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

Chapter 10

T here was a large gathering of folk in the great hall when Caitrina descended the stairs for the evening meal. Unlike the queen, who had spent the vast majority of her time confined to her bed, the royal steward was eager to sample all of the food and entertainment the custodians of Clackmannan were capable of preparing. The high table was covered in an expanse of white linen and every chair had been assigned. With the presence of additional nobles, Caitrina, being untitled, found herself seated at one of the lower tables, sharing her meal with a handful of senior villagers and their ladies. She had just taken her seat opposite the reeve’s wife when Bran entered.

The sight of him stole her breath away.

His dark gold hair, loosely flowing down his back, shimmered in the candlelight—a perfect foil for his strong chin and long nose. With a crimson doublet laced over his cream lèine and a pair of black trews covering his legs, he looked every bit the part of a nobleman. Few men in the hall could compete with his bonnie appearance, including the resplendent royal steward, who wore forest green trimmed with beaver.

Caitrina bit her lip as Bran audaciously stepped to the high table, gave a short bow, and introduced himself to the steward.

“Giles Gordon, my lord.” As the royal steward turned to him with a frown, he added, “We met once in Edinburgh, several years ago. I’m not certain you will remember.”

The royal steward’s eyes narrowed and he peered at Bran closely through the smoky haze of the room. “I don’t recall,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so good as to refresh my memory?”

Bran smiled. “Of course. It was the Yule after Queen Margaret’s passing. A quiet affair in the great hall. My uncle, Sir Thomas de Gordon, introduced us.”

Stewart frowned. “I remember the evening and my conversation with Sir Thomas, but I confess I do not recall you, sir.”

Bran shrugged. “You may recall his comment upon my introduction. I believe he called me ‘a blight upon the Gordon name.’”

Stewart’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “I do recall that comment. Sir Thomas has always lacked a measure of tact. He’d taken issue with your reluctance to take a wife, as I recall. Have you since remedied that?”

Bran shook his head. “Regretfully, I am still unwed.”

Stewart patted him on the back and ushered him toward a chair. “That’s a situation that swiftly must be set aright. Are there no suitable ladies in Feldrinny?”

“An estate owned by monks suffers a dearth of fine feminine company, I’m afraid,” Bran said, taking the seat next to Lady Martine with a smile.

As the tables settled into the meal, Caitrina struggled to keep her gaze on her companions. Even though their histories were intriguing and their travels far-reaching, her attention kept drifting to the high table, where Bran was engaged in avid conversation with Martine. Again, he proved quite the raconteur. His stories kept the table amused for several hours, and his compliments kept Lady Martine in an almost constant state of pink-cheeked blush.

Jealousy knotted Caitrina’s belly.

She had never felt such an intense desire to trade places with another woman. But, at that moment, she would have given every jewel she possessed to be seated next to Bran, basking in the warmth of his charming smiles.

How very foolish. She knew he was a fraud—that every word leaving his glib tongue was likely a lie—but that didn’t tame the burning want in her gut. Or silence the fierce whispers in her mind that claimed, He’s mine .

“Have you any children, Lady Caitrina?” her dinner companion asked.

She glanced at him. Sir Murdoch of Inverary. A handsome enough fellow, for an older man. Probably a popular courtier, in his day. If his stories were true, he’d once been captain of King Alexander’s guard. “Nay,” she said. “I’m not yet wed.”

“I have three daughters,” he said. “The eldest is eight.”

“How lovely,” she said, peering around his large shoulders for a glimpse of Bran.

When the meal was finally ended, after a raucous round of toasts to the queen, Caitrina climbed the stairs to her rooms, weary and exhausted. The men had remained behind, still quaffing copious amounts of ale and regaling one another with tales of their conquests, both on and off the battlefield.

Having miraculously passed the royal steward’s identity test, Bran was welcomed into the midst of the courtiers with open arms. How he’d come up with that tale of Sir Thomas, she had no clue. Nor did it matter. Apparently, being called “a blight upon the family name” was an endearing feature.

