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

Chapter 5

C aitrina was greeted at the door to the queen’s antechamber by a very worried Gisele. “Where have you been?” the older woman cried in French. “Her Grace has been feeling poorly all day. Tired and listless, barely able to sit before the fire. I had to call for the midwife.”

“I was in the cellars—”

“It no longer matters,” Gisele snapped. “She has been asking for you. Wash the filth from your hands and see to her.” Then she flounced off in the direction of the kitchens.

Caitrina nodded to Bran. “Just leave the items here. I’ll collect them later.”

“Is all well?” he asked.

“I’m not certain,” she confessed.

He arched a brow. “Are you in need of a champion?”

“Nay,” she said, with a light laugh. “My worries are not so dire as that.”

Setting his armload down, he offered her a crooked smile. “If you change your mind, seek me out. I’m off to revisit the English camp. I’ll report back with my plan to rescue your sister.”

She watched him leave, entranced by his every move. He had a natural grace that was a pleasure to watch, and a smooth charm that left smiles in his wake. The young maid he passed in the hall beamed when he but nodded in her direction. When he had disappeared into the stairwell, she pushed open the inner doors and entered the queen’s chambers.

Yolande was lying abed, her long auburn hair spread across the pillows, her eyes dark pools in her pale face. She was surrounded by a small group of people that included the royal midwife and her confessor, William Fraser, the bishop of Saint Andrews.

The moment the queen spied Caitrina, she attempted to sit up. “Ma cousine,” she called.

Caitrina quickly washed her hands in rosewater and joined the queen at her bedside. “My humble apologies, Your Grace. I spent the day in the cellars searching for appointments for the nursery. Had I known you had need of me—”

Yolande’s eyes lit up. “Appointments? Très bien! What did you discover?”

“Please, Your Grace,” admonished the midwife. “You must rest.”

A worried frown dulled the excitement in the queen’s eyes. “But you assured me the babe was healthy.”

“He moves,” the midwife said, “but not as vigorously as he once did. You must preserve your strength to ensure a successful birth.”

“Am I to remain abed now until the babe is born?”

“Aye,” the old woman said. “’Twould be best.”

“I concur.” The bishop leaned over the bed and took the queen’s hand in his own. “Although the birth is several weeks away, I also think it would be wise to consider gathering the Guardians of Scotland, Your Grace.”

The queen lay back against her pillows with a huge sigh. “One simple bout of weariness and suddenly disaster looms.”

“Nay,” the bishop protested. “God shines his blessings upon thee, but it will take time to send messengers, and the Guardians should be present at the birth.”

“Fine,” she said. “Send for them. They should bear witness to the event that my dearest Alexander will never know. The birth of his son.”

Tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes, a rare moment of weakness from the young royal. To protect her cousin from unwarranted judgment, Caitrina began closing the bed curtains. “Her Grace will sleep now,” she said, ushering the bishop and the midwife away. “I will inform you the instant she awakens.”

When the room was once again the domain of women, Caitrina carried the wooden baby basin over to the quietly weeping queen. “Look,” she said. “Lilies.”

Yolande bit her lip and wiped her eyes with a linen and lace cloth. She smiled tremulously at the fine carving that edged the basin. “You have a kind heart, Caitrina. In spite of all that has befallen you and your family, you remain a generous soul.”

Caitrina shook her head. “You are a far kinder soul than I, Your Grace. You welcomed me into your entourage when none else would acknowledge me.”

“Bah! It is not your fault that your grandfather’s titles were seized, or that your father disgraced his family. The blood of kings runs in your veins. You deserved more than to rot away on your uncle’s estate.”

“Atholl was good to us.”

The queen shrugged. “He ignored you.”

“He’s young, and he has his own battles to fight.”

Yolande snorted. “He’s an earl. Age has no bearing on obligation.” Her expression turned thoughtful and she ran a slow hand over the mound of her belly. “My son will also have battles to fight.”

Caitrina set the basin down. “You fear the English?”

“Nay,” the queen said. “The Guardians. King Alexander had a strife-torn minority. I do not wish the same for his son.”

