by Rowan Keats
Giric exchanged hushed words with one of his men, who then saddled a horse and swiftly left the camp. Once he was gone, the Bear settled in front of the fire, staring into the flickering flames with a grim countenance.
Plotting her sister’s comeuppance, no doubt.
Marsailli lifted her gaze to the moon hanging like a fat pearl in the night sky. If Caitrina had betrayed him in some way, did that not suggest her sister was nearby . . . and working to free her? She certainly hoped it was so. It would be so much easier to keep the faith if she could believe her sister was staring up at this very same moon, planning a daring rescue.
She and the midwife sidled closer to the fire, remaining out of the Bear’s view.
But time was running out. Once her menses ceased to flow, the huge Englishman would have no cause to restrain himself. He would exact his revenge in some truly despicable fashion. The cold look in his eyes said as much.
She scanned the walls of shale that surrounded the camp, trying to spy a path between the loose, uneven piles of rock painted silver by the moonlight. If she knew what direction to head in, she would attempt to reach Caitrina. But she did not—she remembered the climb up from the burn, but not the direction they had traveled to reach it. One dark corner of the woods looked the same as any other. And the previous night, the chilling howl of a wolf had echoed through the glen.
Nay. She was safer here.
For at least one more night.
She leaned her head on the midwife’s bony shoulder and closed her eyes. If she was still alive come morning, there would be some difficult choices to make.
* * *
Morning dawned with cruel brightness.
Bran splashed cold water on his face and then headed downstairs to confront Caitrina. But the moment he descended the steps into the great hall, he was accosted by two of Dougal’s men. The lads had the weary, travel-stained look of men who had ridden all night long.
“I’m afraid we have disappointing news, Marshal.”
He sighed heavily. “You lost him?”
“Aye,” said the elder of the two men. “Near the northern border. He entered a deep burn, and we lost his trail.”
Bran knew the spot all too well. He could hardly fault them for losing Giric when he’d done the same. Still, frustration gnawed at his belly. Had he not searched the banks of the burn himself and found no sign of the Sassenachs, he’d have called the lads to task.
“Take a short respite,” he told them. “When you have eaten your fill, come find me. We’ll return to the burn and search again. I know not where, but they must be hiding nearby.”
The two men nodded and headed for the kitchen.
He crossed the great hall to the hearth, where Lady Gisele and Lady Caitrina were diligently tending to their sewing.
“Might I have a word?” he asked of Caitrina.
“Now?” Gisele asked sharply. “Lady Caitrina is engaged in a task of some importance. She is making a sleeping cap for the new king.”
He took hold of Caitrina’s elbow and favored the elder lady with a steely look. “This will take but a moment.” Then he guided Caitrina out of her chair and over to a quiet corner of the hall.
“You are concerned about my declaration of love,” Caitrina guessed. “But there is no need.”
“Of course there is a need,” he challenged. “I’ve misled you.”
“Nay,” she said. She kept a proper distance, but her gaze embraced him warmly. “You were truthful—about everything—and my expectations were fully met.”
“How could they be met if your declaration has not been reciprocated?”
She smiled. “Because you never promised me love. Nor did you demand it.”
It was true—he hadn’t spoken of love. He hadn’t even dared to think of love. Loving Caitrina was a right that belonged to a much finer man than he. But as lowborn as he might be, he wasn’t the miserable creature she had just described—the sort who debauched virgins without a qualm.
“You deserve better.”
She put a hand to her lips and smiled, as if recalling the hot press of a kiss. “I agree, and I’m looking forward to discovering how much better it can be. Tonight?”
“You deserve better than an illicit affair,” he said, pointedly. “There will be no tonight.”
“Surely you don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
Exasperation warred with disappointment on her face, and exasperation won. She scowled. “This is ridiculous. You are simply being high-handed. How will abstaining now improve my lot?”
“I cannot repair the damage already done,” he admitted. Nor, if he was completely honest, would he reverse the sands of time had that power miraculously been given to him. His memories of last night were too dear. “But I can keep you from making an even graver mistake.”
“And what mistake is that?”
“Losing your heart to a lie.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are too late. My heart is already engaged.”
He shook his head. “You love a man who does not exist.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
He spoke quickly, knowing she would interrupt him if he gave her the chance. “The crown you took from me is no ordinary jewel. It is the ancient coronet of Kenneth MacAlpin, the last king of the Picts. The MacCurrans—fierce fellows that they are—are descended from his personal guard, known as the Black Warriors, and they were tasked with protecting the crown, which they believe is destined to be worn by the only king who can lead Scotland into a new era.”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“As men who’ve sworn a blood oath tend to be, the MacCurrans are thoroughly committed to their cause, and the only way I was able to gain the crown was to exchange it for a hostage.”
Her jaw dropped.
