“Nay,” he said. “You’ll go as a lad, or not at all.”
Caitrina spun around to face him. “But we both agreed this disguise was a poor choice.”
“It needs some adjustment,” he admitted.
“Don’t be daft. No amount ofadjustmentcould possibly make this work.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “’Twill be a challenge, indeed, to hide such a lovely feminine form. But it can be done. With these.” He handed her two long panels of linen.
She blinked. “How, exactly?”
“Wrap one loosely about your bare middle to give it a wider appearance. Wrap the second about your bosom, tight as you can. Draw the sark over the top and belt it at your hips, not your waist.”
Heat flooded into her cheeks again. Dear lord. The man threw out words like “bare” and “bosom” with complete nonchalance. As if they were discussing the weather, and not the intimate details of her body. How could she ever look him in the eye again? “Fine,” she said sharply. She pointed a finger at the exit, wordlessly instructing him to leave.
He headed for the door. “Hail me if you require assistance.”
Her cheeks scorched with embarrassment. What kind of assistance did he imagine he would offer? The man was a miserable cur. A handsome cur, but a cur nonetheless. The moment he disappeared, she shucked the sark and wrapped the linen about her body as he had instructed. It took several tries before she got the linen secured about her bosom in a satisfactory manner, but within a few minutes she was once again fully dressed. She tucked her long braid into the back of her shirt and then called to Bran.
“You may return.”
Surprisingly, with the addition of the linen, she felt much more comfortable. When he entered, she was able to meet his gaze with only a slight warming in her cheeks. Until his stare once again lengthened beyond appropriate. “How does it look?”
He nodded. “Excellent. With a brat over your hair, you’ll do just fine.”
“You truly think I’ll pass for a lad?”
“Not under close inspection,” he said, taking her arm and leading her deeper into the stables. “But you’ll gull the guards on the wall, sure enough. How well do you ride?”
Caitrina peered into the stall before them. A long-legged roan mare stood quietly inside, her rope halter tied to a large iron ring on the wall. Not the short and placid mount she had hoped for, but certainly calm. “I can stay a horse well enough, as long as it maintains a smooth, unhurried gait.”
“So, if she breaks into a trot, I’ll be picking you up from the ground?”
She frowned. Her riding experience was limited to occasional hunts, and they were generally done at a leisurely pace. “What reason would we have to trot? Surely we have enough time to reach the camp and return before dark?”
“I can think of several reasons we might need to ride fast and hard,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped to the next stall. “I think it best we take one mount, not two.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, following him. “Where will I ride?”
“With me.”
Caitrina stared up at the huge dapple gray stallion, her heart pounding. “Surely you jest.”
He laid a blanket over the horse’s back and then picked a saddle from the selection of tack hanging on the wall behind them. “’Twill be much safer than riding apart.”
“Safer for whom?” she asked, aghast.
“For both of us,” he replied, cinching the saddle with two sharp tugs. “Discretion is our ally in this endeavor.” Unhooking the destrier’s rope halter from the ring, he led the horse out of the stall.
Caitrina took several steps back. The beast was even larger than she’d first thought.
Bran completed his preparations and then leapt upon the horse’s back. Leaning down, he extended his hand. “Let’s have at it, lass.”
Oh, lord. The moment of truth was upon her. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs. “I’m still not certain how this is to be done.”
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “You’ll ride behind me.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Are you mad? I’ll surely fall off.”
