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

Chapter 6

C aitrina rose the next morning bleary eyed and unrefreshed. She had not slept well. After her midnight tryst in the great hall, it had taken her an age to fall asleep. And when slumber had finally claimed her, her dreams had been filled with lusty images of Bran kissing every part of her naked body. The night had been far from restful.

Normally, she was a cheery sort in the morning, rising before dawn and dressing before the others awoke. Today, it was the hushed chatter of the other ladies that prodded her eyes to open. Her maid looked at her with concerned eyes as Caitrina slid her feet to the floor and stood.

“Are you feeling poorly?” she asked.

“Nay,” Caitrina answered, forcing a smile.

“Good,” the girl said quietly, as she helped Caitrina remove her night rail and don a fresh sark and gown. “I was fearful that you had the same illness as the queen. She looked much as you do when she woke during the night. But she was soon shivering and crying out for more blankets.”

Caitrina’s gaze flew to the queen’s bed. Her Grace’s physician, Chevalier Rodan, was at her side, applying leeches to her bare arms and neck. “A fever?”

The maid nodded. “And a dry cough.”

Caitrina slipped her feet into her silk shoes and waited impatiently for the maid to brush her hair. When the ribbons were finally tied, she scurried across the room to the queen’s bed. Yolande lay limply on her pillow, her eyes closed.

“Is there aught that I can do?” she asked Gisele.

The French noblewoman turned to her with a frown. “Several of the other ladies have adjourned to the chapel with the bishop. He has agreed to hear their prayers. You may join them, if you wish.”

Caitrina nodded. But she could not simply leave her cousin, even when she was in the good care of her physician. She edged a wee bit closer to the bed and took hold of Yolande’s hand. Giving the young queen’s fingers a light squeeze, she leaned in close and whispered, “Retrouver la santé, ma belle.”

Then she stepped back.

Although the queen could not see her, Caitrina offered her a respectful curtsy and then turned and left. She was expecting the great hall to be hushed out of respect for the queen’s illness, but instead it was a hive of busy activity. Soldiers were rushing about, gathering weapons and shields, and donning mail with the help of their squires.

Bran was nowhere in sight, but the constable stood by the hearth giving orders.

“I want every able man attired and ready in the close anon,” Dougal barked, his bushy red eyebrows angled sharply.

She crossed to his side. “May I ask what’s going on?”

“Nothing that need concern you, my lady.”

Caitrina glanced at the two guards positioned at the bottom of the stairs, both armed with poleaxes. They had not been there the night before. “I think anything that poses a risk to the queen concerns me, Constable.”

His lips flattened into a thin line. Then, with a heavy sigh, he nodded. “Several of my men were slain during the night. In a clearing northwest of here.”

Caitrina’s heart skipped a beat. Northwest? Was that not where Giric and his men were camped? “Do you speak of the two men posted in the English camp?”

His frown deepened. “Aye.”

An ice-cold chill ran down Caitrina’s spine. Dear god. If the two men guarding Marsailli had been slain— “What of the lass who was held there? Is she safe?”

Dougal’s eyebrows nearly knit together under the force of his frown. “How did it come to your attention that I had men posted in the English camp? They were assigned there long after sundown.”

“The marshal told me,” she said grimly, well aware that she was tarnishing her reputation with every word. The only time that Bran could have told her was late at night, when respectable ladies were long abed. But her reputation was meaningless in the face of Marsailli’s danger. “Where is the girl, Constable?”

“Gone,” he admitted. “Along with all of the English soldiers. They’ve disappeared.”

A wave of nausea rolled over Caitrina, and she closed her eyes to compose herself. It was the very worst of her imaginings. Giric had Marsailli firmly in his clutches once more, and he could punish her any way he saw fit.

“I’ve not the time to address your concerns further,” Dougal said, with surprising kindness. “I must see to the manor defenses.”

Caitrina opened her eyes and nodded.

As he turned to march off, she caught his sleeve. “Where is Marshal Gordon?”

“In the forest,” he said. “It was he who found the bodies of my men, shortly before daybreak. He’s taken my best tracker with him on the hunt for the Sassenachs.” He spit the word “Sassenachs” as if it were a vile epithet.

