Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (22 page)

“You mean like tell one and all who he is and why he is here, or just claim himself lord of Brackenburgh by right of handfasting to you?”

Catriona muttered a curse and fell back in bed. She pulled the brat over her head. “Lack-witted barbarian.”

Beth laughed brightly. “Don’t be too hard on him, Catriona, he was quite worried over you. He stayed with you the rest of the night. The only reason he left was to organize more raids from Thistlewood. He’s going to smack Strickland in the teeth so the Warden doesn’t dare move against Brackenburgh.”

“That is probably the best solution now, and I am grateful he came when he did. I just couldn’t cope with it all.”

Beth brought her a cup. “It’s understandable with your fever that high.”

Catriona pushed back the brat and drank the medicant quickly. “I should go below-stairs and break my fast.”

“I’d rather you stay here. Your fever is reasserting itself and you really need to rest.”

“I will,” Catriona said quickly. “But people need to see I will not be bullied from my own hall, fever or no.”

“All right, a short time won’t hurt and I think there’s something in the great hall you need to see. I heard the men hauling it in about an hour ago.”

“This sounds intriguing.”

A bit later, Catriona, dressed in a plain woolen gown, descended the stairs with Branan’s plaid wrapped around her shoulders. It still carried his scent of leather and spice. Although she was painfully aware of his absence, it did remind her he was not that far away. Branan’s appearance in the great hall so suddenly also gave Catriona courage. When she had needed him most, her mist warrior had returned.

There were only a few merchants and travelers in the great hall, taking advantage of Brackenburgh’s Christian hospitality and breaking their fast. As Catriona crossed the room, her gaze fell on two chairs. She stopped, blinking in surprise.

The chair Richard had used as lord of Brackenburgh was gone and the smaller chair next to it, the one that had been hers, had disappeared as well. Instead, two huge beautifully carved chairs, equal in size and decoration, stood in their place. Catriona had seen them before. These were from Thistlewood, and Branan had carved them. Both bore his heraldry. Another plaid was draped over his chair and she saw a folded parchment on it. Crossing the room, Catriona looked closer and saw her name. She picked up the parchment and read.

My bonny lass,

Forgive me for yesterday’s events. It was not my wish you should suffer so. I hope Beth told you all that transpired and why I had to leave you. I pray you understand. I had Jamie deliver our chairs from Thistlewood’s hall. At my clan seat in Scotland, it is tradition for a laird to leave his plaid on his chair if he must depart to tend to business or fight for his king. The plaid is a reminder of his promise to return. And I will return to you, my bonny lass. I am not far and will be there again should you have need of me. As always, you have my heart.

Branan

She gripped the note tightly and drew a deep breath. Branan had heard her plea and listened. He knew how much it hurt to see him disappear in the night all those years ago. Branan disappeared again last night, but not by choice, and he was doing everything in his power to minimize her pain. His brat graced her shoulders, and beside her chair, his plaid would remind her of his promise. Catriona also did not miss the meaning in the two chairs being equal in every respect. She would govern Brackenburgh with Branan, not as his subservient wife, but as his love and lady, shouldering the responsibility together.

“Catriona,” Beth asked in concern, “are you all right?”

“Aye,” Catriona replied, smiling. “You know...I really do love that man.”

Beth grinned at her. “Good, because he is smitten with you. He can be a bear at times, but he’d be lost without you.”

Midnight Visitor

B
ranan shoved himself to his feet, knocking his chair over and growling a curse. Before he realized what he was doing, he launched his mug into the hearth, where the ceramic cup shattered.

He stared at it, his limbs shaking, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly.

The servants in the great hall scattered like frightened rabbits.

A pair of months had passed since Catriona’s departure, and already the black rage threatened to possess Branan again. He constantly found himself looking for her, half expecting to see her in a room when he entered, or hear her laugh coming from the hall. They had exchanged several letters, but Branan felt as if Catriona resided leagues away.