“Is not the bishop of Saint Andrews one of the Guardians?” Caitrina asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Have you reason to doubt him?”

Yolande smiled. “They are all fine men, the Guardians. Strong champions of Scotland. But each has his own vision, and each has a desire to make his mark on history. My son will be pulled in many directions at once, and it will be a challenge for him to find his own way.”

Caitrina nodded. But if she feared ambitious men, surely King Edward was worthy of alarm? “Is the lion to the south not a worry?”

“Scotland’s relations with England are very cordial. King Edward was fond of Alexander, having once been related to him by marriage. He was most gracious at the state funeral and promised to deliver any aid I might require.”

“How very kind of him.” He had approached Caitrina at the same time. Offering sweet condolences to the queen one moment and coercing a lass into treason the next. A true paragon.

“I should like to see what other bounty you unearthed in the stores, but not just now.” The queen lay back and closed her eyes. “I am truly weary.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Her gut knotted, Caitrina tucked the blankets around the queen and stepped back to close the last bed curtain. How she longed to confess what she knew about the men in the woods and Edward’s plans, but that wasn’t possible. Not until Marsailli was safe.

All she could do was pray those wicked plans never bore fruit.

She found her embroidery, claimed a chair before the fire, and began adding snow-white stitches to her winter forest scene. The evening meal would take place without her. She wouldn’t go hungry—trays were typically delivered to the rooms when the queen was resting. But she would be missing an opportunity to see Bran.

A flush rose in her cheeks.

How mad to be looking forward to stolen moments with a wanted thief. But that kiss had been truly marvelous. The intrigues of the past several months were shaping her in ways she could not possibly have imagined. She pushed the needle through the linen backing and pulled the silk thread taut. But her handsome scoundrel would not be pleased to discover that the Guardians of Scotland were about to descend upon Clackmannan.

He’d promptly renege upon his promise to aid her.

Perhaps it might be better not to mention that wee bit of news.

***

Marsailli’s legs shook.

She had not expected to be dragged before the Bear again—Ulric had helped her craft a simple but tasty soup, and the mighty commander had downed several bowls of it at the midday meal. Without a single grimace.

But here she was.

And the dark scowl that distorted his ruined face did not bode well.

“Your sister is a fool,” he snarled, seizing her long braid. He tilted her head so far back that she thought her neck would snap. “She thinks to thwart me.”

“I don’t understand,” she whimpered, the words a burning rasp in her throat. What had Caitrina done?

“Have you seen her?”

“Nay!” Much to Marsailli’s disappointment. Even a glimpse of Caitrina would have made these last few weeks more bearable.

“You lie.”

He dragged her across the tent by her hair, uncaring that her wounded knee slammed into the corner of a table. “But no matter. You are about to learn who truly has the upper hand.” With a low growl reminiscent of his namesake, he threw her down on his pallet.

Cruel intent thinned his lips and left deep furrows in his brow. Her heartbeat stumbled. She scrambled to leave the bed, but she wasn’t quick enough. He caught her about the middle and flung her back on the sheets.

“You will know what it is to cross me!” Grabbing her neckline with both hands, he rent her gown right down the middle, splitting it with three decisive yanks.

Now bared to his eyes, Marsailli squeezed her eyes shut.

“No!” she screamed.

***

Bran slipped through the trees and past Dougal’s guard with nary a sound. It was easier than it should have been—the old man was staring into his fire, his ability to see in the dark weakened by the bright light.

It was more of a challenge to bypass the English sentries.

Having learned a lesson from the failures of the afternoon, the guards were now patrolling in pairs. These two were heavily armed, wore solid helms upon their tender brows, and scanned the woods with true dedication. But the night was Bran’s ally. A canny sense of timing and dark clothes had gotten him past many a guard in Edinburgh, and they did so now as well.

Each time the men’s heads turned, even briefly, he darted to another tree. He made slow but steady progress through their line to the edge of the clearing, where he paused to determine his best route into the camp.

That’s when his clandestine survey mission became something else entirely.

Down in the firelit center of the camp, Caitrina’s sister was dragged out of one tent, across the muddy field, and into another. Bran was too far away to see faces, but the stiff reluctance evident in the girl’s shoulders and the sharp yanks the soldier made on her arm put his teeth on edge. Something unpleasant was about to transpire.

