What a Lass Wants (18 page)

She took the wispy end and drew it up the skin of his arm to his chest. Gooseflesh rose in its trail, and she smiled. He thrilled to touch as easily as she did. How wonderful. Leaning over him, she swept her hair over his upper body, along the strong lines of his chin, down his patrician nose, and over his sinfully shaped lips. Her reward was a low rumble of protest in his chest, and she grinned.

She pressed a hot kiss to his lips, as much for her own satisfaction as for his. Thus far, the game was only mildly amusing.

Sitting back on her heels, she studied him. He had closed his eyes, waiting for more. But more what? How does a lass go about seducing a man? What sensations were likely to make him so crazed with desire that he would toss aside her foolishly constructed rules and bed her right and proper?

His eyes drifted open again.

“Do you cede?” he asked.

“Nay,” she said quickly. She took her bottom lip into her mouth. Kisses were an option—she could kiss every inch of his skin above his waist—but she was not convinced that would be enough to make him break the rules.

She let her bottom lip go.

His nostrils flared again.

Something about that little movement enticed him. But what? What did he find so fascinating about her lip? She chewed it again, and released it—to similar effect. Was he imagining chewing her lip himself? If so,
could she use his imagination against him? Caitrina ran a light finger down her chest to her belly button. His eyes followed the trail of her fingers with avid interest, and she smiled.

Well. This could be quite intriguing.

Her own hand was not as satisfying on her skin as his was, but it evoked sensations nonetheless. Pleasurable sensations that were heightened by the dark glow in his eyes. She took the tip of her braid and traced slow circles on her belly, up her chest, and across her shoulders. Now the gooseflesh was haunting
her
.

His eyes became hotter and a flush rose on his cheeks.

Caitrina grew more daring, trailing the braid over one breast, down the valley, and circling the nipple of the other. As the hairs drifted over the budded tip, a short gasp broke from her lips. Sweet, sweet Jesu. It was all too easy to imagine his lips on her breasts, his fingers doing the delicate dance of the hairs. A hot wetness blossomed between her legs.

Surprisingly, this romp was having a powerful impact—not only did the sight of his obvious enthrallment excite her, but her imagination and the touch of her own hand doubled her pleasure. Caitrina abandoned the braid and placed her fingers directly on the plump flesh of her breast.

Her eyes closed.

She had touched her breasts before, even teased them to a point of gentle awareness. But this was new. Somehow, the knowledge that he was watching her added volumes to her sensitivity, and her skin reacted to her touch almost as eagerly as if he’d been caressing
her breast himself. She rolled her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, moaning at the sharp flood of sensations that spun out in all directions.

A low, feral growl escaped Bran’s throat.

Caitrina opened her eyes just in time to see him pounce. He leapt upon her with unrestrained ardor, all smugness vanished from his face. His hands were everywhere—not just above her waist—and it was clear that she was the victor of their little game. Not that she gave her win any thought. She was lost in a dizzying cloud of passion—every inch of her alive in ways she’d never been before.

Her world was spinning, her power immense, even as she trembled with weakness.

Armed with a new boldness, she took his hand and guided his strokes to the spots that gave her the most pleasure. Places she had never dared to suggest he go. It felt so good to have his hands cupping her breasts and rubbing the eager flesh between her thighs.

Together, they teased each other to the point of no return. When Bran finally slid two fingers inside her, Caitrina was dripping wet and she nearly found release.

“Take me,” she urged, her breath rasping.

Bran shed his braies in an instant, parted her thighs, and thrust into her with a shudder that racked his entire body. “Lord, lass,” he said hoarsely. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Then he proceeded to take her so deeply and so thoroughly that she thrashed against the sheets and nearly sobbed with the sweet harmony of their movements. When she came, it wasn’t a quick flash of ecstasy—it
was a rolling storm of release that went on and on until she lay beneath him so spent that she could not move a muscle.

He collapsed on the bed next to her and rolled onto his back.

“The guards will be wondering where you are.”

“I care not,” she said honestly.

