What a Lass Wants (12 page)

B
ran glanced up at the narrow window slits on the third floor. He could only hope that Caitrina wouldn’t recognize the significance of the torn kirtle. But given the age-old tradition of hanging the bridal sheets after a wedding night, that was a slim hope.

“Depole the men’s heads and bury them with the bodies,” he ordered crisply. “They deserve an honorable burial.”

Dougal met his gaze, hard and meaningful. “What of the gown?”

“Burn it.”

The constable directed his soldiers and then returned to Bran’s side. “The men are angry. They know the Sassenachs are out there somewhere, taunting us.”

Bran eyed the flushed cheeks and clenched fists of the men around him, and he nodded. “Their anger is justified. Gather a troop of your bravest men and mount them on your fastest horses. Let us run these scurrilous rats to ground.”

Dougal smiled thinly and turned to make good on the request.

“But, Dougal,” Bran said, halting him in midstride,
“take care. These men are black-hearted knaves, and we cannot afford to bury any more men.”

The constable nodded. “Aye.”

With leaden feet, Bran mounted the steps and reentered the manor. Caitrina was due an explanation, but he was not looking forward to the conversation. How could he comfort her when his assurances had thus far proved false at every turn? He had not kept Marsailli safe. He had not even kept her close. Now her sister was in mortal danger and the culprit responsible was waving gruesome banners under their noses. Any vows Bran made would be meaningless.

He rapped his knuckles upon the door to the queen’s chamber.

“Who goes there?” her guard demanded.

“Marshal Gordon,” he responded. He slid his ring under the door as proof of his identity. “All is safe, for now. You may move about freely.”

From within, he heard the scrape of moving furniture, and then the door unlatched. Two stern-faced guards wielding sharp halberds greeted him when the door swung open. “He is alone,” one of them confirmed.

“That is indeed the marshal,” Caitrina confirmed, stepping into view.

He eyed her carefully. Pale face, dark eyes. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the knuckles white, and a small piece of rush from the floor was entwined in her hair. He did not need to ask her if all was well; the answer was obvious. Giric’s message had been delivered straight to her heart.

“A word, if I may,” he beseeched her quietly.

She nodded to the guards, who lifted their halberds and let her through.

They walked to the end of the corridor and Bran waved her onto a small wooden bench under a window. This close, the damage was even more clear. There were streaks of salty residue on her cheeks and the faint beginnings of a bruise on her chin. His fault, all of it. He’d fallen into the worst trap of all: getting too comfortable in his stolen clothes. He’d begun to believe he was actually a marshal, a chivalrous knight capable of defending innocent young lasses. But he was not. He was a charlatan. Still, he was a man of his word, and he clearly owed Caitrina his best efforts to right this wrong.

Although his arms itched to gather her to his chest, he did not touch her; he dared not breach the stiff wall of resolve she had erected around herself. It looked too fragile to withstand a kindness, and given the words he was about to speak, she would not thank him for the gesture.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that there is more to this tale than you have yet shared.”

She stared at him, bleak and unspeaking.

There was no censure in her eyes, but he felt it anyway.

Although it pained him greatly, he continued, “You told me that Giric was only interested in information. That he was simply spying upon the queen and reporting back to his liege lord. As late as this morning, when I entered his camp and saw that he had fled, I believed your tale to be true. It made sense that a spy would flee the instant our suspicions were pricked.”

Caitrina sat perfectly still. Waiting.

“But the wagon in the close tells a different story. It’s quite obviously a warning. A threat.”

What little color there was in her cheeks drained away.

“He wants something from you,” he said. “And I must know what it is.”

Caitrina glanced away. Her clasped hands parted and she smoothed her palms over her azure skirts, the movement a little shaky. “You say that as if I could know what horrible thoughts a monster such as Giric would contemplate. I do not.”

If there was one thing that Bran knew well, it was a lie. And Caitrina was lying.

“He has asked you to perform some reprehensible deed,” he guessed matter-of-factly. “And he has threatened to slay Marsailli if you do not bow to his will.”

