“The comments will be far more damning when they find me in a man’s clothing.”
His smile deepened. “Then let us not be caught.”
“You jest,” she said. “But there is nothing amusing about being hauled before the magistrate, or muddying my reputation beyond repair.”
The twinkle left his eyes. “I’ll not allow that fate to befall you.”
He spoke with such confidence that she almost believed him. But unfortunate events had a cruel way of coming true. Caitrina’s fingers tightened around the coarse twill trews. Discovery was a very real risk, but not enough of a risk to walk away. Not when Marsailli’s life hung in the balance. “Fine,” she said. “Where shall I dress?”
He pointed to the stables.
She took a step in that direction and halted. “This is uncomfortable enough without adding to my worries. I struggle each time I call you Marshal Gordon. Can you offer me another name?”
“Bran.”
An uncomplicated name that was a little at odds with such a complicated man. But she liked it. “Well, Bran. Please keep the stable hands at bay while I don my disguise.”
He nodded. “Just be swift, lass. The daylight hours are passing.”
Caitrina found an empty corner of the stables and, with several nervous glances over her shoulder, exchanged her gown for the clothing he had given her. The attire was simple and it didn’t take long to lace up the sark and belt the trews about her waist. But the slide of the rough material between her legs and over her rump made her face burn. Even fully dressed, she felt naked. No, worse than naked—exposed. And the sark did nothing to hide her very feminine bosom.
Hugging the wall of the stables, she made her way to the door and quietly called out to Bran, “Your plan is flawed. These clothes will fool no one.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” he said. “Step out.”
Caitrina wanted to step outside; she truly did. Marsailli was counting on her. But the very thought of anyone spying her in this scandalous attire made her light-headed. Imagine what she must look like. A harlot, no doubt. Or some other type of fallen woman. She gripped the door frame with both hands and stared at the patch of sunlit dirt swimming just outside the entrance. “I cannot,” she admitted breathlessly.
“You’re a truly difficult lass,” he said, marching into the stables with a scowl. “And given some of the lasses I’ve met—” He halted as he caught a look at her face. Without hesitation, he folded her into his arms. “Are you ill?”
“Just having... a wee bit of trouble... breathing.”
“So I see.” He pushed her head down. “Head between your knees. That’ll set things right.”
“I’m already top over terve,” she protested. But she didn’t resist the gentle push, and to her amazement she almost immediately felt less woozy. “What a curious remedy.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “But it does the deed.”
“How did you learn such a trick?”
He shrugged. “My da. The first time I went to battle at his side, I very near emptied my spleen on his boots. Training in the lists does not prepare you for the moment when you must stare into the eyes of the lad you’ve impaled upon your sword.”
It was hard to imagine him as a trembling, pale-faced young man. If his tale was true, that lad had been long lost to experience. The man who held her in his warm, unwavering embrace was anything but weak. Steadfast and secure came to mind.
“Can you stand now?” he asked.
“I think so.”
He released her and stepped away. “Let’s have a look at you, then.”
Grateful for the dim interior of the stables, Caitrina straightened. “I do not look like a lad.”
He stared at her for a long moment—such a long, uncomfortable moment that Caitrina wished she had something hard to hit him with.
“Well?”
“You’ve the right of it,” he said slowly. “I’d never have believed it possible, but you look more like a woman in those clothes than you do in your own.”
A wave of heat rolled up her neck and into her cheeks. Was that a hint of admiration in his eyes? Surely not. “Then we’re in agreement,” she said, pushing past him and reaching for her gown. “I’ll wear the gown I came in.”