He turned his head and smiled. “You say that now, but you will likely not feel the same come morn.” He leapt off the bed, gathered up the cloth in the water basin by the hearth, and returned to gently cleanse her private parts.

“I’ve never met a lass quite like you,” he said.

“Is that a bad thing?” she asked, with a frown.

“Nay,” he said with a laugh. He located her night rail in the jumble of his bedding and helped her don it. “Quite the opposite. I think I may be falling in love with you.”

Caitrina stiffened, her arms half into her nightgown. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “’Tis the truth.”

She tugged the linen down over her thighs and rolled off the bed. Staring at him reclined upon the mattress with his head pillowed beneath his arm, she scowled. “You are determined to ruin this wonderful night.”

His eyebrows rose. “Why does my declaration of love constitute ruin? You uttered the same words to me not a sennight ago.”

“But
my
declaration carried no expectations.”

“And mine does?”

“It’s common knowledge that men do not speak of love unless they mean to make a claim.”

“Is it?”

“You know perfectly well that it is,” she said hotly. How dare he steal the beauty of this encounter with his brash words. “But we can never be together.”

“Aye,” he admitted quietly. “I know.”

His agreement deflated her anger. “Then why would you echo my sentiments? Where could it possibly lead?”

“Must it lead somewhere?” He sat up and patted the mattress at his side. “I see no shame in admitting that I care for you. Indeed, the shame would be in letting our dalliance end without telling you the lay of my heart.”

Caitrina did not join him on the bed. It was far too tempting. If she went to him, she might never leave. “But embracing the totality of our affections will only cause greater pain when the moment arrives that parts us.”

He shrugged. “The pain of parting is unavoidable. It will be the memories we make that will sustain us in the future. Why not make them the fullest possible?”

The moments beyond their parting suddenly loomed with a heretofore unimaginable reality. “What awaits you in Edinburgh? You’ve previously suggested pressing commitments. Do they involve a woman?”

He vaulted from the bed and padded across the cold floor to her side. Gathering the edges of her brat, he wrapped her snugly in the wool. “No woman waits on my return. Not as you imagine, in any case. A street thug threatens many of my companions, and it was my
intent to use the crown to buy the loyalty of the castle guards and have him driven off or imprisoned.”

Caitrina’s heart sank.

This was the moment to confess what she’d done—to explain that she had sent for the MacCurrans. But the words wouldn’t form. If she spoke, her confession would dim that warm look in his eyes, perhaps permanently. “A noble goal,” she said, her tongue dry as old leather.

“I do what I must,” he said. “We’re born to a certain place in life, but our choices are thereafter our own.”

They were indeed. And the choice Caitrina had made might well change his memories of her for eternity. “We all do what we must,” she said. “And I must return to my room.”

He bent and kissed her lips—a tender kiss that sent a ripple of warmth to her toes. “Sweet dreams, lass.”

She breathed deep of his spicy, masculine scent, then smiled tremulously, spun on her heels, and dashed from the room. He would never forgive her.

*   *   *

Bran posted sentries to the north and west of the manor, armed with warning fires. If Giric decided to attack, they would need at least an hour of preparation to shut the gate and bolster their defenses.

He’d given an accounting of what he’d discovered to Dougal and the royal steward the night before, but the outcome had not been satisfying. Stewart was convinced that Giric was nothing more than an opportunistic bandit—he’d dismissed the possibility that King Edward supported Giric’s efforts with an adamant shake of his head—and there had been no way to rattle
his certainty without revealing Caitrina’s role in the plot.

Bran stared at the western forest, scanning the trees for any movement.

Stewart had promised to send to Edinburgh for additional men, but there’d been no urgency in his words. It would be four days at best before he saw support from the castle—and possibly longer. The royal steward believed the walls of Clackmannan were highly defensible. Bran disagreed. While it was true that the older man had more experience defending a keep than Bran did, he’d not seen the group of men gathering to the north, or the longbows they wielded. Bran had described the weapons and explained how they worked, but neither Stewart nor Dougal had put much stock in their value. They were convinced that the effort required to draw a bow of such length would exceed the abilities of most men. They were wrong. They’d never seen a Welsh bow in action, but he had. One of the men in his father’s band of brigands had been a Welshman.