Caitrina stopped by the drapery-hung platform bed to wish the queen a good night, then crossed to her pallet and accepted the help of her maid in exchanging her gown for a night rail.

She had worried for naught, it would seem. Bran was a consummate liar.

She doused her candle and lay down on her pallet, grimacing. What else had the man lied about? His feelings for her, perchance? If he was capable of pulling the wool over the royal steward’s eyes, he was surely capable of gulling a simple lass from the Highlands. No one at the high table had doubted his identity, not for a moment.

Lying there in the dark, listening to the soft snores of the other ladies, Caitrina slowly became enraged. She’d given her maidenhood to a silver-tongued bounder—to a man who had just spent the entire night complimenting another woman, never once looking her way. Did he think so little of her that his attentions could be so easily redirected? She had thought him a better man than that.

Caitrina tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally, she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. There was only one way to quiet her turbulent thoughts—she needed to speak with Bran.

Slipping her toes into her silk slippers, she rose from the bed and gathered her brat. Once again, she excused herself to the guards at the door with a tale of visiting the garderobe and scurried down the hall.

There was a light under Bran’s door, so she gently knocked and waited. Moments later, the door swung open and he stood before her bare chested and clad only in his braies. She opened her mouth to explain her presence, but he simply yanked her into the room and closed the door. Pressing her back against the thick wooden planks of the portal, he took her head in both hands and proceeded to kiss her as if he’d been imagining this kiss all night.

Caitrina’s indignation melted away under the heat of the embrace.

With his lips on hers, his tongue sweeping the inside of her mouth in a daring dance of desire and his hands caressing her curves with light but loving touches, Caitrina lost all sense of time. She found herself hungrily returning every kiss and wanting more. Had he not broken off the embrace and stepped back, she might well have let him take her right there against the door.

He scowled at her. “Who was that large man you were seated next to at dinner?”

Caitrina stared. “Sir Murdoch?”

“Is that his name? Was he truly as entertaining as you made him out to be?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You laughed at everything he said.”

Caitrina could barely remember anything the man had said. “He’s twice my age,” she said, frowning. “And happily wed to a Frenchwoman.”

His scowl faded. “Good. I’ve never been envious of another man, and frankly I do not enjoy the taste.”

“You were jealous,” she said, on a breathless note of surprise. “But what of Lady Martine?”

“Who?”

She smiled. “The blond woman who sat next to you at dinner.”

“Ah,” he said. “The woman whose passion is her garden. I find the easiest way to make conversation is to make simple queries of the other person and then let them speak. My dinner companion grows white roses in honor of her dearly departed mother.”

“You did more than listen,” she said. “You had your entire table laughing at your stories.”

Bran’s gaze sharpened. “You were as jealous as I.”

“More so,” she confessed.

He closed the gap between them and feathered kisses along the line of her jaw. “Impossible.”

Caitrina’s eyes closed and her head rolled back to give him access to the tender flesh of her neck. Showers of delight sprang up in the wake of each delicate kiss, but she needed more. More warmth, more strength, more of Bran. The smooth expanse of his chest was an invitation she could not ignore and her hands went awandering. Under her fingertips, the texture of his skin was like hot silk, drawn thinly over the powerful musculature of his frame. So wonderfully different from her own body.

The hard curves of his chest. The waves of muscle that ran down the middle of his belly.

Bran grabbed her hands. “Lass,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear, “I have spent the past few hours imagining every way in which I could make love to your sweet body. I am like a fully drawn bow, ready to send my arrows flying at the slightest twitch of a finger. As much as I enjoy your gentle exploration, I fear I am not man enough to endure it.”

She pouted. “You cannot expect me to simply stand here and take your kisses.”

A low chuckle vibrated through his chest. “Nay. I welcome your full participation.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“Whatever your heart desires. I would only beg you to avoid—for a short time—the area above my knees and below my belt.”

