by Rowan Keats
“Fear not,” Dougal said dryly. “My men have plenty of experience with sitting on their arses. But I’ll have words with them nonetheless.” He bowed to Caitrina. “Excuse me, my lady.”
She smiled at Bran. “You have a talent for disguise. I was quite convinced you were a woman until you looked up.”
“It’s a skill developed by necessity.”
“Necessity?” Her head tilted, and she lowered her voice. “Are you not a cutpurse?”
“Nay,” he said, equally quiet. But he wasn’t particularly worried that someone would overhear them. Dougal had hailed his men and their attention was already engaged. “A cutpurse cannot return to the same corner day after day. He is doomed to cut and run, or face nabbing by the castle guard. I am that more notorious creature: the pick thief.”
“And what is that?”
“A thief who uses distraction to lighten a purse or snatch valuables.”
Her eyes narrowed. “A distraction such as a charming smile?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a smoothly practiced arc. “Exactly.”
“So the heed you have paid me these past few days has merely been . . . distraction?”
A fair question. He tossed his smiles often, most times without thought. Charm was a tool of his trade, after all. Quite likely, the first smile he’d sent her way had been a meaningless one, but it hadn’t taken long for her quiet beauty to shake the genuine smiles free. A minute, or perhaps two.
“Lass,” he said softly. “Given that I’m the one who finds himself lighter by one crown, who would you suspect is distracting whom?”
She blushed.
“This is a discussion I would very much like to continue,” he said. “But it will have to wait until I return.” He smiled. “And frankly, I think it should wait until I am no longer attired like a woman. The skirts are a tad disconcerting.”
“Indeed,” she said, with a laugh.
He nodded, preparing to step away.
Her hand brushed his sleeve. “Do take care, Marshal. Giric is a villainous man.”
Their gazes met and held for a long moment.
“I will,” he promised. It was foolish, but his heart skipped a beat, much as it might if he were truly a marshal with enough social standing to court a lady like Caitrina de Montfort. But he was not. And he should remember that. Even with everything that was at stake, all this could ever be was a game.
Bran turned and mounted his horse.
A very dangerous game.
* * *
Caitrina remained in the close long after Bran and Dougal had departed, and the manor had returned to quiet industry. She sat on the stone steps, watching the stable lads mucking out the stalls, and eyeing the cooper as he made new barrels. It was quite inappropriate to sit and do nothing, but her mind was in a state of turmoil.
Bran was nothing like any man she’d ever met before.
He was charming and competent and completely disreputable. She knew nothing of his past, nothing of his family, and nothing of his reasons for choosing a life of thievery. And yet she was quite certain she was falling in love with him.
Not that she’d ever been in love before. But the fluttering of her heart and the tight squeeze of her chest every time she looked at him were a perfect match to the descriptions of love her mother had given her. Back when Caitrina had begged for an explanation for the loyalty her mother still showed to her father, even after he’d deserted them.
But falling in love with a thief was a grave mistake.
There was no common ground on which to build a life. He could not join her in her world, nor could she join him in his. In truth, joining him on the streets of Edinburgh was possible, just not very appealing. She would have to give up all of the finer things in life and learn to survive amid thieves and cutthroats. Even if she was willing, how could she ask that of Marsailli?
She blinked back tears.
Assuming Marsailli was ever returned to her.
And there it was: the very reason her heart beat an uneven rhythm whenever he was about. He was no ordinary thief. He could have taken the crown from her rooms and run off. Instead, he was risking everything to save her sister. Knights and constables and marshals did that. Not thieves.
“Lady Caitrina?”
She looked up.
Standing before her was a lad dressed in a purple gown. It was easy to see why Bran had chosen this young man to masquerade as her—he was short and slim. But, sadly, even in a dress, he looked nothing like a woman. He had a wild, scruffy beard that grew halfway to his belt.
“I can’t do it,” he said miserably. “The marshal told me I must scrape the whiskers from my face, but I can’t do it.”
Caitrina stood. “Can’t?” she asked. “Or won’t?”
His gaze dropped to the ground. “A man’s beard is his manhood, my lady. I’m a wee man, and if I lose the beard, I’ll be a mockery.”
“The marshal and the others are depending on you,” Caitrina said fiercely. Marsailli was depending on him. “You must be a man of your word.”
“Nay,” he said, pulling the gown over his head. “I can’t.”
He pressed the gown into her hands and stalked off in nothing but his lèine.
Caitrina stared at the soft puddle of purple silk, wondering what to do. Was there another man of a similar size that she could convince to don the dress? A gillie, perhaps? But how could she ask a man unfamiliar with a sword to step into battle? What use would such a man be to Bran and the others?
And how sure could she be that Giric would fall for the ruse?
She couldn’t, of course . . . unless she was the one to attend the meet. But when it came to sword arms, she would be even less useful than a gillie. Unless she brought a guard. A gentlewoman did not typically travel anywhere unaccompanied, even for short distances. Giric would expect her to bring a man along.