He had to get closer.

Bran swiftly counted the men visible in the camp. Five, if he included the fellow who had just escorted Marsailli into the tent. Six others were patrolling the perimeter. That left one unaccounted for, if Dougal’s original assessment was accurate. One soldier who was likely inside the tent with the leader.

A loud male voice raged from the tent.

The words were indistinguishable, but the fury that shook every syllable gave wings to Bran’s feet. A man with such anger bottled inside him would find some way to unleash it. Bran dove for the soldier closest to him, unsheathing the dirk at his belt as he ran. A man wearing a mail hauberk was protected against attack, save for in two places: the loins and the neck. Reaching the loins required an adroit knife thrust up and under the hem of the hauberk. The neck was a much easier target.

The man was seated on a fallen log.

Bran swiftly silenced him and dragged his body back into the shadows. Four more to go. The three huddled around the fire would be the true test of his skills. But the one tending the horses would be an easy—

“No!”

The desperate cry froze Bran’s blood. He knew that sound—he’d heard it before. Once. In a dark wynd in Edinburgh. It was the hopeless plea of a lass who believed she was doomed. He was out of time. If he didn’t intervene right now, Caitrina’s sister would be ruined or dead.

He grabbed the dead soldier’s sword, spun on his heel, and raced for the rear of the tent where Marsailli was being held. A decisive slice of his dirk parted the canvas, and he stepped inside. The scene was just as he’d imagined—the lass was pinned to a pallet by a very large scar-faced man, who had turned his head at the sound of ripping canvas.

Bran pointed his sword at the man’s naked back. “On your feet.”

The lout ran a finger down Marsailli’s tearstained face. “I do not answer to nameless curs, especially in my own tent.”

“As long as you are on Clackmannan land,” Bran said, “you answer to me. My name is Marshal Gordon, and my soldiers surround your camp even as we speak.”

The man made no attempt to stand. Instead, he kissed the lass’s cheek. “You overstep your bounds, Marshal. Even the king has no right to interfere in the matters between a man and his wife.”

Marsailli’s pale, thin arm, visible beneath the man’s large body, trembled violently.

“The lass appears unwilling,” Bran noted. “You’ve proof, I trust, of this union between you?”

The man threw him a scowl. “I have twelve men who will vouch for me.”

Eleven men, actually. Bran shook his head. “I’ll need more than statements from your men. This lass is a Scot, and as such, is owed my full protection. I assume the vows were made before a church?”

Rising to his feet, the big man faced him, quite unabashed by his state of undress. The scar across his cheek formed a ragged line from the edge of his mouth to his mangled ear. Caitrina’s Giric, no doubt. “Nay, they were made here, just moments ago.”

Bran grabbed a blanket and tossed it to Marsailli. “Moments ago, I heard a man’s voice raised in anger and a woman’s plea for rescue.”

“A marriage in Scotland is made by mutual consent,” Giric said, dismissing Bran’s comments with a wave of his hand. “By law, the word of a man and his wife is proof of the union. So, ask the girl to verify my tale. Ask her to confirm that we are wed.”

Bran glanced at Marsailli. The girl was cowering beneath the woolen throw, still shaking badly. Her word should be enough—but her fear made her an unreliable witness. She was a captive in Giric’s camp, surrounded by his soldiers. What would she say if he asked? “I should like a moment with her alone.”

A thunderous frown descended on Giric’s brow. “Absolutely not. No man shall be alone with my wife, save I.”

There it was, then—Bran had no choice but to ask Marsailli for the truth and let her words fall where they may. He crouched beside the pallet. “Lass,” he said softly. He tried and failed to meet her gaze. “I swear I will protect you with my life, should you need it. Tell me the truth. Did you willingly wed this man, or no?”

***

It was late when Caitrina descended the stairs to the great hall. The evening meal had been cleared away and only a handful of gillies remained at work, banking the fire in the hearth and dousing most of the candles. Bran was seated near the hearth, with an ale in hand and a heavy frown upon his brow.