Caitrina chewed her lip. Some of his most intriguing terrain lay in the area he had just declared forbidden. “Then let us be fair. For as long as you wish me to abstain from touching you below the waist, you must also abstain from touching me in the same region.”

He frowned. “But that will reduce your pleasure.”

“I refuse to accept that. The game shall be to see who can pleasure the other more without touching the most private parts.” With that, she bent her head and kissed his right nipple, using her tongue to play with the tiny bud.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Dear lord.”

She released his flesh, reluctantly. “Oh, and I must return to my room within the hour—else the queen’s guards will surely think me lost.”

Uttering a low growl, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed. He dropped her unceremoniously onto the mattress and then leapt upon her. “There’s no time to waste, then, is there?”

He untied the satin laces of her night rail and tugged the linen down, baring her breasts. For a moment, he did nothing but stare, and Caitrina frowned.

“Is there something wrong?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Far from it, lass. You have beautiful breasts. Just large enough to fill my hand, with pale pink nipples that tempt me to taste.”

“And yet you do not.”

A truth that he swiftly remedied. He bent his head and captured one trembling peak in his hot, wet mouth and Caitrina gave up a hitched but deeply satisfied sigh. Sweet Jesu. The sensations he stirred within her were incomparable. She’d always known her breasts were sensitive, but this sweet unbearable attack rocked her to the core. No wonder the priests associated such moments with sin—anything that felt so good had to be sinful.

She closed her eyes and let the ripples of pleasure roll through her body, savoring the delicious tingle between her thighs and the slow build of tension in her belly. It wasn’t just the way he suckled her breast that stirred her—although that was masterful—it was the soft, glowing warmth that stole over her as she pictured him in her thoughts. He and he alone evoked such tender emotions, such deep desires. She had the strangest urge to grab his hand and run away to some remote bothy and make love until they were finally, completely, utterly sated.

He gently nibbled on her nipple, and she bit her lip to restrain a squeal.

Right now, it was impossible to imagine ever being sated. Every part of her body was burning, and she wanted him so badly that there were stars dancing before her eyes. Going mad with need actually seemed within the realm of possibility. She lifted her hips, trying to press the ache in her nether regions into submission.

But Bran gave her no satisfaction—he shifted his body to one side.

“Do you already forget the rules?” he asked, hoarsely, his hot breath soft upon her breast. “To the game that you created?”

Caitrina groaned. She had forgotten. By god, he wiped all reason from her thoughts. What had she been thinking to set such terms? She thrashed her head from side to side. Such unbearable terms? And Bran seemed determined to make her pay. The only way he would set aside this foolish endeavor would be for her to drive him as mad with desire as she was.

“This game is very one-sided,” she said.

“How so?” His tongue drew a circle around her nipple.

She squirmed with need. “With you atop me, there’s little opportunity for me to play.”

He buried his face between her breasts, drawing in a deep breath. “You have another position in mind?”

She pushed at his large shoulders. “Aye. You on your back, me on top.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “Truly?”

“Aye.”

“But the rules are no touching below the waist,” he reminded her.

“I’m well aware,” she said archly. “Roll.”

Obligingly, he rolled onto his back, a faint smile on his handsome lips. “How shall you proceed, lass?”

In truth, she had no idea. She was unschooled as a seductress. But wiping that smug look from his face was a fierce ambition. His smile suggested he alone knew how to win the game, that only he was capable of taunting and teasing and driving his partner wild. Caitrina rose to her knees on the bed, accidentally trapping the hem of her night rail, which pulled the gauzy linen taut against her skin.

His gaze dropped to the newly exposed skin at her neckline, his eyes dark.

Ahh.

He admired her form. Perhaps she should start there. With a series of slow, sensual tugs on the shift, she removed her night rail and tossed it aside. His eyes narrowed, implying an element of self-discipline belied by the flare of his nostrils and the clenched fists at his side.

