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

Chapter 4

C aitrina had every intention of following Bran’s directive until she caught a glimpse of several colored tents through the trees. Fluttering sheets of blue and green stripes. There was obviously a clearing up ahead—quite possibly the very place where Giric was holding Marsailli. The woolen brat she wore was a loose weave of green and brown. If she kept to the forest and moved carefully the way Bran had taught her, perhaps she could peer into the camp and find her sister.

She chewed her lip and stared into the woods where Bran had disappeared.

He had told her to stay here. No doubt for her own safety.

But wouldn’t it be best to catch that first sight of Marsailli while she was alone? If she waited until Bran returned, he might glean the personal connection she had to the English soldiers—a disaster by all accounts. She would lose her leverage over him, and with it, his aid.

Drawing the brat tightly around her shoulders, Caitrina ducked under the arching branch of a holly bush and made for the clearing. If she was quick, she might make it back before Bran realized she had gone. Moving swiftly and hugging the trees for protection, she approached the edge of the forest. The clearing was long and narrow, with a small burn running through the middle. Four tents were pitched on the west side of the stream where the ground was flatter, the blue one directly in front of her. Unfortunately, it blocked her view of the campfire, which was in the center, based on the thin ribbons of greasy smoke rising into the cloudy afternoon sky. Even when she stood on the tips of her toes, she could see only three men, none of them Giric. Two were chopping wood for the fire and stacking split wedges. A third was seated on a fallen log avidly cleaning mud from his boots. If there were others, they must be gathered around the fire.

She sighed.

To have a hope of spotting her sister, she needed a better viewpoint. Like the top of that boulder twenty paces to her right. It was partially hidden behind a drooping pine bough, so she wouldn’t risk discovery should one of the soldiers look up.

Caitrina scrambled through the brush toward the rock. There were a number of smaller rocks at the base of the boulder, and she used them to help her reach the top. She was just about to sweep aside the pine bough and take a peek at the camp when a hand grabbed her ankle. She only barely restrained a shriek.

“What do we have here?”

It was one of the soldiers, a tall, gangly fellow with a scattering of blemishes across his chin.

She kicked at him, determined to get free. If Giric found her here, there was no telling what he would do. But despite his youthful appearance, the soldier had a manly grip. He yanked her to her rump and then pulled her down from the rock. Bitter tears sprang into Caitrina’s eyes.

Satan’s beard. Her impatience had ruined everything.

Why hadn’t she waited for Bran?

The soldier grabbed a fistful of her sark and began to drag her through the bracken. “The Bear ain’t too fond of stinkin’ Scots,” he said. “You’d best pray he’s in a merciful mood.”

Nothing Caitrina did gained her freedom—not kicking, not scratching, not biting. The soldier did not seem to care that her nails and teeth dug into his flesh; he continued on his merry way with a smile on his face. No doubt imagining a pleasant reward for capturing a spy.

Caitrina was just about to slump with despair when a rock the size of a small neep hit the lad neatly in the temple, and he fell headfirst into the bracken with little more than a sigh. She tore free of his limp grip and scrambled back into the trees, where she came face-to-face with a rather stony-eyed Bran.

“I know,” she said morosely. “I’m a fool.”

He folded his arms over his chest and continued to stare at her.

“I made a grievous error in not minding your direction, and I sincerely beg your pardon,” she said. He still did not look appeased, so she added, “I’ll not do it again.”

“Did he harm you?”

“Nay.” A wee lie—her arse hurt like the devil—but it eased the icy glare in Bran’s eyes.

He nodded sharply, then pointed to the boulder. “Good. Since you were so determined to climb, let us take advantage of your eagerness. Up you go.”

Her bruised rump protested as she clambered back atop the boulder, but she dared not complain. “You’re a very good shot with a rock. Where did you learn such a skill?”

“On the streets of Edinburgh.”

She tried to image how or when he might have thrown a rock in town, but failed. Thieves apparently led interesting lives. “Why did you not slay him?”

He shrugged. “Never draw your dirk when a blow will do it. What can you see?”

Caitrina peered between the long needles of the pine tree. As she had guessed, the bulk of the soldiers were seated around the fire, eating soup from wooden bowls and quaffing horns of ale. “A dozen men in all, most of them half in their cups.”

“Can you spy the man you seek?”

