“Reasons that are as shady as my own, I suspect.” Lady Caitrina was an intriguing paradox. She possessed plenty of courage, but it was a reluctant courage. The awkward stiffness in her shoulders said that she would rather be anywhere but here, confronting him. But she was here nonetheless, driven by some internal need. And he found himself curious to know what that need was. “What is this man to you?”
Her lips tightened. “All you need know is that he’s a fiend.”
The bleak look that swept across her face as she uttered the word “fiend” sparked a burn in his chest. Men who threatened lasses were a special breed of blackguard. “Has he harmed you?”
“Nay,” she said, turning away. “Nor do I care to explain anything further. Who he is and what he’s done are none of your concern. Your task is simply to find him.”
Although her back was to him, he could see her small fists clench and unclench in her skirts. Whatever the man had done, ithadharmed her—whether she would admit the truth or not. And that bothered him. “And if I provide you with the information you seek, do I have your word that you’ll return the crown?”
She grew still. “Aye.”
Her hesitation told him more than her response did. She had no intention of giving him the crown until she hadeverythingshe needed. Whatever that might be. And the man in the woods would be instrumental to a satisfactory ending. “How shall I know if I’ve found the right fellow?”
“He has a large scar on the left side of his face.”
“Have you any sense of where he might be hiding?”
“Nay. I only know that he won’t be alone.”
He crossed the room to the small table by the hearth, picked up the jug of wine that the gillies had left him, and poured a cup. “My men and the MacCurrans are searching every inch of Clackmannan land. I’ll know soon enough where he is.” He offered her the cup. “Would you care for some wine?”
She shook her head. “I’ll drink when I have cause to celebrate.”
Another dark curl slipped free, falling to her nape. Bran’s gut knotted. She was a beautiful lass, one of the loveliest he’d ever seen. And the soft halo of hair around her head gave her an air of vulnerability that belied the unyielding cant of her shoulders and steely look in her eyes. But the desire he felt for Lady Caitrina was inconvenient at best and a huge mistake at worst.
Bran shrugged and downed the contents of the cup himself. The dark red liquid slid smoothly down his throat. “Being alive and free are always cause to celebrate.”
“Not everyone is free.” The words came out quickly, on an impulsive huff of breath, and it was obvious that she immediately regretted them. Her lips tightened and she looked away.
A part of him wanted to go to her, fold her in his arms, and kiss away her worries. The foolish part. He drowned it with another cup of wine. Chivalry would not win him back the crown. Why should he care if someone she knew was imprisoned? Would she care ifhewere the one in gaol? He placed the empty cup on the table and turned to face her. His gaze trailed over the jeweled pin in her hair, the tiny pearls sewn onto her gown, and the silk slippers on her feet. Nay, she would not.
“Let us be very clear, lass. The deal is this: I find the man, you give me the crown. Attempt to cross me, and you’ll discover that I’m not a very pleasant man.”
Her eyes widened, but she nodded.
He pointed to the door. “Now go, before I give in to my scurrilous past and teach you a lesson about entering a man’s bedchamber without proper escort.”
No further encouragement was needed. She ran for the door. After briefly checking the corridor for witnesses to her poor judgment, she scurried away.
As the door shut softly behind her, Bran allowed his frustration to surface. With a low growl, he snatched the leather pouch from the chair and tossed it into the blazing hearth. Damn it. Why had he not searched the stables thoroughly before hiding the crown? He could have avoided a great deal of trouble had he only taken a little more care. Now he was trapped in an arrangement with a lass who, as brazen as she was, had no experience with dangerous men.
Had anyone else stolen from him, he’d have exacted his revenge with a pointed knife.
But Lady Caitrina was no thug he had to battle on the streets of Edinburgh. She was an innocent noblewoman, mixed up in affairs beyond her comprehension. She had no idea what he was capable of, or the things he was prepared to do in order to survive.
For now, he would play her game. Because it suited him.
But the moment the MacCurrans gave up the chase and freedom beckoned, he would take back his prize—willing lass or no.
***
Marsailli labored over the stew for hours. Using only the small knife at her belt, she skinned and gutted two fat hares, chopped the firm neep into tiny squares, and cut up the onions. A handful of herbs and some salt added flavor, and a bit of flour thickened the gravy. For a lass who’d never cooked afore today, the result was as fine as she could have imagined.
But her efforts did not please Giric. The mountainlike warrior took one spoonful of the stew and tossed aside his bowl with a howl of rage. “Bah! Who dares to feed me this dredge?”
His men pointed to Marsailli.
“Bring her to me. Now.”
