What a Lass Wants

by Rowan Keats

  Bran sheathed his weapon and slipped into the rocks ahead. He needed a higher vantage point to spy upon the camp. As he scaled the wet rocks, a sharp memory returned to him of a similarly misty day twelve years before, when his father had been found and dragged off by Laird MacLean. He’d been only a lad then, but the memory was still vivid. The wails of his mother, the stoic face of his father, the glistening beards of the MacLean warriors, and the bitter ending upon the gallows. He’d vowed then never to return to these miserable moors, and yet here he was.

  He grimaced. The amazing part was, he would break any vow to ease Caitrina’s burdens.

  Pulling himself up the slippery slab of rock, he peered over the edge. A flat, grassy plateau stretched out before him, the bottom of a great bowl in the rocks, with steep walls of shale all around. Tents and groups of men filled up the grassy expanse; a quick count confirmed the presence of at least one hundred soldiers, all intently preparing for battle. Even more concerning, a large group of the men carried unusually long bows, similar in style to those used by the Welsh. Dangerous weapons, they were capable of piercing armor.

  Bran slid back down the rock. Giric wasn’t planning to run. He was planning to attack the manor. And he was gathering an army to support him.

  With his back against the stone slab, Bran grimly considered his options. Dougal’s men totaled fifty, and the queen’s personal guard added another two dozen to their number. The walls of the manor were solidly built and well maintained, but not intended to repel a lengthy attack. Reinforcements could be drawn from Edinburgh and Stirling if necessary, but it was clear that Giric was anticipating the arrival of even more men. Additional tents were being pitched and latrines dug.

  Which meant his men on the path were at risk of discovery.

  It was time to move. Returning promptly to the manor to warn the queen was paramount.

  * * *

  Caitrina was in the chapel attending morning prayer with the other ladies and most of the queen’s court when the riders arrived at the gate. A young page entered the chapel and reported the news to the courtiers standing near the door. After that, word spread through the small room in frenzied whispers, despite glares from the bishop and his two priests.

  “The first Guardian has arrived,” Gisele murmured.

  Caitrina’s heart skipped a beat. “James Stewart?”

  The lady of the wardrobe nodded.

  Oh, dear. The royal steward’s arrival was much sooner than expected. It was only the eve of Samhain, and the birth of the new king was not expected for several weeks. The bishop’s message must have carried a note of urgency.

  Caitrina waited impatiently for morning prayers to conclude, then returned to the great hall with as much haste as decorum would allow. The visitors’ horses were still in the close, being tended by the stable lads—a dozen fine steeds, including a mighty bay stallion.

  The great hall was a hive of activity when she entered, gillies scurrying to and fro with their arms full of linens or firewood or flagons of wine. The royal steward was seated before the hearth, having his boots cleaned.

  “If Marshal Finlay is away to Oban,” the steward was saying in a booming voice, “then who is seeing to the manor affairs in his absence?”

  Caitrina glanced at the faces gathered around him. Dougal. The queen’s seneschal, Roger de Capelin. The captain of the queen’s guard.

  “Marshal Gordon,” replied Dougal.

  James Stewart frowned. “Archibald Gordon? Of Strathbogie?”

  It was Dougal’s turn to frown. “Nay, Giles Gordon of Feldrinny.”

  The direction of the conversation was concerning. In no time, the man would be comparing notes on various branches of the Gordon clan and wondering where Bran fit in.

  “I don’t recall appointing a Gordon as marshal of Feldrinny,” Stewart said, as a gillie carved a layer of mud from the bottom of his boot.

  Caitrina took a deep breath and crossed the room. She curtsied to the royal steward. “Good day, Lord Steward.”

  Stewart leapt to his feet and offered her a deep bow. “Lady Caitrina. A pleasure to see you looking so well.”

  “Thank you,” she responded. “I could not help but overhear your query regarding Marshal Gordon. I confess, I had some concerns about the man in the beginning, but he’s done quite well by us. Is that not so, Constable?”