He wanted to grab her.

But he did not, so she considered her next move. Her long braid had flipped over her shoulder as she removed her night rail, and she lifted it, prepared to toss it back. Again, his gaze closely followed her fingers and, again, she took his interest as a sign. He was curious about what she would do with her hair. What did he think was possible?

She took the wispy end and drew it up the skin of his arm to his chest. Gooseflesh rose in its trail, and she smiled. He thrilled to touch as easily as she did. How wonderful. Leaning over him, she swept her hair over his upper body, along the strong lines of his chin, down his patrician nose, and over his sinfully shaped lips. Her reward was a low rumble of protest in his chest, and she grinned.

She pressed a hot kiss to his lips, as much for her own satisfaction as for his. Thus far, the game was only mildly amusing.

Sitting back on her heels, she studied him. He had closed his eyes, waiting for more. But more what? How does a lass go about seducing a man? What sensations were likely to make him so crazed with desire that he would toss aside her foolishly constructed rules and bed her right and proper?

His eyes drifted open again.

“Do you cede?” he asked.

“Nay,” she said quickly. She took her bottom lip into her mouth. Kisses were an option—she could kiss every inch of his skin above his waist—but she was not convinced that would be enough to make him break the rules.

She let her bottom lip go.

His nostrils flared again.

Something about that little movement enticed him. But what? What did he find so fascinating about her lip? She chewed it again, and released it—to similar effect. Was he imagining chewing her lip himself? If so, could she use his imagination against him? Caitrina ran a light finger down her chest to her belly button. His eyes followed the trail of her fingers with avid interest, and she smiled.

Well. This could be quite intriguing.

Her own hand was not as satisfying on her skin as his was, but it evoked sensations nonetheless. Pleasurable sensations that were heightened by the dark glow in his eyes. She took the tip of her braid and traced slow circles on her belly, up her chest, and across her shoulders. Now the gooseflesh was haunting her .

His eyes became hotter and a flush rose on his cheeks.

Caitrina grew more daring, trailing the braid over one breast, down the valley, and circling the nipple of the other. As the hairs drifted over the budded tip, a short gasp broke from her lips. Sweet, sweet Jesu. It was all too easy to imagine his lips on her breasts, his fingers doing the delicate dance of the hairs. A hot wetness blossomed between her legs.

Surprisingly, this romp was having a powerful impact—not only did the sight of his obvious enthrallment excite her, but her imagination and the touch of her own hand doubled her pleasure. Caitrina abandoned the braid and placed her fingers directly on the plump flesh of her breast.

Her eyes closed.

She had touched her breasts before, even teased them to a point of gentle awareness. But this was new. Somehow, the knowledge that he was watching her added volumes to her sensitivity, and her skin reacted to her touch almost as eagerly as if he’d been caressing her breast himself. She rolled her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, moaning at the sharp flood of sensations that spun out in all directions.

A low, feral growl escaped Bran’s throat.

Caitrina opened her eyes just in time to see him pounce. He leapt upon her with unrestrained ardor, all smugness vanished from his face. His hands were everywhere—not just above her waist—and it was clear that she was the victor of their little game. Not that she gave her win any thought. She was lost in a dizzying cloud of passion—every inch of her alive in ways she’d never been before.

Her world was spinning, her power immense, even as she trembled with weakness.

Armed with a new boldness, she took his hand and guided his strokes to the spots that gave her the most pleasure. Places she had never dared to suggest he go. It felt so good to have his hands cupping her breasts and rubbing the eager flesh between her thighs.

Together, they teased each other to the point of no return. When Bran finally slid two fingers inside her, Caitrina was dripping wet and she nearly found release.

“Take me,” she urged, her breath rasping.

