by Rowan Keats
It took her a moment to locate her slippers in the dimness, but once her feet were encased, she eased open the door and entered the anteroom. The two guards eyed her with heavy frowns.
“It appears that I missed supper,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I’m headed for the kitchens.”
The frowns deepened.
“Were the Englishmen not defeated?” she asked.
They nodded slowly.
“Then I have nothing to fear. I shall return anon.”
Not giving them any further opportunity to naysay her, she grabbed a candle and left the room. The corridor was equally dim, with only one torch lit at the top of the stairs. Bran’s room was at the opposite end of the hall, and she scurried to his door, hoping that the queen’s guards were not listening for her tread upon the stairs.
She rapped as lightly as she dared on the door.
No answer.
When a second light knock produced the same result, Caitrina took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.
She remembered the room well enough from her last visit. A good thing, as the feeble light from her taper did little to brighten the room. She could barely make out the large platform bed and the two chairs standing before the banked fire, but there certainly seemed to be someone asleep under the covers. Tiptoeing over to the bed, she set the candle down on a side table.
“Bran,” she whispered.
That single, hushed word got her far more than she’d bargained for.
In a blink of an eye, she was yanked off her feet, rolled onto the mattress, and crushed beneath the weight of a wide-eyed, angry man. Caitrina felt the prick of a sharp blade at her throat, and she swallowed tightly.
“It’s Caitrina,” she squeaked.
The knife vanished and he released her, rolling to his back. “Bloody hell, lass. I almost killed you. What are you doing here?”
She sat up and, despite her shock, admired the way the light of the candle traced the lean contours of his arm and chest. In her admittedly limited experience, few men looked as good without their shirts. “Looking for answers,” she said. “I didn’t expect to be attacked.”
He grimaced. “If you enter a man’s bed in the middle of the night, that’s exactly what you should expect.”
A rather short-tempered response, which she attributed to his being rudely awakened. “Did you find Marsailli?”
“Nay,” he said, turning his head to look at her. “I’m sorry.”
Disappointment flooded her chest and she grabbed his arm. “But Giric is dead, aye?”
He ran a light finger over the bruise on her chin. “Nay,” he said softly. “He escaped.”
Caitrina slumped against the pillows, her eyes closing. She had risked her life for naught—they had failed. “How is that possible? We had them surrounded.”
He said nothing, allowing the circumstances to speak for themselves.
For a time, there was only the sound of her heartbeat, heavy and mournful, in her ears. “You are aware, are you not, that he will punish Marsailli for my rebellion?”
“My rebellion,” he insisted, scooping her into his arms and holding her tight. “And harming her will not win him your cooperation. He will know that now.”
She bit her lip and sent a prayer skyward. “Dear lord, I pray you are right.”
“Don’t lose faith, lass. I’ll retrieve your sister. I swear it.”
Caitrina laid her cheek against the firm planes of his chest and allowed his warmth to curl around her. Here in Bran’s arms, she could pretend—just for a while—that his assurances were true and that Marsailli would not bear the brunt of Giric’s anger. It was a powerful magic, and she wished she could lose herself in it for eternity.
They lay like that, quiet and comforted, for some time.
Until the spicy scent of Bran’s skin and the smooth brush of his hand on her hair slowly erased her worries, replacing them with a warm tingle of awareness. A hot stirring deep within her belly. And then she did something quite daring—she lifted her head and kissed his chest.
He froze, all movement ceasing, even his breathing.
“Was that unpleasant?” she asked.
“Nay,” he croaked. “A surprise, that is all.”
Emboldened by his reaction, she lapped at his nipple with the very tip of her tongue, enjoying the slightly salty taste of his skin.
He sat up abruptly, pushing her gently away. “Lass,” he said, his voice edged with quiet desperation. “You ask too much of me. I’ve not the strength to resist you right now.”
“I don’t want you to resist me.”
Indeed, she wanted him to ravish her. To banish all her terrible thoughts, to bury her worries under a thousand delights of the flesh. She wanted to live in the heat of the moment, to feel loved and cherished and beautiful until the sun rose on a new day.
Was that so wrong?
“Nor do I want you to lecture me on the merits of saving myself for some future husband,” she said, running a hand down the ropy sinews of his arm. He was smooth and firm, like silk over fire-heated steel. “I could have died today, pure and chaste and unfulfilled. Is that what you wish for me?”
“Nay.”
She leaned in, drawing in a nose full of his delightful scent. “I thought not.”
“Don’t mistake me for a true gentleman.” His words rumbled deep in his chest, and she pressed her ear to the masculine vibrations. Lord. Everything about him was a wonder. “My patience is limited. I’ve given you fair warning, and I won’t repeat myself.”
“Consider me warned,” she agreed, nibbling her way up his throat to his chin. “Now do your worst. Or rather, your best. I expect to end this night weak-kneed and bone-weary.”
He snorted. “You have rather high expectations for a first round.”
She trailed a finger down the line of dark hair in the center of his belly. “Oh? Why so? I’ve been told that a skilled lover can make a woman swoon with joy.”
