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

Chapter 3

B ran unrolled the parchment map and spread it across the table. With a corked inkpot in one corner and a pewter cup in another, he held it open while he studied the thin black lines that represented the boundaries of Clackmannan. “The northwest forest, you say?”

“Aye,” Dougal said, pointing to the map. “Right here. We found a dozen Englishmen camped in a small clearing.”

“Was the thief among them?”

Dougal shook his head, his thick red beard swinging with the motion. “Which sorely disappointed the MacCurrans. There was no sign of the wretch. They now believe he entered Black Devon Burn and headed west.”

“Are they bound for Stirling, then?”

“Aye.” The constable grimaced. “I invited them to return to the manor and feast with us, but they declined. They’re keen to find their man.”

Bran resisted a smile. The departure of the MacCurrans was excellent news, but sharing his joy would be inappropriate. “And what reason did the English give for being in Clackmannan?”

“They are riding north to Fort William, but broke a cartwheel in the mud.”

Moving the inkpot and the pewter cup, Bran allowed the map to curl up. He handed Dougal the rolled parchment. “Did we offer them our assistance?”

“Of course,” said Dougal, scratching his chin beneath his beard. “But they were no interested. Said they had their own wheelwright.”

“Was there anyone of note among them?”

“I saw only soldiers, but they had several tents.”

He could ask Dougal about the man with the scar, but that would suggest he knew more than he should about the men in the forest. Better that he look for himself. Alone and discreetly. “Were it only a small party, I’d leave them to make way on their own. But twelve Englishmen? We can take no chances, not with the queen in residence. Post guards in the forest.”

“Aye, Marshal. I’ll see to it right away.” Dougal offered him a short bow and then marched off.

Bran looked up and met Lady Caitrina’s gaze across the great hall. She and another of the queen’s ladies were consulting with the two cooks, but she had been casting quick glances in his direction the entire time Dougal had been making his report. She raised a single eyebrow, and he nodded in response.

Had he believed it feasible to keep Caitrina at a distance, he would have. But he knew she would not be easily dissuaded.

Upon excusing herself to her companions, she crossed the room to his side. She walked with a natural grace and sway that held his attention every inch of the way. “What have you found out?”

“There is indeed a party of men in the forest,” he confirmed, lifting his gaze to her face. An equally entrancing view. Especially that pert little nose. “I can’t be certain it includes the man you seek, but I’ll verify that when I ride out to see for myself.”

“I’ll ride with you.”

“Absolutely not.” His stealth skills did not include hiding a lass in skirts, especially skirts of pale purple satin. Caitrina would be a beacon in the dark green of the woodland. A very lovely beacon, but a beacon just the same. “You’ll remain here in the manor, where it is safe.”

“There is only one way I’ll be convinced you have the correct man,” she said, “and that is if I see him for myself.”

“Don’t be difficult, lass. There is real danger in approaching these men.”

“I’m well aware of the risks.” She cocked her head. “But I doubt that you intend to march openly into his camp. Spying on him from a distance would seem to be the wiser course.”

“Be that as it may, I’ve no intention of bringing you along.”

“I’m not giving you a choice,” she said quietly. “If I cannot confirm that the man you’ve found is the man I seek, then I’ll not return the crown.”

He sighed. How quickly he’d forgotten. Bonnie as a bluebell, to be sure, but also prickly as a gorse bush. “Fine. Accompany me if you must, but find another gown. Something less... obvious.”

Caitrina glanced down at her dress, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Of course,” she said. “Browns and greens would be far more suitable. I’ll make the change immediately. When do we leave?”

“As soon as you’re ready.”

“We won’t wait until nightfall?”

“Nay,” he said. “Our objective is to see, and seeing in the dark is near impossible.”

“Our objective is also secrecy,” she pointed out. “How do you intend to leave the manor and approach the men in the forest without being seen?”

“Leave that to me.”

Her eyebrows soared. “You expect me to simply put my faith in your abilities?”

“Aye.”

“Why? Are you conveniently a woodsman in addition to being a thief?”

Bran briefly closed his eyes. As tempting as it was to bend the lass over his knee and teach her a thing or two about respect, he dared not. The great hall was full of curious eyes. Instead, he pictured the wealthy young lasses he had often charmed on the High Street in Edinburgh, and he produced a lazy smile. “You’ll discover soon enough that I’m a very capable man, lass.”

Her gaze met his, and a rosy bloom spread across her cheeks.

