“Not if you hold on.”
“To what?” she asked.
He grinned. “Me.”
A picture rose in her mind and she gasped. “You expect me to ride astride?”
“Aye,” he said. “Just behind the saddle. A lad does not ride like a lady.”
Well, of course not. But that realization had been very slow in coming. Caitrina ignored the heat rising in her cheeks and held out her hand. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
“Brave lass.” He took hold of her arm. “Leap up.”
She bent her knees and sprang, not remotely hopeful that she would reach her seat. But with his strength behind her, she swung easily onto the horse’s back. She barely had time to lift her brat over her hair and grab his waist before Bran urged the great horse out into the close.
Caitrina kept her face hidden as they made their way to the postern gate. No one stopped them, but they passed several stable lads mucking straw—lads who might well recognize her, given the chance. She was so fearful of being hailed a charlatan that she gave little thought to the placement of her hands until they were well clear of the manor walls.
When the guards on the walls were some distance behind them and the shadowed edge of the forest loomed several hundred paces ahead, Caitrina relaxed her fisted hold on the front of Bran’s lèine. The warmth of the skin beneath his clothes had leached into her fingers in a very pleasant manner.Toopleasant. Pulling away suddenly seemed like a good notion, but not if it meant falling off. Which was a very real risk—the big horse had a rather jarring gait. Still, there seemed to be no proper place to put her hands. If she let them fall loosely, they would end up in his lap. Definitely not appropriate. If she splayed them across his chest, she would swiftly map every hill and valley of his firm body. Enjoyable, perhaps, but hardly acceptable. And try as she might, she could not clasp her hands together—his chest was too broad. So where, then?
“Cease your squirming,” he said gruffly.
Caitrina glared at the nubby linen weave of his lèine. An easy admonition for him to make. A thief would not concern himself with propriety. “This is not my usual mode of travel,” she said. “So forgive me if I can’t settle.”
“You’re forgiven,” he said. “But I’m a man, you ken? And despite your fine wrappings, I’m very aware that you’re a woman.”
She grew still. Although she was yet a maid, talk among the queen’s ladies tended toward the salacious. Conversation frequently turned to affairs of the heart, and as such she was quite familiar with the ebb and flow of desire. Especially as it pertained to the male form. “Perhaps you need to focus your thoughts on our objective,” she said, moving her hands to his sleeves. It was still a fascinating terrain to explore, but safer, somehow. “The man I seek is a very dangerous sort.”
“Some detail would be welcome.”
How much could she tell him about the Bear without revealing the bitter truth? “I’ve seen him kill a man with his bare hands. He beat the fellow near to death, then broke his neck.”
“An assailant?”
They entered the woods to the raucous caw of a protesting jay. The canopy of leaves above their heads cooled the air and returned a faint echo of the horse’s plodding hoofbeats.
“Nay, simply a man who dared to insult the king.” It had been a deeply offensive slur, involving Longshanks and a goat, but in the end, only words. But to Giric, the punishment had been justified—a worthless Scot did not malign the King of England and live to tell the tale.
“Why did no one stop him?”
Caitrina had tried to stay his hand and had earned a bruised cheek in the process, but no man in the street had interfered. And she understood why. The Bear stood a head taller than most other men and had shoulders as broad as a barn door. He was a formidable foe, and the scars on his face were a warning to any who dared oppose him—even a sharp blade wielded by a sure hand would not prevail.
“He was surrounded by six armed men.” True, but even his own men had been uneasy with the justice Giric had meted out. Not enough to challenge him, of course.
“And how did he escape the constable?”
“He accused a traveling merchant of the crime and his men stood witness.”
At a fork in the trail marked by a large pine, they turned west.
“Why do you believe him a danger to the queen?”
Caitrina had given some thought to the story she would tell if he pressed her for details. Sticking as closely to the truth as she dared, she said, “The queen has traveled the width and breadth of Scotland these past several months in search of spiritual guidance, and I’ve spied this man in almost every burgh we’ve stopped. Were he a Scotsman, I’d be less concerned. But he’s a Sassenach, and I’ve no love for the English.”
He tossed a frown over his shoulder. “Scotland has been at peace with England for many years. What reason would this man have to harm the queen?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “Save that these are turbulent times, with the king dead and his son yet unborn. And as I said, he’s a dangerous man.”
Bran lifted a low-hanging branch to ease their passage. “The party up ahead may not include the man you seek. Dougal says they’re soldiers on their way to Fort William.”