“He went out with just one guard?”

Dougal smiled faintly. “Aye, but have no fear, my lady. The man he’s with is a very capable fellow. The best with a dirk I’ve ever seen.”

As he walked away, Caitrina grimaced. The best he’d ever seen might not be good enough. The assassin who had attempted to carve Giric’s throat had likely been a talented knife handler, as well. But, in truth, it mattered naught. Bran was already beyond her reach. She would have to pray that he didn’t run afoul of the huge Englishman.

Just as she would have to pray that Giric’s anger had been assuaged by the death of the two Scottish guards. She buried her face in her hands briefly. Only then could there be any hope for Marsailli’s safety, because he was not a man to show mercy.

Aware that the gillies must be eyeing her with curiosity, she straightened her shoulders, pasted on a neutral face, and headed for the kitchens. Although prayer was a fine endeavor, good deeds were a better means of keeping the devil at bay. If the queen was suffering from a fever and a dry cough, a cool broth might be just the thing to set her humors aright.

And even if it wasn’t, the task would give her less time to worry.

She pushed open the big oak door and descended the steps to the close. Dougal’s archers were thick upon the walls—all facing outward, quivers full, eyes alert. Another dozen men stood at the ready in the courtyard, but the bulk of the soldiers had marched out the front gate. As Caitrina made her way to the kitchens, the guards closed the gate and laid a heavy timber bar across the latches.

With the gateway sealed, Caitrina had little fear for the queen. Giric’s men numbered only a dozen, and the queen’s garde du corps was made up of seasoned warriors. Combined with the soldiers Dougal had left behind, Her Grace was well protected.

She ducked into the kitchen, a small square room with a large hearth at one end and a work table in the middle. On one side of the room, the baker and his apprentices were busy kneading, rolling, and baking fresh loaves of bread. On the other, the two cooks were doing silent battle, each with his own small group of gillies. One was preparing venison, the other a trio of fat fall hares. Caitrina could tell by the vivid flush on Master Andre’s cheeks and by the glares the little man kept shooting over his shoulder that he was very unhappy.

“What goes on here?” she demanded.

Master Andre spun around and, upon recognizing her, cast a triumphant smile at the other cook. “See? I told you le lapin was an unacceptable choice. A queen does not eat rodents.”

The other cook scowled. “Did she say that, you bloody French capon?”

“You dare to call me a castrated cock?” Andre’s cheeks flushed an even deeper scarlet. He lifted the large, sharp blade in his hand. “You, whose eyes are like currants in a bowl of suet? Cochon! ”

Caitrina quickly stepped between the two men. “Cease.”

Although his eyes glittered and his arm shook with rage, Andre subsided. The other cook was less accommodating. He came toe-to-toe with Caitrina and pointed over her shoulder. “Let me at that wee bastard,” he snarled. “He’s been baiting me for days.”

She met his gaze evenly. “Are you aware, Mr. Murtagh, that using the term ‘bastard’ in the presence of a lady is inappropriate?”

His gaze dropped to his toes. “Aye. My apologies.”

“Accepted,” she said. “Now, what exactly is the problem here?”

“This is my kitchen,” he said hotly. “And I know what stores and what spices we have available.” He pointed to Andre. “He does not.”

“True,” she said, offering him a smile. “But he knows the queen’s tastes. Can not the two of you work together? Surely that would produce the best results?”

Murtagh wrinkled his nose, clearly not enthused by that option.

“Do not make me seek out the marshal, Mr. Murtagh. I doubt his decision on who rules this kitchen while the queen is in residence would go in your favor.”

He blanched.

Apparently, Bran had already shared words with the cook on this subject. Words that closely matched her own. She smiled. Even in his absence, he supported her.

“Now,” she said. “If you can put aside your differences, I would like you to produce a broth for Her Grace. It must be cold, with no lumps, and both of you must taste it and agree that it is worthy of the queen.”

She stared at Murtagh until he nodded. Then she turned to Andre. He nodded, too.

“Perfect. Bring it to me promptly, as soon as it is ready.”

