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

Chapter 12

T hey scaled the crag under cover of darkness. Niall MacCurran, a skilled woodsman with a keen sense of sight, led the Black Warriors up the rocks under a cloudy, moonless sky. Bran found himself climbing alongside a gruff bowman by the name of Cormac.

“Mounting cliffs in the dark of night,” the archer grumbled quietly, “is becoming a bloody bad habit.”

Bran had no extra breath to spare him a response—Niall ascended the peak at a grueling pace. They reached the summit in record time and took out the posted sentries with little effort.

“Lazy Sassenachs,” Cormac muttered as he toed the unconscious body of one of the guards. He unhooked his bow from his shoulders—a smooth curve of solid ashwood—and nocked an arrow. Taking his cue from Niall’s hand signal, he led the way around the basin to the other side of the rocks.

Bran had spent most of his early years in the forest, living the life of a brigand. He knew the value of a well-placed foot and a silent approach, but the Black Warriors were in a league unto themselves. They made not a single sound as they traversed the ridge. Every movement was spare and efficient, every boot carefully planted.

In no time at all, they had completely surrounded the English encampment.

Bran peered down through the rocks at the quiet group of tents. Most of the mercenaries were asleep—only a handful of men sat before the fires, keeping watch. The horses at the far end of the plateau were moving restlessly, and they would soon alert the Englishmen to the presence of danger.

It was time to make their move.

With a quick strike of flint, Bran signaled the rest of his men, who waited on the path, and they swarmed the entrance, creating a blockade. The only way out of the basin now was through the rocks, and Niall’s men controlled that egress. In unison, the Black Warriors launched their arrows, planting warning shots into the ground at well-placed intervals.

The plateau erupted in a frenzy of fear as the mercenaries realized they were under attack.

“Hold your fire,” Bran called to the men in the rocks. To the Englishmen in the basin, he said, “Surrender now and no blood shall be spilled.”

At the far end of the basin, near the path leading to the burn, a huge man strolled out of his tent. Firelight flickered over his features, including the rough scar on the left side of his face. Giric. “There will be no surrender—unless it is yours. Archers, to the center.”

Some thirty bowmen dashed to the center of the plateau, their longbows at the ready.

“Fire at will,” Giric ordered.

And with that command, the battle began in earnest. As arrows flew in both directions, the bulk of Giric’s men charged the soldiers blocking their exit. Sword met sword, arrow met arrow. The Black Warriors held the advantage in both visibility and position. Even against the powerful draw of the longbows, they made quick and decisive gains.

Amid the furor, Bran searched the plateau for some sign of Marsailli. But there were no women among the faces he spied, no high-pitched voices amid the sounds below. If she remained in the camp, it wasn’t immediately clear where she was.

His gaze fell upon the huge frame of Giric. The mighty Englishman was cutting a swath through Dougal’s men. Bran nudged Cormac’s shoulder and pointed.

“Take that man down,” he said, “and the battle will be won.”

Cormac immediately redirected his aim. He sent a flurry of arrows in Giric’s direction, but they all fell short. “He’s too far away,” the bowman reported. “I’ll need to move closer.”

He slipped out from behind a rock and dashed along the ridge. Although he wisely zigged and zagged as he ran, his luck was in short supply. Just as he was about to dive behind a protective slab of slate, one of the Welsh arrows sang through the air and drove deep into his thigh. He fell hard, sliding a good thirty feet on a loose bed of shale.

In the corner of his eye, Bran saw Giric lay another man low and barrel through the blockade. Once again, the Englishman was making an escape. A low growl of frustration rumbled in his throat. He’d promised Caitrina that he would leave the fighting to more experienced warriors, but all were occupied. No one was giving chase.

Bran eyed the horses tied at the far end of the plateau. There wasn’t time to dwell on the likelihood of success. He simply ran. Slipping and sliding on loose shards of rock, he dashed for the bottom of the basin. When he reached the grass, there were other obstacles in his path—bodies felled by MacCurran arrows, dying fires, the trampled remains of pitched tents.

To his amazement, he reached the horses and suffered nary a scratch. Freeing the closest palfrey with a quick jerk on its lead, he bounded onto the back of the powerful beast and spurred it toward the crumbling blockade.