  Dougal nodded. “He’s gone to great lengths to ensure the queen’s safety and comfort.”

  Caitrina smiled at the royal steward. “I don’t recall which family seat the marshal said he hailed from—I read his credentials, but I likely reviewed them as I review most official documents.” She gave a short laugh. “Swiftly.”

  “So you saw his patents?”

  “Indeed,” she said. “And I am sure he’ll happily regale you with his impressive lineage when he returns. He is out hunting that deplorable band of Englishmen who slayed several of our guards.”

  Stewart nodded. “Thank you for your insights, Lady Caitrina. Please inform the queen that I shall request an audience once I have properly freshened from my journey.”

  Caitrina curtsied again. “Her Grace will be most pleased to see you again, Lord Steward.”

  She left the men to their discussion. Wrapping her brat tightly about her shoulders, she traded the warmth of the great hall for the chill of a rainy October day. Bran must be warned about the royal steward’s presence. He’d made arrangements to have letters patent drawn up, but had there been enough time to receive them?

  She frowned.

  It was impossible to know. But alerting him to the inquisition he was likely to face when he stepped inside was a necessity. The only question was, how? She could hardly stand here in the close and wait on his return. Such an act would raise all sorts of eyebrows.

  Slowly pivoting, she eyed what little activity there was in the courtyard. One sodden stable lad shoveling mucked straw into a cart, a villein rolling a barrel toward the kitchen door, several stalwart soldiers braving the wet weather with impassive resolve. As her gaze settled on the group of soldiers huddled near the steps leading to a wall, she smiled.

  What she needed was an ally.

  And she knew just who to tap. Someone who, to her mind, still owed her a debt.

  * * *

  Halfway to Clackmannan, Bran and his men were met by a solitary rider cantering hard and fast, despite the steady downpour. Thanks to the heavy mist, he was nearly upon them before they could put the bearded face to a name. Young Jamie. He eyed Bran’s party with a frown.

  “No English?”

  “Nay.”

  The young soldier shifted in his saddle. “We thought for sure you’d roust him. All the men were eager to be a party to your venture.”

  Disappointment was a bitter pang in Bran’s chest. “What brings you to my side?”

  The young warrior stiffened at the sharp tone of Bran’s query. “Lady Caitrina insisted that I bring you this message.” He pulled a small rolled parchment from the folds of his brat and offered it.

  Bran took the parchment.

  A message so urgent that it needed a rider could not be good. He untied the delicate ribbon, unrolled the message, and read it quickly. Raindrops smudged the ink even as he absorbed the significance of Caitrina’s words. The royal steward had arrived, and he would not be an easy man to gull. He knew almost as much about the Book of Arms as the marischal and he would likely question the heredity of Giles Gordon. Without his forged papers—which had not yet been delivered and could not be expected until after the feast of Samhain—he would need to be quite creative if he wanted to divert the steward’s questions.

  The other option, of course, was to run.

  Bran glanced at the wet, weary faces of the men who’d followed him to the burn. They looked to him for leadership and hope and the promise of justice for their dead comrades. To them, he truly
was Marshal Gordon, skilled warrior and bastion of lawful right. When he had descended the slate crag path where they had patiently awaited his return and delivered the news of the huge numbers of Englishmen preparing to attack their home, these men had briefly lost hope. It had been his words that shored up their faith. It had been his oath to see justice served that had erased the bleak looks and rekindled the fires of passion.

  If he ran now, it would be a cruel betrayal.

  And he would be leaving Caitrina to face Giric’s attack alone.

  Nay. Running was not an option.

  Did he not pride himself on his ability to fool almost anyone? Well, here was his chance to make good on his boasts. If he could convince the royal steward that he was indeed Marshal Gordon—without the support of official letters of patent—he would truly be a charlatan of legend.

  Eventually, he would be unmasked—all it would take was the return of Marshal Finlay—but every additional day he spent in Caitrina’s company would be worth the risk. And even one more warrior might turn the tide in the battle against Giric.

