What a Lass Wants
Page 19
“Wulf MacCurran.”
He offered no title, no detail, no reason the queen might agree to see him.
But Caitrina’s eyes widened with awe. “You are the knight who saved the queen from a death by poison.”
He grimaced. “I merely alerted her to the danger. If any saving was done, it was surely done by her guards.”
“Nonetheless, it is the greatest of honors to meet you, Sir Wulf,” Caitrina said. “I was not yet appointed to Her Grace’s service at the time of the attempt on her life, but the events of that morn have oft been retold. You are a true hero.”
A flush rose on Wulf’s cheeks. “You make too much of it.”
“We will let Her Grace decide that,” Caitrina said. “I will share the news of your arrival with her anon. In the meantime, I hope you will partake of our hospitality.” She opened her hand toward the main door of the manor. “Some ale would surely be welcome?”
“Always,” he said, offering her his arm.
As they climbed the stairs, Bran felt a pang in his chest that was swiftly becoming familiar. Jealousy. But this was not the mild indignation he’d felt at supper the other night—it was a deeper-seated ache that he had difficulty putting aside. Caitrina saw Wulf in a light that would never fall on him the same way. As she herself had said, the MacCurran warrior was a hero, a man unquestionably deserving of respect and admiration. Bran was merely playing a part. Even if he played a significant role in Giric’s defeat, it would change nothing. At the end of the day, he would still be a thief.
An important fact to remember.
* * *
Marsailli found the camp a very different place with all the new mercenaries. It was busy and loud and very dangerous.
“Need a man to fill that ache in your quim, lass?” one soldier asked, as she carried a bucket of water up the path from the burn.
She ignored him. But she couldn’t ignore the man who grabbed her arm and tried to drag her off to his tent. The drunken sot made the mistake of accosting her in front of Giric, however, and a moment later he was nursing a bellyful of steel.
“No one touches the girl,” the Bear roared.
He tipped her chin up with his beefy hand. “The time has come, I think, for you to make your pallet in my tent. Gather your things.”
Marsailli swallowed. “That’s not necessary. I’m perfectly safe in my new tent with the midwife. I’ll send a lad to fetch water from now on.”
“Gather your things,” he repeated. “Now.”
His voice was deceptively calm, but she knew it would not stay that way. There was a bitter edge underlying his words, a sharp bite that would brook no denial.
Marsailli nodded and then ran for her tent. Her possessions were few, especially now, after Giric had torn apart the old tent. Darting from one corner of the tent to another, she snatched up her comb, her hair ribbons, and her gowns.
The midwife glanced at her. “Where are you going?”
“He says I’m to sleep in his tent from this moment forward,” Marsailli said, choking on the words. She was well aware that sleep would be hard to find under Giric’s roof.
Magda’s lips thinned. “Drink your fill of wine or ale before you settle for the night,” she advised. “It will help.”
Marsailli shook her head. “I will not let him dishonor me.” She pulled her sewing needles out of her pocket and showed them to the other woman. “If necessary, I will stab these in his eyes.”
The older woman grew pale. “Those will not stop a man of his size, and he will kill you for daring to defy him. Nay, lass, better that you should submit. Live to see another day.”
“I cannot.”
In a flash, the older woman had crossed the tent and grabbed Marsailli’s hands. “Aye, you can. Drink until you fall asleep. He’ll take you anyway, but it will be less painful. He’s a very big man, and you’re a wee thing.”
As well meaning as the midwife’s words might have been, Marsailli could not stomach them. The notion of letting Giric have his way, of doing nothing to stop him, burned like a hot rock in her belly. Nay, she couldn’t allow it. She would resist as best she could, and with a little luck, she would wound him enough to scurry free. It was the best she could hope for.
“Take care,” she told the midwife.
Then she parted the tent flaps and walked slowly toward Giric’s tent, her pitiful collection of belongings in her arms.
* * *
“I say we simply bide our time,” James Stewart said. “Reinforcements will arrive soon enough from Edinburgh.”
“The English will not wait for your reinforcements to arrive,” argued Bran. “They will attack soon, while they still hold the advantage.”
“The advantage belongs to us,” Dougal protested. “We’re safe within these walls.”
“I agree,” said the steward. “It’s sheer madness to contemplate leaving the manor to field an attack.”
“Not while we hold the element of surprise,” Bran insisted. “And right now, they are gathered in one spot. A convenient target.”
“What is your opinion, Laird MacCurran?” Stewart asked of the man who had just entered the great hall. “Does fortune favor the brave or the cautious?”
Aiden crossed the stone floor to the great wooden table where the council had gathered. Tucking his gloves into his belt, he said, “We are sorely outnumbered. The English have gathered nigh on two hundred men.”
“Well,” said Stewart, with a triumphant grin. “There’s your answer. We haven’t the strength of arms to meet the English on a battlefield.”
Bran slapped his hands on the wooden tabletop. “We cannot simply wait for them to attack. Have I not made it clear what a formidable weapon the longbow is? They will place their archers out of range and fire arrows at us endlessly, slowly decimating our entire army.”