As she approached, he stood and poured her an ale.

“What did you determine?” she asked, accepting the cup he offered.

“The situation is complicated,” he said.

“How so?”

“Sit,” he said, tapping the back of a wooden chair.

She sat. His frown had knotted her belly. He looked far too serious. “Is it not a matter of sneaking into the camp and stealing her away?”

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Sir Giric is claiming Marsailli is his wife.”

“That’s preposterous! My sister would never agree to wed that wretch.” And Giric despised Scots. He’d never marry one. Of that, Caitrina was certain. “It’s a lie.”

Bran nodded. “I’ve no doubt of that. The problem is, your sister will no speak against him. Indeed, she won’t say aught at all.” He paused. “Unfortunately, this matter is no longer a quiet affair, to be handled by you and me. I was forced to involve the constable.”

Her heart sank. If the queen caught wind of her involvement, all her efforts to redeem her family’s honor and restore their place in society would be for naught. “Why?”

“When I arrived at the camp, Giric was attempting to force himself on Marsailli.”

Caitrina went cold all over. “Dear god.”

“My entrance was timely,” he said hastily. “She is safe, for now.”

Her hand flattened against her chest, a rather pointless attempt to calm her fluttering heart. “Thank heaven.” Her gaze lifted to his. “Or rather, thank you . If you’d been even a few minutes later—”

“She is safe,” he repeated, with a faint smile. “Dougal has placed two men in Giric’s camp, tasked with ensuring her safety until we resolve the matter of his claim.”

“Does Dougal know Marsailli is my sister?”

“Nay, Giric said nothing of her relation to you. He claims she is the daughter of a Lowland cottar and that she ran away with him.”

A convenient lie. For both of them. “What shall we do now?”

“We need Marsailli to speak. To dismiss Giric’s claim.”

Caitrina briefly closed her eyes, imagining her sister’s sweet disposition and the effect Giric’s attack would have had. “I’m sure she’s too frightened to speak. She believes he will kill her if she dares to naysay him.”

“Aye.”

Caitrina grabbed Bran’s hand. His warm, strong, reassuring hand. It didn’t bear imagining what would have transpired had he not aided her. What would have happened to Marsailli. “I must meet with her, convince her to utter the truth. If she tells Dougal she’s not Giric’s wife, she’ll be free.”

He gently squeezed her fingers. “It won’t be that easy, lass. Giric will no allow you to walk into his camp and take Marsailli back, no without a fight. If he loses his hold over you, he fails King Edward. From what I’ve heard, incurring the wrath of Longshanks is a sure way to see your head roll. Giric will do everything in his power to prevent that.”

Caitrina swallowed. The situation had swiftly spun out of control, much faster than she could have imagined. She had hoped to steal Marsailli quietly from the camp and then renegotiate her terms with Giric. But now disaster loomed on all fronts. If she left her sister in Giric’s hands, Marsailli faced rape. If she set her free, Giric would retaliate and a bloody battle would ensue. Men would die. And even if Dougal’s men triumphed in said battle, there was a very good chance the Bear would name Caitrina as an accomplice in his crimes.

Dear lord. What was she to do?

She offered Bran a teary smile. “Then what?”

He cupped her chin and wiped her tears away with his thumb. “Let me dwell on it. Marsailli is safe for now. I vow that I will find some way to set her free. Just give me time.”

She leaned into his hand. Now would be a fine moment to tell him about the Guardians, but losing Bran would destroy her. When her maither had passed, the burden of making a life for her and Marsailli had fallen upon her shoulders. And that burden was overwhelming now. “You have my faith, and more.”

The gillies had all bedded down for the night, and the great hall was a dark haven save for one torch bracketed on the wall next to the door and another next to the stairs. The banked fire in the hearth gave off only the faintest orange glow, and Caitrina took advantage of the soft lighting. She slid to the edge of her seat, moving forward until their knees touched.

Layers of cloth separated them, but that didn’t stop hot tingles from running up her legs to her most private parts. By god. Even his knees felt strong and sure. “You are a much better man than you would have the world believe,” she said quietly, brushing an errant lock of his hair away from his face so she could better gaze upon his firm cheekbones and deep brown eyes. He had remarkably long eyelashes for a man. “In the space of a day, you’ve twice saved me from harm and once thwarted an attack on my sister.”