  He tucked the parchment away and twisted in his saddle to face his men.

  “The lord steward has joined the queen at Clackmannan,” he told them. “Let us ride swiftly to warn them of the English attack and add weight to the manor defenses.”

  They spurred their mounts and cantered toward the manor, making good time. They arrived at the gates before sunset. As he dismounted in the close, he sent a lad for Lady Caitrina. “Please ask the lady if she would spare me a moment,” he told him.

  She appeared at the top of the steps only moments later, a worried frown upon her delicate brow. “Did you not receive my message, Marshal?”

  “I did,” he acknowledged.

  Descending the steps, she joined him in the close. “Then I’m at a loss,” she admitted.

  Although his arms itched with a fierce desire to gather her near, Bran did the proper thing and merely smiled. “Thanks to your message, I am fully prepared to update the royal steward,” he said.

  Her gaze met his, her eyes suddenly hopeful. “Is the Englishman defeated?”

  “Nay,” Bran said. “He has gathered additional soldiers, and we found ourselves outnumbered.” Knowing the question that must be burning in her thoughts, he added, “It appears he still has several ladies in his camp. We must do what we can to ensure they are not caught in the middle of our conflict.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  He nodded. “I do, and I promise that as it becomes more firm, I will share the details. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to keep the queen safe.”

  As one of the stable lads led his horse away, she asked quietly, “What do you intend to tell the royal steward?”

  “I will reassure him of my qualifications.”

  Her eyes darkened with worry. “He has already inquired about your credentials.”

  “Well,” said Bran, smiling faintly, “he has proven himself a very discerning fellow. We would expect that from a man so close to the queen, would we not?” He tucked his gloves into his belt. “I shall find dry clothes and then meet him in the great hall.”

  She nodded slowly. “As you wish.”

  He offered her his arm. “Shall we trade this dreich for the warmth of the hearth?”

  She laid her hand on his damp sleeve.

  “Aye, lead on.”

  Chapter 10

  There was a large gathering of folk in the great hall when Caitrina descended the stairs for the evening meal. Unlike the queen, who had spent the vast majority of her time confined to her bed, the royal steward was eager to sample all of the food and entertainment the custodians of Clackmannan were capable of preparing. The high table was covered in an expanse of white linen and every chair had been assigned. With the presence of additional nobles, Caitrina, being untitled, found herself seated at one of the lower tables, sharing her meal with a handful of senior villagers and their ladies. She had just taken her seat opposite the reeve’s wife when Bran entered.

  The sight of him stole her breath away.

  His dark gold hair, loosely flowing down his back, shimmered in the candlelight—a perfect foil for his strong chin and long nose. With a crimson doublet laced over his cream lèine and a pair of black trews covering his legs, he looked every bit the part of a nobleman. Few men in the hall could compete with his bonnie appearance, including the resplendent royal steward, who wore forest green trimmed with beaver.

  Caitrina bit her lip as Bran audaciously stepped to the high table, gave a short bow, and introduced himself to the steward.

  “Giles Gordon, my lord.” As the royal steward turned to him with a frown, he added, “We met once in Edinburgh, several years ago. I’m not certain you will remember.”

  The royal steward’s eyes narrowed and he peered at Bran closely through the smoky haze of the room. “I don’t recall,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so good as to refresh my memory?”

  Bran smiled. “Of course. It was the Yule after Queen Margaret’s passing. A quiet affair in the great hall. My uncle, Sir Thomas de Gordon, introduced us.”

  Stewart frowned. “I remember the evening and my conversation with Sir Thomas, but I confess I do not recall you, sir.”

  Bran shrugged. “You may recall his comment upon my introduction. I believe he called me ‘a blight upon the Gordon name.’”

  Stewart’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “I do recall that comment. Sir Thomas has always lacked a measure of tact. He’d taken issue with your reluctance to take a wife, as I recall. Have you since remedied that?”