Branan rubbed his hand over the rough stubble on his chin. He looked like hell, he knew. He had not been able to sleep and his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. Every morning, Branan stared at his haggard countenance in the mirror and every morning he turned away, telling himself he didn’t care.

What of Catriona? Was she as miserable as he? If she was, her letters gave no indication. The only reason she had struggled afore was due to the fever.

When had this happened to him? Never had he pined over a woman like a lovesick lad. But he could no longer keep his thoughts from her, he found himself painfully distracted every moment of every day.

“Good God, laddie, ye have it bad,” he muttered to himself.

He leaned against the mantel, staring into the hearth flames.

“Branan,” a voice said from behind him.

He turned quickly, surprised to see Gavin. His foster-brother had requested, and Branan had agreed, that he be allowed to deliver the messages this week. “What are ye doing back already?”

Gavin sat at the table, propping his feet on it while a servant poured a cup of wine for him. “Catriona and Edmund have things well in hand. Haven’t you been reading her letters?”

“Aye,” Branan said tightly. But had to admit, he could remember little of what she said about daily business dealings. Branan had been so caught up in searching Catriona’s words for some sign that she missed him, that she forgave him for leaving, he had ignored the more mundane details.

Gavin studied him a long moment. “She misses you, Branan.”

He snorted, keeping his attention focused on the hearth. “What makes ye think I’m the least bit worried about that?”

“Christ Almighty,” Gavin muttered. “You two deserve each other.”

Branan glared at him.

Gavin waved a scroll case at him, then tossed it on the table. It slowly rolled in Branan’s direction. “More news you should know.”

Branan picked up the case, trying to tell himself that his heart didn’t pound in the hope that this letter would give him some indication of how Catriona felt, how she was doing...if she forgave him. He withdrew the vellum, noting the de Courcy seal and the anger that rose again. Catriona should be writing letters with his crest adorning them.

He shoved away his fury and began to read. No hint at her emotions, if she missed him, if she even wanted him anymore. Nothing but trivial information about Strickland.

“Well?” Gavin asked.

“Well what?”

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Do you not agree that a raid should be planned?”

Branan blinked, then read again, forcing himself to comprehend the letter this time. Silk traders had arrived at Brackenburgh and Catriona learned they had just sold a large amount of silk to Strickland, which he expected to sell for a good profit. The shipment was moving to Newbiggin Hall today to be dyed. It would be a hard ride, but they could probably intercept it.

Perfect. Another raid was exactly what Branan needed to get his mind off of a beautiful, infuriating lass with bright blue eyes. “Gather the men,” Branan said, tossing the vellum on the table. “We ride within the hour.”

HHH

Branan and his men caught up with the wagons at dusk. They stalked the drovers along the road like a pack of wolves hunting a deer, staying hidden within the trees. Branan dismounted and moved silently through the undergrowth to get a better look at their quarry. Gavin accompanied him.

“They are better guarded than I had thought,” Branan whispered.

“Aye,” Gavin replied. “Strickland must have paid a good price.” He paused and smiled. “’Tis a shame all that money is going to go to waste and he will lose the shipment on top of it.”

Branan chuckled. “Aye, brother, a terrible shame.”

Quietly, they slipped away, back to their horses. Branan waited until his men signaled they were in position. He drew his claymore and lifted it over his head.

“Cruach Mór!”
he roared. His horse exploded through the trees and onto the road.

The battle cry answered around him, his men surrounding the wagons. Branan swung his claymore at the closest guard, dispatching him instantly. Gavin’s hammer crashed down on another guard’s head, smashing into his skull. Jamie charged forward, his horse plowing into another guard’s, knocking him to the ground in front of two wagon horses.

The fallen rider tried to rise, but the wagon horses reared and trampled him. Geoffrey, Beth’s husband, surged forward, but a guard sitting in one of the wagons managed to load a crossbow. The weapon
thunked
and the bolt drove into Geoffrey’s chest, knocking him from his mount.

His cousin, Alaric, aimed his own crossbow and killed the guard, then promptly hauled Geoffrey from the fighting. Branan turned, locking swords with another guard, and deflected the man’s attack. With an arcing swing, Branan’s blade bit deeply in the man’s throat.