Bran had underestimated Giric once before; he wasn’t about to do it again.

There had to be a way to claim a victory, even against a company of longbows.

The sharp rap of boot heels on the stone parapets behind him turned his head. Dougal joined him at the wall.

“Did you not say the English were hiding to the north?”

Bran nodded. “But the trees to the west allow a closer approach. It’s wise to keep a watch in all directions.”

“The fall harvest is only recently completed, and an inventory of the stores suggests we can survive a lengthy siege.”

Bran glanced at him. “As long as the wall remains unbreached.”

“We have the advantage,” Dougal insisted.

“We also have a village to protect.”

The older man sighed. “The queen must be our priority, if there is an attack.”

“You doubt Giric’s intent?” Bran asked. “Even after witnessing the atrocities enacted against your guards, without provocation?”

“The steward is right,” Dougal said. “He is a simple brigand.”

“No simple brigand would gather troops.”

Dougal shook his head, his red beard swaying. “I think you see fire where there is only smoke. Any large-scale attack by the English would be seen as an act of war. King Edward has long been an ally of the Scots. Why would he suddenly seek to sour relations with his neighbor to the north?”

“King Edward once hoped that his nephew would sit upon the Scottish throne,” Bran reminded him dryly. “But his sister and all of her issue are dead. The new Scottish monarch will either be half French or half Norse. Edward’s influence will be limited. That’s reason enough for him to take a hand.”

Dougal was silent.

Bran was no royal courtier gifted with inside knowledge of Scottish politics, but he had spent many an hour in an Edinburgh tap house debating the actions of those who were his betters. “The Welsh were
independent once, too. When the Prince of Wales refused to swear his allegiance, King Edward rode in with his armies and conquered him. He has imprisoned all claimants to the Welsh throne. Why do you believe he would treat Scotland any differently?”

“The Welsh were rebellious heathens,” Dougal scoffed. “Their prince was never truly recognized by the English monarchy.”

Bran snorted. “Those are Stewart’s words.”

“The man was an adviser to King Alexander. Why would we not have faith in his knowledge of King Edward?”

“I’ve never met King Edward,” Bran acknowledged. “But I’ve met my fill of greedy men, and I can tell you this—they don’t cease until they own it all.”

“How can you be certain this band of English brigands is under orders from Edward?”

“I can’t.” Not openly. “But he’s shown remarkable dedication for a simple bandit. In my experience, a man in search of easy coin preys on the weakest target. Waylaying a lone merchant, perchance, or robbing a farmer as he returns from the market. He does not attack soldiers.”

Dougal tossed him a wry smile. “Perhaps he’s learned his lesson.”

Movement in the trees sharpened Bran’s gaze. An eagle-eyed watchman on the wall trumpeted the alarm
an instant later as a long line of men on horseback broke from the trees, each carrying a distinctive black targe. At least two dozen men were visible, and he glimpsed more in the shadowy wood behind them.

Dougal stiffened. “Those look like Scots.”

Three large men rode at the center of the line—all broad shouldered, brown haired, and grim faced. Bran recognized them immediately. Niall, Aiden, and Wulf MacCurran. He drew in a deep breath and slowly released it.

“They are,” he told Dougal.

Then he spun on his heel and descended the steps to the close. The time had clearly come to pay the piper.

W
hen the trumpet sounded, Caitrina ran to the window. Upon confirming that all eyes were facing westward, she begged her leave of the queen and scurried downstairs. The arrival could be another Guardian, but most likely it was the MacCurrans.

They would assuredly demand a meeting with her, and Bran would need to remain out of sight while they collected the crown. Unfortunately, she had yet to enroll him in her plan. She stood on the steps and scanned the faces in the close. Explaining her decision would be a challenge—one that would likely bring an abrupt end to their affair. But if she hoped to save his life, it was a conversation that must be had.