Bran shed his braies in an instant, parted her thighs, and thrust into her with a shudder that racked his entire body. “Lord, lass,” he said hoarsely. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Then he proceeded to take her so deeply and so thoroughly that she thrashed against the sheets and nearly sobbed with the sweet harmony of their movements. When she came, it wasn’t a quick flash of ecstasy—it was a rolling storm of release that went on and on until she lay beneath him so spent that she could not move a muscle.

He collapsed on the bed next to her and rolled onto his back.

“The guards will be wondering where you are.”

“I care not,” she said honestly.

He turned his head and smiled. “You say that now, but you will likely not feel the same come morn.” He leapt off the bed, gathered up the cloth in the water basin by the hearth, and returned to gently cleanse her private parts.

“I’ve never met a lass quite like you,” he said.

“Is that a bad thing?” she asked, with a frown.

“Nay,” he said with a laugh. He located her night rail in the jumble of his bedding and helped her don it. “Quite the opposite. I think I may be falling in love with you.”

Caitrina stiffened, her arms half into her nightgown. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “’Tis the truth.”

She tugged the linen down over her thighs and rolled off the bed. Staring at him reclined upon the mattress with his head pillowed beneath his arm, she scowled. “You are determined to ruin this wonderful night.”

His eyebrows rose. “Why does my declaration of love constitute ruin? You uttered the same words to me not a sennight ago.”

“But my declaration carried no expectations.”

“And mine does?”

“It’s common knowledge that men do not speak of love unless they mean to make a claim.”

“Is it?”

“You know perfectly well that it is,” she said hotly. How dare he steal the beauty of this encounter with his brash words. “But we can never be together.”

“Aye,” he admitted quietly. “I know.”

His agreement deflated her anger. “Then why would you echo my sentiments? Where could it possibly lead?”

“Must it lead somewhere?” He sat up and patted the mattress at his side. “I see no shame in admitting that I care for you. Indeed, the shame would be in letting our dalliance end without telling you the lay of my heart.”

Caitrina did not join him on the bed. It was far too tempting. If she went to him, she might never leave. “But embracing the totality of our affections will only cause greater pain when the moment arrives that parts us.”

He shrugged. “The pain of parting is unavoidable. It will be the memories we make that will sustain us in the future. Why not make them the fullest possible?”

The moments beyond their parting suddenly loomed with a heretofore unimaginable reality. “What awaits you in Edinburgh? You’ve previously suggested pressing commitments. Do they involve a woman?”

He vaulted from the bed and padded across the cold floor to her side. Gathering the edges of her brat, he wrapped her snugly in the wool. “No woman waits on my return. Not as you imagine, in any case. A street thug threatens many of my companions, and it was my intent to use the crown to buy the loyalty of the castle guards and have him driven off or imprisoned.”

Caitrina’s heart sank.

This was the moment to confess what she’d done—to explain that she had sent for the MacCurrans. But the words wouldn’t form. If she spoke, her confession would dim that warm look in his eyes, perhaps permanently. “A noble goal,” she said, her tongue dry as old leather.

“I do what I must,” he said. “We’re born to a certain place in life, but our choices are thereafter our own.”

They were indeed. And the choice Caitrina had made might well change his memories of her for eternity. “We all do what we must,” she said. “And I must return to my room.”

He bent and kissed her lips—a tender kiss that sent a ripple of warmth to her toes. “Sweet dreams, lass.”

She breathed deep of his spicy, masculine scent, then smiled tremulously, spun on her heels, and dashed from the room. He would never forgive her.

***

Bran posted sentries to the north and west of the manor, armed with warning fires. If Giric decided to attack, they would need at least an hour of preparation to shut the gate and bolster their defenses.

He’d given an accounting of what he’d discovered to Dougal and the royal steward the night before, but the outcome had not been satisfying. Stewart was convinced that Giric was nothing more than an opportunistic bandit—he’d dismissed the possibility that King Edward supported Giric’s efforts with an adamant shake of his head—and there had been no way to rattle his certainty without revealing Caitrina’s role in the plot.

Bran stared at the western forest, scanning the trees for any movement.

