What a Lass Wants

by Rowan Keats

  “We’re not completely without resources,” he said. “I had Dougal post guards in the woods around the camp. They have orders to keep their distance, but if we run into trouble, they’ll be within easy reach.”

  That was reassuring. But it was hardly a plan. “Will we seek a high point from which to spy upon the camp?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “When will you decide?” she asked, frowning.

  “I’ll know when I get there.”

  Caitrina clenched her fingers on his arms. He had no idea what sort of monster they were up against. “Stop. That simply won’t do. We cannot approach this man unprepared.”

  Bran tugged on the reins and brought the horse to a halt. He twisted in the saddle and favored her with a narrow-eyed look that instantly wilted her resolve. “Lass, I’ve expended great effort to bring you this far. But make no mistake. I’ll not hesitate to unhorse you right here if you insist on challenging me further.”

  Caitrina swallowed tightly.

  He would do it; the chill in his eyes made that very clear. Having come this far, being so close to seeing Marsailli, she was left with no option. Bran might well be underestimating Giric, but it made no difference. She had to go on. Dropping her gaze, she said demurely, “I understand.”

  “Good.” He settled back into the saddle and urged the horse forward. “It’s not much longer now. I see one of Dougal’s men in the trees up ahead.”

  Caitrina peered around his shoulder. “How do you know it’s one of Dougal’s men?”

  He pointed. “They all wear a white band painted with a black cross tied about their right arm.”

  “That’s quite inventive.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Pull your brat close and cease your blether now, lass. I’ll do the talking to the guard.”

  Caitrina did as he bade. She did not entirely cover her face—that would have raised the suspicions of the guard—but she made sure that her hair and her rather feminine chin were hidden in the folds of the cloth. Her belly was knotted, but she did her best to sit on the horse with a casual confidence as they rode up to the guard.

  * * *

  Dougal’s man was a grizzled fellow, bowed slightly by his advancing years. Bran did not recognize him, and judging by the suspicious frown he wore as they approached, the guard knew naught of him, either.

  “Latha math,” he greeted the old man in Gaelic.

  The wariness in the guard’s eyes eased. “A good day to you, as well.”

  “I’m Marshal Gordon,” Bran said. “Late of Feldrinny. Did Dougal mention me to you?”

  “Aye, he did,” responded the old man. “But he said naught of you traveling in this direction.” His gaze slid over Bran’s shoulder. “Nor did he say anything aboot this young laddie.”

  “The lad is just a stable hand I’ve brought to care for my horse,” Bran said dismissively. “My aim is to take a closer look at our English visitors. Their tale of a broken wheel rings false to me.”

  The guard’s gaze lingered on Caitrina for a moment before returning to Bran. “Should we hasten them away, then?”

  “Not the now,” said Bran. “But keep your sword sharp and your wits about you. With the queen at Clackmannan, we must be especially diligent.”

  “True enough.”

  “I’ll pass this way on my return and relay all that I discover.” And with that, Bran nodded his good-bye and prodded his horse into a walk. When they were far enough away that he was confident the guard could not overhear, he said to Caitrina, “He’s a canny old fellow. I’m not certain he believes you are a lad.”

  “Will he report my presence to Dougal, do you think?”

  “Not likely,” he assured her. “But if he does, his description of you will be sorely lacking.”

  She relaxed against his back, both hands loosely clasped about his middle. There was plenty of linen padding between them to disguise her shape, but the soft press of her face and the warmth of her breaths through his lèine stirred him with remarkable ease. The fault lay with his imagination. One solitary moment in the stables had done him in. Despite his determined efforts to think of something else, the vision of her body draped in nothing but a sark and trews kept resurfacing. He’d never seen a lass so beautiful, so sweetly curved, so unaware of her own charms.

  He closed his eyes.

  Why did he insist on torturing himself? Nothing could happen between Lady Caitrina and himself. She was a noblewoman and he was a common thief. No amount of hard work or ingenuity would change that. And he had plans that did not include a woman at his side. Dangerous plans. Plans that he could execute only once he had the crown.

  Bran took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and reined in the horse. “We walk from here.”

  Caitrina stared at him as he dismounted. “Are we close?”

  “Another three hundred paces, mayhap a bit farther.”

  “That’s yet a distance. Why would we travel afoot?”

  He jingled the bridle. “Sounds carry all too well in the forest. Unless our desire is to announce our arrival, we must leave the horse behind.”

  “Oh.” She allowed him to help her down, sliding into his arms with a faint blush and quick smile. “I hope my boots are up to the task.”

  He glanced at her feet. The boots were well made—the leather smooth and supple, and the stitches evenly placed. They probably cost more than he pocketed in a week. “They’ll do.”

  Shaking his head at the direction of his thoughts, he led the way between the trees. A thick layer of moss covered every root and rock along their path, ensuring a muted passage. Bran showed Caitrina how easily the moss could be disturbed, and encouraged her to place her boots gently and carefully. As his father had been fond of saying, no sense leaving a trail if one could be avoided.

