What a Lass Wants (15 page)

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.

M
arsailli was asleep when the Bear returned to the camp, but she didn’t remain that way for long. He hauled her from her bed by her hair, snarling incoherently about her sister’s betrayal and the audacity of his mount to die during a race for safety. Heart pounding, tears flowing, she watched mutely as he proceeded to destroy her tent in a fit of unholy rage, snapping the wooden poles like matchsticks and tearing great holes in the canvas walls.

She shivered in the center of the misty plateau, wondering whether her time had finally come.

Slipping her hand into the purse she had worn to bed, she felt for the sharp points of her sewing needles. If he came at her, she would use them, puny or not. If nothing else, they might incite him to kill her with a single blow instead of punishing her with a lengthy torture.

But to her surprise, there was no need for desperate measures.

As the tent came apart in his meaty fists, Giric’s rage subsided. Only moments after his tirade began, he stood in the center of the destruction with his eyes closed, breathing heavily.

“Bring me some soup,” he ordered quietly.

For a moment, no one moved. Not Marsailli, not the midwife, not the few remaining soldiers in the camp. But then Giric opened his eyes and pinned Marsailli with his cold stare. “Bring me some soup,” he repeated.

Biting back her fears, she darted for the cauldron hanging over the fire pit. With shaky hands, she ladled soup into a wooden bowl, and then navigated the piles of broken wood, jumbled clothing, and ripped tenting to bring it to him.

He poured the soup down his throat, then tossed aside the bowl.

“Are you still bleeding?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Then get thee from my sight.”

Marsailli needed no further encouragement; she quickly backed away. Her bed was gone and she had nowhere to sleep, but she was alive. And for that she was profoundly grateful. She exchanged a look with the midwife, who looked as wide eyed and pale faced as Marsailli felt. The older woman lifted one corner of the blanket around her shoulders, offering a warm retreat, and Marsailli scurried into her embrace.

Giric exchanged hushed words with one of his men, who then saddled a horse and swiftly left the camp. Once he was gone, the Bear settled in front of the fire, staring into the flickering flames with a grim countenance.

Plotting her sister’s comeuppance, no doubt.

Marsailli lifted her gaze to the moon hanging like a fat pearl in the night sky. If Caitrina had betrayed him
in some way, did that not suggest her sister was nearby . . . and working to free her? She certainly hoped it was so. It would be so much easier to keep the faith if she could believe her sister was staring up at this very same moon, planning a daring rescue.

She and the midwife sidled closer to the fire, remaining out of the Bear’s view.

But time was running out. Once her menses ceased to flow, the huge Englishman would have no cause to restrain himself. He would exact his revenge in some truly despicable fashion. The cold look in his eyes said as much.

She scanned the walls of shale that surrounded the camp, trying to spy a path between the loose, uneven piles of rock painted silver by the moonlight. If she knew what direction to head in, she would attempt to reach Caitrina. But she did not—she remembered the climb up from the burn, but not the direction they had traveled to reach it. One dark corner of the woods looked the same as any other. And the previous night, the chilling howl of a wolf had echoed through the glen.

Nay. She was safer here.

For at least one more night.

She leaned her head on the midwife’s bony shoulder and closed her eyes. If she was still alive come morning, there would be some difficult choices to make.

*   *   *

Morning dawned with cruel brightness.

Bran splashed cold water on his face and then headed downstairs to confront Caitrina. But the
moment he descended the steps into the great hall, he was accosted by two of Dougal’s men. The lads had the weary, travel-stained look of men who had ridden all night long.

“I’m afraid we have disappointing news, Marshal.”

He sighed heavily. “You lost him?”

“Aye,” said the elder of the two men. “Near the northern border. He entered a deep burn, and we lost his trail.”

Bran knew the spot all too well. He could hardly fault them for losing Giric when he’d done the same. Still, frustration gnawed at his belly. Had he not searched the banks of the burn himself and found no sign of the Sassenachs, he’d have called the lads to task.