The color softened her features in an unexpected way—fine and delicate became warm and sensual. Less sharply cut diamond and more sultry pink pearl. “Go,” he said, pleased with his efforts. “When you’re ready, meet me at the postern gate.”

She hesitated, clearly not used to being dismissed.

“Go,” he repeated. “We must make the most of the day.”

Perhaps it was the suggestion of passing time, but she finally let go of her misgivings and nodded. “The postern gate,” she confirmed. Then she headed for the stairs.

Bran watched her until the last bit of purple satin had disappeared into the stairwell. Now all he had to do was find a way to secrete the lady out of the manor. Slipping out on his own would have been easy enough, but Caitrina would pose a challenge. She was hardly the sort of lass who could move about without drawing notice, even if she rid herself of the brightly colored gown.

He tapped a finger on his chin.

Unless, of course, she wasn’t a lass.

***

Caitrina dug through the chest until she found the gown she was looking for: a dark green kirtle with a brocade bodice of brown and cream. Much more subtle than purple. She shook out the gown and laid it on the bed. “This is the one,” she said to one of the young maids who had accompanied them to Clackmannan.

The lass fingered the dark material with a frown. “Are you certain, my lady? A trifle dull this is, for a day gown.”

“It is indeed,” Caitrina agreed. Not that she’d always thought so—it had been one of her favorites back in Atholl, before she’d been chosen as a lady-in-waiting. There had been few occasions to wear satin and lace there, especially after her maither took ill. A much simpler time, requiring much simpler attire. “But if I’m to venture into the cellars, then I’ll not risk one of my better gowns.”

The maid unlaced Caitrina’s purple gown and tugged it gently over her head, taking care not to muss her braided hair. “And why must a lady enter the cellars?”

“To find furniture for the nursery.” Caitrina ducked into the dark green gown and helped the maid smooth the material over her white linen sark. “The queen has commissioned the master carpenter to craft an oak creidle worthy of a prince, but there’ll not be time to hew everything we will require. I’ve been assured there are numerous items in the storerooms below the manor that might prove suitable.”

The maid wrinkled her nose. “May I suggest, then, that you don boots instead of slippers? There’ll be all manner of dust and dirt below the stairs.”

“A fine idea.” And just what she would need for her ride into the forest.

But she had to make the exchange swiftly—left to his own, Marshal Gordon might depart without her. He wasn’t a real marshal, after all. He was a thief. A contemptible wretch. How could she have any faith that he would honor his word? Caitrina waited impatiently for the maid to lace up her boots and then scurried downstairs.

The postern gate was a narrow wooden egress behind the stables. It was used mostly by the huntsmen and the gardeners to perform work outside the manor walls, but they typically left at first light and returned at sunset. In the middle of the day, the portal saw little movement. Indeed, when Caitrina arrived, it was closed and there was no one about.

Not even her thief.

She slowly pivoted, scanning every shadow. Where was he? She hadn’t entirely taken him at his word—she’d hidden the crown where he’d never think to look—but she had believed this was the easier option for him. With the constant flow of ladies and servants, entering the queen’s rooms would be a challenging feat. But what if he didn’t come? She knew roughly where the men were camped. Was she prepared to go alone?

“Hallo, lass.”

Caitrina spun around. Her wayward thief stood immediately behind her, holding a small bundle of cloth in his hands. How could a man living a lie look so calm and worry-free? Not a single line marred his handsome brow. “Where are the horses?”

He smiled that smile again. The slightly crooked one that made her pulse leap and her belly tighten in anticipation. “We’ll get to the horses soon enough. First, I’ve had another think on your attire. I need you to wear these.”

She accepted the bundle of cloth, fingering the rough-spun material. “Are these trews?”

“Aye.”

Her gaze shot up to meet his. “Are you mad? I cannot wear such a garment.”

“If you want to accompany me, you must.” He nodded to the soldier visible on the wall just to their left. “The guards will think nothing of two lads departing the manor. But a lass—even one dressed in a dark gown—will be cause for comment.”

“The comments will be far more damning when they find me in a man’s clothing.”

His smile deepened. “Then let us not be caught.”

“You jest,” she said. “But there is nothing amusing about being hauled before the magistrate, or muddying my reputation beyond repair.”

The twinkle left his eyes. “I’ll not allow that fate to befall you.”

He spoke with such confidence that she almost believed him. But unfortunate events had a cruel way of coming true. Caitrina’s fingers tightened around the coarse twill trews. Discovery was a very real risk, but not enough of a risk to walk away. Not when Marsailli’s life hung in the balance. “Fine,” she said. “Where shall I dress?”

