What a Lass Wants (Claimed By the Highlander #4)

Chapter 2

O nce Lady Caitrina had disappeared into the stairwell, Bran released the breath he’d been holding. A very determined lass, that one. He’d fully expected to have to drag her up the stairs, kicking and screaming like a wildcat. But apparently, ladies-in-waiting didn’t resort to such antics.

He gave the lady a reasonable lead, then followed her up the stairs.

The queen had appropriated Marshal Finlay’s rooms, so the seneschal had offered Bran a smaller room at the opposite end of the third-floor corridor. Any room would do, frankly. He’d be here only a night or two. All he needed was a wee bit of privacy...

He opened the door to his chamber.

The young lad bent over a small oak chest by the window abruptly straightened. “Marshal! My apologies. I thought to be done afore you returned.”

“What in the bloody blazes of hell are you doing?” demanded Bran. His satchel lay at the young man’s feet, the contents open to view. The fine wool of the two purloined tunics spilled out onto the plank flooring.

“Unpacking your belongings.”

Was that a glint of silver he spied in the corner of the satchel? Lord. If the lad but touched the bag once more, the crown would be revealed.

“This is how you mind my effects?” he asked coldly, pointing at the satchel. “Allowing my clothing to wipe the mud from the floor?”

A flush rose in the lad’s cheeks. He immediately bent and reached for the spilled cloth, but Bran halted him.

“Nay,” he snapped.

The young man straightened. His lips were twisted with regret, but Bran could not allow a moment of sympathy to undo all his hard work. He’d paid a high price to acquire that crown.

“Do not touch my things again. Get out.”

The lad bobbed his head and scrambled for the door.

Bran watched him flee down the corridor, then closed the door and sighed. A thousand ways for this ruse to go astray, and he’d just tripped over one of the simplest. He had forgotten that well-born men had others unpack their bags. Fool. And sending one lad running would not save his treasure. With the queen in residence, there would be gillies constantly underfoot, sweeping cobwebs and delivering firewood and lighting candles. He could not continue to keep the crown inside the manor.

The safest place was the stables. He’d noted several dark spots up in the rafters.

But he’d have to wait for nightfall to move the crown.

Bran placed his clothing in the chest and looked around for a temporary hole to hide the crown. Not in the bed—gillies might warm the sheets before he retired for the night. Not under the bed—the bed stood on a platform. He slowly spun around. A cushioned chair, a small table, the hearth... Not a lot of choices. His gaze tilted upward. The bed hangings were really his only alternative—there was a chance the gillies would ruffle them to rid them of dust, but he suspected that was not a frequently performed chore.

A sharp rap sounded on the wooden door. “Marshal?”

Bran shoved the crown under the bed pillows. “Aye?”

The door swung open. The cook stood there, a white cloth wrapped around his substantial middle and a worried frown upon his brow. “Murtagh, sir. The cook. I wonder if I might have a word regarding this eve’s meal?”

“Have you consulted with Her Grace’s cook?”

The man’s frown deepened. “Oh, aye. That I have. And there lies the root of my difficulty. The wee Frenchie’s demands are quite unreasonable, Marshal. He’s asking for delicacies we’ve no hope of acquiring.”

“What sort of delicacies?”

“Almond paste and sea bream.” Murtagh wrinkled his nose. “Apparently Her Grace is particularly fond of fish at the moment, but the salmon from our rivers will no satisfy her delicate needs. She’ll only eat white-fleshed fish. And where am I to get almonds? Or the spices her cook is insisting upon? The man is a witless knave. We’ve only—”

“Haud your wheesht.” Bran folded his arms over his chest. “Hosting the queen at Clackmannan is the greatest of honors. I’ll not allow Her Grace to suffer whilst under our roof. You will find a way to satisfy her cook, or die in the attempt. Is that clear?”

“Aye,” said Murtagh, flushing. “But I cannot conjure items I do not have.”

“There are always options.” Bran nodded at the open door. “Collect the queen’s cook and meet me down in the manor stores.”

“I will also need several fire pits dug. The kitchen hearth is not large enough to feed the queen’s retinue. I must put a boar, two lambs, six geese, and forty capons on the spit.”

“Consider it done.”

Murtagh nodded. “Thank ye, Marshal.”

Bran said nothing, just stared at the cook, hard.

And Murtagh got the message. He backed out of the room. “I’ll fetch the queen’s cook.”