“Take a short respite,” he told them. “When you have eaten your fill, come find me. We’ll return to the burn and search again. I know not where, but they must be hiding nearby.”

The two men nodded and headed for the kitchen.

He crossed the great hall to the hearth, where Lady Gisele and Lady Caitrina were diligently tending to their sewing.

“Might I have a word?” he asked of Caitrina.

“Now?” Gisele asked sharply. “Lady Caitrina is engaged in a task of some importance. She is making a sleeping cap for the new king.”

He took hold of Caitrina’s elbow and favored the elder lady with a steely look. “This will take but a moment.” Then he guided Caitrina out of her chair and over to a quiet corner of the hall.

“You are concerned about my declaration of love,” Caitrina guessed. “But there is no need.”

“Of course there is a need,” he challenged. “I’ve misled you.”

“Nay,” she said. She kept a proper distance, but her gaze embraced him warmly. “You were truthful—about everything—and my expectations were fully met.”

“How could they be met if your declaration has not been reciprocated?”

She smiled. “Because you never promised me love. Nor did you demand it.”

It was true—he hadn’t spoken of love. He hadn’t even dared to think of love. Loving Caitrina was a right that belonged to a much finer man than he. But as lowborn as he might be, he wasn’t the miserable creature she had just described—the sort who debauched virgins without a qualm.

“You deserve better.”

She put a hand to her lips and smiled, as if recalling the hot press of a kiss. “I agree, and I’m looking forward to discovering how much better it can be. Tonight?”

“You deserve better than an illicit affair,” he said, pointedly. “There will be no tonight.”

“Surely you don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Exasperation warred with disappointment on her face, and exasperation won. She scowled. “This is ridiculous. You are simply being high-handed. How will abstaining now improve my lot?”

“I cannot repair the damage already done,” he admitted. Nor, if he was completely honest, would he reverse the sands of time had that power miraculously been given to him. His memories of last night were too dear. “But I can keep you from making an even graver mistake.”

“And what mistake is that?”

“Losing your heart to a lie.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are too late. My heart is already engaged.”

He shook his head. “You love a man who does not exist.”

“Nonsense,” she said.

He spoke quickly, knowing she would interrupt him if he gave her the chance. “The crown you took from me is no ordinary jewel. It is the ancient coronet of Kenneth MacAlpin, the last king of the Picts. The MacCurrans—fierce fellows that they are—are descended from his personal guard, known as the Black Warriors, and they were tasked with protecting the crown, which they believe is destined to be worn by the only king who can lead Scotland into a new era.”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“As men who’ve sworn a blood oath tend to be, the MacCurrans are thoroughly committed to their cause, and the only way I was able to gain the crown was to exchange it for a hostage.”

Her jaw dropped.

“So,” he said grimly. Destroying her illusions about him was much harder than he thought it would be. His every instinct told him to stop talking, to fold her into his arms and soothe away the frown on her brow. “I
barter innocent lives for artifacts of immeasurable worth. Does that sound like a man you can admire?”

“A hostage? Who did you take hostage?”

“That doesn’t matter.” He thrust his untrustworthy hands behind him. “You’ve given your heart under false pretenses. You’d be wise to take it back.”

He wanted her to take the lead, to storm off in an angry fit. But she did not. She simply stood there and stared at him with wide, round eyes. As if he were some kind of vermin that had crawled out from beneath a rock. So he did the hardest thing he’d ever done—he turned his back and walked away.

*   *   *

Dougal’s two men met him in the close. Still chomping on bread and cheese, they walked with him to the stables. As their horses were saddled, Bran inspected the crofter’s oxcart, which still stood in one corner. Three holes had been drilled into the bed of the cart to hold the poles, which had been removed, as per his orders. He crouched to examine the underside of the cart. A small wooden frame had been attached to the bottom, cradling a slab of slate. Suspended several inches below the cart bed, the slate would have provided a simple but effective support for the poles.

He frowned.