He pointed to the stables.

She took a step in that direction and halted. “This is uncomfortable enough without adding to my worries. I struggle each time I call you Marshal Gordon. Can you offer me another name?”

“Bran.”

An uncomplicated name that was a little at odds with such a complicated man. But she liked it. “Well, Bran. Please keep the stable hands at bay while I don my disguise.”

He nodded. “Just be swift, lass. The daylight hours are passing.”

Caitrina found an empty corner of the stables and, with several nervous glances over her shoulder, exchanged her gown for the clothing he had given her. The attire was simple and it didn’t take long to lace up the sark and belt the trews about her waist. But the slide of the rough material between her legs and over her rump made her face burn. Even fully dressed, she felt naked. No, worse than naked—exposed. And the sark did nothing to hide her very feminine bosom.

Hugging the wall of the stables, she made her way to the door and quietly called out to Bran, “Your plan is flawed. These clothes will fool no one.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said. “Step out.”

Caitrina wanted to step outside; she truly did. Marsailli was counting on her. But the very thought of anyone spying her in this scandalous attire made her light-headed. Imagine what she must look like. A harlot, no doubt. Or some other type of fallen woman. She gripped the door frame with both hands and stared at the patch of sunlit dirt swimming just outside the entrance. “I cannot,” she admitted breathlessly.

“You’re a truly difficult lass,” he said, marching into the stables with a scowl. “And given some of the lasses I’ve met—” He halted as he caught a look at her face. Without hesitation, he folded her into his arms. “Are you ill?”

“Just having... a wee bit of trouble... breathing.”

“So I see.” He pushed her head down. “Head between your knees. That’ll set things right.”

“I’m already top over terve,” she protested. But she didn’t resist the gentle push, and to her amazement she almost immediately felt less woozy. “What a curious remedy.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “But it does the deed.”

“How did you learn such a trick?”

He shrugged. “My da. The first time I went to battle at his side, I very near emptied my spleen on his boots. Training in the lists does not prepare you for the moment when you must stare into the eyes of the lad you’ve impaled upon your sword.”

It was hard to imagine him as a trembling, pale-faced young man. If his tale was true, that lad had been long lost to experience. The man who held her in his warm, unwavering embrace was anything but weak. Steadfast and secure came to mind.

“Can you stand now?” he asked.

“I think so.”

He released her and stepped away. “Let’s have a look at you, then.”

Grateful for the dim interior of the stables, Caitrina straightened. “I do not look like a lad.”

He stared at her for a long moment—such a long, uncomfortable moment that Caitrina wished she had something hard to hit him with.

“Well?”

“You’ve the right of it,” he said slowly. “I’d never have believed it possible, but you look more like a woman in those clothes than you do in your own.”

A wave of heat rolled up her neck and into her cheeks. Was that a hint of admiration in his eyes? Surely not. “Then we’re in agreement,” she said, pushing past him and reaching for her gown. “I’ll wear the gown I came in.”

“Nay,” he said. “You’ll go as a lad, or not at all.”

Caitrina spun around to face him. “But we both agreed this disguise was a poor choice.”

“It needs some adjustment,” he admitted.

“Don’t be daft. No amount of adjustment could possibly make this work.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “’Twill be a challenge, indeed, to hide such a lovely feminine form. But it can be done. With these.” He handed her two long panels of linen.

She blinked. “How, exactly?”

“Wrap one loosely about your bare middle to give it a wider appearance. Wrap the second about your bosom, tight as you can. Draw the sark over the top and belt it at your hips, not your waist.”

Heat flooded into her cheeks again. Dear lord. The man threw out words like “bare” and “bosom” with complete nonchalance. As if they were discussing the weather, and not the intimate details of her body. How could she ever look him in the eye again? “Fine,” she said sharply. She pointed a finger at the exit, wordlessly instructing him to leave.

He headed for the door. “Hail me if you require assistance.”

Her cheeks scorched with embarrassment. What kind of assistance did he imagine he would offer? The man was a miserable cur. A handsome cur, but a cur nonetheless. The moment he disappeared, she shucked the sark and wrapped the linen about her body as he had instructed. It took several tries before she got the linen secured about her bosom in a satisfactory manner, but within a few minutes she was once again fully dressed. She tucked her long braid into the back of her shirt and then called to Bran.

“You may return.”

Surprisingly, with the addition of the linen, she felt much more comfortable. When he entered, she was able to meet his gaze with only a slight warming in her cheeks. Until his stare once again lengthened beyond appropriate. “How does it look?”

