What a Lass Wants

by Rowan Keats

  They left without further ado. When they had been plodding along for a while, she asked, “I trust you weren’t actually thinking to take a switch to my behind?”

  “Nay. I’ve no desire to be arrested for striking a lady.”

  “That’s good to hear. You sounded quite convincing to the guard.”

  “One of my many talents,” he said dryly.

  The horse stumbled in a rut and Caitrina slammed against Bran’s sturdy back. Only for a moment, but long enough for her to take the measure of every masculine sinew she’d glimpsed in his rooms the night before. He was the very opposite of the sort of man she should desire. A cad. A bounder. A rogue. But her body reacted to the press of his flesh without care, sending a hot sizzle to the very core of her being. There was something delightfully reassuring about his strength. He was magnificent, really. “So, when we reach the manor, you’ll just collect your prize and be on your way?”

  “Aye.”

  Caitrina tightened her grip around his waist. Well, then. There it was—he was leaving. Unless she found some way to stop him. As they left the woods and followed the path across the meadow toward the postern gate, she sighed. Cruelly, she could think of no other option but to betray him. “What if I choose not to relinquish the crown?”

  “You won’t make that mistake.”

  A shiver ran down her spine. His response was icy cool and edged with steely promise. Exactly the sort of response she might expect from a dangerous criminal. If it had been a matter of personal gain, Caitrina would have shut her mouth and pursued her cause no further. But Marsailli might even now be enduring another beating. Especially if Giric had cause to believe it was she who had spied upon the camp.

  “I’m afraid I must,” she said bravely. He wouldn’t attack her in full view of the guards on the manor walls. Nay, of course not. That would be madness. “I will only give you the crown if you help me with one more task.”

  He halted the destrier and stared at the sunlit manor for a long moment. Then he sighed heavily. “What task would that be?”

  “There is something I need to retrieve from within the English camp.”

  He twisted in his saddle. “Something? Or someone?”

  Caitrina stiffened. How had he guessed?

  “The time has come for complete honesty, Lady Caitrina. I’ve had my fill of lies. Now I want to hear the truth. All of it.”

  The whole truth? Impossible. She was a spy for King Edward. Even half-truths would condemn her as a traitor.

  Caitrina mulled over several possible stories in her head, seeking one that did not make her look like a fool or a faithless Sassenach-lover. Sadly, none of them met her requirements. And as she hemmed and hawed and debated exactly what to tell Bran, he dismounted the horse and strode off down the path toward the manor. Leaving her alone astride a massive beast that she had no hope of controlling.

  “Wait!” she cried.

  He stopped but did not turn around.

  “They are holding my sister,” she said. “Her name is Marsailli.”

  He pivoted. “And what could they possibly hope to gain by threatening your sister?”

  Caitrina’s shoulders slumped. “Details about the queen.”

  Bran marched back to her side. “Why do they do this? What is their aim?”

  “They are henchmen of Edward Longshanks,” she told him. “I do not know their precise aim, but rest assured, with Giric the Bear as their leader, they can be up to no good.”

  He frowned up at her. “Giric is the man who beat a man to death for insulting the English king?”

  “Aye.”

  “Saints be.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Why force me to help you? Why not enlist the aid of the queen’s guard?”

  “Because her guards have only one goal: to protect the queen. They care naught about Marsailli.” And the moment Giric was interrogated, he would point the finger at Caitrina. She would hang right alongside him, branded a traitor like her father. An utterly unbearable thought, especially as it would leave Marsailli alone. “And I would prefer the queen never know of my failings.”

  “As a man with many failings myself, I well understand.” Bran put a gentle hand on her leg. “Were this a different time and place, I might be persuaded to aid you. Regretfully, I must decline. I never intended to play the role of Marshal Gordon for more than a day or two. People talk, and it won’t be long before someone questions my credentials.”

  “But without your help, I have no hope of freeing Marsailli.”

  He let his hand drop. “My apologies. I am not the man you need.”

  “Please,” she begged.

  “Nay,” he said, taking a step back. “You must find another ally.”

  His reasons for walking away were logical, full of wisdom even. But Caitrina could not accept his decision, not if it meant she would be forced to steal the queen’s babe. Not if it meant Marsailli had to suffer. She straightened her shoulders. “Then you will forfeit the crown.”

  He smiled. “I am a thief, my lady. I make my living snatching items from unwilling hands. You may think you’ve found a clever hiding spot, but I assure you, by this hour tomorrow, I’ll have it safely tucked in my pouch.”

  The unshakable confidence in his eyes deflated her. “Why did you agree to find the camp, if you were so certain you could reclaim the crown?”

  His smile turned rueful. “I’m easily swayed by a pretty smile.”

  “Not any longer, it would seem.”

  He shrugged. “All good things must come to an end.”

  “Indeed,” she said silkily. “Including the politeness of our banter. The gloves have come off, as they say in the lists. If the crown is not incentive enough to keep you at my side, then perhaps this will be: Unless I have your pledge of aid, I will send a messenger to Stirling the moment I return to the manor. The castle is less than a day’s ride away. I’m certain the MacCurrans will make haste to Clackmannan and apprehend you—before you can locate your precious crown.”