The slate was a vivid blue-green—the distinctive color of the crag near the burn at the northern border. If he needed confirmation that his hunch was right, it was staring right at him. Giric was camped somewhere in that pile of rocks. In a cave, perhaps. Or a small hidden corrie.

He stood, suddenly hopeful.

“Gather a dozen men,” he told the two who had accompanied him. Giric couldn’t have more than three or four men left. “Quickly now. I believe we have a chance to rout this lawless Englishman once and for all.”

As they raced for the barracks, Bran glanced toward the manor house.

The steps were empty, but he suspected Caitrina was watching him from a window. She must surely think him a despicable wretch—and deservedly so—but perhaps he could ease her heartache by retrieving Marsailli. With her sister returned to her bosom and Giric’s tyranny ended, Caitrina’s worries would be far less onerous.

Bran selected his favorite steed, the big gray stallion, and led him out of his stall.

And he would be leaving her something less unworthy to remember him by.

*   *   *

As Bran led a troop of fourteen soldiers out of the manor gate, Caitrina turned away from the window and returned to the writing desk. She truly was a disloyal wretch. The man she loved was riding off to rescue her sister, and here she was, penning a message to the MacCurrans.

It was horribly unfair.

But what choice did she have? If she accepted the basic facts of Bran’s story as truth, then keeping the crown from its rightful caretakers was reprehensible. And if she failed to take action, she would be a party to the crime.

She dipped her quill into the inkpot. The challenge would be returning it without handing over Bran,
which she simply wouldn’t do. Perhaps she was a naive fool, but the one part of his tale she refused to believe was his heinous hostage taking. He’d had numerous opportunities to show her the ruthless side of his nature, and it had never surfaced. A more honorable and loyal soul would be hard to find. She simply couldn’t picture him holding a dirk to someone’s throat and demanding the crown.

She penned her message, short and to the point:
The crown is in Clackmannan
.

Waiting for the ink to dry, she stared into the fire in the hearth.

It still felt like betrayal to contact the MacCurrans. Bran would not forgive her easily, no matter how fine her intentions. He’d gone to great lengths to acquire the crown, and great lengths to earn it back from her. He must need it. But for what?

She had no idea.

Yet understanding that was the key to understanding the man himself. He was a good man, undeniably. But without knowledge of his motivations, of what drove him to do the things he did, she was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. Unfortunately, he seemed reluctant to share details of his life in Edinburgh—which left only her imagination to fill in the gaps.

An imagination that, at the moment, preferred to replay all the magical details of their night together. She rolled up her parchment note, tied it with a small white ribbon, and handed it to the young lad waiting patiently by the door. He bowed and left the room.

The queen was napping in her bed, with one of the ladies seated quietly at her side sewing. Another trio of
ladies was seated in front of the hearth, nibbling on candied fruit, sipping mead, and discussing the merits of various small hawks for hunting. Caitrina would have joined them, but she feared the rosy glow of her cheeks and her repeated sighs would draw more attention than she was prepared to handle. She could not stop thinking of her night with Bran.

She had expected to mourn her maidenhood more.

For something she’d spent a lifetime protecting, it had vanished with surprisingly little fanfare. Just a passing soreness. And her body was already craving another dance with excitement—every time she recalled Bran’s hands and mouth making merry on her skin, a delicious thrill ran down her spine. Which happened more often than she cared to admit.

Including right now.

Caitrina returned to the window and stared out into the close. Sullen gray clouds had swept in from the west and rain threatened to dampen the daily chores of the villeins.

Of course, Bran was determined not to repeat their tryst.

And if he discovered she had sent for the MacCurrans, she might never feel his hands upon her body again. An unimaginable future—she had never felt more alive than when she was in his arms. Even now, her breasts were budding in hopefulness. Who could have imagined he could coax such joy from her body? That his simple caresses could make her heart leap and her body hum? It would be true shame if she never made love with him again.

Ah, well. Her time was better spent crafting a
credible tale to give the MacCurrans as to how she acquired the crown. They would not easily swallow the suggestion that Bran had run off without it. But perhaps they would believe the truth—that she’d robbed the robber.