She could not. None of the men in sight had a misshapen ear and a scar across his cheek. But what did it matter? The soldier had mentioned the Bear by name—this was definitely Giric’s camp. And if she was not mistaken, the slim woman bent over the cooking cauldron was none other than Marsailli. Caitrina smiled.

“Aye,” she said. “The one I seek is standing right before my eyes.”

“Excellent,” Bran said. “Then let us return to the manor. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. It is now time for you to fulfill yours.”

Her heart sank. It was true. He’d met his obligation—he was due his prize.

But she would not be satisfied until Marsailli was free. Until she could be certain her sister was beyond Giric’s grasp. How was she to accomplish that? Caitrina watched the woman by the fire chat briefly with a tall, thin man with a balding pate and then limp across the muddy field to the green-striped tent. It was definitely Marsailli. The gentle tilt of her head, the way she lifted her skirts as she moved, and the curl of her nut-brown locks were all familiar. But she was hurt—she favored her right side as she walked.

A bittersweet ache filled her chest.

Seeing her sister, even from a distance, was a joy beyond imagining, but witnessing her pain was unbearable. She had to set Marsailli free. And soon. The task would not be an easy one, however. The tent she had entered backed onto the burn, and the only way to reach it was straight through the camp—right past all the guards.

With a grimace, Caitrina turned away from the view and joined Bran at the base of the boulder. She’d been so sure that a route to success would become obvious once she saw the layout of the camp. But she had nothing. Bran offered his hand as they stepped over a rotting log and she slid her fingers into his warm palm. Not even an unwilling ally. Bran would disappear the moment she handed over the crown. Now that the MacCurrans had ridden for Stirling, he had no reason to remain.

“What will you do with the crown once you have it?” she asked.

He glanced at her. “What does it matter?”

“I’m simply curious.”

“You’ve no need to know,” he cautioned her. “And as you can personally attest, curiosity can sometimes lead you to dangerous places.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you threaten me?”

He tossed her one of his charming smiles, and she melted a little. “Nay. But the less you know of me and my troubles, the safer you’ll be from those who might come looking for truths.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “But would I be off the mark to suggest your troubles are the sort that are influenced by large quantities of coin?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

But it was. She needed to find some way to keep her ally-cum-thief in her pocket. Coin had seemed an obvious enticement, but he had barely blinked at her broad hint. If Bran was not driven by greed, then what was he driven by?

They reached the horse, and Bran gave her a leg up.

The sun had finally broken through the clouds and bright splashes of sunlight littered the forest floor around them. As he checked the cinch on the saddle, Caitrina studied the play of light on his golden hair. “The MacCurrans are Highlanders,” she said thoughtfully. “I believe their clan seat is deep within the Red Mountains. The crown must hold great meaning for them if they chased you this far south in an effort to reclaim it.”

Bran lifted his gaze. His expression was calm, but there was an unusual stillness to him that told her she had hit the mark. “Wounded pride,” he said with a shrug. “They’ll give up soon enough.”

“I am acquainted with the Lady of Dunstoras, Isabail,” Caitrina said. “I attended her wedding to Andrew Macintosh a number of years ago.”

“She’s wed to Aiden MacCurran now.”

“So I’ve heard.” She waited until he had gained the saddle before adding, “I’ve been quite remiss in sending her my good wishes. I must remedy that.”

He said nothing, just urged the horse into motion and followed their trail back to the old guard. “I saw no sign of a wheelwright,” he informed the gray-haired man. “The cart is still stuck in the mud.”

“So they might be here a while yet.”

“Aye. Give them a day or two to settle their own affairs. If they’ve made no progress by then, send someone to repair the wheel.” Bran sat back in the saddle. “You should be aware that we ran into a spot of trouble.”

The old guard frowned. “What sort of trouble?”

Bran explained what had happened, sticking very close to the truth. “The young Sassenach will have a wee sore head come morn. If they complain about a lack of hospitality,” he said, smiling, “fetch me. I’d be pleased to address their concerns.”

Dougal’s man snorted. “Serves the bloody fool right.”

“The lad here,” Bran nodded over his shoulder, “will meet the rewards of his poor judgment back at the manor. I’ll make certain he can’t sit for a day.”

The old man’s gaze met Caitrina’s over the edge of her brat. “As it should be, I suppose.”

They left without further ado. When they had been plodding along for a while, she asked, “I trust you weren’t actually thinking to take a switch to my behind?”

“Nay. I’ve no desire to be arrested for striking a lady.”