In a quick, sudden movement, he captured her wandering hands and pinned her to the mattress. “Aye,” he said, tasting her throat with sweet, tender kisses, much as she had just tasted his. “But you are not yet a woman. You’re a maiden.”
“How is that meaningful?”
He pressed a hot kiss to her lips. “The first time for a maiden can be uncomfortable.”
Caitrina considered that carefully. “So, you are already ceding defeat? Admitting that you cannot make me swoon? How disappointing.”
He pulled back, staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Do you goad me apurpose?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
He shook his head, then, with a low growl, swooped in to bite her earlobe. A shiver of visceral excitement rippled through her. Incredible. If this was what it was like to be eaten, nothing would please her more than if he consumed her, bite for bite, from head to toe.
She tilted her head back to encourage him to sample further, but Bran’s attention slipped lower. He parted the lacing at the neckline of her nightclothes, exposing her collarbone and the tops of her breasts to his view. Her breasts seemed to know more about what to expect than she—even before he touched the soft mounds, they grew heavy and full, the nipples budding.
Caitrina moaned in wordless entreaty.
She did not know what she was demanding until he gave it to her—until his hands cupped and gently squeezed. And then her moan became a mewl of desperate desire. She wanted—nay, needed—his mouth upon her breast. She buried her hands in his thick hair and prayed that he would intuit her salacious longing.
And he did. With surprising accuracy, his lips found her left nipple through the loose linen night rail. Her fingers clenched as the warm wetness of his mouth settled over her breast, delivering a torrid wave of pleasure that rolled right to her toes. But not nearly as hard as they clenched when h
e sucked. And flicked his tongue over the nub.
Caitrina squealed.
Bran immediately released her breast and planted a soft kiss on her lips. “Lass,” he said quietly, “as much as I enjoy hearing your sweet responses to my kisses, I’ll no allow this night to cause you harm. If you’re discovered in my room, there’ll be no end to the grief, you ken?”
She blushed. “Aye.”
“If you feel the need to scream, just bite my shoulder.”
“You’re mad!”
He winked. “Aye, a wee bit. But I suspect you knew that already.”
No longer embarrassed, Caitrina relaxed against the covers. “Is biting acceptable play between the sheets?”
“Anything is acceptable, as long as you enjoy it.”
“The church would disagree,” she said dryly. “I’ve heard many a sermon denouncing unclean acts, even between a man and wife.”
He shrugged. “A priest should not dictate what can and cannot be done behind the bed curtains. Only my lover can make that decision.”
“And how is your lover to determine what is right and what is wrong?”
He gave her another quick kiss on the lips and then rolled to one side. His hand trailed up and down her body, his touch featherlight and teasing. “It’s simple. Anything that makes you feel uncomfortable is wrong. Anything that excites you is right.”
Goose bumps rose on her flesh in the wake of his touch.
“Are not the symptoms of fear similar to those of excitement?” she asked.
His hand halted above the crux of her legs. “The truest test is right here,” he said. “That which excites you prepares you for the final act.” He took her hand and cupped it over her mons. “You’ll always know best if you are ready to proceed. Never let a man decide that for you, priest or no.”
With his hand over hers, he rocked her flesh.
Tiny waves of sweet pleasure crested over her and Caitrina’s eyes closed of their own volition. Her hips lifted into his hand, eager for a deeper, more satisfying rhythm. She was undeniably hot and wet and excited. But Bran seemed determine to torture her. His mouth found her other breast and even as she rocked against his hand, he suckled, driving her to the very edge of reason.
Only when she was keening softly into his pillow and her hands were fisting in the sheets did he slip the night rail from her body and lie alongside her, naked. He rained kisses all over her hot skin, and Caitrina traded her hold on the sheets for roughly admiring caresses up and down his shoulders. She wanted him closer. Deeper. She wanted to be a part of him.
His hand reached between her legs, testing her readiness, and he grunted when his fingers met obvious wetness.
“I’m ready,” she told him huskily, opening her knees wide. “Take me.”
And he did. Swiftly and surely. When he was fully seated, he halted, his breathing shallow and rough.
“Is all well?” he asked.
Caitrina couldn’t speak. Not for a moment. But the sting soon subsided, and she nodded. “Aye. All is well. But a wee bit more joy would be lovely.”
A short, gusty laugh broke from his lips. “I can arrange that,” he said, slipping his hand between them. “This, lass, is the better part, I assure you.”
And with a skillful thumb, ardent lips, and a series of deep strokes, Bran proceeded to take her to the stars. She discovered a myriad of new sensations, not the least of which was the slow build of excitement in her belly—the one that wound as tight as a bow string and then suddenly let fly.
Bran swallowed her scream with a kiss, and found his own release a few moments later.
He collapsed at her side, his arm across her chest, his eyes closed.
He lay so still that Caitrina wondered whether he had fallen asleep. But a moment later he opened his eyes and smiled. “Did I make you swoon?”
She grinned. “Not quite,” she said. “But very near. I’m sure you’ll improve with practice.”
“Practice?” With a low growl, he pounced on her, tickling every sensitive part of her body until she begged him to yield. Then he lay back on the mattress, tucking her close. “Consider yourself fortunate,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’m not a man to rest on my laurels. I will endeavor to make you swoon each and every time we are together.”