The drovers tried to urge the wagon horses forward, but Branan’s men blocked their path. Evan, one of the mercenary captains, charged in and leaped from his horse onto the lead wagon. With a strike of his meaty fist, the drover sailed off the wagon and into the dirt. Evan whooped as he grabbed the reins and turned the wagon so it blocked the road completely.

Branan again bellowed his war cry in response to Evan’s success. Another mercenary took control of the third wagon and one of Branan’s clansmen, Connor, grabbed the reins of the second. Within moments, the guards were dead along with the drovers.

“Gather our wounded,” Branan barked. “Put them in the wagons.”

Geoffrey and two other mercenaries were the only ones wounded. Branan’s group quickly took control of their prize and the wagons moved rapidly toward Thistlewood.

When they turned on the trail, only a short distance from the tower, Gavin pulled his mount next to Branan’s. “Now that was fine fun!”

“Aye,” Branan said, grinning. “Mayhap we shall have another feast at Thistlewood tonight. What silk the ladies do not wish to use we can discreetly sell to the de Courcy holdings.”

Gavin winked at him. “Thistlewood and Brackenburgh will no doubt make a good profit. Those who pay rent to Brackenburgh will again avoid the pain of Strickland’s taxes. I have to admit, I would love to see Strickland’s face when he hears of this raid.”

“So would I,” Branan replied.

They broke into the clearing surrounding Thistlewood. Branan’s heart twisted as he saw the women running toward the returning party, for Catriona was not among them. He suddenly remembered Geoff’s wife, Beth, was with Catriona at Brackenburgh. Branan jumped from his horse and hurried to the wagon. His heart stalled.

“Damnation,” Gavin said next to him. “I didn’t realize he was wounded so terribly.”

“I’d send a man for Beth,” Branan said, “but it is too risky to bring the lass here.”

“He would not survive a journey to Brackenburgh. Hell, Branan, I fear the wound will claim his life.”

“Aye, and Beth—what will happen to her when she learns of his death?” He resolved to give Beth one of the silk bolts, though he knew it would be poor consolation.

What if it had been me? What would happen to Catriona?

“Gavin.”

“Aye?”

He pulled his foster-brother out of earshot of the others. “I would have an oath from ye.”

Gavin frowned. “Of course, Branan, you know I will do anything for you.”

“I...” He paused and took a deep breath. “I ken of yer da’s oath to mine, that John swore to guard my da’s back the day he was murdered.”

Gavin’s jaw tightened and he looked away for a moment, only to return and spear Branan with the intensity in his blue eyes. “Aye. You know I will always guard your back, Branan. You are my foster-brother and best friend.”

“I’d have yer vow ye will not.”

Gavin stared at him, stunned.

“I’d have yer vow that no matter what may happen to me, if I should fall, ye will get out alive and protect Catriona.”

“What?”

“I ken ye well, Gavin, I ken ye’d do all ye could to guard my back. But what would happen to Catriona if she lost both of us?”

“Branan, I—”

“Yer vow on yer da’s soul, Gavin, I’ll have nothing less from ye.”

Gavin stared at him a long moment. “All right,” he said softly. “I vow on my father’s soul, if you fall, I will protect Catriona.”

Branan managed a grim smile and gripped Gavin’s shoulder. “Thank ye, my brother. Now let’s be seein’ to the wounded.”

HHH

Catriona pressed her fingers to her temples, praying her headache didn’t get any worse. Although her fever had passed, her headaches had not. She fought to listen to the herald as he related yet another offer of marriage from Strickland.

“His lordship has instructed me to present the benefits of marrying his son. Although the loss of your new husband on your wedding night was tragic, his lordship would like to point out the obvious advantages of the joining of two powerful houses.”

Catriona gritted her teeth, fighting to control her anger. Branan had announced to all she was handfasted to him. Strickland apparently chose to ignore that fact. He either did not realize how much weight it carried with the Scottish Church, or did not care. “His bastard son is the reason why my husband is dead,” she snapped.