“Duck,” he yelled to his men as he urged the horse into a jump. He sailed over the heads of several men and raced for Giric’s departing back.

It was only as he gained on the mighty Englishman that he remembered the significant difference in their sizes. Giric was nearly twice the man that he was. And the swing of his sword had enough power to make the air hum. The last time they had met in battle, Giric had very nearly destroyed him. What had possessed him to think he could duel such a mountainous man and come out the victor?

Giric spun around at the clatter of horse hooves on the stone path. His eyebrows clashed as he recognized Bran. “You,” he growled. “I should have taken your head the first night I saw you.”

He swung his blade with lethal intent and very nearly decapitated the horse—only a quick jerk on the reins saved the poor beast’s life. And even so, the edge of Giric’s blade sliced across the horse’s shoulder, and it screamed in pain.

Bran slid to the ground and sent the palfrey on its way with a swat to its rump. He gripped his sword in one hand and his dirk in the other. “Only cowards take aim at unarmed horses,” he said, with more calm than he felt. Winning a lengthy duel against Giric would be impossible. The man was a giant.

Giric shrugged. “Only a weak-minded man would concern himself with a beast.”

Bran studied the huge Englishman with a critical eye, trying to recall every detail of their last meet. Everyone had a weak spot. What was Giric’s?

“Where is Marsailli?” he asked as he dodged left to avoid an impressive slice.

“Dead,” Giric pronounced. “She was too small to take all of my cock and she bled to death from her injuries.”

A crude tale, with just enough fact to make it believable. But Bran knew a lie when he heard one—there was a tad too much glee in Giric’s voice for it to be an honest accounting. Which suggested, thankfully, that Marsailli was still alive. All Bran had to do was discover her whereabouts.

“Escaped your camp, did she?” he taunted.

The Englishman growled with rage and swung his sword. Bran ducked—just in time to avoid losing his head.

“A resourceful lass,” Bran said. “Just like her sister.”

“Nothing like her sister,” dismissed Giric. “A scrawny bird with unremarkable plumage.”

Bran feinted right with his sword, then spun left, slashing with his dirk. The tip of his blade caught the Englishman’s upper arm, and his sleeve blossomed with red. First blood belonged to Bran.

But he paid a price for the maneuver.

Giric came at him with a series of quick, powerful strikes, two of which he deflected with the flat of his blade. The third struck his sword at an awkward angle and left a nasty gouge in the steel.

As he parried and blocked his opponent’s blade, Bran continued to hunt for a weakness in Giric’s defenses. But the man was surprisingly nimble, leaving very few openings. And he kept the pressure on Bran, forcing him to dart and dash from side to side to avoid the brunt of his blows.

When he finally spied an opening, Bran was nearly exhausted. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back and his hair clung damply to his neck. The moment was now or never.

He raised his sword to parry a blow and ducked under Giric’s sword arm to stab the huge Englishman in the chest. It was a well-executed maneuver, and he surely would have succeeded had his damaged sword not chosen that precise instant to fail him. It snapped neatly in half under the force of Giric’s strike.

The muscles in his arm were wrenched sideways as the blade gave way, and a paralyzing numbness ran across his shoulder. The pieces of his sword clattered to the ground.

The huge Englishman immediately took advantage, twisting his blade as it swung and clipping Bran’s undefended midriff. He planted his feet and prepared to make the killing thrust.

It was a moment of crisis.

And in such moments, Bran’s father had taught him to do the unexpected.

He dropped to the ground and rolled.

Once he was clear of Giric’s extensive reach, he leapt to his feet. With only a dirk in hand, a hasty retreat seemed wise. But the image of Marsailli, naked and trembling in Giric’s tent, surfaced in his thoughts. She had not deserved such treatment, nor had the two guards he had assigned to watch her deserved their cruel and merciless fate.

He could not let this wretched cur walk away.

On the streets of Edinburgh, Bran’s most valuable tools were his hands. In the blink of an eye, he could delve into a man’s purse, remove a few coins, and pat the fellow gently on the shoulder. Speed and a light touch were his saving graces.

And he put those same skills to work with Giric. With his right hand hanging limply at his side, he stepped deep inside the Englishman’s reach, ducked under his swinging sword, and jammed his dirk into the soft skin of the other man’s neck.

