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

Chapter 13

T he invitation came by courier—a rolled parchment written in a flowing script and signed by the laird. Aiden MacCurran demanded the presence of Bran MacLean at Dunstoras. Immediately.

Seated at his favorite table in the alehouse in Beggar’s Close, Bran stared at the parchment.

He had offered to return to Dunstoras to meet his punishment. But that had been weeks earlier. When no demand had come from the laird in the days after his departure from Clackmannan, he had assumed the debt was cleared.

But apparently, he’d been mistaken.

Perhaps the sad events of recent days had stirred the pot. Queen Yolande’s wee son had been delivered stillborn and the capital was still reeling from the news that the new monarch would be Queen Margaret, the bairn born to Alexander’s daughter and the King of Norway.

What impact that news might have on Dunstoras, he had no clue, but the black crepe that hung everywhere in Edinburgh at the moment was definitely impacting Bran’s ability to earn a coin. The market was excessively quiet and pickings were slim.

“Well?” prompted his companion. “What does it say?”

Bran lifted his gaze to the bright blue eyes of Elsie Drummond. Slight of build and nimble as a water sprite, the young lass hid her charms beneath a loose gray lèine and a dull green brat. It was a surprisingly effective disguise, especially when paired with shorn locks and a brash, confident stare. None of the alehouse patrons were aware that the young lad in their midst was actually a woman. “I’ve been summoned to the Highlands.”

She snorted. “Why would ye go? Last time ye ventured north, ye returned with naught but a belly full of twine.”

“To repay a debt.”

Her frown deepened. “Who could you possibly owe?”

He sighed. “’Tis a long tale, not worth repeating.”

Elsie sat forward, peering into his face. “Are ye planning to leave us, then?”

He said nothing, not entirely sure of his answer.

“Bloody wretch,” she muttered, flopping back in her seat and snatching up her horn of ale. “Go ahead, then. Abandon yer mates.”

“I’ve done my part,” he said, smiling faintly. “Ularaig is in the dunny, the castle guards are no longer the bane of your existence, and I’ve taught you every skill I know. What more would you ask of me?”

It was Elsie’s turn to be silent.

Bran picked up the jug of ale and refilled her cup. Five years before, he’d slain the drunken sot who’d near beaten her to death in a dark wynd a few hundred paces from here. Little of the damage done that night remained on her face—just a small bump on the bridge of her nose—but the attack had changed Elsie in ways that could not be seen.

“If you have need, I will return,” he promised.

She sent him a hot glare. “I fend for myself.”

“Aye.” He nodded. “You do.” Quite ably, in fact. She carried two very sharp dirks at her belt. “But you’re like a sister to me. Whatever the danger, I’ll not hesitate to stand for you. You must know that.”

Elsie downed the contents of her cup and plunked it down on the oak tabletop.

“Off you go, then. Find yer lady-love.”

Bran grimaced. “Now you are just being cruel.”

Her gaze lifted to his. “Admit it. That’s the true reason ye want to leave. Ye’ve done naught but plot ways to win the lass back since ye’ve returned. If the MacCurrans can offer you the respectability ye need to claim her, then I’ll not fault ye for leavin’. Go after her, ye bampot.” She flipped a silver denier onto the table and rolled to her feet. “But never forget where yer roots are.”

Bran stared at her back as she sauntered out of the alehouse. An unexpected endorsement, that. He’d never told Elsie about Caitrina, but apparently a lack of words hadn’t kept his bright little apprentice from discerning the truth. He glanced back at the parchment. There was no guarantee that settling his affairs with the MacCurrans would give him the means to claim Caitrina, but if there was even a small chance...

Perhaps a brief sojourn in Dunstoras was called for.

At the very least, he owed Bhaltair an apology. The old man might never forgive him, but it would satisfy Bran’s conscience if he had the chance to make his peace.

Bran exited the alehouse, returned to the small hovel he called home, and gathered up his satchel of meager belongings.

It took him several days to make the journey from Edinburgh to Dunstoras, but they were pleasant days. There was something about the Highlands that called to him.

As soon as rolling hills of heather replaced the thicker forests of the Lowlands, his step lightened. And when he caught a glimpse of the creamy tower of Dunstoras through the glen, he smiled. It had the look of a tower that had stood for a thousand years—bold and beautiful against the pale gray sky.

But as he approached the portcullis, a ripple of trepidation ran through him.

What punishment would the laird deem appropriate for his crime?