She leapt to her feet, bristling with indignation. “Why would you think such a thing? Only a traitorous wretch would give in to such demands.”

“Or a person willing to risk all for someone they love.”

“I am
not
a traitor.”

“Did I call you that?” He shook his head. “You are simply trying to save your sister.”

“It does not matter what you think,” she said hotly. She pointed down the hall at the closed doors of the queen’s chamber. “It matters what
they
think.”

Bran sighed. “Traitor, thief, liar—they’re all just words. Labels do not define us; our actions do. Tell me what Giric has demanded of you.”

“Gah!” She threw up her hands. “You’ve no
understanding at all. They are
not
just words. My father was named a traitor, and it destroyed our family. His intentions were honorable; he was avenging the murders of his father and brother, but in the end that mattered naught. We were stripped of our title, cast from our lands, and forever shamed by that word:
traitor
.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “You think you are the only one with a sorry past? My father loosed his bowels upon the gibbet, strung up by his neck for thievery. I know full well the power of such accusations. But his actions do not define my own.”

“So says the man who makes his living as a thief.”

He nodded. “Aye, to the casual eye it may appear that he and I are of like mind. But we are not. His only motive was greed. Mine is . . . a story for another day. Today, our priority must be your sister. Tell me what Giric wants, Caitrina.”

She turned away, shoulders bowed, arms wrapped around her waist.

“What does it matter what he wants?”

Mostly, it was a matter of trust. Bran needed to be able to trust Caitrina, and as long as she was lying to him, he couldn’t. But there was a practical reason as well. “To thwart him, I must understand how far he will go to get what he desires.”

She slowly spun to face him. “If I tell you, you will despise me.”

“Nothing you say can make me despise you,” he said softly. “My belief in your good nature is unshakable.”

A short, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “You are doomed to be disappointed, I fear.”

He watched the war of indecision play out upon her face—in the worry of her teeth on her bottom lip and in the lines that came and went upon her brow. Truth or lie, it did not matter. He would help her, whatever she said. He owed her that much. But he still prayed for the truth.

She heaved a sigh and he held his breath.

“He means to steal the queen’s babe.”

Bran almost swallowed his tongue. Satan’s ballocks. Perhaps it was his personal leaning toward coin and gems, but he had assumed Giric’s interest would lie in the queen’s bounty of copious jewels, not in the politics of the Scottish crown. “Are you certain?”

“Aye.” Her gaze met his. “It is
my
task to snatch the child.”

In her role of lady-in-waiting, Caitrina would certainly have opportunity, but it would not be easy to steal a royal bairn. “So, it is King Edward’s intent to confine the lad as he has confined Gwenllian of Wales?”

Caitrina grimaced. “I know not what his intent is. Save for one brief audience several months ago, I’ve not had words with Longshanks.”

“Raising the Scottish monarch under an English roof would certainly serve him well. A lad who looks to him like a father will be quick to swear fealty.”

“Well,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “If he succeeds, it will not be on me. I will not betray my queen.”

Bran brushed a thumb over the ruddy crest of her cheek. “As long as he holds Marsailli, your will is not your own. Giric knows full well that if it comes to a choice between your sister and the queen’s babe, you will choose your sister.”

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t.

“I do not fault you that choice,” he said. “In your shoes, I would make the same decision.”

She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Now you see why I forced you to aid me. If I can free Marsailli, Giric will have no hold over me. He will fail.”

It was true. The key to everything was finding and freeing Marsailli. “Dougal is searching for her as we speak,” he told her. Not precisely true; Dougal’s men were looking for Giric. But if they found the murderous Englishman, they would also find Marsailli.

She frowned. “Did you not say they had eluded you?”

“Aye,” he said. She released his hand and he immediately missed her touch. “We lost them near the northern border, but they clearly circled back. The oxcart belongs to a nearby tenant.”

A sad smile flitted across her face. “I’m sure Dougal will do a fine job, but you will be sorely missed.”

Ah, yes. His imminent departure. He’d almost forgotten about that. The Guardians of Scotland would soon be descending upon Clackmannan, and it would behoove him to be gone when they got here. But the moment that bloodstained gown had fluttered into view, leaving the manor had ceased to be an option. A young lass had suffered because of him. If he turned his back on her now, it would be like abandoning his brother all over again.