Giric dropped to his knees, holding a hand to his bleeding wound. “What have you done?” he cried.

“No more than you would have done for me, if given the chance,” Bran said. “King Edward’s plot is foiled.”

“Never,” Giric gasped. “My liege is a man of strong will. Whate’er he desires shall come to pass.” He collapsed in a heap on the ground. Dead.

Bran allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, then spun around and headed for the plateau. Mercenaries without a benefactor would be quick to lay down their arms.

***

When morning dawned, Marsailli took stock of her situation.

She lay on the sandy bottom of a ravine, having taken a tumble during the night. Save for some additional bruises, she was uninjured, but the climb to freedom was proving difficult. The walls of shale on either side of her were sheer and slippery with seeping moisture. Every attempt thus far to scale the walls had led to another tumble.

She grimaced. Of all the places to fall, she had definitely picked the worst.

She tipped her head up and studied the clear blue sky. At least the rain had ceased to fall. If she could dry her brat, she might finally be able to get warm. And if the walls dried sufficiently, perhaps her next attempt would be successful.

It would truly be a shame if she had escaped Giric only to meet her maker in some forgotten hole in the earth.

She spread her damp brat over a rock to dry and settled on the sand.

Her mouth was dry as dust, but it was better not to think about a long-term battle with cold and thirst and hunger. She would give the sun an hour to dry the walls, and then she would attempt the climb again.

Because she had no choice.

***

News of their triumph over the English reached Clackmannan well ahead of the returning troops, but details were sparse. Caitrina paced the floor of the queen’s room, impatient for Bran’s return.

“Sit down, little cousin,” Yolande urged. “You tire me with your endless movements.”

“My apologies, Your Grace,” she said, reluctantly taking the seat next to the bed. She could see nothing from here. “Would you care for some honeyed mead?”

“Even as you offer that, you look to the window,” the queen said, with a light chuckle. “Have you found a suitor among the soldiers of Clackmannan?”

Caitrina blushed. “I would never think to pursue such an interest without first gaining your approval.”

Yolande’s eyebrows rose. “So there is someone.”

The trumpets sounded and Caitrina’s gaze flew to the window. “It would seem that they have returned.” It took every ounce of Caitrina’s willpower to remain in her chair.

“Go,” the queen said with a shake of her head. “But I shall expect to hear every detail of what transpired when you return to my rooms.”

Caitrina stood and curtsied. “Of course, Your Grace. Every detail.”

Then she dashed for the door.

Downstairs in the great hall, preparations for the Samhain feast were under way. Trestle tables were assembled, linens aired, candles lit. The two cooks had found common ground and delicacies of every sort were being organized into a series of tempting courses, each with its own palate-cleansing remove. Caitrina’s stomach rumbled hungrily at the sight of eel soup, spinach tarts, May eggs, apple muse, poached herring, honeyed capon, caudell, suckling pig, roe deer in almond sauce, roast hare in wine broth, beef and onion pie, black pudding, clootie dumpling, tablet, and of course haggis. But food would have to wait.

She skirted the pair of gillies who were tapping a keg of ale and made her way outside to the surprisingly large crowd in the close.

After a few discreet queries, she located Bran in the infirmary.

“You’re injured,” she said, staring at the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his middle.

He grimaced. “’Tis little more than a scratch, but the barber is insisting on plying his needle.”

“And how, pray tell, did you acquire this injury?” She bent and lifted the edge of his bandage. “It looks like a sword slice.”

“It is,” he confessed. “But it was unavoidable, I swear.”

The three MacCurran warriors, Niall, Aiden, and Wulf, entered the infirmary and made their way to Bran’s side. “A fine bit of swordsmanship,” Aiden said. “I confess, I wouldn’t have thought you capable. Defeating a man of that size is no easy task.”

Caitrina glanced from Aiden’s reluctantly admiring face to Bran’s slightly guilty visage. “Who did you defeat?”

“Giric.”

Caitrina stiffened, afraid to hope. “Giric is dead?”

“Aye.”

Her eyes met his. “And Marsailli?”

He shook his head. “There was no sign of her. I think it possible she escaped the camp sometime before we attacked.”

“Then she is out there in the wild, lost and alone.”