She would not be abandoning the queen. Although she couldn’t be certain the broth made by the two cooks deserved the credit, the queen’s health had improved to the point that she was once again spending time seated before the fire. Caitrina was free to spend longer periods away from Her Grace’s side. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that she be the one to go.
But the truth was, Caitrina did not want to go. The very thought of climbing atop a horse and facing more of Giric’s men cinched her throat so tight she could barely breathe. If Bran’s entire plan did not hinge upon the arrival of a woman purported to be her, she would not consider it, not even for an instant.
Her fingers clenched the silk gown.
Someone had to go, and she could not ask some innocent gillie to do what she was too craven to do herself. She lifted her gaze to the door of the barracks where her bearded young soldier had disappeared. So it would be her, and she knew just who to conscript as her guard.
Chapter 8
It was tedious, waiting for Giric and his men to appear.
Bran and Dougal played the roles of the crofter couple, threshing the fall grain harvest in the barn with flails. They kept the doors, both front and back, wide open to reduce the chaff dust and keep a clear view of the surrounding countryside. The soldiers had found a variety of suitable places to hide, some distance from the bothy. Some were in evergreen bushes, some in tall brown grasses, and some beneath piles of fallen leaves.
The hours passed slowly and uncomfortably.
Bran was confident that Giric was coming, however.
Not long after Dougal had planted the white flag in the roof of the bothy, a lone rider had stopped by to ask what it was for. When Dougal explained that it was a message from a lady at the manor, the rider had collected the note and immediately headed north at a gallop.
The sun was on its descent, the shadows reaching across the fields, when he spied horses approaching from the manor. It surprised him
to see two horses, when he was expecting only one. The lass in the purple dress was obviously young Jamie, but who was the second? He squinted into the setting sun. A bearded fellow; beyond that, he was impossible to identify.
Dougal nudged him with his elbow.
Bran looked north. Sure enough, a group of horses had left the trees and were crossing the field toward them. Giric had taken the bait.
“Wait until they are nearly upon us before you give the signal,” he said to the constable.
Dougal nodded. “Who is that with Jamie?”
Bran’s gaze again turned west. The lass in the purple dress looked surprisingly bonnie. He frowned. Nay, it couldn’t be. Caitrina would never take such a needless risk. But the longer he looked, the more he became convinced that it was indeed Caitrina mounted on the small bay mare. In part, because the bearded fellow began to look more and more like Jamie.
“I think it’s Lady Caitrina,” he said with a heavy sigh.
“Bloody hell.”
There was no time to consider the implications or recalibrate their plans. Giric and his band of helmeted soldiers galloped into the yard, and Dougal ran for the bell they had hung at one end of the barn. With several sharp tugs on the rope, he signaled his men to attack.
Bran flung off his disguise, leapt on his horse, and drew his sword. Hoping that Jamie had the good sense to turn Caitrina around and head back to the manor, he dove into the fray. His swordsmanship was a wee bit rusty—it had been years since he had been called upon to do battle with a long blade—but he successfully dispatched one of Giric’s men and moved on to a second.
Dougal’s men rode in from all directions, surrounding the Englishmen, and the clash of sword on sword rang through the clearing.
They outnumbered the Englishmen and the fight was going well. Bran was winning his battle against a second soldier when he caught a glimpse of purple silk in the corner of his eye. He prayed desperately that it wasn’t what he thought it was, and parried a jab from his opponent. But it was—he spied Caitrina race into the yard a moment later, urging her escort to join the fracas. Despite the distraction, Bran defeated his foe with a swift downward slice. He paused, weary but triumphant.
Only to hear Caitrina scream, “Behind you!”
He spun around just in time to block a bone-rattling blow from Giric’s sword. The Englishman was a full head taller and at least four stone heavier than he, and although Bran attempted to angle his edge away, Giric’s sword bit into the steel of Bran’s weapon. Normally, such edge-on-edge swings were avoided—the damage to fine swords too severe—but Giric didn’t seem to care.
There was murder in his eyes.
He swung again and again, raining blows upon Bran’s blade.
Bran’s sword arm began to weaken under the unrelenting attack, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Not in a traditional fight. He palmed his dirk in his left hand and looked for opportunities to break through the huge warrior’s defenses. But Giric was not an easy man to study—his fighting style was erratic and punishing. He left little room for any kind of opportunity, and Bran began to worry that the end was nigh. His arm ached and throbbed with such ferocity that could only mean it was about to collapse.
And then, just when he thought all was done, his opportunity came. For the briefest of moments, Giric paused and glanced over Bran’s shoulder.
Bran took advantage. He ducked under the big man’s sword and slashed his dirk along the back of one thigh. It might have been a defining blow, except for the terrified shriek that rose into the air as he swung in for the final attack.
Caitrina.
He pivoted and spied one of Giric’s men hauling Caitrina out of her saddle. And as quick as that, Giric no longer mattered. Bran raced across the yard, reaching the English soldier just as the fiend struck a vicious blow to her chin. She slumped and Bran saw red.