  Bran shook his head. “Regretfully, I am still unwed.”

  Stewart patted him on the back and ushered him toward a chair. “That’s a situation that swiftly must be set aright. Are there no suitable ladies in Feldrinny?”

  “An estate owned by monks suffers a dearth of fine feminine company, I’m afraid,” Bran said, taking the seat next to Lady Martine with a smile.

  As the tables settled into the meal, Caitrina struggled to keep her gaze on her companions. Even though their histories were intriguing and their travels far-reaching, her attention kept drifting to the high table, where Bran was engaged in avid conversation with Martine. Again, he proved quite the raconteur. His stories kept the table amused for several hours, and his compliments kept Lady Martine in an almost constant state of pink-cheeked blush.

  Jealousy knotted Caitrina’s belly.

  She had never felt such an intense desire to trade places with another woman. But, at that moment, she would have given every jewel she possessed to be seated next to Bran, basking in the warmth of his charming smiles.

  How very foolish. She knew he was a fraud—that every word leaving his glib tongue was likely a lie—but that didn’t tame the burning want in her gut. Or silence the fierce whispers in her mind that claimed, He’s mine.

  “Have you any children, Lady Caitrina?” her dinner companion asked.

  She glanced at him. Sir Murdoch of Inverary. A handsome enough fellow, for an older man. Probably a popular courtier, in his day. If his stories were true, he’d once been captain of King Alexander’s guard. “Nay,” she said. “I’m not yet wed.”

  “I have three daughters,” he said. “The eldest is eight.”

  “How lovely,” she said, peering around his large shoulders for a glimpse of Bran.

  When the meal was finally ended, after a raucous round of toasts to the queen, Caitrina climbed the stairs to her rooms, weary and exhausted. The men had remained behind, still quaffing copious amounts of ale and regaling one another with tales of their conquests, both on and off the battlefield.

  Having miraculously passed the royal steward’s identity test, Bran was welcomed into the midst of the courtiers with open arms. How he’d come up with that tale of Sir Thomas, she had no clue. Nor did it matter. Apparen
tly, being called “a blight upon the family name” was an endearing feature.

  Caitrina stopped by the drapery-hung platform bed to wish the queen a good night, then crossed to her pallet and accepted the help of her maid in exchanging her gown for a night rail.

  She had worried for naught, it would seem. Bran was a consummate liar.

  She doused her candle and lay down on her pallet, grimacing. What else had the man lied about? His feelings for her, perchance? If he was capable of pulling the wool over the royal steward’s eyes, he was surely capable of gulling a simple lass from the Highlands. No one at the high table had doubted his identity, not for a moment.

  Lying there in the dark, listening to the soft snores of the other ladies, Caitrina slowly became enraged. She’d given her maidenhood to a silver-tongued bounder—to a man who had just spent the entire night complimenting another woman, never once looking her way. Did he think so little of her that his attentions could be so easily redirected? She had thought him a better man than that.

  Caitrina tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally, she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. There was only one way to quiet her turbulent thoughts—she needed to speak with Bran.

  Slipping her toes into her silk slippers, she rose from the bed and gathered her brat. Once again, she excused herself to the guards at the door with a tale of visiting the garderobe and scurried down the hall.

  There was a light under Bran’s door, so she gently knocked and waited. Moments later, the door swung open and he stood before her bare chested and clad only in his braies. She opened her mouth to explain her presence, but he simply yanked her into the room and closed the door. Pressing her back against the thick wooden planks of the portal, he took her head in both hands and proceeded to kiss her as if he’d been imagining this kiss all night.

  Caitrina’s indignation melted away under the heat of the embrace.

  With his lips on hers, his tongue sweeping the inside of her mouth in a daring dance of desire and his hands caressing her curves with light but loving touches, Caitrina lost all sense of time. She found herself hungrily returning every kiss and wanting more. Had he not broken off the embrace and stepped back, she might well have let him take her right there against the door.