When the door was shut and Bran was once again alone, he retrieved the crown. Boot to the bed platform, he lifted himself up and tucked his prize in a swath of cloth draped over the forward bedposts. A discerning eye might notice the lump, but not in the next few hours. Satisfied, he leapt down.

Now all he had to do was organize a feast fit for a queen and stop two opinionated cooks from killing each other in the process.

He grinned.

Or perhaps their battle would serve as entertainment for the festivities. So long as they did each other in after the meal was cooked, all would be well.

***

Supper was an interesting affair.

Queen Yolande chose to eat in her rooms, citing weariness from the day’s travels, which left Caitrina and the other ladies to join Marshal Gordon and the most senior of the queen’s courtiers at the high table. As the most recently appointed lady-in-waiting, Caitrina ended up at the far left end of the table, next to the elderly and hard-of-hearing Chevalier Artois.

Lady Gisele claimed the spot next to the handsome young marshal and the pair appeared to find no challenge in making pleasant conversation. Indeed, Gordon proved quite the raconteur—he drew many a smile from the countess. Quite a feat, as the lady rarely displayed any signs of amusement, even in the company of some of the queen’s most seasoned courtiers.

Caitrina focused her attention on the food.

The cooks had quite outdone themselves. ’Twas simple fare compared with the queen’s usual meals, but it was well prepared and tasty. There was a fine selection of meats, including roast boar, capon with ginger and cinnamon, and herring served with parsley sauce. Ale flowed freely, the pages frequently filling all cups to the brim.

Perhaps if the conversation with Chevalier Artois had been easier, Caitrina would have spent less time looking down the table. But even the simplest comment, be it about the food or the bard’s choice of song, was a chore. Everything had to be repeated. Several times. After a few struggling efforts, their talk fell silent and Caitrina was left to listen to the laughter emanating from Gordon and Gisele’s end of the table.

She was relieved when supper was over.

In the midst of the dancing and piping that followed the meal, it was surprisingly easy to slip out of the manor. It was a quiet moonlit night, with plenty of stars scattered across the late-October sky. Caitrina pulled her soft woolen brat over her shoulders. Several guards stood atop the manor walls, but all were looking out at the surrounding countryside, not inward. No one stopped her as she made her way to the stables.

She ducked into the dim confines, not entirely certain of her plan. Was she truly going to leave the manor unattended and ride off into the night? It hardly seemed wise. But how else would she find Marsailli? Perhaps it was a moot point. To have a hope of succeeding, she had to first locate a suitable mount. Not an easy task. Horses were huge beasts, capable of crushing a wee thing such as herself. What she needed was a placid mount of short stature. She made her way from stall to stall, peering at the animals within. Surely the monks would own such a beast? She stared up at the massive dapple gray destrier standing in the stall before her.

It snorted, and she took a quick step back.

By the heavens. Its head was as large as her entire body.

The sharp rap of a boot heel striking the wooden threshold shook her from her reverie. Someone was coming! She ducked into an empty stall and buried herself as best she could in a pile of straw. Who would be entering at this hour? The stable lads and the grooms were partaking of the ale up at the manor—she’d made certain they were well into their cups and enjoying the festivities before heading out the door.

Peering through her blanket of straw, she watched a tall shadow make its way to the back of the stables. A man, with a lean build and broad shoulders. All other features were obscured by the dim light. One of the grooms, perhaps? Although he held himself a little too cocky for a mere stable hand. And he wore a cloak, which suggested a degree of furtive behavior. This man had something to hide.

Quite literally, it appeared.

As she watched, he tucked a leather-wrapped bundle in the rafters above the darkest corner of the stables. He positioned it quite carefully, neatly between two posts, ensuring that it would not be seen even in the brighter light of day. When he was satisfied that it was well hidden, he turned and scanned the narrow confines of the little wooden building. Caitrina shrank back a little. Was any piece of her skirt visible in the hay? She prayed not.

Her prayers were answered.

He marched past her, unaware of her presence. But as he passed by, Caitrina caught a glimpse of a strong chin and a long, thin nose. It was a face she recognized. Marshal Gordon. But why would the marshal be hiding something in the stables? Especially in the dead of night?

Perhaps a better question was, what was he hiding?

Caitrina stood and shook the straw from her clothing. There was only one way to find out: take a peek inside the bundle. The only problem was, she wasn’t quite tall enough to reach it. Searching the stables, she found a small three-legged stool that gave her just enough added height. But getting the bundle down was harder than she’d thought. He’d wedged it tightly in place, and she had to wriggle the package to get it loose. Fortunately, it wasn’t heavy, and she soon held it in her hands.