Stewart had promised to send to Edinburgh for additional men, but there’d been no urgency in his words. It would be four days at best before he saw support from the castle—and possibly longer. The royal steward believed the walls of Clackmannan were highly defensible. Bran disagreed. While it was true that the older man had more experience defending a keep than Bran did, he’d not seen the group of men gathering to the north, or the longbows they wielded. Bran had described the weapons and explained how they worked, but neither Stewart nor Dougal had put much stock in their value. They were convinced that the effort required to draw a bow of such length would exceed the abilities of most men. They were wrong. They’d never seen a Welsh bow in action, but he had. One of the men in his father’s band of brigands had been a Welshman.

Bran had underestimated Giric once before; he wasn’t about to do it again.

There had to be a way to claim a victory, even against a company of longbows.

The sharp rap of boot heels on the stone parapets behind him turned his head. Dougal joined him at the wall.

“Did you not say the English were hiding to the north?”

Bran nodded. “But the trees to the west allow a closer approach. It’s wise to keep a watch in all directions.”

“The fall harvest is only recently completed, and an inventory of the stores suggests we can survive a lengthy siege.”

Bran glanced at him. “As long as the wall remains unbreached.”

“We have the advantage,” Dougal insisted.

“We also have a village to protect.”

The older man sighed. “The queen must be our priority, if there is an attack.”

“You doubt Giric’s intent?” Bran asked. “Even after witnessing the atrocities enacted against your guards, without provocation?”

“The steward is right,” Dougal said. “He is a simple brigand.”

“No simple brigand would gather troops.”

Dougal shook his head, his red beard swaying. “I think you see fire where there is only smoke. Any large-scale attack by the English would be seen as an act of war. King Edward has long been an ally of the Scots. Why would he suddenly seek to sour relations with his neighbor to the north?”

“King Edward once hoped that his nephew would sit upon the Scottish throne,” Bran reminded him dryly. “But his sister and all of her issue are dead. The new Scottish monarch will either be half French or half Norse. Edward’s influence will be limited. That’s reason enough for him to take a hand.”

Dougal was silent.

Bran was no royal courtier gifted with inside knowledge of Scottish politics, but he had spent many an hour in an Edinburgh tap house debating the actions of those who were his betters. “The Welsh were independent once, too. When the Prince of Wales refused to swear his allegiance, King Edward rode in with his armies and conquered him. He has imprisoned all claimants to the Welsh throne. Why do you believe he would treat Scotland any differently?”

“The Welsh were rebellious heathens,” Dougal scoffed. “Their prince was never truly recognized by the English monarchy.”

Bran snorted. “Those are Stewart’s words.”

“The man was an adviser to King Alexander. Why would we not have faith in his knowledge of King Edward?”

“I’ve never met King Edward,” Bran acknowledged. “But I’ve met my fill of greedy men, and I can tell you this—they don’t cease until they own it all.”

“How can you be certain this band of English brigands is under orders from Edward?”

“I can’t.” Not openly. “But he’s shown remarkable dedication for a simple bandit. In my experience, a man in search of easy coin preys on the weakest target. Waylaying a lone merchant, perchance, or robbing a farmer as he returns from the market. He does not attack soldiers.”

Dougal tossed him a wry smile. “Perhaps he’s learned his lesson.”

Movement in the trees sharpened Bran’s gaze. An eagle-eyed watchman on the wall trumpeted the alarm an instant later as a long line of men on horseback broke from the trees, each carrying a distinctive black targe. At least two dozen men were visible, and he glimpsed more in the shadowy wood behind them.

Dougal stiffened. “Those look like Scots.”

Three large men rode at the center of the line—all broad shouldered, brown haired, and grim faced. Bran recognized them immediately. Niall, Aiden, and Wulf MacCurran. He drew in a deep breath and slowly released it.

“They are,” he told Dougal.

Then he spun on his heel and descended the steps to the close. The time had clearly come to pay the piper.