The herald’s jaw tightened and Catriona reminded herself that anger was not the answer here—polite but firm refusal was.

The herald forced himself to smile. “Lady,” he said gently. “His lordship told you before, the arrival of his son was simply to congratulate you on your marriage. Unfortunately, a careless insult caused the situation to escalate tragically.”

She gulped a deep breath and sensed Edmund and Greystoke moving closer to her in silent support. Normally, she could handle Strickland’s foolishness in stride. But she grew weary of this nonsense. Catriona had not seen Branan in two months, and every few days, the herald reappeared with Strickland’s marriage proposal. Catriona was just plain tired of it.

“Please tell his lordship that my answer is what it was before. Nay.”

The herald gave an exaggerated sigh. “Please reconsider, my lady. His lordship has instructed me that due to the extensive cost of continued raiding, the fees against the landholders will increase. If you are wife to his heir, his lordship can protect you from that increase.”

Catriona stiffened, glaring at him. “And how much is this increase?” she asked, her voice cool and detached, though inside she screamed in rage.

“Twenty percent.”

Her control broke. “What?” she cried, bounding to her feet.

“My lady,” Edmund said quietly.

But she had had enough. Anger surged within Catriona and she clutched the folds of her skirts to keep her hands from trembling. “Tell your lordship, my answer once again is nay. Tell him also that the fee from Brackenburgh will remain what my deceased husband mandated. I will not be manipulated in this fashion.” She turned and glared at Edmund. “See to it this herald has supplies for his journey and escort him to our gates immediately. And furthermore, no one bearing Strickland’s banner will be welcome at Brackenburgh.”

The herald blinked in shock. Though Catriona had always firmly refused him, she had granted him every bit of courtesy. “My...my lady, surely you realize my lord will not be pleased with this.”

“Out,” Catriona growled. “Now.”

Edmund squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “My lord,” he said, gesturing for the herald to move away.”

“Lady—”

Edmund’s expression turned flat and he looked to Sir Greystoke.

The knight stepped forward, his hand on his weapon.

“Escort him to the gates and close them behind him,” Edmund said.

Seeing Greystoke, the herald bowed and turned on his heel, striding out of the keep with Greystoke only a pace behind.

Catriona sank into her chair, suddenly exhausted.

“My lady,” Edmund said gently. “Are you sure that was wise?”

“Probably not,” she replied ruefully. “But I am so weary of this foolishness. I will not allow Strickland to intimidate me thusly.”

Edmund’s lips twitched and he inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Catriona rubbed her temples again. “Has there been any sign of Jamie with the missives from Thistlewood yet?”

“Not yet, lady, but I’m sure he will arrive soon.”

Greystoke returned and spoke with Edmund. Catriona took the opportunity to have a servant fetch a cup of wine. Glory, she wished her head would stop hurting.

Edmund scowled and faced her. “Lady, there is a Scotsman requesting to see you. He entered before we closed the gates.”

She scowled. If it was Jamie he would have been ushered in immediately. “What goes?”

“He claims he is from clan MacTavish and he traveled from Scotland seeking his laird.”

Catriona’s heart lurched. From Scotland? Was something wrong at the clan? Or was this another one of Strickland’s ruses to get someone close to Branan?

“Gather the guard,” she said softly, “and send him in.”

Edmund’s brows rose. “Are you certain, lady? What if this—”

“Is a ploy?” she finished for him and nodded. “’Tis possible, Edmund, but it is also possible something happened to the clan and Branan should know about it. Send him in.”

She waited a moment while the guard gathered and then Greystoke escorted the man through the door. Catriona surveyed him critically. He dressed as Branan did and appeared rather travel worn. His hair was long and tangled, dark auburn in color, and a scruffy beard grew from his jaw. But his green eyes glittered vibrantly. He stopped a few paces before her and bowed. “My lady, I be Liam of clan MacTavish, I bear messages from our clan tae our laird, but I fear I canna locate him. I had heard ye may ken of his whereabouts.”