***

Bran and young Robbie tracked Giric and his men for hours without success. The English soldiers had traveled light, leaving behind the wagon and the tents, taking only what they could pack on the horses. They had followed the burn in an easterly direction for quite some time, then cut across Clackmannan lands toward the northern boundary. Robbie did a fine job of picking up their trail until they entered a deep burn at the base of a crag. Where the waters ran rough, all evidence of the soldiers’ passing was lost, and although they searched the shoreline, they could find no sign of exit.

“Did they swim?” Bran asked.

The lad lifted his gaze from the turbulent eddies. “They must have.”

Bran watched a waterlogged branch shoot down the burn. The water here ran swift and deep, swirling and burbling as it sluiced between the rocks. It hardly seemed possible that eleven men on horseback, plus one lass, could have made the journey downstream in safety. But what other explanation could there be?

“Then I suppose we must follow.”

Robbie shook his head. “I cannot swim.”

Neither could Bran. It had never been a concern before today. He stared into the foam-flecked water. Danger lurked in those depths, without a doubt. But if he didn’t make an attempt, how would he face Caitrina? How would he explain that he’d given up the search for her sister?

“Wait for me here,” he told Robbie. “I’ll return anon.”

He urged his horse forward. The edge of the burn was rocky and narrow, quickly dropping off into murky oblivion, but his mount faithfully followed his guidance. Until another branch came sailing down the burn and whacked the horse’s foreleg. Then it snorted and fought the bridle.

Bran soothed the animal with quiet words of encouragement that he did not believe. “Easy, laddie. All will be well.”

The stallion snorted one last time and then stepped forward. One pace. Then two. The water rose steadily higher, lapping at the toes of Bran’s boots. He wrapped the reins around his fists and held on tightly. Every step was shaky, and the cold chill of the burn eventually crested the top of his boots and filled them, but the journey was not as precarious as he’d feared. Assuming the horse could swim, he should arrive downstream cold and wet, but in one piece.

Or so he thought. But with the next step, disaster struck.

The horse completely lost its footing, tumbling into the water and sinking beneath the surface. Bran was swept from the saddle and carried away by the swift current. Frigid water filled his nose and mouth, choking him, and he struggled for breath. The only thing that saved him was the tight hold he had on the reins. The horse’s head burst into the air, its eyes wild and wide. It whinnied in shrill panic, but immediately struck out for the shore, pulling Bran along.

As he bobbed uncontrollably, spun by the eddies in the current, he lost all sense of time and distance. His throat was raw, his chest tight. All he knew for certain was the feel of wet leather wrapped around his hands.

Strangely, as he prepared to die, he did not give any thought to the long, eventful years he had spent in Edinburgh. To the many friends and companions who’d shared his life. Instead, he called an image of Caitrina’s face to mind—the pale oval of her face, the bright sparkle of her eyes, the full lips of her mouth, all framed by her glorious dark hair.

It was a sweet image to take to his watery grave.

And then, as suddenly as it began, the wild ride was over. He felt a sharp yank on the reins, and then his boot struck a rock—a slimy, growth-covered rock, but most definitely a rock. And he was grateful for that slime when the horse began to drag him over the rocks. First his hip, then his elbow took a sharp whack against a boulder. Although it was tempting to let go of the reins, he did not. Not until the water was shallow enough for him to push his head free and take a sweet, dry gulp of air. Then he unraveled his hands and dragged himself to the shore, where he collapsed, utterly weary.

Lying on his back, drawing in slow, deep breaths, he stared up at the sky.

Never the sort to depend on anyone but himself for life’s fortunes, he nonetheless found himself thanking the lord almighty. It was surely a miracle that he’d made it to shore. Pushing to his elbows, he looked around. His horse had gone no farther than a choice field of grass. Saddle askew and soaking wet, it grazed nonchalantly a few feet away. Rowan trees and blackthorn bushes grew along the rocky edge of the burn, their leaves the tired green of late October.

Even here, there was no sign of Giric and his party.

His treacherous adventure had been for naught. The canny Englishman had managed to make good his escape, and Bran would be forced to face Caitrina with the unpleasant fact that he’d lost Marsailli.