She halted a passing soldier. “Where is Marshal Gordon?”

He pointed to the stables.

Caitrina dried her damp palms on her woolen skirts, straightened her shoulders, and crossed the close to the open arch of the stables. Postponing the discussion would not make it any easier to endure.

Bran was cinching the saddle on his big gray stallion, head bent to the task, his dark blond hair hiding his face.

“What are you doing?” she asked him quietly.

He looked up. His gaze softened as he absorbed the expression on her face—no doubt her worry was evident in every crease and line. “What I must.”

“Nay,” she said. “They’ve come for the crown, not for you. Stay in the shadows until they’re gone and all will be well.”

A heavy frown settled on his brow. “You know it is the MacCurrans who approach?”

Guilt was a cold stone in her belly. “Aye. ’Twas I who sent for them.”

“You?”

She nodded, wringing her hands. “I could not continue to keep the crown, not once I knew its importance. My deepest apologies, but it rightfully belongs to the MacCurrans and I must see it returned.”

He took a step back. “You sent them a message? When?”

“Two days ago.”

Bran stared at her for a long moment. Then he suddenly turned and ordered the other soldiers and stable lads, “Out. All of you.”

His voice was cold and hard, quite unlike the Bran she knew so well. Her gaze traced the stiff lines of his shoulders and the angry cant of his head. He felt betrayed. Quite understandable.

She waited until they were alone, and then said softly, “I will tell them the thief is long gone. That he hid the crown in the stables and I found it. They need never know you are here.”

He spun slowly to face her. “You kept this from me.”

Caitrina swallowed tightly and nodded.

“Even as we made love.”

A point well taken. Intimacy at such a moment implied a certain level of trust—trust she had abused. “I did not know how to tell you. The crown is important to you. I know that.”

He shook his head. “You know nothing.”

“You need coin to buy the loyalty of the castle guards, not the crown. I can help with that.”

“That may be true,” he said quietly. “But the point is that you did not trust me with your concerns. You did not believe that a thief could be party to such a decision, and you sent a message in secret. That tells me far more about your true opinion than you likely intended.”

“Nay,” she disputed. “You judge my opinion unfairly. I do trust you. I swear it.”

“It hardly matters now, does it? What’s done is done.”

“The crown belongs to the MacCurrans.”

He nodded. “And it shall be returned to them. Fetch it, please.”

She frowned. Perhaps she hadn’t been clear. “You cannot be present when I hand it over. They will surely recognize you as the thief.”

“Fetch it,” he repeated.

Caitrina crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re being difficult. I made the arrangements, and I will be the one to relinquish the crown. You’ll remain inside. If you’ll not agree, then I’ll not fetch the crown.”

“You say that you trust me,” he said. “And yet your actions defy your words.”

His comment was a stab to her chest. It was true, at
least in part. She wanted to trust him, but she was leery of what he would do if she gave him the crown. There was a chance he would take the crown and run, but she suspected the more likely scenario was that he would do the foolishly honorable thing and take the crown to the MacCurrans. So, nay, she did not trust him. Not to follow her plan to hand over the crown and lie about the thief.

But his words made her sound so cold and cruel. So unfaithful.

“All right,” she said. “I will get the crown.”

“Be quick,” he urged. “The MacCurrans are not known for their patience.”

She returned to her room and retrieved a wooden box from the bottom of her clothing chest. It was one of several boxes designed to hold satin shoes without crushing them. Inside the box was a velvet bag, and inside the bag lay the silver crown. She did not open it, or explain to the other ladies what she was retrieving. She simply scurried from the room and returned to the stables.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the velvet bag into Bran’s hands. “Now we shall see what my trust begets.”

Taking the crown, he tucked it into a leather satchel on his mount’s saddle. “Some say trust is a weakness.”

When he turned to face her, she retorted, “They say the same about love.”

He smiled. “Aye, so they do.”