Aware that time was swiftly passing, Caitrina leapt down from the stool and peered inside the leather pouch. The object inside was shiny and hard, but she could not make out exactly what it was. Something valuable, no doubt.

But still, why was the marshal hiding it in the stables?

The marshal had many resources at his disposal, including the keys to the manor coffers. Why would he not place his valuables there? Under key and under guard would seem to be safer than a darkened corner of the stables. Unless he was hiding an object he did not want discovered by other souls among the manor staff.

Caitrina clutched the pouch to her chest.

But that suggested the marshal was not the honest man he portrayed. And it made her hungry to know exactly what it was that the pouch contained. Better light would be useful, which she would find only up at the manor. It was risky to take the pouch, but she had a feeling its contents would prove useful. She needed help to rescue her sister, and the marshal—honest man or no—might be just the aid she required.

Tucking the pouch under her brat, Caitrina scurried back to the manor.

It was time to discover the marshal’s secret.

***

Bran was about to turn in for the night when a soft knock sounded on his door. Although he was bare chested and clad only in his braies, he bid his guest to enter.

The door creaked open.

He raised his brows. Not a maid with linens, nor a gillie with firewood.

“Lady Caitrina,” he said, waving her into the room. “This is quite unexpected.”

“I’m certain that it is,” she responded, stepping through the portal and shutting the door behind her. The silver ribbon in her brown hair had come loose, allowing several dark curls to escape, but she was still fully dressed in a blue gown with white lace trim. Which left him at something of a disadvantage.

Not that he minded. “You’ve something to discuss, I take it.”

Her gaze dropped from his face to his chest and then glanced away. “I do. But I would prefer to discuss it with you fully attired.”

Bran grabbed his linen sark off the bed and slid it over his head. “I apologize if I’ve offended you, my lady. But I was not expecting company at this late hour.”

She nodded, a flush rising in her cheeks. “Quite understandable.”

“What is it you wish to discuss?”

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and turned to face him. “I would like to strike a bargain.”

“What room is there to bargain? My reasons for keeping you within the manor are sound.”

She pulled something from beneath her brat and held it out to him. “I believe this is yours.”

Bran stared at the leather pouch, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. The large scrape across the front flap was recognizable from his leap off the horse—the satchel was his. The one he’d just hidden in the stables. But now it was clearly empty. He lifted his gaze to her face and gave her a hard, cold stare. “What is it you want, Lady Caitrina?”

When he didn’t take the pouch, she lowered her hand. “A bargain, I told you.”

“Be more specific.”

The tone of his voice clearly unnerved her—her bottom lip quivered a wee bit—but she didn’t back down. She tossed the leather pouch onto a nearby chair and faced him squarely. “I have the crown stored safely in my rooms. If you would like to have it returned, you will do as I ask.”

Bran briefly considered denying that the crown was his, but the look in her eyes told him that would be pointless. She was far too certain. She must have seen him in the stables. Very unfortunate. “Nay, madam. You’ll return the item, or I’ll have the constable arrest you for theft.”

She tilted her head. “Truly? You’re going to pretend that an honest marshal would hide valuables in the stables?”

Bran said nothing.

“Well, then.” She crossed her arms over her chest. A perfectly lovely chest that rose and fell with every shaky breath. “I suppose I must call your bluff. Call the constable.”

Bloody hell. The lass might be bonnie, but she was as difficult as they came. He could no sooner call the constable than he could walk off without the crown. “I cannot have the constable searching the queen’s rooms, and you know it.”

She nodded. “I do know it. Just as I know that your reasons for hiding a valuable item in such an odd place amount to no good. I suspect that you’re the thief those MacCurran men came looking for. But you may rest easy—I’ll not reveal your secret unless you force me to.”

She spoke gently, almost kindly, but sugar-dusted coercion was still coercion. Bran closed the gap between them and took her chin in his hand. “We return to my original question, Lady Caitrina. What is it you want?”

The faint flush in her cheeks deepened. “I want you to search the woods around the manor.”

“Why?”

“A man, who I believe is a danger to the queen, is hiding there.”

He ran his thumb lightly along her jawbone. Such delicate skin. Softer than the finest velvet purse. “Why would you not have the queen’s guards search for him?”

She took a sharp step back, freeing herself from his grip. “I have my reasons.”