He got to his feet. His boots were ruined, but they were stolen anyway, so he could hardly bemoan their loss. It was his hands that had suffered the worst. The wet leather had rubbed his palms raw and the rocks had ripped several deep gouges across his knuckles. A small price to pay for his life, however.

Whistling softly, he called his horse.

The great beast pricked his ears, but did not stop eating. Having saved Bran’s life, it certainly deserved a fine meal, so Bran slowly crossed the field to the horse, his feet squishing in the wet boots. As he neared, the stallion lifted its head and looked at him, its eyes bulging slightly. It seemed to be considering a quick jump sideways or a flee into the brush, so Bran halted and spoke gently to it.

“There’s a good lad,” he said. “You’re a fine swimmer, you are. Saved us both, and I’m grateful. But now we must be away back to the manor.”

The horse settled, and Bran was able to approach and reposition the saddle.

When the trappings were once again snug and well fitting, he leapt upon the horse’s back and headed upstream. It took him well past midday to circle the huge slate crag and make his way to the spot where he’d left Robbie. As his mount picked its way over the rocks, Bran scanned the outcrop for any sign of Giric and his men, but all was quiet.

Slate was a common roofing material, valued for its hardiness and its ability to resist fire. The manor at Clackmannan had a fine roof fashioned from dull gray slate, but this stone was blue-green in color, quite vividly so down by the water’s edge. Several of the finer houses in Edinburgh had slate roofs with distinct colors, some from as far away as Ballachulish, but he’d never seen a roof quite this shade.

Bran ducked under the low branch of an elm tree and came upon Robbie lounging against a moss-covered fallen log. The lad did not look surprised to see him.

He leapt to his feet and dusted off his arse. “Did you spy them?”

“Nay,” Bran said. “They’re well and truly gone.”

Robbie nodded. “Whilst you were abroad, I searched the shore high and low in both directions and found nary a flash nor an overturned stone. ’Tis like the washerwoman made off with them.”

The washerwoman was one of the fairy folk—a hag typically found knee deep in a burn, washing blood from the grave clothes of men about to die. Bran gave no credence to such tales, but neither did he have an explanation for Giric’s disappearance. So he simply shrugged.

“Mount your horse,” he said. “Let’s away to the manor.”

It was a long journey over rolling braes, through trees clinging to the last of their fall leaves, and across windswept moors. Holding the reins loosely in his battered hands, Bran used his knees to guide the horse. He was seriously considering stealing the valiant beast—a braver, more well-trained steed would be difficult to find—when they topped the ridge overlooking the manor. It was obvious in an instant that the manor was still on high alert. Dougal’s men had surrounded the village, and Bran and Robbie were met by armed soldiers long before they reached the manor walls.

Dougal himself rode out to greet them.

“Are all inside safe?” Bran asked.

The constable nodded. “There’s been no attack on the manor.”

A relief, to be sure, although he’d been reasonably certain that all of the English soldiers had departed together. When they had examined the deserted camp, Robbie had found no hoofprints leading toward the manor.

“We chased them north to the boundary marker,” Bran said, “before we lost them.”

Dougal grimaced. “Wretched bastards. They should meet the point of my blade for what they did to my men.”

The two guards had been decapitated, castrated, and then strung up feetfirst in the trees—a brutal and insulting message. Neither of the men’s missing parts had been found.

“If they return,” Bran promised, “you’ll get your chance.”

The heavy wooden gate swung open and they entered the close. Bran scanned the faces of those gathered in the courtyard, hoping to spy Caitrina’s dark hair and delicate features. But there was no sign of her. He dismounted and handed off his horse to one of the stable lads. “Have you made an accounting to the queen?”

The constable shook his head. “Her Grace has taken ill.”

“Let us not share the details,” Bran said. “No need to worry the queen needlessly. It’s possible we’ve seen the last of those Sassenach scum.” Unlikely, given that Giric’s interest lay in Caitrina and the queen, but possible. “But keep the watch on the wall until we’re certain.”

Dougal nodded. “You should have one of the ladies see to those hands, Marshal.”

The constable’s face was bland, but Bran had a sense that the man knew exactly which lady would be willing to offer her services.