He stayed the movements of her hand with his.

“Lass,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m not the man you think me to be.”

The warmth of his hand on hers was quite enjoyable, but she found herself wanting more. Much more. Starting with another kiss. Strangely, the knowledge that someone in the great hall might wake up and notice only added intensity to her desire. “So it wasn’t you who did those things?”

“My sins far outweigh what few good deeds I’ve done.”

Caitrina leaned in, breathing deep of his male scent—a heady mix of pine and leather and that spice that was uniquely Bran. “I’m well aware of your sins. I know, for example, that they include kissing unwed ladies in dark places.” She pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth, tasting the slight saltiness of his skin and the rasp of his growing beard.

He grabbed her arms and pushed her away.

“Cease,” he said gruffly. “That kiss was an error in judgment. One I do not intend to repeat.”

“Why not?” she asked. “It was quite delightful.”

“Because sinful men don’t stop at kisses.”

Caitrina’s pulse quickened. “Perhaps I don’t want you to stop.”

“Your future husband surely does.”

She sat back, smiling ruefully. “That future husband does not exist. No man is interested in wedding the daughter of a man outlawed for murder, especially one with no lands or title to her name.”

Bran arched an eyebrow. “Your father murdered a man?”

“Not just any man,” she said, with a short laugh. All she had of her father were a few hazy memories, but her chest still ached when she spoke of him. “A favorite cousin of King Edward. Inside a church, no less. My papa managed to enrage the crown and the pope with one single act of revenge.” There’d been no safe place for him then. Forced to abandon his family, he’d wandered the world until the day he died. But that was not a tale for tonight. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “So, there is no husband waiting for me to arrive chaste and pure at the church door.”

“Your reputation cannot be as poor as you say,” he disputed, rising to his feet and walking around to the back of his chair. “The queen appointed you lady-in-waiting.”

She shrugged. “She is my cousin, and she took pity on me.”

“Surely she has the power to make a marriage for you?”

“Had King Alexander lived,” she said, “she might have arranged a union. Now? Her only thought is for her bairn.” She got to her feet and followed him. His proximity to the chair prevented her from getting too close, so she sidled up to his arm. “Queen Yolande is content that I shall never wed. A husband and bairns of my own would distract me from my duties as lady of the nursery.”

He frowned.

Caitrina put a hand on him, relishing the rippling sinews beneath his linen sleeve. “I am honored to be appointed lady of the nursery, and in the queen’s court I will enjoy a full and purposeful life. But when it comes to bliss, I am master of my own fate. I will make it where and when I can. And I choose now, Bran. With you.”

***

Bran stared at the dainty hand on his sleeve. Pale and lovely, the nails neatly trimmed and smooth. The hand of a lady. “Why me? Why now?”

Her fingers clenched briefly. “Does it matter?”

Surprisingly, it did. He rarely denied himself a moment of pleasure, but this lass was unlike any lass he’d ever tupped before. In two event-filled days, she’d seduced him with a dizzying blend of courage and fear, strength and vulnerability, confidence and hesitation. Every sweetly feminine feature—her nose, her lips, her glorious hair—teased him mercilessly. He wanted her so surely, he could not sit next to her or endure the touch of her hand on his skin without envisioning her beneath him, moaning in ecstasy. And, damn his soul, he needed to know if she felt even a mote of the same desire.

“Aye, it matters.”

A smile came and went on her face. It was gone so swiftly it barely had time to light up her eyes. “Well, then. I suppose a moment like this is best served by honesty.” She chewed her delicious bottom lip. “Your fine looks are a consideration, of course. My eyes are drawn to you the instant you enter a room.”

A problem he shared.

“But I’ve met many a braw fellow in service to the queen and never yet been tempted to cast away the moorings of my maidenhead. So it’s clearly more than that. That smile of yours plays a part. You know the one—the devilish curve of your lips that is half wry humor and half suggestion of wickedly sensual secrets. When you turn it upon me, I cannot help but wonder what those secrets might be. I find you very distracting.”

