What a Lass Wants (13 page)

She pushed back the sleeve of her linen sark and stared at the bruises on her arm.

Of course, the risks in remaining were high.

She closed her eyes and let the sleeve slip back into place. As evil as Giric might be, he was still the safer option. Here, she had food and clothes and fire. Here, she had the promise of seeing Caitrina and feeling her sister’s arms wrapped around her once more. The road to Atholl held only danger.

Still, she could not ignore the warning signs.

Over the past month, Giric had completely transformed. When he had first retrieved her from the priory, he had been quite pleasant and polite. But as time passed and the inconveniences of living in a tent wore on him, all efforts to appear charming ceased. Now he was vile and vituperative. All too quick to raise his voice and his fist. She needed some form of protection, some method of staving off the inevitable. But what? She wasn’t strong enough to wield a sword, and the dull eating knife at her belt would barely pierce his thick skin.

Marsailli cast about for a possible weapon.

It had to be small enough to be easily hidden, yet sturdy enough to inflict damage. Her sewing needles failed that test—even if she jabbed them in his eyes, they were unlikely to save her from a punishing blow.

She slowly spun around, mentally itemizing the goods stored within the tent. Several chests full of clothes, three small stools, and a stack of folded blankets. Nothing useful. Her gaze lit upon the wooden
crucifix hanging from the tent pole near the exit. Except perhaps that.

She lifted the cross and examined it.

The rood was carved from a single solid piece of oak wood, and if the long end was whittled into a sharp point, it would make a formidable weapon. She mimicked the act of stabbing and grimaced. It would be effective only for someone with a stronger arm than hers. Jabbing such a thick object into Giric would take a great deal of force, more force than she could hope to muster. With a sigh, she hung it back on the pole.

She needed something long and thin, preferably steel.

A blade of some sort.

But Giric was careful—he did not allow her near the weapons or the horses. All she could hope was to spy something useful once she was free to roam the camp once more, something he wouldn’t immediately think of as a weapon. In the meantime, she would prepare as best she could. She retrieved the discarded bundle of her sewing, separated the needles, and tucked them into her purse. Anything was better than nothing.

Peering through the narrow gap in the tenting, she studied the soldiers milling about in the camp. What she needed now was opportunity . . . and a wee bit of luck.

*   *   *

Caitrina favored Bran with a heavy frown. “You need
what
?”

“Gowns,” he said. “Two of them. Large ones.” He
used his hands to suggest hips of sizable girth. “And a pair of those white headdresses the ladies wear.”

“Brèids?”

He nodded.

What a curious a request. Caitrina struggled to find some reason that he might require ladies’ attire and failed. “What purpose will these items serve?”

He tossed her a bold grin. “I have a rather unusual plan to rout our malefactor.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “I think an explanation is due.”

“Dougal’s men had no better luck tracking Giric than I. He’s hiding somewhere in the northern forest, but we have yet to determine where.”

Disappointing news, to be sure, but not unexpected.

“To capture him,” he said, “we’ll need to draw him out in a purposeful manner. To a place and time of our choosing, not his.”

She nodded.

“I can think of only one way to do that: offering him an opportunity to press his cause with you. His success is entirely dependent upon your support. If you do not steal the bairn, he will return to King Edward empty-handed.”

While she agreed with his assessment, the thought of meeting Giric again face-to-face was troubling. And she still did not understand the need for the gowns. “Aye,” she said slowly.

He smiled. “Obviously, I cannot give him any opportunity to injure you. It is my intent to disguise one of Dougal’s men as a woman.”

Caitrina choked out a laugh. “A man dressed as me? That will never work. Giric knows my face.”

“It need only work from a distance. By the time Giric is close enough to Dougal’s man to realize he has been duped, the game will be up. We will have him surrounded.”

“How will you explain your plan to Dougal? Will he not wonder why the English would be interested in a message from me?”

“I’ve already enrolled Dougal in the plan,” Bran said. “Initially, he rejected the charade and protested the use of a white flag to entrap the Sassenachs. Very unchivalrous, he said. But he is so enraged over Giric’s desecration of his men that I was able to convince him to set aside the niceties. I’ve told him the note is a sham, a mock missive from the queen.”