“That’s good to hear. You sounded quite convincing to the guard.”

“One of my many talents,” he said dryly.

The horse stumbled in a rut and Caitrina slammed against Bran’s sturdy back. Only for a moment, but long enough for her to take the measure of every masculine sinew she’d glimpsed in his rooms the night before. He was the very opposite of the sort of man she should desire. A cad. A bounder. A rogue. But her body reacted to the press of his flesh without care, sending a hot sizzle to the very core of her being. There was something delightfully reassuring about his strength. He was magnificent, really. “So, when we reach the manor, you’ll just collect your prize and be on your way?”

“Aye.”

Caitrina tightened her grip around his waist. Well, then. There it was—he was leaving. Unless she found some way to stop him. As they left the woods and followed the path across the meadow toward the postern gate, she sighed. Cruelly, she could think of no other option but to betray him. “What if I choose not to relinquish the crown?”

“You won’t make that mistake.”

A shiver ran down her spine. His response was icy cool and edged with steely promise. Exactly the sort of response she might expect from a dangerous criminal. If it had been a matter of personal gain, Caitrina would have shut her mouth and pursued her cause no further. But Marsailli might even now be enduring another beating. Especially if Giric had cause to believe it was she who had spied upon the camp.

“I’m afraid I must,” she said bravely. He wouldn’t attack her in full view of the guards on the manor walls. Nay, of course not. That would be madness. “I will only give you the crown if you help me with one more task.”

He halted the destrier and stared at the sunlit manor for a long moment. Then he sighed heavily. “What task would that be?”

“There is something I need to retrieve from within the English camp.”

He twisted in his saddle. “Something? Or some one ?”

Caitrina stiffened. How had he guessed?

“The time has come for complete honesty, Lady Caitrina. I’ve had my fill of lies. Now I want to hear the truth. All of it.”

The whole truth? Impossible. She was a spy for King Edward. Even half-truths would condemn her as a traitor.

Caitrina mulled over several possible stories in her head, seeking one that did not make her look like a fool or a faithless Sassenach-lover. Sadly, none of them met her requirements. And as she hemmed and hawed and debated exactly what to tell Bran, he dismounted the horse and strode off down the path toward the manor. Leaving her alone astride a massive beast that she had no hope of controlling.

“Wait!” she cried.

He stopped but did not turn around.

“They are holding my sister,” she said. “Her name is Marsailli.”

He pivoted. “And what could they possibly hope to gain by threatening your sister?”

Caitrina’s shoulders slumped. “Details about the queen.”

Bran marched back to her side. “Why do they do this? What is their aim?”

“They are henchmen of Edward Longshanks,” she told him. “I do not know their precise aim, but rest assured, with Giric the Bear as their leader, they can be up to no good.”

He frowned up at her. “Giric is the man who beat a man to death for insulting the English king?”

“Aye.”

“Saints be.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Why force me to help you? Why not enlist the aid of the queen’s guard?”

“Because her guards have only one goal: to protect the queen. They care naught about Marsailli.” And the moment Giric was interrogated, he would point the finger at Caitrina. She would hang right alongside him, branded a traitor like her father. An utterly unbearable thought, especially as it would leave Marsailli alone. “And I would prefer the queen never know of my failings.”

“As a man with many failings myself, I well understand.” Bran put a gentle hand on her leg. “Were this a different time and place, I might be persuaded to aid you. Regretfully, I must decline. I never intended to play the role of Marshal Gordon for more than a day or two. People talk, and it won’t be long before someone questions my credentials.”

“But without your help, I have no hope of freeing Marsailli.”

He let his hand drop. “My apologies. I am not the man you need.”

“Please,” she begged.

“Nay,” he said, taking a step back. “You must find another ally.”

His reasons for walking away were logical, full of wisdom even. But Caitrina could not accept his decision, not if it meant she would be forced to steal the queen’s babe. Not if it meant Marsailli had to suffer. She straightened her shoulders. “Then you will forfeit the crown.”

He smiled. “I am a thief, my lady. I make my living snatching items from unwilling hands. You may think you’ve found a clever hiding spot, but I assure you, by this hour tomorrow, I’ll have it safely tucked in my pouch.”

The unshakable confidence in his eyes deflated her. “Why did you agree to find the camp, if you were so certain you could reclaim the crown?”

His smile turned rueful. “I’m easily swayed by a pretty smile.”

