What a Lass Wants (21 page)

“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.”