Chapter 8

I t 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.

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 he 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.