“Indeed.”

With a sharp nod to the constable, he climbed the stairs and entered the great hall. Supper was still hours away and the room was largely empty. Two of the queen’s ladies were seated before the hearth, working on their embroidery and chatting in hushed tones. Neither was the lady that he sought, but a cask of ale stood on the table behind them and his throat was parched, so he crossed the wooden planking in their direction.

“Marshal Gordon?”

He halted and turned. At the bottom of the stairs, looking slightly disheveled but sweeter than a ripe pear, was Caitrina. The look in her eyes was heartbreaking—a mix of deep fear and faint hope. She clearly knew her sister was gone. It took every ounce of his willpower to remain exactly where he was. The urge to run to her and gather her in his arms was so intense, his arms trembled. “My lady?”

She walked hesitantly toward him, almost as if she expected the worst.

“Have you any news?”

“Nay,” he said. “The Englishmen have escaped.” He didn’t add, I failed you , but those words hung in the air between them. He had underestimated Giric, just as she’d urged him not to, and Marsailli’s loss lay squarely on his shoulders.

Her gaze met his. “I heard that bodies were found.”

“The two guards. No women.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye.” She had stopped far enough away that even a surreptitious brush against her hand was impossible. “They decamped swiftly, leaving most of their belongings behind. We had the opportunity to do a thorough search.”

“Then we must hope for the best.” She turned to walk away.

Unable to help himself, Bran reached for her arm. “My lady—”

She halted, her gaze dropping to his hand. “By the saints, Marshal. Those wounds are most unpleasant. What befell you?”

“Nothing more than would befall any nobleman who forgot his gloves,” he said dryly.

She guided him to a chair before the hearth and encouraged him to sit. “Well, whatever the cause, they are in need of bandages.”

Bandages? Was she mad? “Absolutely not,” he said, with a scowl. Every gillie in the hall would think him a faintheart.

“Fine,” she said. “No bandages. But we cannot allow those wounds to fester. Give me a moment and I’ll return with some salve.”

He would have refused, save for one thing—allowing Caitrina to care for his hands would give him a legitimate reason to bide awhile in her company. “I’ll wait,” he agreed. “But be quick about it. I’ve tasks that I must see to.”

She smiled and darted for the stairs.

Bran stretched out his legs, aiming his still-damp boots toward the fire. By god, how did noblemen survive long hours on their arses? He was bored already and Caitrina had only just disappeared up the stairwell. The life of a gentleman was definitely not for him. He glanced at the two ladies quietly plying their needles. At this time of day in Edinburgh, he’d be fleecing wealthy men and women headed home from the market.

He frowned.

He’d been gone far longer than he had intended. Ularaig would be taking advantage of his absence, making life miserable for the citizens of Lowertown. The filthy wretch had almost every castle guard in his pocket and had begun to demand a portion of all coin earned by nefarious means. Any who refused were threatened with the full weight of the law.

“Well,” said Caitrina, sliding onto the chair next to him. “Let’s have a look at those hands.”

She took one of his big hands in hers and laid it palm up on her knees. Using the knife at her girdle, she pried off the thin layer of wax that covered her jar of unguent. Then she slathered the foul-looking stuff all over the deep chafes on his hand. A ridiculous bit of nursing, to his mind, but he would never tell her so. Her tender ministrations were more of a balm to his soul than to his flesh.

As she switched her attentions to his other hand, he said softly, “I will find her and bring her back. I swear it.”

She lifted her gaze and smiled sadly. “There isn’t time.”

“We’ve no cause to believe Giric has slain her,” he said, praying he was right. “And Dougal has assured me that Marshal Finlay is unlikely to return before Samhain.”

“That may be so,” she said, as she packed up her pot and wiped her hands on a square of clean linen. “But this place will soon welcome the four Guardians of Scotland. Messengers left this morning, at the behest of the bishop of Saint Andrews. It is their duty to be present at the birth of the new king.”

Bran sat back in his chair.

William Fraser was himself a Guardian, as was Robert Wishart, the bishop of Glasgow. Religious men he could sway. They concerned themselves more with god than with the law. Earl Buchan and the high steward? They would not be easily fooled by his charade.