“So,” he said grimly. Destroying her illusions about him was much harder than he thought it would be. His every instinct told him to stop talking, to fold her into his arms and soothe away the frown on her brow. “I barter innocent lives for artifacts of immeasurable worth. Does that sound like a man you can admire?”
“A hostage? Who did you take hostage?”
“That doesn’t matter.” He thrust his untrustworthy hands behind him. “You’ve given your heart under false pretenses. You’d be wise to take it back.”
He wanted her to take the lead, to storm off in an angry fit. But she did not. She simply stood there and stared at him with wide, round eyes. As if he were some kind of vermin that had crawled out from beneath a rock. So he did the hardest thing he’d ever done—he turned his back and walked away.
* * *
Dougal’s two men met him in the close. Still chomping on bread and cheese, they walked with him to the stables. As their horses were saddled, Bran inspected the crofter’s oxcart, which still stood in one corner. Three holes had been drilled into the bed of the cart to hold the poles, which had been removed, as per his orders. He crouched to examine the underside of the cart. A small wooden frame had been attached to the bottom, cradling a slab of slate. Suspended several inches below the cart bed, the slate would have provided a simple but effective support for the poles.
He frowned.
The slate was a vivid blue-green—the distinctive color of the crag near the burn at the northern border. If he needed confirmation that his hunch was right, it was staring right at him. Giric was camped somewhere in that pile of rocks. In a cave, perhaps. Or a small hidden corrie.
He stood, suddenly hopeful.
“Gather a dozen men,” he told the two who had accompanied him. Giric couldn’t have more than three or four men left. “Quickly now. I believe we have a chance to rout this lawless Englishman once and for all.”
As they raced for the barracks, Bran glanced toward the manor house.
The steps were empty, but he
suspected Caitrina was watching him from a window. She must surely think him a despicable wretch—and deservedly so—but perhaps he could ease her heartache by retrieving Marsailli. With her sister returned to her bosom and Giric’s tyranny ended, Caitrina’s worries would be far less onerous.
Bran selected his favorite steed, the big gray stallion, and led him out of his stall.
And he would be leaving her something less unworthy to remember him by.
* * *
As Bran led a troop of fourteen soldiers out of the manor gate, Caitrina turned away from the window and returned to the writing desk. She truly was a disloyal wretch. The man she loved was riding off to rescue her sister, and here she was, penning a message to the MacCurrans.
It was horribly unfair.
But what choice did she have? If she accepted the basic facts of Bran’s story as truth, then keeping the crown from its rightful caretakers was reprehensible. And if she failed to take action, she would be a party to the crime.
She dipped her quill into the inkpot. The challenge would be returning it without handing over Bran, which she simply wouldn’t do. Perhaps she was a naive fool, but the one part of his tale she refused to believe was his heinous hostage taking. He’d had numerous opportunities to show her the ruthless side of his nature, and it had never surfaced. A more honorable and loyal soul would be hard to find. She simply couldn’t picture him holding a dirk to someone’s throat and demanding the crown.
She penned her message, short and to the point: The crown is in Clackmannan.
Waiting for the ink to dry, she stared into the fire in the hearth.
It still felt like betrayal to contact the MacCurrans. Bran would not forgive her easily, no matter how fine her intentions. He’d gone to great lengths to acquire the crown, and great lengths to earn it back from her. He must need it. But for what?
She had no idea.
Yet understanding that was the key to understanding the man himself. He was a good man, undeniably. But without knowledge of his motivations, of what drove him to do the things he did, she was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. Unfortunately, he seemed reluctant to share details of his life in Edinburgh—which left only her imagination to fill in the gaps.
An imagination that, at the moment, preferred to replay all the magical details of their night together. She rolled up her parchment note, tied it with a small white ribbon, and handed it to the young lad waiting patiently by the door. He bowed and left the room.
The queen was napping in her bed, with one of the ladies seated quietly at her side sewing. Another trio of ladies was seated in front of the hearth, nibbling on candied fruit, sipping mead, and discussing the merits of various small hawks for hunting. Caitrina would have joined them, but she feared the rosy glow of her cheeks and her repeated sighs would draw more attention than she was prepared to handle. She could not stop thinking of her night with Bran.
She had expected to mourn her maidenhood more.
For something she’d spent a lifetime protecting, it had vanished with surprisingly little fanfare. Just a passing soreness. And her body was already craving another dance with excitement—every time she recalled Bran’s hands and mouth making merry on her skin, a delicious thrill ran down her spine. Which happened more often than she cared to admit.
Including right now.
Caitrina returned to the window and stared out into the close. Sullen gray clouds had swept in from the west and rain threatened to dampen the daily chores of the villeins.
Of course, Bran was determined not to repeat their tryst.
And if he discovered she had sent for the MacCurrans, she might never feel his hands upon her body again. An unimaginable future—she had never felt more alive than when she was in his arms. Even now, her breasts were budding in hopefulness. Who could have imagined he could coax such joy from her body? That his simple caresses could make her heart leap and her body hum? It would be true shame if she never made love with him again.