  Bran held up his hand, halting their progress briefly to allow a family of woodland grouse to scurry by. Curious. He hadn’t thought about his da in quite some time. He’d believed the man’s influence buried with his body. But here in the countryside, where they’d lived as bandits for several years, old memories were sprouting with a rather relentless prevalence.

  Gordon MacLean had been the bane of his existence.

  If not for his witless da, his mother and his brother might now be alive. They might yet be dwelling on MacLean land, serving the laird and raising honest families. Instead, his maither had been forced to watch her husband swing upon the gibbet, her heart broken, and his brother had died in gaol.

  But his da had taught him a few very useful lessons.

  Like the proper way to approach a camp to avoid making the horses restless. And how to disarm a guard swiftly and silently.

  “Stay here,” he whispered to Caitrina as they halted once more. “I’ll return anon.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just darted through the trees toward the helmeted Englishman patrolling the woods in front of him. A beefy fellow with arms like tree trunks. But even the largest man can fall, if taken by surprise. And Bran was an expert in surprise.

  He slid up behind the hapless guard, wrapped an arm around the man’s throat, and with a tight hold cut off his air. The man thrashed a bit, but Bran held him firm until the flailing slowed and then ceased entirely. As the guard went limp, Bran lowered him gently to the ground and allowed him to breathe once more. Thievery could cost you a hand if you were caught, but murder meant the gibbet.

  He bound and gagged the guard, then headed back to the spot where he’d left Caitrina.

  To his dismay, she was no longer there. He scanned the woods left and right but could see no sign of her. A few bent fern fronds told him where she’d gone, however. Straight toward the camp.

  Bollocks.

  Chapter 4

  Caitrina had every intention of following Bran’s directive until she caught a glimpse of several colored ten
ts through the trees. Fluttering sheets of blue and green stripes. There was obviously a clearing up ahead—quite possibly the very place where Giric was holding Marsailli. The woolen brat she wore was a loose weave of green and brown. If she kept to the forest and moved carefully the way Bran had taught her, perhaps she could peer into the camp and find her sister.

  She chewed her lip and stared into the woods where Bran had disappeared.

  He had told her to stay here. No doubt for her own safety.

  But wouldn’t it be best to catch that first sight of Marsailli while she was alone? If she waited until Bran returned, he might glean the personal connection she had to the English soldiers—a disaster by all accounts. She would lose her leverage over him, and with it, his aid.

  Drawing the brat tightly around her shoulders, Caitrina ducked under the arching branch of a holly bush and made for the clearing. If she was quick, she might make it back before Bran realized she had gone. Moving swiftly and hugging the trees for protection, she approached the edge of the forest. The clearing was long and narrow, with a small burn running through the middle. Four tents were pitched on the west side of the stream where the ground was flatter, the blue one directly in front of her. Unfortunately, it blocked her view of the campfire, which was in the center, based on the thin ribbons of greasy smoke rising into the cloudy afternoon sky. Even when she stood on the tips of her toes, she could see only three men, none of them Giric. Two were chopping wood for the fire and stacking split wedges. A third was seated on a fallen log avidly cleaning mud from his boots. If there were others, they must be gathered around the fire.

  She sighed.

  To have a hope of spotting her sister, she needed a better viewpoint. Like the top of that boulder twenty paces to her right. It was partially hidden behind a drooping pine bough, so she wouldn’t risk discovery should one of the soldiers look up.

  Caitrina scrambled through the brush toward the rock. There were a number of smaller rocks at the base of the boulder, and she used them to help her reach the top. She was just about to sweep aside the pine bough and take a peek at the camp when a hand grabbed her ankle. She only barely restrained a shriek.

  “What do we have here?”

  It was one of the soldiers, a tall, gangly fellow with a scattering of blemishes across his chin.

  She kicked at him, determined to get free. If Giric found her here, there was no telling what he would do. But despite his youthful appearance, the soldier had a manly grip. He yanked her to her rump and then pulled her down from the rock. Bitter tears sprang into Caitrina’s eyes.

  Satan’s beard. Her impatience had ruined everything.

  Why hadn’t she waited for Bran?

  The soldier grabbed a fistful of her sark and began to drag her through the bracken. “The Bear ain’t too fond of stinkin’ Scots,” he said. “You’d best pray he’s in a merciful mood.”

  Nothing Caitrina did gained her freedom—not kicking, not scratching, not biting. The soldier did not seem to care that her nails and teeth dug into his flesh; he continued on his merry way with a smile on his face. No doubt imagining a pleasant reward for capturing a spy.

  Caitrina was just about to slump with despair when a rock the size of a small neep hit the lad neatly in the temple, and he fell headfirst into the bracken with little more than a sigh. She tore free of his limp grip and scrambled back into the trees, where she came face-to-face with a rather stony-eyed Bran.

  “I know,” she said morosely. “I’m a fool.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and continued to stare at her.

  “I made a grievous error in not minding your direction, and I sincerely beg your pardon,” she said. He still did not look appeased, so she added, “I’ll not do it again.”

  “Did he harm you?”

  “Nay.” A wee lie—her arse hurt like the devil—but it eased the icy glare in Bran’s eyes.