“Bah,” said Stewart. “You make the Welsh bow sound like an instrument of the devil, but King Edward conquered the Welsh—with ordinary men.”
“Marshal Gordon is correct.”
Bran stared at Aiden MacCurran with a raised eyebrow. Support from an unlikely quarter.
“The longbow is a weapon to be feared,” said the clan chief. “In the right hands, it could cripple our defenses. I know this because I have several longbow archers among my men.” Aiden signaled to one of his men, who jogged forward and placed a five-foot bow in his hand. “It takes skill to draw a weapon of this size, but once mastered a longbow can send an arrow clear over the castle wall at five hundred paces. Or it can pierce and kill a man hiding behind a shield . . . or a wooden door.”
One of his men held up his targe, and Aiden launched an arrow at it. The arrowhead drove deeply into the leather-bound wood, ending its journey halfway through the wooden plank.
Stewart and Dougal stared in disbelief.
“But that is not the only argument in favor of Marshal Gordon’s plan,” Aiden said. “The English encampment lies at the bottom of a great slate bowl, with rock on all sides. Their position is well hidden, and the rocks provide a measure of protection, but they also trap the Englishmen. If we can approach unnoticed and surround them, their greater numbers will not impede us.”
Bran sat back in his chair.
Exactly.
Stewart’s eyes narrowed. “So you support a preemptive strike? Even though we have no clear indication that the English are planning an attack on Clackmannan?”
Wulf, who had been silent throughout the discussion, stepped away from the wall. “Englishmen gathering in strength a stone’s throw from the manor giving respite to our queen must be seen as an act of aggression. She is soon to give birth to a new king of Scotland. We can tolerate no risk.”
“Slaying two hundred Englishmen will start a war,” Stewart said pointedly.
“The war began when they killed two guards tasked with protecting our queen
,” Bran said. “We were not the first to draw blood.”
Stewart shook his head. “You are convinced that King Edward has a hand in this affair,” he said. “But I do not agree.”
“Whether he is or is not matters naught,” Bran said. “We cannot allow a band of brigands, be they English or Scottish or Norse, to threaten the queen.”
Around the table, heads nodded.
“We will give them opportunity to surrender, should that be their choice,” Bran added. “I have no interest in slaying men who do not pose a threat.”
Stewart eyed him across the table.
“Fine,” he said. “But success or failure, Gordon, the responsibility for this decision rests with you.”
His pronouncement lay heavily on Bran’s shoulders. Was he mad to lead these men into battle when the royal steward contested his decision? He was no seasoned warrior—he was a thief. While he was confident his reasoning was sound, he lacked the benefit of experience to guide his hand. And although it was reassuring to have the MacCurrans stand behind him, they had only recently regained their reputation. Wild Highlanders who had once carried a price on their heads were perhaps not the best judge of character.
But he was committed now.
Bran stood up.
“Let us prepare. We march north within the hour.”
* * *
Although it was risky during daylight hours, Caitrina took advantage of the somber mood that had settled over the manor and slipped into Bran’s room.
He stood beside the bed, clad only in his braies, staring at the clothing laid out before him. When the door opened, he glanced up. “You should not be here.”
Caitrina drew up her courage, faced him square, and spoke quickly. “I know I played you false by reaching out to the MacCurrans. My regrets are legion, believe me, but I do not wish our last words before a battle to be bitter ones.”
“I cannot condone your actions—”
“Nor would I expect you to,” she said.
“But in the end,” he said slowly, “I acknowledge that you did the right thing.”
She blinked. “You do?”
A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Taking the crown was a mistake. I plied an old man with wine, and when he told me his secret, I robbed him. Hardly one of my better moments. But I’m a thief, and thieving is what I do.” He shrugged. “The opportunity was there, and I seized it.”
“Did you truly hold him for ransom?”
“I held no knife to his throat,” Bran said. “But I forced him to show me the hidden vault and stole his horse, so the effect was the same.”
“Your reasons for taking the crown were fine enough.”
He shook his head. “There are other ways to sway the castle guard. In truth, I was racked by guilt from the moment I left Dunstoras. I could not equate the theft of the crown with lifting a few coins from a wealthy man’s purse. But there seemed no easy way to repair the damage I had done.”
“You appear to have found a way.”
“I’m not so sure.” He smiled wryly. “I may lose my head in the settlement.”
“Save the queen, and all will be forgiven.”
“I will do my best. Is that why you’re here? To see me off?”
“Aye.” Circling the bed to his back, she wrapped her arms around his waist. “If you think that I shall let you march off to battle without a token of my affections, you are sadly mistaken.”
He covered her arms with his, giving her a welcome reminder of his warmth and strength. Just touching him soothed her worries. He was strong and smart and good with a blade. There was a very good chance he would return in one piece.
“I would not go were the odds not in my favor,” he reassured her.
“The gossip says the English outnumber us. Is it true?”
“Aye,” he admitted. “We cannot leave the manor unprotected, so we must split our forces.”
“Why not simply wait for them to attack?”