Untying the stallion from the iron ring in his stall, Bran led the huge gray beast into the close. “I need you to understand that what I do now I do because my soul demands it. Wounding you in any way is not my aim.”

Caitrina swallowed a lump in her throat.

If he thought to reassure her, he failed. There was still a chance that he would run, and she prayed that would be his choice. Better to lose him to the dark shadows of the forest than to watch him struck down by the MacCurrans before her very eyes. But his next words proved that hope false.

“Mount up,” he ordered the six soldiers around him. “But leave your weapons sheathed. The MacCurrans are renowned for their battle prowess—let us not antagonize them.”

Within minutes, all were ahorse. The gates were opened and Bran led the way out of the manor. Not once, as he rode through the village and across the field, did he glance back at her. Shoulders straight, head high, he approached the band of fierce, dark warriors that awaited him.

*   *   *

Bran kept his gaze locked on the face of Aiden MacCurran, the clan chief. It was better to avoid a chance meeting of eyes with Wulf. He felt the stare of the largest MacCurran drill into him like a hot blade in his chest.

He and Wulf had never seen eye to eye, especially where Wulf’s lovely wife was concerned. Morag had befriended Bran several months earlier in Edinburgh, much to Wulf’s chagrin. And she had invited Bran to visit her at Dunstoras—an invitation that had led to the theft of the crown. Wulf would surely carve Bran’s heart out, given the chance.

Not that Bran intended to give him the chance.

He halted his men one hundred paces from the Black Warriors, instructed them to wait for him, and then
rode the rest of the way alone. “I propose a bargain,” he said firmly to the clan chief.

“Give us what we came for and we’ll let your men live,” Aiden said. “That’s the only bargain we’re prepared to make.”

Although the crown was burning against his left thigh, Bran stared straight ahead. “Help me foil a plot against the queen and the prize is yours.”

Aiden’s eyes narrowed. “What game do you play now, MacLean?”

“No game. The queen is truly in jeopardy. The English are plotting an attack on Clackmannan as we speak.” He opened the satchel, drew out the velvet bag, and offered it to Aiden. “You can leave now with the crown.” Bran met the chief’s gaze firmly and honestly. “But if you do, there is a good chance that the queen and her bairn will live the rest of their days as prisoners of King Edward.”

Aiden took the bag, peered inside, and then handed it to his brother Niall. “You are a liar and a thief. No matter how intriguing your tale, I give it no credence.” He tugged on his reins and turned his horse northward. “One word to any soul about this crown or where you found it, and you’ll die a very painful death.”

“I may be a thief and a liar,” Bran said sharply, “but I also risked my life to save your kin.” He twisted in his saddle and faced Wulf squarely. “You might well have swung upon the gibbet were it not for me. When you ran afoul of King Alexander’s traitorous brother this past spring and were sentenced to hang, ’twas I who came up with the plan to save you. I who prepared the
disguise for Morag and coached her to enter the castle undetected. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or no, ’twas my efforts that saw you freed from Edinburgh Castle. In return, I only ask that you protect the queen—the very same queen whose ring you wear about your neck.”

Wulf said nothing, just stared at him. Hard.

Aiden continued to ride away, his silent Highlander warriors following in his trail, and Bran grew desperate. “Were the Black Warriors not once the personal guard of Kenneth MacAlpin? Is it not in your blood to protect the kings of Scotland?”

At the name Kenneth MacAlpin, the warriors hammered their targes with their fists. But they did not stop.

“If you’ll not take me at my word,” Bran said crisply, “then see for yourself. Two leagues north of here lies a burn running through a slate crag. The English are gathering there, preparing their attack.”

Aiden halted. Without turning in his saddle, he asked, “What is your gain if we aid you, MacLean? What is your prize?”

An honest question. Bran had done very few things in his life that did not earn him a clear reward. He’d helped Morag and Wulf in Edinburgh in exchange for coin; he’d attended Aiden’s wedding with the intent of fleecing the man’s guests; he’d helped Caitrina in order to earn back the crown. The gain for his actions today? Nothing tangible. Love and pride and honor. Rewards no one who knew him well would believe. He smiled wryly. Except Caitrina. If he spouted such nonsense
now, the MacCurrans would ride off and never look back.

