Or so he thought. But with the next step, disaster struck.
The horse completely lost its footing, tumbling into the water and sinking beneath the surface. Bran was swept from the saddle and carried away by the swift current. Frigid water filled his nose and mouth, choking him, and he struggled for breath. The only thing that saved him was the tight hold he had on the reins. The horse’s head burst into the air, its eyes wild and wide. It whinnied in shrill panic, but immediately struck out for the shore, pulling Bran along.
As he bobbed uncontrollably, spun by the eddies in the current, he lost all sense of time and distance. His throat was raw, his chest tight. All he knew for certain was the feel of wet leather wrapped around his hands.
Strangely, as he prepared to die, he did not give any thought to the long, eventful years he had spent in Edinburgh. To the many friends and companions who’d shared his life. Instead, he called an image of Caitrina’s face to mind—the pale oval of her face, the bright sparkle of her eyes, the full lips of her mouth, all framed by her glorious dark hair.
It was a sweet image to take to his watery grave.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the wild ride was over. He felt a sharp yank on the reins, and then his boot struck a rock—a slimy, growth-covered rock, but most definitely a rock. And he was grateful for that slime when the horse began to drag him over the rocks. First his hip, then his elbow took a sharp whack against a boulder. Although it was tempting to let go of the reins, he did not. Not until the water was shallow enough for him to push his head free and take a sweet, dry gulp of air. Then he unraveled his hands and dragged himself to the shore, where he collapsed, utterly weary.
Lying on his back, drawing in slow, deep breaths, he stared up at the sky.
Never the sort to depend on anyone but himself for life’s fortunes, he nonetheless found himself thanking the lord almighty. It was surely a miracle that he’d made it to shore. Pushing to his elbows, he looked around. His horse had gone no farther than a choice field of grass. Saddle askew and soaking wet, it grazed nonchalantly a few feet away. Rowan trees and blackthorn bushes grew along the rocky edge of the burn, their leaves the tired green of late October.
Even here, there was no sign of Giric and his party.
His treacherous adventure had been for naught. The canny Englishman had managed to make good his escape, and Bran would be forced to face Caitrina with the unpleasant fact that he’d lost Marsailli.
He got to his feet. His boots were ruined, but they were stolen anyway, so he could hardly bemoan their loss. It was his hands that had suffered the worst. The wet leather had rubbed his palms raw and the rocks had ripped several deep gouges across his knuckles. A small price to pay for his life, however.
Whistling softly, he called his horse.
The great beast pricked his ears, but did not stop eating. Having saved Bran’s life, it certainly deserved a fine meal, so Bran slowly crossed the field to the horse, his feet squishing in the wet boots. As he neared, the stallion lifted it
s head and looked at him, its eyes bulging slightly. It seemed to be considering a quick jump sideways or a flee into the brush, so Bran halted and spoke gently to it.
“There’s a good lad,” he said. “You’re a fine swimmer, you are. Saved us both, and I’m grateful. But now we must be away back to the manor.”
The horse settled, and Bran was able to approach and reposition the saddle.
When the trappings were once again snug and well fitting, he leapt upon the horse’s back and headed upstream. It took him well past midday to circle the huge slate crag and make his way to the spot where he’d left Robbie. As his mount picked its way over the rocks, Bran scanned the outcrop for any sign of Giric and his men, but all was quiet.
Slate was a common roofing material, valued for its hardiness and its ability to resist fire. The manor at Clackmannan had a fine roof fashioned from dull gray slate, but this stone was blue-green in color, quite vividly so down by the water’s edge. Several of the finer houses in Edinburgh had slate roofs with distinct colors, some from as far away as Ballachulish, but he’d never seen a roof quite this shade.
Bran ducked under the low branch of an elm tree and came upon Robbie lounging against a moss-covered fallen log. The lad did not look surprised to see him.
He leapt to his feet and dusted off his arse. “Did you spy them?”
“Nay,” Bran said. “They’re well and truly gone.”
Robbie nodded. “Whilst you were abroad, I searched the shore high and low in both directions and found nary a flash nor an overturned stone. ’Tis like the washerwoman made off with them.”
The washerwoman was one of the fairy folk—a hag typically found knee deep in a burn, washing blood from the grave clothes of men about to die. Bran gave no credence to such tales, but neither did he have an explanation for Giric’s disappearance. So he simply shrugged.
“Mount your horse,” he said. “Let’s away to the manor.”
It was a long journey over rolling braes, through trees clinging to the last of their fall leaves, and across windswept moors. Holding the reins loosely in his battered hands, Bran used his knees to guide the horse. He was seriously considering stealing the valiant beast—a braver, more well-trained steed would be difficult to find—when they topped the ridge overlooking the manor. It was obvious in an instant that the manor was still on high alert. Dougal’s men had surrounded the village, and Bran and Robbie were met by armed soldiers long before they reached the manor walls.