He couldn’t do that.

Not even to save his own skin.

Nor could he abandon Caitrina and the queen, not while wicked plans were afoot. The future of his
country would be decided here, in this very manor, within the next month. And only he and Caitrina knew the full extent of the danger. No one else had a hope of mounting a defense against Giric—it would have to be him.

“I’m not leaving,” he said.

Her eyes opened wide. “But the risks of remaining—”

“—can be minimized,” he said. “If I acquire forged credentials.”

“Can you do such a thing?”

The scandalized note in her voice amused him. He smiled. “With enough coin, sweetling, you can do anything.”

But it wouldn’t be easy. The timing would be the greatest challenge. The only man he knew who could forge documents well enough to hoodwink the high steward lived in Edinburgh—a day and a half’s ride from Clackmannan. And the lad would need time to craft them. Even if all went smoothly, Bran could not acquire papers in anything less than five days.

He just had to hope that James Stewart was not in a hurry to answer the queen’s summons.

*   *   *

Magda handed Marsailli a fresh pad of linen and moss. “Place the bloodied one in the bucket,” she said. “I’ll burn it in the fire later.”

“I’m grateful for your assistance,” Marsailli said to the midwife, blushing. “Before you arrived, dealing with my menses was a mortifying experience. Men have no knowledge of such things, and during my last monthly time the soldiers treated me as they would a leper.”

The older woman shrugged. “They believe what the priests tell them—that a woman’s flux is a punishment for her sins. That it is somehow wretched and filthy. But we know better. It is merely the body’s way of preparing you for motherhood.”

Marsailli adjusted her dress and then pushed aside the curtain to join Magda in the larger part of their tent. “Is it not a punishment? The nuns at the priory said Eve did not bleed before she was cast from the garden.”

The midwife grunted. “Believe what you will. I follow the old ways, not the new.”

“Are not midwives granted license by the village priests?”

Magda laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. “Do you think our captor cares whether a priest has blessed my skills or not? Nay. All he bothered to verify was my ability to keep a newborn babe alive.”

The midwife snatched up the bucket and left the tent.

Marsailli studied the fluttering tent flap with longing. As autumn advanced, the days grew crisp and short, and the opportunities to enjoy fine weather were limited. Sir Giric refused to look upon her face while her monthly blood flowed, and he would not allow her to step outside. Indeed, he blamed her for the need to pack up and pitch this one small tent—all the others had been abandoned. With a grimace, she picked up her sewing and sat on a stool before the small brazier that kept the chill at bay. The hems and cuffs of her dresses were wearing thin and required constant mending. Best she keep herself busy until her time was ended.

She sighed heavily.

She missed Caitrina. After their mother had passed, they’d become closer than most sisters, sharing every thought, every laugh, every fear. It was Caitrina who had taught her a proper running stitch and how to use embroidery to strengthen a fraying edge. Marsailli studied her mending efforts with a frown. She hoped her sister was having an easier time than she.

Giric was a cruel man, and one day he would make good on the villainous threats he heaped upon her. He would either rape her or kill her, of that she was certain.

What had Caitrina been thinking to send her off with King Edward and his brutish henchman? She must have known it would be Giric who would be tasked with returning her to Scotland. How could she imagine Marsailli would be safe in his care? Had she believed, as Marsailli once had, that his disfigured face was deserving of sympathy rather than fear? If so, she’d been a fool. He was every bit as wicked as his scar suggested. Sometimes—late at night, as she cried herself to sleep—she hated her sister for that lapse in judgment.

But not right now.

Right now, she just wanted to feel the warmth of her sister’s arms around her.

Marsailli tossed aside her sewing and leapt to her feet. A braver girl would have long since made her escape, stealing a horse and dashing over the moors in the direction of Atholl. She had been happy there, for a time. But she had never been anywhere alone, and the very thought of striking out in a vague direction
without a companion made her stomach heave. She could imagine what horrors would befall her.