The MacCurran chief frowned. “Of whom do we speak?”

“My sister,” said Caitrina. “She was a prisoner in the English camp.”

Wulf raked a hand through his long hair. “The body of a lass was recovered in the wreckage of the camp.”

Caitrina’s throat clenched tight and she closed her eyes, refusing to believe. “Nay.”

Bran’s hand clasped hers, squeezing gently. “Stay strong,” he said. “It may not be her. There was another woman in the camp.” Turning to Wulf, he asked, “What age would you guess the lass to be?”

“Difficult to tell,” Wulf admitted. “She had been beaten.”

Caitrina’s knees shook and her belly heaved. She knew just what such an injury looked like. She’d seen the broken body of that poor wretch Giric had slain. “Dear god.”

Bran tugged her against his chest and smoothed a broad hand over her brow. “Do not assume the worst. In his last moments, Giric implied that she had escaped.”

“Then we should search the crag for her,” Caitrina said.

“Such was my intent,” Bran said. “Had the barber not insisted, I would be there still.”

“I’ll go with you,” Niall offered.

“And I’ll go, too,” Caitrina insisted. “After all she’s been through, she might need a familiar face to set her at ease.”

“It’s a long ride,” Bran warned her. “And the weather is about to turn wet again.”

“Then give me a few moments to change my attire. A lad might be better suited to such a journey than a lady.”

He smiled at her. “Fair enough. We’ll meet you at the postern gate.”

***

They began their search in the basin of the slate crag. Despite the words of assurance he had offered to Caitrina, Bran insisted on seeing the body of the dead woman. To his relief, it was immediately clear that she was a good deal older than Marsailli. Her hands were spotted with age and the skin around her neck was loose.

He pointed to the wreckage of the tent Giric had occupied. “We should assume she began her journey here.”

Niall peered up into the misty heights of the crag. “She likely made no attempt to climb higher. Unless she was chased by Giric’s men, her goal would have been to descend.”

“I agree, but the main path would have carried a significant risk of discovery. We should focus our search on alternative routes to the bottom.” Bran turned to Caitrina. “I think it best you remain here. The rocks are dangerous and slides are not uncommon.”

She pulled her brat lower over her head as the rain steadily fell from the sky. “The damp chill saps my strength. If Marsailli is without shelter, she too must feel the cold.”

He nodded. “The sooner we find her, the better.”

“If I call out her name,” she said, “perhaps she will hear me and seek us out.”

It was possible, assuming Marsailli was uninjured and free to move about. Unfortunately, there were numerous reasons she might not answer. But he did not voice his concerns. Better that Caitrina remain hopeful.

He and Niall split up, each taking a separate path through the rocks.

Bran searched every crevice, every overhang, and every cliff bottom that he came across. It was a perilous task. Every few feet, the shale gave way and slid down the crag in a shower of muddy water and rocks. Several of the crevices were so deep he could not see the bottom. He called down into them with an uneasy sense of dread. If Marsailli had lost her footing, there was a very good chance she lay at the bottom of some hole too battered to move.

All he could do was pray that her slight frame and lighter weight disturbed less loose rock than he did.

As he searched, the faint sound of Caitrina’s voice reached his ears.

The steep sides of the slate basin and the low-hanging clouds seemed to swallow her calls.

After several fruitless hours, he returned to the top of the path. Caitrina stood there, shivering in the cold. Using the remnants of the English campsite, he built a lean-to and started a fire.

“Have you heard from Niall?” he asked as she warmed her hands over the flames.

She shook her head.

Her hope was fading; he could see it in her eyes. Marsailli had been out in the wet weather for almost a full day. In the summer, that would have been less of a concern. On the last day of October, with a bitter wind drifting down from the Highlands, it gave him pause.

“Let’s hope he’s had better luck than us.”

***

Marsailli knew she was in danger when the shivering stopped. Her fingers were a bloodless white, her breaths shallow and unsatisfying. The rain kept her from thirsting, but it also robbed her of warmth. For a while, her brat had been enough to keep her warm. Even damp, it had held her heat to her body. But over time, that heat had escaped.

She peered up at the misty sky.

If it would only stop raining, she might have a chance.