Still not convinced, she stared down at the map Bran had spread out on the table. “And where were you planning this auspicious meet to occur?”

He pointed to a small X that marked the location of a farm just north of the manor. “Here,” he said. “This is the bothy from which he stole the oxcart. He is clearly familiar with the area, so we shall plant a white flag of parlay in the roof and leave a note written in your hand requesting a rendezvous.”

“He will not come unprotected.”

“And neither shall we.” His gaze met hers, warm and intimate. “Can you find me the gowns?”

“I’m sure I can,” she said. Wishing they were anywhere but in the busy great hall, where a bevy of soldiers and gillies played witness to their every move, she brushed her hand lightly over the top of his. He
had quite elegant hands, for a man. Large and masculine, but with lean fingers. “But I fear that he will see through your efforts.”

“It’s a possibility,” he allowed, lifting his smallest finger and grazing it along the trailing edge of her hand. A shiver of sweet longing ran down Caitrina’s spine. “But the risks are low. If he suspects a trap, he will not come, and we will be forced to devise another plan.” He shrugged. “So be it.”

She lifted her hand to her lips and kissed the spot that he had touched. “Your request was for two gowns, not one. What is the other for?”

Bran’s gaze was locked on her hand and her lips. “Me.”

“You?” Her eyebrows soared.

“I’m no more eager to endanger the couple who farm the bothy than I am to endanger you, my lady. They, too, will be replaced by fighting men. Namely, myself and one other fellow.”

Unable to help herself, Caitrina grinned. “That will be quite the sight. Will I have the opportunity to assess the strength of your disguise before you head for the bothy?”

“If you wish,” he said, giving her a smile and a short bow. “Have the gowns delivered to my chamber within the hour and I’ll see to it that you get your opportunity for amusement.”

He rolled up the map and strode across the room toward the stairs.

Everything about him bespoke blatant masculinity—the breadth of his shoulders, the heaviness of his thighs, the span of his step. Imagining him draped in a
gown, attempting to appear a lady, made Caitrina laugh. He hadn’t a prayer of pulling off such a disguise. Even if the crofter’s wife was a sturdy lass, she couldn’t be more than half his size. Despite her concerns for her Marsailli, she found herself chuckling at the lengths to which he was willing to go in order to secure her sister’s safety.

She would find the gowns.

And let out the seams as required.

*   *   *

Bran was standing next to Dougal in the close when Caitrina descended the narrow steps from the great hall. He tightened his brat about his shoulders and bent his head as if to study the muddy ground beneath his boots.

She strode up to them and addressed Dougal. “Have you seen the marshal, sir?”

The constable wasn’t much for playing games, and he quickly stepped to one side and pointed at Bran. “The fool is right here.”

Bran lifted his head and stared into Caitrina’s lovely brown eyes, which widened as she recognized him. A fine reward for the effort he had put into donning his disguise. He smiled. “Elsie Drummond, at your service, my lady.”

Caitrina shook her head. “I’d never have thought it possible, Marshal Gordon, but you look quite feminine. Were it not for the dark shadow of beard on your chin, you could pass for a lady.”

“A little thick around the middle for my taste,” said Dougal, with a snort.

She laughed, a sweet burble of joy that echoed through the close and drew the attention of almost every man. “Aye, but surprisingly bonnie, wouldn’t you say?”

“Make sport, if you wish,” Bran said. “I’m man enough to endure it.”

She acknowledged the truth of his words with a smile. “And what of my replacement? Where is he?”

Bran glanced around. “Yet to appear, it would seem. No doubt a tad reticent to subject himself to ridicule. But he has more time to prepare than I—we must search the farm and find suitable hiding spots for Dougal’s men before planting the white flag.”

“We may have to remain in place for some time before the Sassenachs appear,” Dougal reminded him.

“Aye,” Bran agreed. “’Twill be hardest on your men. You and I will be free to move about.”

“Fear not,” Dougal said dryly. “My men have plenty of experience with sitting on their arses. But I’ll have words with them nonetheless.” He bowed to Caitrina. “Excuse me, my lady.”