Lashes? Days in the stockade? He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. As long as it didn’t involve the severing of body parts, he could withstand whatever humiliation the laird had in store. The portcullis was up and Bran rode into the close with a resolute expression.

Wulf was standing on the stone steps on the donjon when Bran entered the inner close.

“About bloody time,” the big warrior said. “Did the invitation not say ‘immediately’?”

Bran dismounted. A lad with features similar to Wulf’s took his horse. His son, perhaps? “Is there reason for haste?”

“According to the Lady Isabail, aye,” Wulf said. “Come, we’ll see you properly attired.”

“Properly attired for what?”

The big warrior scowled. “You ask too many questions.”

“Or not enough,” Bran retorted. “Is there to be a public trial?”

Wulf smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”

The big warrior led Bran into the great hall, where—to his bafflement—a banquet was in progress. “What is the occasion?”

Wulf pointed to the high table. “Your wedding.”

Bran’s gaze latched onto the sweetly beguiling face of Caitrina de Montfort. He hungrily devoured every detail of her appearance, from the welcoming warmth in her eyes to the bold blue satin of her gown. “My what ?”

Wulf prodded him in the ribs. “Take your seat, MacLean. The laird is about to speak.”

The chair at the center of the high table stood glaringly unoccupied, and Bran walked to it with a turbulent gut. How could this be his wedding, when he had never asked for Caitrina’s hand? And how could Laird MacCurran condone the marriage of a street thief to a lady of the court?

He dropped onto the seat next to Caitrina and offered her a weak smile.

“Are you party to this?”

“Of course,” she said. “The arrangements are mostly my doing. Isabail has provided great support, but the costs are mine to bear.”

“Are you mad?” he whispered, as Aiden took the floor.

“Kith and kin, I welcome you. We have gathered here today to bear witness to a wedding that shall take place before the door of the chapel shortly after we feast. I offer my most sincere congratulations to Lady Caitrina de Montfort and her husband, Sir Bran MacLean. Sir Bran was knighted a few short weeks before, in absentia, by the queen, for services above and beyond the call of duty.”

There was a round of raucous applause.

Bran simply stared. Knighted? By the queen?

Surely this was some sort of cruel jest.

“What does he speak of?” he whispered to Caitrina. “I refuse to live a lie.”

“’Tis not a lie,” she said. “Queen Yolande did indeed knight you. Unfortunately, the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of her son made it impossible for her to inform you.”

“That’s preposterous. I was impersonating a nobleman. Why would she knight me?”

Caitrina took his hand in hers. “Several prominent people stood in your defense. Myself, Laird MacCurran, and Lord James Stewart. The royal steward credits you with saving the life of the queen. It was he who spearheaded the call to knight you.”

Bran endured the rest of the speeches, and a rather lengthy wedding ceremony that made him thankful he had eaten beforehand. He was silent through much of it, even the dancing and drinking after the wedding. But when the pipes and lutes were finally put away, and the guests were dispersing, he sent a warning glare to the three MacCurran warriors and then swung Caitrina into his arms. He’d had no say in the making of this wedding, but he’d be damned if another man would have a say in how he bedded his wife.

He mounted the stairs two at a time, his steps sure and determined.

Only when he was alone with Caitrina in a room that had been decorated with candles and flower petals did he tug her into his arms and kiss her soundly. “You, madam, are quite incorrigible,” he said.

“Are you unhappy?”

He shook his head. “Far from it.” He untied the ribbons in her hair and slid his fingers through her long, glorious tresses. “I am utterly content.”

She encircled his neck with her arms and pulled his head down for a passionate kiss. “Laird MacCurran says he is looking for good men to take up the sword in defense of Dunstoras. Do you think we could make a life for ourselves here?”

He cupped her rump and hauled her up his body. He’d forgotten how sweet she felt in his arms. “The wretch would be lucky to have me.”

“You would need to give up the thieving,” she said, tilting her head back to give him access to her neck. “He was quite adamant about that.”

Bran rained tiny kisses up her neck and along her jaw. “Was he?”

“Will that be a challenge?”

“Nay,” he said, burying his face against her perfumed flesh. “It seems you’ve managed to get everything your heart desires.”

She smiled.

“Aye. What else could a lass possibly want?”

Favoring her with a wolfish grin, he scooped her off her feet and carried her to the bed. “Ah, sweetling, I think I might imagine a thing or two. Shall I see if I can make the rest of your dreams come true?”

He put his skilled fingers to good use, and her answer was lost to a squeal of delight.