He turned in her arms and drew her against his chest. “You promised to trust me.”
She snuggled deeper in his embrace. “I trust you,” she said. “It is Giric I do not trust.”
They were silent for a moment, just holding each other. Imagining a tragic outcome was too painful, so Caitrina held tight to a vision of him riding back through the gate, weary but triumphant.
“You have not asked about Marsailli,” he said quietly. “Or my plan to keep her safe.”
Her heart thumped heavily. “Do you have such a plan?”
He kissed the top of her head, the warmth of his lips resting briefly against her scalp. “Do you recall what I told you the last time you asked if I had a plan?”
She closed her eyes and drew in an intoxicating breath of his spicy scent. “Only too well. You prefer to think on your feet, and you’ll decide your course of action when you get there.”
A chuckle rumbled through his chest and into her body. “That’s the right of it.”
An image of her sister rose in her thoughts—sweet faced and tenderhearted—and her amusement faded. “It will be difficult to keep her safe in the thick of battle.”
“It will,” he agreed. “But you have my solemn vow that I’ll do everything within my power to save her. There are far better warriors than I among Dougal’s men and the MacCurrans. I’ll leave the bulk of the fighting to them. My efforts are better spent on finding Marsailli.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He pulled away slightly and looked in her eyes. “Did you truly bring a token for me to carry into battle?”
“I did.” She dug into the folds of her brat and pulled out a long strip of white linen. “I thought this would be appropriate.”
He stared at the linen for a long moment. “It’s quite innocent looking.”
She nodded. “No one would ever guess what role it played in my disguise as a lad. How close it bound my breasts.” She gave him her best rendition of a bawdy smile. “Save you.”
He took the linen and wrapped it carefully about his waist. “I shall treasure it.”
Caitrina gathered his lèine from the bed and helped him into it. Then she did the same with the padded cotun and the chain mail hauberk. She felt like a wife dressing her husband for battle, and her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the weight of his mail. Even if he returned safely, this was likely to be a singular moment, never to be repeated.
Her eyes met his, and she knew his thoughts had traveled a similar path.
“Mayhap there is some way—” she said softly.
He put a finger to her lips. “Nay, lass. Such thoughts will only make the parting more difficult. You and I are from very different worlds. I have only one talent, and it will one day see me to the gallows. Let me play this part today and forget for a time what the future holds in store. Today I’m Marshal Gordon. Tomorrow, who knows?”
Cupping her face in his hands, he pulled her close for a kiss.
A tender kiss, filled with deep longing and promises that would never be fulfilled. Caitrina closed her eyes and let herself succumb to the dream. Today, she was the wife of Marshal Gordon, sending him off with all the love in her heart.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
* * *
Marsailli claimed a small corner of Giric’s tent as her own. She tried to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible, hoping to escape the Bear’s attention. But she was unsuccessful. When he returned to the tent after an afternoon of training his troops, he immediately demanded her presence.
“I want a warm bath,” he snarled. “To soak away the knots in my shoulders. And I want wine. And food.”
She fetched the wine and the food, doing her best to see him sated and content. But as the evening progressed, she found him staring at her with greater frequency, the look in his eyes dark with intent.
As the cooking fires waned and soldiers throughout the camp ambled off to bed, fear soured Marsailli’s mouth and dampened her palms with sweat. The Bear would soon retire for the night—and would most certainly force her to join him in his bed. How would she resist him?
She could scream, but that was unlikely to gain her anything except an audience.
Giric’s tent stood at the edge of the camp, close to the path that led down to the burn. Her only hope lay in making an escape. If by some miracle she could elude the Bear’s clutches, she could disappear into the rocks and evade capture. It would be risky, especially in the dark, but navigating the slippery shards of shale would be easier than withstanding Giric’s advances.
“Girl,” Giric called.
Marsailli lifted her gaze. He was staring at her over the lip of his ale horn.
“Come here.”
Several times over the course of the evening, he had called her to his side, mostly to refill his cup. But something about the current look in his eyes made her heart pound. Swallowing tightly, she picked up the jug of ale and took it to him. As she neared, he held out his cup, and the furious pound in her chest abated.
She filled his cup.
As she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm. “You look nothing like your sister,” he grumbled.
Marsailli froze. Was it a good thing she and Caitrina had different looks? That she was slim where Caitrina was curvy?
He tugged her hard and she fell onto his lap.
“You’re too thin.”
Yet his disgruntlement did not stay his hands. One of them latched onto her breast and squeezed. Marsailli set the wine jug on the table and dipped her hand into her purse. The needles slid smoothly into her damp palm. What would be the right moment? Was this it?
Giric pressed his face into her neck and planted a wet kiss against her throat.
Fear and disgust snatched the breath from her lips in a hoarse rasp. She struggled for her freedom, but was unsuccessful. He held her firmly on his lap, the hard rod of his erection pressing against her bottom. His fingers pinched her nipple and Marsailli reacted instinctively. She ripped her hand out of her purse, put her thumb on the dull ends of the needles, and jabbed them at Giric’s face.