She smiled at Bran. “You have a talent for disguise. I was quite convinced you were a woman until you looked up.”

“It’s a skill developed by necessity.”

“Necessity?” Her head tilted, and she lowered her voice. “Are you not a cutpurse?”

“Nay,” he said, equally quiet. But he wasn’t particularly worried that someone would overhear them. Dougal had hailed his men and their attention was already engaged. “A cutpurse cannot return to the same
corner day after day. He is doomed to cut and run, or face nabbing by the castle guard. I am that more notorious creature: the pick thief.”

“And what is that?”

“A thief who uses distraction to lighten a purse or snatch valuables.”

Her eyes narrowed. “A distraction such as a charming smile?”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smoothly practiced arc. “Exactly.”

“So the heed you have paid me these past few days has merely been . . . distraction?”

A fair question. He tossed his smiles often, most times without thought. Charm was a tool of his trade, after all. Quite likely, the first smile he’d sent her way had been a meaningless one, but it hadn’t taken long for her quiet beauty to shake the genuine smiles free. A minute, or perhaps two.

“Lass,” he said softly. “Given that I’m the one who finds himself lighter by one crown, who would you suspect is distracting whom?”

She blushed.

“This is a discussion I would very much like to continue,” he said. “But it will have to wait until I return.” He smiled. “And frankly, I think it should wait until I am no longer attired like a woman. The skirts are a tad disconcerting.”

“Indeed,” she said, with a laugh.

He nodded, preparing to step away.

Her hand brushed his sleeve. “Do take care, Marshal. Giric is a villainous man.”

Their gazes met and held for a long moment.

“I will,” he promised. It was foolish, but his heart skipped a beat, much as it might if he were truly a marshal with enough social standing to court a lady like Caitrina de Montfort. But he was not. And he should remember that. Even with everything that was at stake, all this could ever be was a game.

Bran turned and mounted his horse.

A very dangerous game.

*   *   *

Caitrina remained in the close long after Bran and Dougal had departed, and the manor had returned to quiet industry. She sat on the stone steps, watching the stable lads mucking out the stalls, and eyeing the cooper as he made new barrels. It was quite inappropriate to sit and do nothing, but her mind was in a state of turmoil.

Bran was nothing like any man she’d ever met before.

He was charming and competent and completely disreputable. She knew nothing of his past, nothing of his family, and nothing of his reasons for choosing a life of thievery. And yet she was quite certain she was falling in love with him.

Not that she’d ever been in love before. But the fluttering of her heart and the tight squeeze of her chest every time she looked at him were a perfect match to the descriptions of love her mother had given her. Back when Caitrina had begged for an explanation for the loyalty her mother still showed to her father, even after he’d deserted them.

But falling in love with a thief was a grave mistake.

There was no common ground on which to build a life. He could not join her in her world, nor could she
join him in his. In truth, joining him on the streets of Edinburgh was
possible
, just not very appealing. She would have to give up all of the finer things in life and learn to survive amid thieves and cutthroats. Even if she was willing, how could she ask that of Marsailli?

She blinked back tears.

Assuming Marsailli was ever returned to her.

And there it was: the very reason her heart beat an uneven rhythm whenever he was about. He was no ordinary thief. He could have taken the crown from her rooms and run off. Instead, he was risking everything to save her sister. Knights and constables and marshals did that. Not thieves.

“Lady Caitrina?”

She looked up.

Standing before her was a lad dressed in a purple gown. It was easy to see why Bran had chosen this young man to masquerade as her—he was short and slim. But, sadly, even in a dress, he looked nothing like a woman. He had a wild, scruffy beard that grew halfway to his belt.

“I can’t do it,” he said miserably. “The marshal told me I must scrape the whiskers from my face, but I can’t do it.”

Caitrina stood. “Can’t?” she asked. “Or won’t?”

His gaze dropped to the ground. “A man’s beard is his manhood, my lady. I’m a wee man, and if I lose the beard, I’ll be a mockery.”

“The marshal and the others are depending on you,” Caitrina said fiercely. Marsailli was depending on him. “You must be a man of your word.”