  * * *

  Bran folded his arms over his chest. He should be angry that his bonnie young lassie was once again attempting to coerce him. Especially since Wulf MacCurran had pledged to separate Bran’s head from his shoulders if he ever dared to steal from Dunstoras. But despite the genuine concern he had regarding the MacCurrans’ return, he could summon only a mild amusement. “You run a great risk telling me of your intent before you are safely within the walls.”

  “You’ll not harm me.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “You think not?”

  “Nay,” she said. “Spilling blood is not in your nature. If it were, that English guard we encountered would be lying in the sod. Instead, he’s merely nursing a lump on the head.”

  “I don’t have to spill blood to harm you.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Do your worst. Nothing short of a mortal injury will stop me from sending that messenger.”

  He glared at her for a long moment, trying his damnedest to cower her. But her bright red cheeks and bristling posture won him over. She might be tiny, but she was definitely fierce. A grin broke free. “I admire a woman of determination. Fine. I will stay an additional sennight—but no longer. If Marshal Finlay returns from Oban to find me masquerading as a nobleman, I’ll be tossed in the oubliette.”

  Caitrina sighed. “That’s fair. Thank you.”

  He gathered up the reins and vaulted back into the saddle. They rode in silence up to the open postern gate, both lost in their thoughts. As Bran ducked under the stone arch, he asked, “Did you happen to note the tent your sister was residing within?”

  “The green-striped one next to the burn.”

  “Good,” he said. “We’ll return to the camp tonight and determine our best course of action.”

  She stiffened against his back. “It can’t be tonight. My maid beli
eves I’ve spent all day in the cellars looking for goods to appoint the nursery. I cannot show up empty-handed.”

  Bran resisted a snort. Empty-handed? She was hardly that. Caitrina’s hands were splayed across his belly in a most disturbing way. He felt the play of her fingers with every breath he took. “Then by all means let us see what the stores have to offer.”

  He helped her slide off the horse at the rear of the stables, then continued on to the front alone. With a series of crisp demands, he made certain the stable lads were fully occupied, allowing Caitrina to change her clothing undisturbed.

  Agreeing to rescue her sister was likely a huge mistake.

  But he understood the gut-deep worry of having a sibling imprisoned. Especially a younger sibling, one with less skill and knowledge. One who looked to his elder sibling with faith and surety. Bran handed the saddle to a lad, removed the horse blanket, and began to brush the destrier with a woven straw whisk. Eight years had passed since he lost Neasan to the damp chill of Edinburgh dungeon, but the bitterness still chewed at him. He had failed his brother—left him to die, instead of risking all to free him—but saving others was still within his power.

  So he would do his best to free the girl.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caitrina sneak off toward the manor house, attired in her brown and green gown. There was an added benefit, of course: more time in the fair lady’s company. He found her charming, despite her propensity to blackmail. He grinned. Or perhaps it was her willingness to do so that appealed to him. He definitely admired her resolve.

  He tossed the brush aside and led the dapple gray destrier into the stables.

  Whatever the source of his interest, he intended to take full advantage of his time at her side. Even if that meant crawling through an endless number of dusty storerooms to find whatever the lady was looking for. He tied the big warhorse inside and gave it a pat on the neck. A short dalliance could prove enjoyable—as long as he remembered that he traveled light and fast.

  * * *

  As the hard rap of boot steps echoed in the passageway, Caitrina pulled her woolen brat tight around her shoulders. The cellars were dark and rather disquieting. She spun around, lighting the passageway behind her with the torch, and immediately breathed a sigh of relief. It was Bran. “Were you able to procure the keys?”

  He shook the key ring before her eyes. A mismatched collection of iron bones—some new, some rusted, some large, some small. All capable of unlocking secrets.

  “Did you steal them?”

  “There was no need,” he said, with a faint smile. “Dougal is quite convinced I am who I say I am.”

  “However did you manage that?” She pointed to a door and waited for him to unlock it.

  “Certitude,” he said. He swung the oak portal open to reveal a small room stacked to the rafters with bolts of cloth. “And a few basic facts. Are the contents here of any use?”

  “Aye,” she said, squeezing into the room. “I need several bolts of white linen. The softest we can find. To line the creidle and to serve as swaddling.”

  Together, they dug through the bolts, stacking and restacking, until they found three that met Caitrina’s finger test for fineness. Only the softest of cloth could be allowed to touch the skin of a king. When Bran had wrapped the bolts in a tarp and set them aside, she pointed to a second door. “This larger room should hold fittings. Tables and chests and the like.”

  He tried several keys before finally locating the one that worked.

  “What need does a babe have for a table?”

  The door creaked loudly. Using the torch, Caitrina burned away a cobweb that spanned the entrance and then stepped inside. “I’m seeking a bath basin. The child must be washed in rosewater and anointed with oil of myrrh immediately upon its birth. For the sanctity of his soul.”

  “And those of us who were bathed in the village pond? Are we doomed to hell?”

  She tossed him a frown. “The pond? Surely not. Where were you born?”

  “Perthshire.”