“Not any longer, it would seem.”

He shrugged. “All good things must come to an end.”

“Indeed,” she said silkily. “Including the politeness of our banter. The gloves have come off, as they say in the lists. If the crown is not incentive enough to keep you at my side, then perhaps this will be: Unless I have your pledge of aid, I will send a messenger to Stirling the moment I return to the manor. The castle is less than a day’s ride away. I’m certain the MacCurrans will make haste to Clackmannan and apprehend you— before you can locate your precious crown.”

***

Bran folded his arms over his chest. He should be angry that his bonnie young lassie was once again attempting to coerce him. Especially since Wulf MacCurran had pledged to separate Bran’s head from his shoulders if he ever dared to steal from Dunstoras. But despite the genuine concern he had regarding the MacCurrans’ return, he could summon only a mild amusement. “You run a great risk telling me of your intent before you are safely within the walls.”

“You’ll not harm me.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You think not?”

“Nay,” she said. “Spilling blood is not in your nature. If it were, that English guard we encountered would be lying in the sod. Instead, he’s merely nursing a lump on the head.”

“I don’t have to spill blood to harm you.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Do your worst. Nothing short of a mortal injury will stop me from sending that messenger.”

He glared at her for a long moment, trying his damnedest to cower her. But her bright red cheeks and bristling posture won him over. She might be tiny, but she was definitely fierce. A grin broke free. “I admire a woman of determination. Fine. I will stay an additional sennight—but no longer. If Marshal Finlay returns from Oban to find me masquerading as a nobleman, I’ll be tossed in the oubliette.”

Caitrina sighed. “That’s fair. Thank you.”

He gathered up the reins and vaulted back into the saddle. They rode in silence up to the open postern gate, both lost in their thoughts. As Bran ducked under the stone arch, he asked, “Did you happen to note the tent your sister was residing within?”

“The green-striped one next to the burn.”

“Good,” he said. “We’ll return to the camp tonight and determine our best course of action.”

She stiffened against his back. “It can’t be tonight. My maid believes I’ve spent all day in the cellars looking for goods to appoint the nursery. I cannot show up empty-handed.”

Bran resisted a snort. Empty-handed? She was hardly that. Caitrina’s hands were splayed across his belly in a most disturbing way. He felt the play of her fingers with every breath he took. “Then by all means let us see what the stores have to offer.”

He helped her slide off the horse at the rear of the stables, then continued on to the front alone. With a series of crisp demands, he made certain the stable lads were fully occupied, allowing Caitrina to change her clothing undisturbed.

Agreeing to rescue her sister was likely a huge mistake.

But he understood the gut-deep worry of having a sibling imprisoned. Especially a younger sibling, one with less skill and knowledge. One who looked to his elder sibling with faith and surety. Bran handed the saddle to a lad, removed the horse blanket, and began to brush the destrier with a woven straw whisk. Eight years had passed since he lost Neasan to the damp chill of Edinburgh dungeon, but the bitterness still chewed at him. He had failed his brother—left him to die, instead of risking all to free him—but saving others was still within his power.

So he would do his best to free the girl.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caitrina sneak off toward the manor house, attired in her brown and green gown. There was an added benefit, of course: more time in the fair lady’s company. He found her charming, despite her propensity to blackmail. He grinned. Or perhaps it was her willingness to do so that appealed to him. He definitely admired her resolve.

He tossed the brush aside and led the dapple gray destrier into the stables.

Whatever the source of his interest, he intended to take full advantage of his time at her side. Even if that meant crawling through an endless number of dusty storerooms to find whatever the lady was looking for. He tied the big warhorse inside and gave it a pat on the neck. A short dalliance could prove enjoyable—as long as he remembered that he traveled light and fast.

***

As the hard rap of boot steps echoed in the passageway, Caitrina pulled her woolen brat tight around her shoulders. The cellars were dark and rather disquieting. She spun around, lighting the passageway behind her with the torch, and immediately breathed a sigh of relief. It was Bran. “Were you able to procure the keys?”

He shook the key ring before her eyes. A mismatched collection of iron bones—some new, some rusted, some large, some small. All capable of unlocking secrets.

“Did you steal them?”

“There was no need,” he said, with a faint smile. “Dougal is quite convinced I am who I say I am.”

“However did you manage that?” She pointed to a door and waited for him to unlock it.