But he needed them as allies.

With their help, he could defeat Giric.

“There is a gold cross in the Clackmannan chapel,” he said, “encrusted with jewels. If I stave off this attack, it’s as good as mine.”

Aiden turned and skewered him a thunderous glare. “You are truly a detestable knave.” He sighed. “But if there’s a chance your words are true, I cannot ignore them. Wulf will ride to the manor and request an audience with the queen. Niall and I shall assess the threat at the crag.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Bran said. “It’s not easy to find the English in the rocks.”

“Nay, I’ll take one of your men. You’ll remain with Wulf. He’s the only one I trust to resist your dubious charms.”

Although he would have preferred to accompany Aiden northward, Bran settled back in his saddle. He’d won their cooperation—a far better outcome than he had expected. As long as Wulf controlled his urge to separate Bran’s head from his shoulders, all would be well.

He signaled to Robbie.

As the young tracker trotted forward, Bran said to Aiden, “The English commander is a ruthless bastard who’ll not hesitate to sacrifice any and all to get what he wants. If you’re wise, you’ll let young Robbie here guide your way into the rocks.”

Aiden nodded. “So long as you know that if he leads
us astray, you’ll pay the price, one strip of flesh at a time.”

Two thirds of the MacCurrans rode off with Robbie, leaving Bran with Wulf and, by a quick count, a dozen men. “They know me here as Marshal Gordon,” Bran said to the big warrior. “I’d be obliged if you would maintain that ruse.”

Wulf said nothing. He didn’t even acknowledge that Bran had spoken. He simply raised a big hand to signal his men and made for the manor at a determined trot.

Gritting his teeth at the insult, Bran gave chase. He would willingly pay for his crime after Giric was defeated. Right now, his men and the people of Clackmannan were best served by confident, steady leadership—and that did not include Wulf riding up to the gate ahead of him.

Wretch.

When he caught up to Wulf, he tossed the warrior a hard glance. “The archers on the wall await my signal,” he said. “Friend or foe, your fate rests in the turn of my hand.” Without waiting for Wulf’s response, he gave the signal for
friend
. The archers on the wall relaxed their stance, lowering their bows and taking a step back.

Wulf grunted.

“You are not the only honorable man in Scotland,” Bran reminded him. “The men of Clackmannan have sworn to keep the queen safe, at any cost. Do not belittle their efforts.”

The warrior sliced him a grim stare. “If a man earns my respect, he gets my respect.”

The implication being that Bran had done the
opposite. Well, Wulf could think whatever he liked about Bran’s character. All that mattered was that he had agreed to help protect the queen—and Caitrina.

His lovely lady-in-waiting stood just inside the manor gate as they rode in. She displayed suitable decorum, standing quietly as they dismounted. But he could see the relief shining in her eyes. Clearly, she had been convinced that the MacCurrans would cut him down.

As Wulf handed off his horse, he turned and addressed the group of people gathered in the close. “I seek the lady Caitrina de Montfort,” he said boldly.

“I am she,” Caitrina said, stepping forward.

Wulf took her hand in his, bowed low, and kissed her knuckles. “Our sincere thanks for your missive. We will forever be in your debt, lass. Should you ever need a boon, and it is within our power to grant it, it will be yours. I swear it.”

She blushed furiously. “You are too kind, sir.”

The big warrior released her hand and stepped back. “I request an audience with Queen Yolande.” He tugged on the silver chain around his neck and produced a ring. Bran recognized it as the favor the queen had bestowed upon Wulf the morning after her husband’s death. “If she will see me.”

Caitrina studied the ring. The queen’s arms were quite distinctive, and she immediately understood the significance of his possession of them. She curtsied. “She is indisposed, sir, but I will make inquiries. Who shall I say requests a moment in her presence?”

“Wulf MacCurran.”