“Reasons that are as shady as my own, I suspect.” Lady Caitrina was an intriguing paradox. She possessed plenty of courage, but it was a reluctant courage. The awkward stiffness in her shoulders said that she would rather be anywhere but here, confronting him. But she was here nonetheless, driven by some internal need. And he found himself curious to know what that need was. “What is this man to you?”

Her lips tightened. “All you need know is that he’s a fiend.”

The bleak look that swept across her face as she uttered the word “fiend” sparked a burn in his chest. Men who threatened lasses were a special breed of blackguard. “Has he harmed you?”

“Nay,” she said, turning away. “Nor do I care to explain anything further. Who he is and what he’s done are none of your concern. Your task is simply to find him.”

Although her back was to him, he could see her small fists clench and unclench in her skirts. Whatever the man had done, it had harmed her—whether she would admit the truth or not. And that bothered him. “And if I provide you with the information you seek, do I have your word that you’ll return the crown?”

She grew still. “Aye.”

Her hesitation told him more than her response did. She had no intention of giving him the crown until she had everything she needed. Whatever that might be. And the man in the woods would be instrumental to a satisfactory ending. “How shall I know if I’ve found the right fellow?”

“He has a large scar on the left side of his face.”

“Have you any sense of where he might be hiding?”

“Nay. I only know that he won’t be alone.”

He crossed the room to the small table by the hearth, picked up the jug of wine that the gillies had left him, and poured a cup. “My men and the MacCurrans are searching every inch of Clackmannan land. I’ll know soon enough where he is.” He offered her the cup. “Would you care for some wine?”

She shook her head. “I’ll drink when I have cause to celebrate.”

Another dark curl slipped free, falling to her nape. Bran’s gut knotted. She was a beautiful lass, one of the loveliest he’d ever seen. And the soft halo of hair around her head gave her an air of vulnerability that belied the unyielding cant of her shoulders and steely look in her eyes. But the desire he felt for Lady Caitrina was inconvenient at best and a huge mistake at worst.

Bran shrugged and downed the contents of the cup himself. The dark red liquid slid smoothly down his throat. “Being alive and free are always cause to celebrate.”

“Not everyone is free.” The words came out quickly, on an impulsive huff of breath, and it was obvious that she immediately regretted them. Her lips tightened and she looked away.

A part of him wanted to go to her, fold her in his arms, and kiss away her worries. The foolish part. He drowned it with another cup of wine. Chivalry would not win him back the crown. Why should he care if someone she knew was imprisoned? Would she care if he were the one in gaol? He placed the empty cup on the table and turned to face her. His gaze trailed over the jeweled pin in her hair, the tiny pearls sewn onto her gown, and the silk slippers on her feet. Nay, she would not.

“Let us be very clear, lass. The deal is this: I find the man, you give me the crown. Attempt to cross me, and you’ll discover that I’m not a very pleasant man.”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded.

He pointed to the door. “Now go, before I give in to my scurrilous past and teach you a lesson about entering a man’s bedchamber without proper escort.”

No further encouragement was needed. She ran for the door. After briefly checking the corridor for witnesses to her poor judgment, she scurried away.

As the door shut softly behind her, Bran allowed his frustration to surface. With a low growl, he snatched the leather pouch from the chair and tossed it into the blazing hearth. Damn it. Why had he not searched the stables thoroughly before hiding the crown? He could have avoided a great deal of trouble had he only taken a little more care. Now he was trapped in an arrangement with a lass who, as brazen as she was, had no experience with dangerous men.

Had anyone else stolen from him, he’d have exacted his revenge with a pointed knife.

But Lady Caitrina was no thug he had to battle on the streets of Edinburgh. She was an innocent noblewoman, mixed up in affairs beyond her comprehension. She had no idea what he was capable of, or the things he was prepared to do in order to survive.

For now, he would play her game. Because it suited him.

But the moment the MacCurrans gave up the chase and freedom beckoned, he would take back his prize—willing lass or no.

***

Marsailli labored over the stew for hours. Using only the small knife at her belt, she skinned and gutted two fat hares, chopped the firm neep into tiny squares, and cut up the onions. A handful of herbs and some salt added flavor, and a bit of flour thickened the gravy. For a lass who’d never cooked afore today, the result was as fine as she could have imagined.

But her efforts did not please Giric. The mountainlike warrior took one spoonful of the stew and tossed aside his bowl with a howl of rage. “Bah! Who dares to feed me this dredge?”

His men pointed to Marsailli.

“Bring her to me. Now.”