“Certitude,” he said. He swung the oak portal open to reveal a small room stacked to the rafters with bolts of cloth. “And a few basic facts. Are the contents here of any use?”

“Aye,” she said, squeezing into the room. “I need several bolts of white linen. The softest we can find. To line the creidle and to serve as swaddling.”

Together, they dug through the bolts, stacking and restacking, until they found three that met Caitrina’s finger test for fineness. Only the softest of cloth could be allowed to touch the skin of a king. When Bran had wrapped the bolts in a tarp and set them aside, she pointed to a second door. “This larger room should hold fittings. Tables and chests and the like.”

He tried several keys before finally locating the one that worked.

“What need does a babe have for a table?”

The door creaked loudly. Using the torch, Caitrina burned away a cobweb that spanned the entrance and then stepped inside. “I’m seeking a bath basin. The child must be washed in rosewater and anointed with oil of myrrh immediately upon its birth. For the sanctity of his soul.”

“And those of us who were bathed in the village pond? Are we doomed to hell?”

She tossed him a frown. “The pond? Surely not. Where were you born?”

“Perthshire.”

“Oh?” Clackmannan was in Perthshire. “Not far from here?”

“Perth is a large county,” he said, his expression neutral.

“It is indeed,” she said. The boundaries stretched north and west to great length. “Are you a Murray?”

“Nay.”

“A Menzies?” She stepped over a tipped barrel of old brooms and shone the light into the farthest corners of the storeroom.

“Nay.”

“Aha!” she cried, spying a rounded shape in a pile atop an armoire. “Hold this.”

He took the torch and followed her around a battered trestle table. “Take care. Some of these items are poorly placed.”

Flipping a wooden bucket and using it as a stool, she gained just enough height to grab the lip of the basin. She tugged, but could not get it free. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “Is it stuck on something?”

“Aye. There’s a basket and some sort of wooden frame in the way. Step aside, lass. I’ll get it down.”

Happy to relinquish the task to a man a full head taller than she, Caitrina turned and leapt off the bucket. But as she spun, her brat snagged on a stick protruding from the pile of items atop the armoire and yanked the entire mess down upon her head.

She ducked, expecting to be pelted by falling debris. But, in a display of very impressive reflexes, Bran threw his body forward and shielded her from harm. The basket, the basin, and a number of other wooden objects crashed to the dirt floor. An empty spool from a spinning wheel bounced off her boot and rolled into the darkness.

“Are you injured?” Bran asked.

“Nay,” she said breathlessly, peering out from the umbrella of his body. Miraculously, the only casualty was a faded banner that had fluttered into the torch and burst into flame. But for some reason, her heart continued to pound long after it became clear that the danger had passed. It took her a moment to identify the cause: the warm strength of his body, pressing against her in a dozen different places.

It was a body she knew quite well, after their lengthy ride in the forest. But there was something new and tantalizing about touching him here, in the dark, with the musky male scent of him filling her nose. She lifted her gaze to his.

His eyes glittered with intent, and she knew long before he closed the gap between them that he was going to kiss her. He leaned in slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to run, but she held perfectly still. Waiting. She wanted him to kiss her—wanted it like she’d never wanted anything before. It was like the entire day had been a prelude to this moment. Every teasing comment, every grazing touch, every hot stare had been leading here, to this room, to this kiss.

As their breaths mingled, Caitrina closed her eyes, determined to savor the experience from beginning to end. This would be her first real kiss, and she wanted it to be perfect. Well, as perfect as a kiss from a dangerous thief could be...

Bran’s lips met hers, warm and firm and frankly demanding. He nibbled at the corners of her mouth, then pressed deep and hard. Caitrina was a little shocked. This was not the perfunctory peck of a gentleman admirer; it was an intimate meshing of lips that had no match in her imagination. But it was wonderful. Her entire body came alive to his touch, every inch of her skin atingle.

She eagerly pressed back, needing more.

And he gave her more. Taking her chin in hand, he deepened the embrace, opening his mouth and sucking on her bottom lip. Caitrina nearly swooned. Her hands clutched the front of his lèine as an unexpected ripple of delight shot from her mouth to the very tips of her fingers and toes.

But the best part wasn’t her reaction; it was his.

As the kiss continued and she mewled her approval, his breathing grew harsh and ragged. The hand that held the torch shook and a flush rose on the crests of his cheeks. The extent of his desire for her was obvious. Which was why she was amazed when he gently pulled away and took a step back.