  He nodded sharply, then pointed to the boulder. “Good. Since you were so determined to climb, let us take advantage of your eagerness. Up you go.”

  Her bruised rump protested as she clambered back atop the boulder, but she dared not complain. “You’re a very good shot with a rock. Where did you learn such a skill?”

  “On the streets of Edinburgh.”

  She tried to image how or when he might have thrown a rock in town, but failed. Thieves apparently led interesting lives. “Why did you not slay him?”

  He shrugged. “Never draw your dirk when a blow will do it. What can you see?”

  Caitrina peered between the long needles of the pine tree. As she had guessed, the bulk of the soldiers were seated around the fire, eating soup from wooden bowls and quaffing horns of ale. “A dozen men in all, most of them half in their cups.”

  “Can you spy the man you seek?”

  She could not. None of the men in sight had a misshapen ear and a scar across his cheek. But what did it matter? The soldier had mentioned the Bear by name—this was definitely Giric’s camp. And if she was not mistaken, the slim woman bent over the cooking cauldron was none other than Marsailli. Caitrina smiled.

  “Aye,” she said. “The one I seek is standing right before my eyes.”

  “Excellent,” Bran said. “Then let us return to the manor. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. It is now time for you to fulfill yours.”

  Her heart sank. It was true. He’d met his obligation—he was due his prize.

  But she would not be satisfied until Marsailli was free. Until she could be certain her sister was beyond Giric’s grasp. How was she to accomplish that? Caitrina watched the woman by the fire chat briefly with a tall, thin man with a balding pate and then limp across the muddy field to the green-striped tent. It was definitely Marsailli. The gentle tilt of her head, the way she lifted her skirts as she moved, and the curl of her nut-brown locks were all familiar. But she was hurt—she favored her right side as she walked.

  A bittersweet ache filled her chest.

  Seeing her sister, even from a distance, was a joy beyond imagining, but witnessing her pain was unbearable. She had to set Marsailli free. And soon. The task would not be an easy one, however. The tent she had entered backed onto the burn, and the only way to reach it was straight through the camp—right past all the guards.

  With a grimace, Caitrina turned away from the view and joined Bran at the base of the boulder. She’d been so sure that a route to success would become obvious once she saw the layout of the camp. But she had nothing. Bran offered his hand as they stepped over a rotting log and she slid her fingers into his warm palm. Not even an unwilling ally. Bran would disappear the moment she handed over the crown. Now that the MacCurrans had ridden for Stirling, he had no reason to remain.

  “What will you do with the crown once you have it?” she asked.

  He glanced at her. “What does it matter?”

  “I’m simply curious.”

  “You’ve no need to know,” he cautioned her. “And as you can personally attest, curiosity can sometimes lead you to dangerous places.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Do you threaten me?”

  He tossed her one of his charming smiles, and she melted a little. “Nay. But the less you know of me and my troubles, the safer you’ll be from those who might come looking for truths.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “But would I be off the mark to suggest your troubles are the sort that are influenced by large quantities of coin?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  But it was. She needed to find some way to keep her ally-cum-thief in her pocket. Coin had seemed an obvious enticement, but he had barely blinked at her broad hint. If Bran was not driven by greed, then what was he driven by?

  They reached the horse, and Bran gave her a leg up.

  The sun had finally broken through the clouds and bright splashes of sunlight littered the forest floor
around them. As he checked the cinch on the saddle, Caitrina studied the play of light on his golden hair. “The MacCurrans are Highlanders,” she said thoughtfully. “I believe their clan seat is deep within the Red Mountains. The crown must hold great meaning for them if they chased you this far south in an effort to reclaim it.”

  Bran lifted his gaze. His expression was calm, but there was an unusual stillness to him that told her she had hit the mark. “Wounded pride,” he said with a shrug. “They’ll give up soon enough.”

  “I am acquainted with the Lady of Dunstoras, Isabail,” Caitrina said. “I attended her wedding to Andrew Macintosh a number of years ago.”

  “She’s wed to Aiden MacCurran now.”

  “So I’ve heard.” She waited until he had gained the saddle before adding, “I’ve been quite remiss in sending her my good wishes. I must remedy that.”

  He said nothing, just urged the horse into motion and followed their trail back to the old guard. “I saw no sign of a wheelwright,” he informed the gray-haired man. “The cart is still stuck in the mud.”

  “So they might be here a while yet.”

  “Aye. Give them a day or two to settle their own affairs. If they’ve made no progress by then, send someone to repair the wheel.” Bran sat back in the saddle. “You should be aware that we ran into a spot of trouble.”

  The old guard frowned. “What sort of trouble?”

  Bran explained what had happened, sticking very close to the truth. “The young Sassenach will have a wee sore head come morn. If they complain about a lack of hospitality,” he said, smiling, “fetch me. I’d be pleased to address their concerns.”

  Dougal’s man snorted. “Serves the bloody fool right.”

  “The lad here,” Bran nodded over his shoulder, “will meet the rewards of his poor judgment back at the manor. I’ll make certain he can’t sit for a day.”

  The old man’s gaze met Caitrina’s over the edge of her brat. “As it should be, I suppose.”