He nodded. “Excellent. With a brat over your hair, you’ll do just fine.”

“You truly think I’ll pass for a lad?”

“Not under close inspection,” he said, taking her arm and leading her deeper into the stables. “But you’ll gull the guards on the wall, sure enough. How well do you ride?”

Caitrina peered into the stall before them. A long-legged roan mare stood quietly inside, her rope halter tied to a large iron ring on the wall. Not the short and placid mount she had hoped for, but certainly calm. “I can stay a horse well enough, as long as it maintains a smooth, unhurried gait.”

“So, if she breaks into a trot, I’ll be picking you up from the ground?”

She frowned. Her riding experience was limited to occasional hunts, and they were generally done at a leisurely pace. “What reason would we have to trot? Surely we have enough time to reach the camp and return before dark?”

“I can think of several reasons we might need to ride fast and hard,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped to the next stall. “I think it best we take one mount, not two.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, following him. “Where will I ride?”

“With me.”

Caitrina stared up at the huge dapple gray stallion, her heart pounding. “Surely you jest.”

He laid a blanket over the horse’s back and then picked a saddle from the selection of tack hanging on the wall behind them. “’Twill be much safer than riding apart.”

“Safer for whom?” she asked, aghast.

“For both of us,” he replied, cinching the saddle with two sharp tugs. “Discretion is our ally in this endeavor.” Unhooking the destrier’s rope halter from the ring, he led the horse out of the stall.

Caitrina took several steps back. The beast was even larger than she’d first thought.

Bran completed his preparations and then leapt upon the horse’s back. Leaning down, he extended his hand. “Let’s have at it, lass.”

Oh, lord. The moment of truth was upon her. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs. “I’m still not certain how this is to be done.”

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “You’ll ride behind me.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Are you mad? I’ll surely fall off.”

“Not if you hold on.”

“To what?” she asked.

He grinned. “Me.”

A picture rose in her mind and she gasped. “You expect me to ride astride?”

“Aye,” he said. “Just behind the saddle. A lad does not ride like a lady.”

Well, of course not. But that realization had been very slow in coming. Caitrina ignored the heat rising in her cheeks and held out her hand. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

“Brave lass.” He took hold of her arm. “Leap up.”

She bent her knees and sprang, not remotely hopeful that she would reach her seat. But with his strength behind her, she swung easily onto the horse’s back. She barely had time to lift her brat over her hair and grab his waist before Bran urged the great horse out into the close.

Caitrina kept her face hidden as they made their way to the postern gate. No one stopped them, but they passed several stable lads mucking straw—lads who might well recognize her, given the chance. She was so fearful of being hailed a charlatan that she gave little thought to the placement of her hands until they were well clear of the manor walls.

When the guards on the walls were some distance behind them and the shadowed edge of the forest loomed several hundred paces ahead, Caitrina relaxed her fisted hold on the front of Bran’s lèine. The warmth of the skin beneath his clothes had leached into her fingers in a very pleasant manner. Too pleasant. Pulling away suddenly seemed like a good notion, but not if it meant falling off. Which was a very real risk—the big horse had a rather jarring gait. Still, there seemed to be no proper place to put her hands. If she let them fall loosely, they would end up in his lap. Definitely not appropriate. If she splayed them across his chest, she would swiftly map every hill and valley of his firm body. Enjoyable, perhaps, but hardly acceptable. And try as she might, she could not clasp her hands together—his chest was too broad. So where, then?

“Cease your squirming,” he said gruffly.

Caitrina glared at the nubby linen weave of his lèine. An easy admonition for him to make. A thief would not concern himself with propriety. “This is not my usual mode of travel,” she said. “So forgive me if I can’t settle.”

“You’re forgiven,” he said. “But I’m a man, you ken? And despite your fine wrappings, I’m very aware that you’re a woman.”

She grew still. Although she was yet a maid, talk among the queen’s ladies tended toward the salacious. Conversation frequently turned to affairs of the heart, and as such she was quite familiar with the ebb and flow of desire. Especially as it pertained to the male form. “Perhaps you need to focus your thoughts on our objective,” she said, moving her hands to his sleeves. It was still a fascinating terrain to explore, but safer, somehow. “The man I seek is a very dangerous sort.”

“Some detail would be welcome.”

How much could she tell him about the Bear without revealing the bitter truth? “I’ve seen him kill a man with his bare hands. He beat the fellow near to death, then broke his neck.”