He tossed her a rueful smile.

“You should slap my face for taking such liberties.”

“When I enjoyed them as much as you? I think not.” She put her hands to her lips, which were still tingling. “And in any case, I owe you my thanks for a timely rescue. That wooden basin would surely have left a dent in my skull.”

He bent and picked the basin up. “Aye. It looks to be hollowed from a single piece of wood.”

“More important,” she said, “the pattern of tiny lilies carved around the lip is just the sort of detail the queen will admire.”

“Then it seems you have what you came for,” he said.

“Indeed I do.” Caitrina’s eyes met his and she smiled. “Precisely what I came for.”

***

The sun had set and Giric was partaking of his eventide meal when three of his soldiers approached the tent. Two senior men, half dragging a young lad with dried blood on his brow. He knew by their grim expressions that their tale would not be to his liking, so he took another leisurely sip of his wine before he acknowledged them.

“Well? What is it?”

“We found Davie here lying in the gorse with a bump on his noggin. It took us some time to wake him, but eventually—”

Giric sighed. “Get to the point.”

“He caught someone spying on the camp.”

Giric lumbered to his feet, shaking his head. The tent was barely tall enough to contain him, and his hair brushed the drooping folds of blue canvas. “That’s not precisely true now, is it? What you mean to say is that he caught someone and then let him go.”

“Nay,” young Davie protested. “I never let him go. I was attacked! Hit with a rock the size of a melon.”

“Is the spy in custody?”

“Nay.”

Giric raised an eyebrow. “Then I was correct. You let him go.”

“Not willingly,” Davie said. “I was doing my duty, all proper-like.”

“All proper-like,” Giric repeated softly. “Truly?”

The lad nodded.

“Take a look at your two companions and tell me what you see.”

Davie glanced to either side of him. “Soldiers.”

“And how do you know they are soldiers?”

“They’re wearing mail hauberks and carrying swords.”

Giric nodded encouragingly. “What else?”

For a moment, Davie looked confused. He glanced from side to side with a heavy frown. And then the clarity of enlightenment washed over him. All expression left his face. “Helms. They’re wearing helms.”

“They are indeed.” Giric stood toe-to-toe with the boy, towering over him and peering down at the blooded mark upon his brow. A good-size lump. “Why?”

“To protect their heads,” the lad said morosely.

“And where is your helm?”

“In my tent.”

Giric waved to one of the other soldiers. “Fetch it.” Then he smiled at Davie. “Describe the spy to me. Every detail you can recall. Leave nothing out.”

“He were a lad. Short and dark haired, wearing breeks and a woolen brat.”

“You’re certain it wasn’t a woman?”

“What?” Davie’s eyebrows soared. “A wench? Nay. Not a tittie in sight.”

Giric sat back on his heels. It was not the first time Davie had been brought before him. The lad was not particularly observant and errors in judgment were his forte. The spy might well have been Caitrina de Montfort. “Shoulder-length hair? Or longer?”

Davie shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. He had his brat over his head.”

“Of course he did.”

The soldier jogged back to the tent and handed Giric Davie’s helm. Giric turned it over in his hands, studying the craftsmanship. A basic raised dome with a nosepiece. No riveted reinforcements, no painted finish. Simple but solid, it offered reasonable protection to a fighting man.

“Put it on,” he ordered Davie.

The lad grabbed the helm and plunked it on his head. “I’ll wear it faithfully, Sir Giric. That I swear.”

“As you should.” Giric put his hands on either side of the helm. Hands that were, like the rest of him, large, scarred, and brutal. But reassuringly capable. “I don’t tolerate failure.”

He pinned the lad’s gaze with his own, then began to press.

Davie released a low, agonized moan.

A moan that quickly escalated into a bloodcurdling shriek as Giric squeezed his hands together with greater force and slowly bent the helm. It took every ounce of his strength to bend the metal, but bend it he did—until it cut into the boy’s flesh. When the lad began to thrash and tiny rivulets of blood were running down both sides of his neck, Giric thrust the screaming boy aside. “If I ever see you without a helm again, I will crush your skull like a grape. Understand?”

He glared at the two senior guards.

“Get him out of here.”

Returning to the table, he snatched up his goblet of wine and downed the contents in a single swallow. It would seem that Caitrina had not taken his threats at the abbey seriously. Perhaps it was time to send a stronger message.

“Bring me the girl!” he snarled.