Bran blinked. The lady was far more observant than he gave her credit for. His smile was a tool he wielded every day in the streets of Edinburgh. Many a rich lass had lost coins from her purse while dazzled by his suggestive grin.

“But again,” she said. “Too simple a reason. The truth lies deeper.” Her gaze met his. “It lies inside the heart of the man I know you to be—the man I’m not certain you see when you look in the still waters of the pond.” She slid her hand across his chest, flattened her palm right over his heart. “You call yourself a despicable thief, and I do not doubt that you are, to some measure. But the man I wish to tup is the honorable fellow who saved my sister from a fate worse than death. Who knocked a young lad on the head rather than run him through. Who urged me to run away when I willingly offered him my body.”

His heart thumped like a drum. What honor he possessed was threadbare at the moment. Every hot pulse through his body was telling him to snatch her up and carry her off to his room. Instead, he gripped the top rail of the chair with both hands and managed one last burst of reason.

“I’m also the man who betrayed the faith of a valued friend by stealing a family jewel. The man who slit the throat of drunken sot in a dark Edinburgh wynd. The man who left his own brother to rot in a prison cell, making no attempt to save him.”

Her smile turned sad. “All tales that I hope you’ll share the truth of one day.”

He stared at her, unable to fathom her belief in him.

She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet. “Perhaps I trust too easily. I’ve certainly been disappointed by the actions of others in the past. But you’ve had numerous opportunities to take advantage and have taken none.”

“I kissed you in the cellars,” he pointed out.

“I recall that,” she said, laughing lightly in his ear. Stirring the hairs at his temple and sending a wave of molten need rushing to his loins. “Hardly what I would label as taking advantage, however. It was quite delightful, but far too short.”

It had been short. By necessity. He’d been dangerously close to losing control—but nowhere near as close as he was this moment. The lass had no idea how desperate his desire was, but if he turned to face her, she’d know in an instant.

Her hot, wet lips found his earlobe, suckling. “Would you kiss me again?”

Dear god. Only a saint would be able to resist such a plea. And he was no saint.

Bran grabbed her shoulders and hauled her against his body, relishing every soft curve and gentle mound that met his press. He claimed her mouth with a kiss that was half raw hunger, half frustration. She had driven him to the edge of reason—and beyond. All he knew was the fierce pound of blood through his body and an unrelenting need. A need that could be slaked only by Caitrina de Montfort.

He mashed his lips against hers, demanding everything she could give him.

And she gave. Willingly.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, holding him tight, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Which he did. With a sweep of his tongue, he parted her lips and drank of the nectar that was her mouth. She tasted like honey, faintly spiced with mead, and it was all too easy to imagine tasting another part of her. A low groan rumbled in his throat.

She stiffened in his arms, no doubt shocked by the intimacy, and he gentled his assault. She was a maiden, after all. And if she decided she wasn’t ready for more, then he would back away. Using every scrap of his willpower to withdraw, of course. He would need it.

But his intrepid young lass did not break off the kiss.

She thrust her fingers into his hair, angled her head to get even closer, and parried the invasion of his tongue with her own. Bran’s eyes closed. Sweet heaven. He was done for. His knees actually wobbled, which he could safely say had never happened before. All his life, he’d been the one to do the charming, the one who beguiled. Now the boot was on the other foot. Caitrina made him feel like a wee lad receiving his first kiss. And lord, what a kiss. The mating of their mouths was spurring his desire into an insatiable hunger. With one hand on her back and the other splayed over the tender curve of her rump, he pulled her even closer, determined to claim her as surely as she was claiming him.

The press of her feminine body up and down the length of his was delightful. The short, quick rasps of her breath in his ear and the perfumed scent of her heated skin drove his excitement to a fevered level.

But none of it was satisfying. Every inch of his skin craved her touch. He wanted her naked and writhing beneath him. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her and show her every delight of the flesh. But those were impossible needs. Despite her pretty pleas, Caitrina was not a woman to be used lightly. And a few days was the best he could offer. There were people in Edinburgh depending on his return.