A shudder ran through her. The last time the Bear had demanded to see her, he’d cut off a hank of her hair and she’d wept all night. What would befall her now? Would he shear off the rest of her hair? Beat her senseless? She squeezed her eyes shut. Or would he plunge his dirk into her chest and bury her in the woods—as he’d done with that old tinker who’d had the misfortune to cross their path a sennight before?

Two of his men marched into the tent she shared with the midwife, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her across the muddy clearing, their fingers digging into her flesh. When she stumbled, wrenching her right knee, they paid no mind, continuing to pull in spite of the sharp cry she emitted.

Giric seized her chin in his brutish hand and forced her to meet his gaze. A painful tilt upward. “Are you trying to poison me, girl?”

“Nay,” she cried, tears springing into her eyes. “I did the best I could, but I’m no cook.”

He shoved her away so roughly that she would have fallen had his men not still held her arms. “The best you could? I would feast better at the midden heap, you feckless wench!” Unsheathing his dirk, he pointed it at her. “Have I not made your position here clear? You are at the mercy of my good graces.”

Marsailli stared at the sharp tip of the blade, unable to look away. This was it. He was about to stab his dirk into her. She would die alone in these strange woods, without ever seeing Caitrina again. A violent tremble shook her legs, and her head grew faint.

But, to her great relief, he stepped no closer, apparently content to rage from a distance. “Your sister abandoned you—have you forgotten that? She sent you off with King Edward to waste away with a bunch of nuns. Had I not come to claim you, you would be there still. I’ve brought you home to Scotland and cared for you at my own expense—but even my generosity has its limits. If you are to remain in my camp, you must serve a purpose. Do you understand?”

“Aye.” Marsailli blinked back her tears.

“Then serve a bloody purpose,” he snarled. “Learn to cook a meal worth serving or you will find yourself serving me in ways you will find much less comfortable.”

Marsailli stared at the ground, her shoulders bowed. She was doomed, then. Without an experienced cook in camp, who would teach her? Her next effort would surely give rise to the same anger and disdain as this one.

The Bear’s hand cupped her chin again. “Perhaps that would be the best solution, eh?”

She lifted her gaze to his scarred face.

“You’re a pretty enough girl,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and gentle. “No breasts or hips to speak of, but fair skinned and bright eyed. And you did a fine job of arranging your hair to hide your baldness.”

A heavy sense of uneasiness flooded Marsailli’s body. The look in his eyes was dark and expectant, and a strange smile curved his thin lips. She stiffened in his hold, resisting a powerful urge to leap away, to run as far and as fast as she could.

“Would you prefer to serve me in my bed, little dove?” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “That might be a better use of your talents.”

Marsailli swallowed a mouthful of sour spit. Serve him in his bed? Even without knowing exactly what that meant, she knew the suggestion was horribly inappropriate. A woman did not lie with a man outside of wedlock—and it was quite clear he wasn’t offering to wed her. “Nay,” she said, choking on the word. “I’d prefer to cook.”

His smile vanished. He stared at her lips for a long moment, all suggestion of warmth and kindness gone. “So be it. Return to your cauldron. But disappoint me with your offerings again and your desires will bend to mine.” He released her and walked away.

Marsailli breathed a deep sigh of relief.

She still had no idea how she would produce a meal that would satisfy Giric, but she was happier dealing with that problem than resisting the man’s troubling interest in her lips. If she could learn a few simple recipes, she might be able to keep him at bay. The challenge was finding those recipes. She slowly scanned the camp, eyeing the faces of the Bear’s men one by one. Someone had done the cooking before she was assigned the duty. But who?

She rubbed her aching right knee.

Was it the barrel-chested soldier with the missing thumb? He’d shown her how to start a fire and where to find the cauldron and cooking utensils. Or perhaps the fair-haired lad with the large front teeth? He’d helped her sort through the selection of herbs and spices, ably identifying each by its smell. Or perhaps it was the tall, thin man with the balding pate and shoulder-length dark hair? She regularly found him spying upon her with his arms folded over his chest and a frown upon his face—very disapproving of her every action.

The same way that he was staring at her now.

Of course, he glanced away the moment she met his gaze.

He didn’t look the least bit friendly, and she had no reason to believe that he would help her, but she had to start somewhere. Marsailli straightened her shoulders, lifted her skirts so they wouldn’t drag in the mud, and limped across the camp toward the tall, thin man.

What did she have to fear?

Anything would be easier than facing an angry Bear.