Ah, well. Her time was better spent crafting a credible tale to give the MacCurrans as to how she acquired the crown. They would not easily swallow the suggestion that Bran had run off without it. But perhaps they would believe the truth—that she’d robbed the robber.
The young lad with her note rode out of the gate and headed west toward Stirling.
She would rehearse her words well and leave out the part where she identified her thief as the marshal. So long as her tale rang true and the MacCurrans never caught sight of Bran, they would take the crown and depart without their culprit.
All would be well.
Heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first and then faster and faster. The villeins below ran for cover. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she wove her hands together to calm them.
It had to be.
* * *
They arrived at the deep burn soaked to the skin. The rain had not let up the entire journey, and any glamour Bran had attached to his role as marshal had long disappeared by the time they reached the blue-green crag near the northern border. In Edinburgh, he spent most cold, wet days in a pub, lifting coins from fat merchants who gathered around the fire. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly endured the October rains.
Young Robbie rode up alongside him.
“What are you hoping to find?”
Bran pointed to the huge shards of shale looming above them. A low, wet mist had settled across the glen and the higher points of the crag disappeared into the clouds. “A way up into the rocks.”
“But we’ve already examined every inch of the shore,” Robbie said, frowning, “and found no sign of a trail.”
“We missed something; I’m convinced of it.”
The lad nodded, but doubt tugged at his eyebrows. “Then we’ll look again.”
Bran dismounted and gathered the men around him. Rain had plastered their hair to their faces and droplets dripped steadily from their noses and chins. “Revenge is within our grasp, but it must be claimed with discipline. Leave the horses here and move quietly up the brae. Surprise will be our best ally.”
He led them forward over the rocky terrain, showing them how best to travel with stealth—finding the silent, mossy footfalls and avoiding loose slides of shale. The mist worked to their advantage; the slippery rocks did not.
Twice the treacherous terrain brought a soldier to his knees with a loud clatter of stone.
And twice they froze and waited for their foes to race out of the mist with blades held high.
But the blanket of cloud must have contained the noise, because neither fall brought Giric and his men raging down upon them. Bran peered up into the foggy reaches of the crag. Perhaps the huge Englishman had grown so confident of his hiding spot that he no longer posted guards.
At the burn’s edge, they again sought signs of passage.
His men spread out along the shore, examining every turned stone and bent rowan leaf. They scoured the burnside and the base of the rising tower of slate with devotion, as eager to find a clue as Bran was. But as time passed, their enthusiasm slowly eroded. As before, the search met with no success.
Robbie met Bran’s gaze with a grim look and a shake of his head.
Bran picked up a stray piece of rose quartz at his feet and whipped it across the swiftly running water. Bloody hell. How could he have been so wrong? Logic told him this was the most likely place for the English to be hiding . . . So where was Giric? The rock bounced off the wall of stone on the other side of the burn and dropped into the foaming water. But it didn’t disappear into the depths as Bran had expected. Once the splash receded, he could still see the rock clear as a summer day, its pink shimmer no more than an inch or two below the surface.
He crouched, peering into the dark water as it sluiced through the narrow chasm.
Sure enough, a flat ridge of rock followed the wall of shale just under
the surface, wide enough for a horse. If they stayed close to the edge, they could walk around the huge column of shale that hid the rest of the stream from view. As for what lay beyond that? Only discovery would tell.
He surged to his full height.
“Follow me,” he said to the men, stepping into the water. As the frigid burn poured into his boots, the memory of being swept downstream assailed him with breath-snatching clarity. But he ruthlessly shoved it aside.
He waded upstream, taking care not to create noisy splashes that might echo off the rocks. His men followed, equally quiet. Just before they reached the stone column, they paused and drew their weapons. A quick glance confirmed that everyone was ready, and then Bran dove around the outcropping and into the open. But he was met with disappointment, not a band of Englishmen—all he found was more rock. And a steep path leading up into the crag.
Bran gritted his teeth and began a slow and careful ascent.
He eyed every boulder and every outcrop above him, looking for sentries. On a clear day, Giric would have had the advantage—it would have been near impossible to approach the crest of the crag without being seen. But the mist limited sight to no more than thirty paces and they were able to climb steadily.
Despite the dampening blanket of fog, it wasn’t long before sounds from the camp above reached their ears. The low hum of men talking, the rasp of whetstones on sword edges, and the soft clink of ring mail armor. Bran raised a hand and brought his men to a halt.
He frowned.
The sounds he’d expected; it was the volume that concerned him. Giric should have had no more than half a dozen men left, but this cacophony implied far greater numbers than that.
“Wait here,” he said to Robbie.
The young warrior nodded and signaled to the others to take cover.