“James Stewart resides in Edinburgh,” he said. “He can journey here in less than two days.”

She nodded. “You should leave now, while your identity is still unquestioned.”

The large manor door swung open and a soldier ran into the great hall, his boots heavy on the planking. “Marshal Gordon! The constable requests your immediate presence on the wall!”

Bran shot to his feet. “What is it?”

The lad simply shook his head and ran back the way he came.

Bran grabbed Caitrina’s arm. “Gather the other ladies and withdraw to the queen’s chamber. Open the door to none but I.” When she hesitated, he looked her in the eye and urged, “Go. Quickly now.”

Only when he was certain she was in action did he march out the door.

***

There was no need for Caitrina to prod the other two ladies from their chairs—both women had taken note of the panicked guard and were bundling up their embroidery. As she hastened to their side, they turned to her with worried frowns.

“Is the manor under attack?” Etienne asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But the marshal is a very capable man. He and the queen’s guard shall see to our safety. Allons . Let us not make his task any more challenging.”

The plump woman put a shaky hand to her throat. “No matter how capable the soldiers, we are sans défense in such a manoir piteux . Why did Her Grace not return us to Stirling Castle?”

A rather pointless question, at this stage.

They scurried up the stairs to the third floor. The queen’s guard ushered them into her chamber and then barricaded the door with two heavy chests stacked one atop the other. The physician and the midwife were seated beside the bed—everyone else stood at the narrow arrow loops overlooking the close. A low rumble not unlike a cart bumping along a rutted path vibrated through the air. Other than that, the close was somber and silent.

Although curiosity nearly got the best of her, Caitrina ignored the crowd hovering at the windows and crossed to the bed. Yolande was awake, but pale and weak. The fever had abated during the night, and although her cough lingered, she breathed easier. She smiled halfheartedly as Caitrina approached.

“We are experiencing some excitement, non ?”

“Not the sort of excitement we typically enjoy,” she responded dryly.

The rumbling abruptly ceased, and for a moment there was only silence. Then a quiet male voice ordered, “Open the gate.”

Caitrina couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Bran. Why he would choose to open the gate in the face of danger, she had no clue. But she had faith in his decisions. The risk must be minimal.

“Fetch me a cup of wine, ma chère ,” the queen requested, pointing to the decanter at her bedside.

Caitrina poured a small amount of red wine into Yolande’s silver cup and then lifted her head to help her take a sip. As the queen lay back against the pillows, the cart rumbled again, louder this time and accompanied by the creaks and groans of an empty wooden wagon.

A few moments later, it stopped, and one of the ladies at the window gasped in shock. Another sank to her knees, genuflected, and began to mutter a prayer.

“Mon dieu,” said a third, turning from the window. “C’est barbare!”

Caitrina’s throat closed tight and a wave of dizziness washed over her. What was so terrible that it shocked women who’d seen almost everything?

Yolande grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “A queen cannot shy from that which offends others. Be my eyes and ears—go look for me. Tell me what barbaric display has appeared in our courtyard.”

Caitrina swallowed the lump in her throat. The women were not weeping; they were flinching with disgust. Surely that meant the cart in the close had nothing to do with Marsailli? She nodded to the queen, then crossed to the window, knock-kneed but determined.

The group around the window parted to let her pass.

Taking a deep breath, she peered through the cross-shaped hole in the thick stone wall.

The ox-drawn cart stood in the center of a group of soldiers. Three wooden hay forks had been planted in the flatbed of the cart, two of them acting as poles for the severed heads of the two murdered guards. But the heads were not simply staked—the eyes had been gouged out, the skin flayed, and the mouths stuffed with what could only be the guards’ genitals.

Caitrina’s mouth soured.

The third fork carried a message meant only for her . It was a torn white sark, rent right down the middle and emblazoned with a dark red-brown bloodstain. Bile rose in her throat. It was Marsailli’s sark. The blood was Marsailli’s blood. Another wave of dizziness struck Caitrina and her knees gave out. With a low keen of despair, she slid to the floor.

Her worst nightmare had come true.

Giric had raped her wee sister and was proudly displaying the evidence.