“An assailant?”

They entered the woods to the raucous caw of a protesting jay. The canopy of leaves above their heads cooled the air and returned a faint echo of the horse’s plodding hoofbeats.

“Nay, simply a man who dared to insult the king.” It had been a deeply offensive slur, involving Longshanks and a goat, but in the end, only words. But to Giric, the punishment had been justified—a worthless Scot did not malign the King of England and live to tell the tale.

“Why did no one stop him?”

Caitrina had tried to stay his hand and had earned a bruised cheek in the process, but no man in the street had interfered. And she understood why. The Bear stood a head taller than most other men and had shoulders as broad as a barn door. He was a formidable foe, and the scars on his face were a warning to any who dared oppose him—even a sharp blade wielded by a sure hand would not prevail.

“He was surrounded by six armed men.” True, but even his own men had been uneasy with the justice Giric had meted out. Not enough to challenge him, of course.

“And how did he escape the constable?”

“He accused a traveling merchant of the crime and his men stood witness.”

At a fork in the trail marked by a large pine, they turned west.

“Why do you believe him a danger to the queen?”

Caitrina had given some thought to the story she would tell if he pressed her for details. Sticking as closely to the truth as she dared, she said, “The queen has traveled the width and breadth of Scotland these past several months in search of spiritual guidance, and I’ve spied this man in almost every burgh we’ve stopped. Were he a Scotsman, I’d be less concerned. But he’s a Sassenach, and I’ve no love for the English.”

He tossed a frown over his shoulder. “Scotland has been at peace with England for many years. What reason would this man have to harm the queen?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “Save that these are turbulent times, with the king dead and his son yet unborn. And as I said, he’s a dangerous man.”

Bran lifted a low-hanging branch to ease their passage. “The party up ahead may not include the man you seek. Dougal says they’re soldiers on their way to Fort William.”

Caitrina ducked as the branch swung back into place. “I hope you’re right.”

But it was unlikely. Giric was out here somewhere, and this was the only party reported by Dougal and his men. Her heartbeat fluttered. If it was Giric and his men, Marsailli would be among them, and she could make real plans to set her sister free.

“How do you plan to approach them?” she asked.

“Quietly.”

She waited for him to say more, and frowned when nothing was forthcoming. “Surely you have a plan?”

“Plans have a way of going awry,” he said. “I prefer to think on my feet.”

Caitrina blinked. He thought to engage a brute like Giric with nothing more than his wits? Was he mad? “Do not mistake this man for a fool. His actions may imply a certain rashness, but he is far from simpleminded.”

“We’re not completely without resources,” he said. “I had Dougal post guards in the woods around the camp. They have orders to keep their distance, but if we run into trouble, they’ll be within easy reach.”

That was reassuring. But it was hardly a plan. “Will we seek a high point from which to spy upon the camp?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“When will you decide?” she asked, frowning.

“I’ll know when I get there.”

Caitrina clenched her fingers on his arms. He had no idea what sort of monster they were up against. “Stop. That simply won’t do. We cannot approach this man unprepared.”

Bran tugged on the reins and brought the horse to a halt. He twisted in the saddle and favored her with a narrow-eyed look that instantly wilted her resolve. “Lass, I’ve expended great effort to bring you this far. But make no mistake. I’ll not hesitate to unhorse you right here if you insist on challenging me further.”

Caitrina swallowed tightly.

He would do it; the chill in his eyes made that very clear. Having come this far, being so close to seeing Marsailli, she was left with no option. Bran might well be underestimating Giric, but it made no difference. She had to go on. Dropping her gaze, she said demurely, “I understand.”

“Good.” He settled back into the saddle and urged the horse forward. “It’s not much longer now. I see one of Dougal’s men in the trees up ahead.”

Caitrina peered around his shoulder. “How do you know it’s one of Dougal’s men?”

He pointed. “They all wear a white band painted with a black cross tied about their right arm.”

“That’s quite inventive.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Pull your brat close and cease your blether now, lass. I’ll do the talking to the guard.”

Caitrina did as he bade. She did not entirely cover her face—that would have raised the suspicions of the guard—but she made sure that her hair and her rather feminine chin were hidden in the folds of the cloth. Her belly was knotted, but she did her best to sit on the horse with a casual confidence as they rode up to the guard.

***

Dougal’s man was a grizzled fellow, bowed slightly by his advancing years. Bran did not recognize him, and judging by the suspicious frown he wore as they approached, the guard knew naught of him, either.

“Latha math,” he greeted the old man in Gaelic.