But he wasn’t quite ready to let her go, either.

His body—and hers—still demanded some degree of satisfaction.

He lifted Caitrina off her feet and, in two broad paces, backed her against the stone wall. Grabbing both of her hands, he thrust them over her head, pinning her. Confident now that they were both fully supported, he proceeded to ravish her. He rained kisses upon her face and neck, nipped at her earlobes, devoured her sweet lips.

Had she shown even the slightest resistance, he would have pulled away. She did not. Her head lolled back on her slender neck, inviting him to take all she had to offer, and tiny whimpers of delight escaped her throat. But perhaps the most telling response was the slight rocking of her hips against his pelvis. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Bran struggled to keep his passions under control.

He positioned his knee between her legs, burying it deep in the folds of her gown. Visions of taking her to the floor assailed him and his arms quivered with the effort to restrain himself. She was a lady, and an innocent one at that. She did not deserve a rough introduction to the carnal arts.

Gently, oh so gently, he moved his thigh against her mons. Up and down.

Almost immediately, her faint whimpers deepened into moans. Her fingers clenched around his hands and her head thrashed from side to side. Were the lighting better, he knew he would see a rosy flush upon her cheeks and a plumper fullness to her lips. The telltale signs of excitement. It would have been an added thrill to see them, but his imagination would have to suffice, as making love to Caitrina in the light of day was a gift only some other man would enjoy.

Bran leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes.

Bringing the future to mind left a hollow ache in his chest—one he dared not explore. Better to lose himself in this moment, to slake whatever need he could, than to dream of a future he could never have. The exhilarating press and release of his body against hers, the dig of her fingernails in his flesh, and the sound of her ragged breaths were the extent of his entitlement. A man with a blackened soul could never claim a fine lass like Caitrina.

And his soul was as black as they came.

No matter what she thought to the contrary.

Bran pressed his lips to the damp, delicate skin beneath her ear. Fine hairs that had escaped her braid tickled his nose, and with surprising ease he lost himself in a picture of them lying upon a feather-ticked mattress amid sweaty, tangled sheets. Her limbs entwined with his, her long brown hair binding her to him like satin ropes.

His breath quickened.

He would trade everything he had for that moment.

But it was not to be. Instead, he did what any rogue worth his salt would do—he tossed aside his chivalrous airs and deepened his embrace. He rocked against her hip with the firm evidence of his desire, at a pace guaranteed to make his blood pound and make his foolish thoughts disappear in a haze of lust.

No past. No future. Just now.

And he might have succeeded, had Caitrina not turned her head and found his lips with hers.

It was her faith that ruined him—her clear and utter acceptance of his wretched behavior. She showed no fear, no worry. She had placed herself wholly and completely in his hands, and trusted him to treat her well. She believed him to be a good man. A better man.

Bran reined in his desire.

As their lips meshed in a tender kiss, he slowed the tempo of his presses to a soft grind. The unfulfilled ache in his groin left him bordering on delirious, but it was the right thing to do. And Caitrina inspired him to do the right thing. Even when it hurt.

With sweat beading on his brow, he broke off the kiss.

“You, lass,” he said gruffly, “are more dangerous than a double-edged dirk.”

She looked at him with eyes that were dark pools in her oval face. “Is that it, then?”

He released her hands and stepped back. “Aye.”

A frown creased her brow. “I didn’t find that nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped. My belly is quivering like I am on the brink of experiencing some momentous event. And my blood is hot and hungry with something I cannot name.”

That made two of them. The only difference was that he could name the hunger.

“Those are discoveries to be made on another day. ’Tis time to get some rest. Tomorrow will come all too soon, and I must yet determine a way to free your sister.”

She nodded slowly, but made no effort to retire.

“Go, lass,” he urged, a little more forcefully. His willpower was ebbing. If she didn’t go soon, he might rethink his decision to let her escape.

Her lips pressed against his in a fleeting kiss. “Tomorrow, then.”

His fists clenched at his side. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

She darted off, finally, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts. Dark, delicious thoughts in which he was able to do all the sweetly depraved things to Caitrina that time and his honor would never allow.