His blade had slipped between the man’s ribs before Bran had consciously decided the fellow’s fate. He caught her before she hit the ground, then turned to face the battle, his knife at the ready. But Giric had not followed him; the big Englishman had seized the moment and hobbled for a free horse. As a growl of frustration rose in Bran’s throat, Giric spurred the horse into a gallop and took off for the northern forest. Only one of his men followed suit—the others all lay dead or injured.
“Go after them,” he ordered several of Dougal’s men. “He’s holding a young lass in need of rescue. Do not rest until you find her.”
They took off after Giric.
Bran sheathed his blades. Crouching, he brushed a stray tendril of hair from Caitrina’s face. A second bruise now marred the tender flesh of her jaw. He was doing a rather poor job of protecting her.
A firm hand patted his shoulder.
He looked up.
“’Tis but a matter of time before that timorous knave is captured,” Dougal said.
Bran wished he could feel as confident. While the bulk of Giric’s men had been defeated, there were others hiding in the northern woods, and the big Englishman was still a formidable opponent. It wasn’t cowardice that had sent him scurrying, but rather a deep-seated determination not to fail his liege lord—of that he was certain. Giric would not give up. Not before Queen Yolande’s bairn was born. But he could not share that reasoning with Dougal.
“Likely true,” he agreed. “But I recommend we remain vigilant, in case he mounts a secondary attack.”
Dougal shrugged. “As you wish. Shall I send for a cart to transport the lady?”
“Nay,” Bran said. “Darkness will be upon us soon. Better that we return her to the manor as quickly as possible.” He lifted Caitrina into his arms. Her limpness knotted his gut, especially when her head rolled back, exposing the pale flesh of her throat. Helpless was not a word he would normally use to describe her. And it was his fault that she’d been so sorely abused.
He handed her to Dougal while he mounted, and then took her back into his arms.
Cradling her in the curve of his shoulder, he made her as comfortable as he could manage as he rode. But that comfort was fleeting. Once the sun slipped toward the horizon, the autumn air grew cooler and she began to murmur incoherently against his collarbone. Only when he wrapped his brat about the two of them, lending his heat to her body, did she settle into a quiet sleep.
Bran held her close to his heart the entire ride home, and enjoyed every moment of her nearness. The soft sighs, the warm press of her body, the complete dependence on him for her safety. He found renewed strength in his sword arm and had almost convinced himself he was champion material by the time they rode through the manor gate.
He wasn’t sure what Dougal thought of the arrangement, nor did he ask.
But the look he got from Lady Gisele when he carried Caitrina into the great hall was quite telling. “Put her down immediately, monsieur. It is inappropriate to hold an unmarried woman so intimately.”
“She is injured,” he explained.
“Put her down,” she repeated.
“Where?” he asked, glancing around. “I cannot simply lay her on the floor.”
Gisele pointed to a chair in front of the hearth.
He frowned. “But she cannot sit without support.”
“Then we will support her,” the lady said. “But if you do not release her promptly, Monsieur Marshal, her reputation will be in tatters.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Her undergarments are on display.”
Bran peered over his arm. “Oh.”
He deposited Caitrina in the chair. Almost immediately, he was pushed aside as the ladies-in-waiting took over her care. He stood there for a moment, feeling distinctly bereft, but could find no reason to remain. Indeed, he appeared quite unneeded.
Quite the opposite of what he’d felt on the journey home.
But accurate.
He had once again fallen into the trap
of believing his own ruse. He was not Marshal Gordon. He had no right to inject himself into Caitrina’s life, no right to direct her care, no right even to inquire about her health. He was merely a thief, and she was a lady.
Bran backed away from the little group in front of the fire.
No matter how right she felt in his arms, Caitrina de Montfort was not for him. Once Marsailli was recovered—which could be at any time now—he would depart for Edinburgh and that would be the last they would see of each other.
Why did he keep forgetting who he really was?
Before he’d met Caitrina, he’d been rather proud of what he’d accomplished. He’d started with nothing, after all. After his father had met the rope, Bran, his mother, and his brother had escaped to Edinburgh, hoping to make an honest wage. But jobs had been scarce. And then his maither took ill. It was while stealing food that he discovered he possessed unusually clever fingers. A useful skill for a wee lad from the country trying to make his way among toughs born and raised on the streets.
But not a useful skill for winning the hand of a lady.
He grimaced.
It would be best if he stayed away from the lass as much as possible. She had a soft heart, and as surely as the law would one day catch up with him, he would end up breaking it.
He offered Caitrina the smallest of bows, then turned and strode for the stairs.
* * *
She woke up hungry and sore.
It was dark as sin when Caitrina opened her eyes, the only light a flickering torch near the door. Soft snores filled the air around her, and it swiftly became clear that she was lying on her pallet in the queen’s room. Safe and secure. The battle that had been raging when she fell was apparently over, and, judging by her current location, the outcome had proved favorable for Bran and his men. Which meant that Giric had been defeated.
Fingering her bruised jaw, Caitrina sat up.
But if that was true, what of Marsailli? Was her sister here in the manor?
She slid her feet to the cold floor and snatched up her woolen brat from the end of the bed. There was only one way to find out—she needed to speak to Bran. Now.