The wariness in the guard’s eyes eased. “A good day to you, as well.”

“I’m Marshal Gordon,” Bran said. “Late of Feldrinny. Did Dougal mention me to you?”

“Aye, he did,” responded the old man. “But he said naught of you traveling in this direction.” His gaze slid over Bran’s shoulder. “Nor did he say anything aboot this young laddie.”

“The lad is just a stable hand I’ve brought to care for my horse,” Bran said dismissively. “My aim is to take a closer look at our English visitors. Their tale of a broken wheel rings false to me.”

The guard’s gaze lingered on Caitrina for a moment before returning to Bran. “Should we hasten them away, then?”

“Not the now,” said Bran. “But keep your sword sharp and your wits about you. With the queen at Clackmannan, we must be especially diligent.”

“True enough.”

“I’ll pass this way on my return and relay all that I discover.” And with that, Bran nodded his good-bye and prodded his horse into a walk. When they were far enough away that he was confident the guard could not overhear, he said to Caitrina, “He’s a canny old fellow. I’m not certain he believes you are a lad.”

“Will he report my presence to Dougal, do you think?”

“Not likely,” he assured her. “But if he does, his description of you will be sorely lacking.”

She relaxed against his back, both hands loosely clasped about his middle. There was plenty of linen padding between them to disguise her shape, but the soft press of her face and the warmth of her breaths through his lèine stirred him with remarkable ease. The fault lay with his imagination. One solitary moment in the stables had done him in. Despite his determined efforts to think of something else, the vision of her body draped in nothing but a sark and trews kept resurfacing. He’d never seen a lass so beautiful, so sweetly curved, so unaware of her own charms.

He closed his eyes.

Why did he insist on torturing himself? Nothing could happen between Lady Caitrina and himself. She was a noblewoman and he was a common thief. No amount of hard work or ingenuity would change that. And he had plans that did not include a woman at his side. Dangerous plans. Plans that he could execute only once he had the crown.

Bran took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and reined in the horse. “We walk from here.”

Caitrina stared at him as he dismounted. “Are we close?”

“Another three hundred paces, mayhap a bit farther.”

“That’s yet a distance. Why would we travel afoot?”

He jingled the bridle. “Sounds carry all too well in the forest. Unless our desire is to announce our arrival, we must leave the horse behind.”

“Oh.” She allowed him to help her down, sliding into his arms with a faint blush and quick smile. “I hope my boots are up to the task.”

He glanced at her feet. The boots were well made—the leather smooth and supple, and the stitches evenly placed. They probably cost more than he pocketed in a week. “They’ll do.”

Shaking his head at the direction of his thoughts, he led the way between the trees. A thick layer of moss covered every root and rock along their path, ensuring a muted passage. Bran showed Caitrina how easily the moss could be disturbed, and encouraged her to place her boots gently and carefully. As his father had been fond of saying, no sense leaving a trail if one could be avoided.

Bran held up his hand, halting their progress briefly to allow a family of woodland grouse to scurry by. Curious. He hadn’t thought about his da in quite some time. He’d believed the man’s influence buried with his body. But here in the countryside, where they’d lived as bandits for several years, old memories were sprouting with a rather relentless prevalence.

Gordon MacLean had been the bane of his existence.

If not for his witless da, his mother and his brother might now be alive. They might yet be dwelling on MacLean land, serving the laird and raising honest families. Instead, his maither had been forced to watch her husband swing upon the gibbet, her heart broken, and his brother had died in gaol.

But his da had taught him a few very useful lessons.

Like the proper way to approach a camp to avoid making the horses restless. And how to disarm a guard swiftly and silently.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Caitrina as they halted once more. “I’ll return anon.”

He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just darted through the trees toward the helmeted Englishman patrolling the woods in front of him. A beefy fellow with arms like tree trunks. But even the largest man can fall, if taken by surprise. And Bran was an expert in surprise.

He slid up behind the hapless guard, wrapped an arm around the man’s throat, and with a tight hold cut off his air. The man thrashed a bit, but Bran held him firm until the flailing slowed and then ceased entirely. As the guard went limp, Bran lowered him gently to the ground and allowed him to breathe once more. Thievery could cost you a hand if you were caught, but murder meant the gibbet.

He bound and gagged the guard, then headed back to the spot where he’d left Caitrina.

To his dismay, she was no longer there. He scanned the woods left and right but could see no sign of her. A few bent fern fronds told him where she’d gone, however. Straight toward the camp.

Bollocks.