She’d been smart enough to grab a round of bread and some cheese before she ran. And she’d stolen an oilskin of ale from a dozing guard. So it was not lack of food and drink that was her enemy—only the rain and steep sides of the crevice caused her grief.

Even the crevice might be conquerable with a lengthy break in the rain.

It was only about ten feet deep.

She was even lucky that the bottom was sandy—the rain did not accumulate. It quickly drained away. But if she could not get warm, none of that would matter.

A shadow flickered overhead, and she glanced up.

A soaring bird? Or something more promising?

“Hallo?” she called. “Is someone there?”

For a long moment, there was only silence. She sagged against the rock wall.

Then, suddenly, the gloomy sky was blocked by a pair of broad shoulders and a brat-covered head. “Marsailli?”

For an instant, she couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed tight, grateful beyond belief that someone had found her. “Aye,” she croaked.

“My name is Niall MacCurran,” the shape at the top of the crevice said. “Your sister sent me. Hold tight, lass. I’ll have you out of there in a wee moment.”

“Caitrina sent you?”

“Aye, and Marshal Gordon.” The end of a rope dropped down beside her. “Tie that around your waist. There’s a good lass.”

As soon as she knotted the rope, he began to pull her up. At the top of the crevice, he layered his brat atop hers and rubbed her arms to build some warmth. Marsailli immediately felt the burn of heat returning to her skin, and she smiled at her savior. “Thank you,” she said, as her teeth began to chatter.

“I can smell a campfire,” he said. “Let’s get you back to your sister and dry those damp clothes.”

It took them longer than Marsailli thought to reach the basin. Niall tested every route carefully before trusting his full weight on the rocks—a wise decision. Several times, the entire shelf of rock slid off the edge, crashing to the ground some distant drop below. Eventually, though, they reached the sturdy stone path.

At the mouth of the basin, Marsailli hesitated.

“Giric is dead,” Niall told her quietly. “Marshal Gordon did what had to be done.”

She lifted her gaze to his angular face. “Good,” she said simply.

He pointed to a haphazard lean-to and a blazing fire. “I think someone is waiting for you.”

Marsailli had endured a great deal in the four months since she last saw Caitrina, and she’d felt a full range of emotions about her sister. But the moment she turned her head and looked into Caitrina’s familiar face, all of it instantly fell away. Tears sprang to her eyes and her bottom lip trembled.

She lifted the hem of her gown and raced across the rain-sodden grass.

Hot tears competed with the cold droplets on her face. She threw herself into her sister’s arms and released a sob of pure joy. Caitrina’s warmth and scent and familiar shape enveloped her, and she closed her eyes.

Finally, she was safe.

***

Bran rode alone on the journey home.

They waited until daylight, then wended their way south through rain-chilled glens and across gray, somber moors. Caitrina and Marsailli shared a mount, grateful for the time together, recounting in hushed whispers meaningful moments of the past four months.

As he watched them rebond as sisters, he realized the day had come to say good-bye to Marshal Giles Gordon. All he had hoped to accomplish was done. Caitrina was happily reunited with her sister, the crown was back in the hands of the MacCurrans, and the deaths of the two guards had been avenged.

There was nothing left to hold him to Clackmannan.

Except Caitrina.

He took a deep breath and felt a twinge of pain in his chest. It was very tempting to ply his charm and convince her to run away with him. He was fairly certain he could paint a rosy picture of their future together—rosy enough to coax her into giving up the life she currently led, which lacked a wee bit in the promise of love.

But that would be selfish.

Caitrina deserved so much more than a life on the streets of Edinburgh. It was a hard, cruel existence. The law eventually caught up with even the best thieves, and the only thing he could guarantee his wife was that she would one day see him swing.

Only a blackguard would lead a woman down that path.

And he was better than that. Or so Caitrina believed, anyway.

Bran glanced at Niall MacCurran. “I’m ready to return to Dunstoras to face my punishment.”

The other man shrugged. “Your fate is in the hands of the laird.”

“How did Bhaltair take my betrayal?”

Niall snorted. “As he takes everything. The witless old fool is convinced you were destined to take the crown. That it was a necessary event, predestined by the stars.”

Bran chuckled. “I need not hang my head in shame, then.”

Niall pinned him with a pointed stare. “You purposely got him sotted.”