“An honorable goal,” she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.
He shook her lightly. “Nay, sweetling. Do not succumb to sleep. You must return to your pallet afore your lengthy absence is noted.”
Reluctantly, Caitrina forced her eyes open and wriggled free of his warm embrace. A valid point. The guards must already be wondering what was keeping her from her bed. She found her discarded night rail and slid it over her cooling body. Bran wet a square of linen with the pitcher of water next to his bed, then knelt before her and gently wiped her inner thighs. When he was done, he took her hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles.
“I’ve never spent a better night,” he said, smiling.
“Nor I,” she responded honestly, flushing.
Not sure what else to say, Caitrina gave him a quick kiss on the lips and darted for the door. Daylight would return all too soon, and with it, her worries. She did not want to tarnish what had been a truly memorable night with false promises or awkward conversation.
But at the door, she paused and looked back.
Bran was watching her, a faint smile on his face. His dark blond hair was raked off his handsome face, his muscular arms crossed over his chiseled chest. She wanted to remember him just like this, for eternity.
“I love you,” she said quietly. And then she closed the door behind her.
* * *
Bran stared at the closed door, his gut achurn.
Dear lord. He was the worst sort of fool. He’d done exactly what he’d vowed not to a few hours earlier. He’d ruined a woman he adored, and he was about to double his crime by breaking her heart. And there was absolutely no way to redeem himself. What could he possibly offer her? Marriage?
He snorted.
That would never happen. He had no right to offer for the hand of a lady—ruined or not. If he dared, she would spurn him in an instant, and rightly so. And even if she didn’t, he was a poor choice of mate. He was destined for the gallows, just like his father.
It would be kindest to walk away now. Sneak into the queen’s room, recover his crown, and be on his way. Caitrina would mourn his loss for a time, true enough. But then she would pick up the threads of her life and go on as before.
Bran lay back on the bed and stared up at the canopy.
But he could not leave. Not while Marsailli was still lost and Giric was a threat to the queen’s bairn. Like it or not, he would have to face Caitrina in the morn and deal with her declaration.
Damn it.
What did an innocent lass like her know about love? She thought she knew him, but all she’d seen so far was a facade. A sham. She knew nothing of Bran MacLean, the thief. The life he led in Edinburgh would shock her, of that he was certain. There was nothing good or honorable in the act of stealing, no matter how well motivated. He regularly added to the troubles of drunken sots, especially jilted lovers and cuckolded grooms. Misfortune was his ally. At best, he could say that he never thieved from men so down on their luck that they couldn’t rub two deniers together.
At worst . . .
He grimaced. Well, at worst he was a murderer.
Aye, the man he’d killed was an abuser of women, a wretch who had nearly beaten a lass to death for plying her trade, but claiming his death as redress would be a lie. He’d died because he had a fat purse.
There were many days when he hated who he was.
But thievery was all he knew, and he was good at it.
Bran closed his eyes. What he wasn’t good at was telling the truth—and yet that was exactly what Caitrina deserved. It
was long past time. On the morrow, he would tell her how he’d come to have in his possession a silver crown set with a large sapphire. And why three fierce MacCurran warriors would willingly chase him to the very ends of the earth to see him punished for it.
Chapter 9
Marsailli was asleep when the Bear returned to the camp, but she didn’t remain that way for long. He hauled her from her bed by her hair, snarling incoherently about her sister’s betrayal and the audacity of his mount to die during a race for safety. Heart pounding, tears flowing, she watched mutely as he proceeded to destroy her tent in a fit of unholy rage, snapping the wooden poles like matchsticks and tearing great holes in the canvas walls.
She shivered in the center of the misty plateau, wondering whether her time had finally come.
Slipping her hand into the purse she had worn to bed, she felt for the sharp points of her sewing needles. If he came at her, she would use them, puny or not. If nothing else, they might incite him to kill her with a single blow instead of punishing her with a lengthy torture.
But to her surprise, there was no need for desperate measures.
As the tent came apart in his meaty fists, Giric’s rage subsided. Only moments after his tirade began, he stood in the center of the destruction with his eyes closed, breathing heavily.
“Bring me some soup,” he ordered quietly.
For a moment, no one moved. Not Marsailli, not the midwife, not the few remaining soldiers in the camp. But then Giric opened his eyes and pinned Marsailli with his cold stare. “Bring me some soup,” he repeated.
Biting back her fears, she darted for the cauldron hanging over the fire pit. With shaky hands, she ladled soup into a wooden bowl, and then navigated the piles of broken wood, jumbled clothing, and ripped tenting to bring it to him.
He poured the soup down his throat, then tossed aside the bowl.
“Are you still bleeding?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then get thee from my sight.”
Marsailli needed no further encouragement; she quickly backed away. Her bed was gone and she had nowhere to sleep, but she was alive. And for that she was profoundly grateful. She exchanged a look with the midwife, who looked as wide eyed and pale faced as Marsailli felt. The older woman lifted one corner of the blanket around her shoulders, offering a warm retreat, and Marsailli scurried into her embrace.