  “Oh?” Clackmannan was in Perthshire. “Not far from here?”

  “Perth is a large county,” he said, his expression neutral.

  “It is indeed,” she said. The boundaries stretched north and west to great length. “Are you a Murray?”

  “Nay.”

  “A Menzies?” She stepped over a tipped barrel of old brooms and shone the light into the farthest corners of the storeroom.

  “Nay.”

  “Aha!” she cried, spying a rounded shape in a pile atop an armoire. “Hold this.”

  He took the torch and followed her around a battered trestle table. “Take care. Some of these items are poorly placed.”

  Flipping a wooden bucket and using it as a stool, she gained just enough height to grab the lip of the basin. She tugged, but could not get it free. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “Is it stuck on something?”

  “Aye. There’s a basket and some sort of wooden frame in the way. Step aside, lass. I’ll get it down.”

  Happy to relinquish the task to a man a full head taller than she, Caitrina turned and leapt off the bucket. But as she spun, her brat snagged on a stick protruding from the pile of items atop the armoire and yanked the entire mess down upon her head.

  She ducked, expecting to be pelted by falling debris. But, in a display of very impressive reflexes, Bran threw his body forward and shielded her from harm. The basket, the basin, and a number of other wooden objects crashed to the dirt floor. An empty spool from a spinning wheel bounced off her boot and rolled into the darkness.

  “Are you injured?” Bran asked.

  “Nay,” she said breathlessly, peering out from the umbrella of his body. Miraculously, the only casualty was a faded banner that had fluttered into the torch and burst into flame. But for some reason, her heart continued to pound long after it became clear that the danger had passed. It took her a moment to identify the cause: the warm strength of his body, pressing against her in a dozen different places.

  It was a body she knew quite well, after their lengthy ride in the forest. But there was something new and tantalizing about touching him here, in the dark, with the musky male scent of him filling her nose. She lifted her gaze to his.

  His eyes glittered with intent, and she knew long before he closed the gap between them that he was going to kiss her. He leaned in slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to run, but she held perfectly still. Waiting. She wanted him to kiss her—wanted it like she’d never wanted anything before. It was like the entire day had been a prelude to this moment. Every teasing comment, every grazing touch, every hot stare had been leading here, to this room, to this kiss.

  As their breaths mingled, Caitrina closed her eyes, determined to savor the experience from beginning to end. This would be her first real kiss, and she wanted it to be perfect. Well, as perfect as a kiss from a dangerous thief could be . . .

  Bran’s lips met hers, warm and firm and frankly demanding. He nibbled at the corners of her mouth, then pressed deep and hard. Caitrina was a little shocked. This was not the perfunctory peck of a gentleman admirer; it was an intimate meshing of lips that had no match in her imagination. But it was wonderful. Her entire body came alive to his touch, every inch of her skin atingle.

  She eagerly pressed back, needing more.

  And he gave her more. Taking her chin in hand, he deepened the embrace, opening his mouth and sucking on her bottom lip. Caitrina nearly swooned. Her hands clutched the front of his lèine as an unexpected ripple of delight shot from her mouth to the very tips of her fingers and toes.

  But the best part wasn’t her reaction; it was his.

  As the kiss continued and she mewled her approval, his breathing grew harsh and ragged. The hand that held the torch shook and a flush rose on the crests of his cheeks. The extent of his desire for her was obvious. Which w
as why she was amazed when he gently pulled away and took a step back.

  He tossed her a rueful smile.

  “You should slap my face for taking such liberties.”

  “When I enjoyed them as much as you? I think not.” She put her hands to her lips, which were still tingling. “And in any case, I owe you my thanks for a timely rescue. That wooden basin would surely have left a dent in my skull.”

  He bent and picked the basin up. “Aye. It looks to be hollowed from a single piece of wood.”

  “More important,” she said, “the pattern of tiny lilies carved around the lip is just the sort of detail the queen will admire.”

  “Then it seems you have what you came for,” he said.

  “Indeed I do.” Caitrina’s eyes met his and she smiled. “Precisely what I came for.”

  * * *

  The sun had set and Giric was partaking of his eventide meal when three of his soldiers approached the tent. Two senior men, half dragging a young lad with dried blood on his brow. He knew by their grim expressions that their tale would not be to his liking, so he took another leisurely sip of his wine before he acknowledged them.

  “Well? What is it?”

  “We found Davie here lying in the gorse with a bump on his noggin. It took us some time to wake him, but eventually—”

  Giric sighed. “Get to the point.”

  “He caught someone spying on the camp.”

  Giric lumbered to his feet, shaking his head. The tent was barely tall enough to contain him, and his hair brushed the drooping folds of blue canvas. “That’s not precisely true now, is it? What you mean to say is that he caught someone and then let him go.”

  “Nay,” young Davie protested. “I never let him go. I was attacked! Hit with a rock the size of a melon.”

  “Is the spy in custody?”

  “Nay.”

  Giric raised an eyebrow. “Then I was correct. You let him go.”

  “Not willingly,” Davie said. “I was doing my duty, all proper-like.”

  “All proper-like,” Giric repeated softly. “Truly?”