A tactic he regularly utilized with fat merchants in Edinburgh, without feeling a single ounce of remorse. But Bhaltair had considered him a friend. Therein lay the shame. Other than Morag, Bhaltair had been the only citizen of Dunstoras to show him genuine kindness.

“My actions were reprehensible,” he admitted.

Niall tipped his head toward the now visible walls of the manor. Numerous flags were flying, indicating the presence of yet another senior nobleman of Scotland. “Let us hope you have the opportunity to make amends.”

“Are those the colors of the Earl of Carrick?”

Niall nodded. “But more important,” he said, pointing to the green and black flag waving just below the queen’s banner atop the guard tower, “it appears that Marshal Findlay has returned from Oban.”

Bran’s heartbeat slowed to a heavy pound in his chest. He spurred his horse forward and snagged the bridle of Caitrina’s mount.

He drew the two women to a halt.

This was not the ending he had imagined, but it was the only one possible. He could not enter the gates of Clackmannan and hope to remain a free man. “It appears that Marshal Findlay has returned,” he said to Caitrina. “Marshal Gordon must now retreat to Feldrinny.”

“But we have much left to say,” she protested.

“Nay,” he disagreed. “We’ve said all that needs saying. I suffer no regrets, and I would hope you say the same.”

“I will not accept this as the end.”

He smiled wryly. “You were always a difficult lass.”

“If what we had means anything to you, you will not rest until you find a way for us to be together.”

“Lass,” he said softly. “Do not make our last moments bitter ones. You’ve made me a better man, and I’ll treasure the memories of our time together for eternity. But there is no hope of a life together. We both know that.”

A flush rose on her cheeks. “You give up too easily.”

“Nay. For once in my life, I am doing the right thing.” He leaned across the horses and planted a firm kiss on her lips. “You deserve better than a thief and rogue.”

She smiled. “Then we are in agreement. You are better than a thief and a rogue.”

He slipped the ring off his finger and tucked it into her hand. “Don’t forget me, lass.”

Then he did the hardest thing he’d ever done. He turned his horse and rode off—without looking back.

***

Marsailli hugged her as they rode through the gate at Clackmannan. “Promise me that when the time is right you’ll tell me the entire tale of Marshal Gordon.”

“I don’t know the ending yet,” Caitrina said.

A stable lad grabbed the bridle of her horse and helped the ladies dismount. Samhain celebrations were well under way, with music and dancing and a bonfire in the close. Caitrina spied a young lad watching the merriment with an overly serious expression.

“Who is that?” she asked Niall.

“The Earl of Carrick’s son, Robbie le Brus.”

As she watched, the lad left the bonfire and crossed the courtyard to a group of horses tied outside the stables. He ran an admiring hand over the withers of a black-and-white stallion, then stopped with his hand atop the leather satchel strapped to the destrier’s saddle.

“Is that Laird MacCurran’s horse?” she asked.

Niall followed her gaze—and frowned. “Aye.”

“Is the crown in that satchel?” she asked, in a hushed voice.

“It may well be,” Niall said, leaving her side and striding toward the earl’s son. He was quick, but not quick enough. Robbie opened the satchel and stared at the contents with a mesmerized expression.

Marsailli touched Caitrina’s sleeve. “Is aught amiss?”

A strange expression settled on Robbie’s brow as he stared into the satchel, and before Niall could stop him, he reached in and touched the crown. Had Caitrina not been watching, she might never have noticed the faint blue glow that rose from the satchel and then swiftly faded away.

Something had just happened, although she could not begin to guess at what it was.

As Niall reached young Robbie and yanked the flap of the leather satchel down to cover the crown, she shook herself free of her reverie and smiled at her sister. “Nay, naught is amiss. Let us go inside and partake of the feast. We have much to celebrate.”

At the top of the stairs, she paused. Turning to the east, she looked out over the gate. Bran had disappeared. The manor was already abuzz with talk of a charlatan marshal, and in the coming days no doubt much would be said to disparage his actions. But she knew the real man behind the mask of Marshal Gordon. Bran MacLean. A thief, yea, but also an honorable man who had done much to set her world right.

He had hoped she had no regrets, and she could honestly say she had nary a one.

Except that he was gone.

With a hand to her lips and a smile on her face, she entered the manor.