“Not the now,” said Bran. “But keep your sword sharp and your wits about you. With the queen at Clackmannan, we must be especially diligent.”
“True enough.”
“I’ll pass this way on my return and relay all that I discover.” And with that, Bran nodded his good-bye and prodded his horse into a walk. When they were far enough away that he was confident the guard could not overhear, he said to Caitrina, “He’s a canny old fellow. I’m not certain he believes you are a lad.”
“Will he report my presence to Dougal, do you think?”
“Not likely,” he assured her. “But if he does, his description of you will be sorely lacking.”
She relaxed against his back, both hands loosely clasped about his middle. There was plenty of linen padding between them to disguise her shape, but the soft press of her face and the warmth of her breaths through his lèine stirred him with remarkable ease. The fault lay with his imagination. One solitary moment in the stables had done him in. Despite his determined efforts to think of something else, the vision of her body draped in nothing but a sark and trews kept resurfacing. He’d never seen a lass so beautiful, so sweetly curved, so unaware of her own charms.
He closed his eyes.
Why did he insist on torturing himself? Nothing could happen between Lady Caitrina and himself. She was a noblewoman and he was a common thief. No amount of hard work or ingenuity would change that. And he had plans that did not include a woman at his side. Dangerous plans. Plans that he could execute only once he had the crown.
Bran took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and reined in the horse. “We walk from here.”
Caitrina stared at him as he dismounted. “Are we close?”
“Another three hundred paces, mayhap a bit farther.”
“That’s yet a distance. Why would we travel afoot?”
He jingled the bridle. “Sounds carry all too well in the forest. Unless our desire is to announce our arrival, we must leave the horse behind.”
“Oh.” She allowed him to help her down, sliding into his arms with a faint blush and quick smile. “I hope my boots are up to the task.”
He glanced at her feet. The boots were well made—the leather smooth and supple, and the stitches evenly placed. They probably cost more than he pocketed in a week. “They’ll do.”
Shaking his head at the direction of his thoughts, he led the way between the trees. A thick layer of moss covered every root and rock along their path, ensuring a muted passage. Bran showed Caitrina how easily the moss could be disturbed, and encouraged her to place her boots gently and carefully. As his father had been fond of saying, no sense leaving a trail if one could be avoided.
Bran held up his hand, halting their progress briefly to allow a family of woodland grouse to scurry by. Curious. He hadn’t thought about his da in quite some time. He’d believed the man’s influence buried with his body. But here in the countryside, where they’d lived as bandits for several years, old memories were sprouting with a rather relentless prevalence.
Gordon MacLean had been the bane of his existence.
If not for his witless da, his mother and his brother might now be alive. They might yet be dwelling on MacLean land, serving the laird and raising honest families. Instead, his maither had been forced to watch her husband swing upon the gibbet, her heart broken, and his brother had died in gaol.
But his da had taught him a few very useful lessons.
Like the proper way to approach a camp to avoid making the horses restless. And how to disarm a guard swiftly and silently.
“Stay here,” he whispered to Caitrina as they halted once more. “I’ll return anon.”
He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just darted through the trees toward the helmeted Englishman patrolling the woods in front of him. A beefy fellow with arms like tree trunks. But even the largest man can fall, if taken by surprise. And Bran was an expert in surprise.
He slid up behind the hapless guard, wrapped an arm around the man’s throat, and with a tight hold cut off his air. The man thrashed a bit, but Bran held him firm until the flailing slowed and then ceased entirely. As the guard went limp, Bran lowered him gently to the ground and allowed him to breathe once more. Thievery could cost you a hand if you were caught, but murder meant the gibbet.
He bound and gagged the guard, then headed back to the spot where he’d left Caitrina.
To his dismay, she was no longer there. He scanned the woods left and right but could see no sign of her. A few bent fern fronds told him where she’d gone, however. Straight toward the camp.
Bollocks.
Chapter 4
Caitrina had every intention of following Bran’s directive until she caught a glimpse of several colored tents through the trees. Fluttering sheets of blue and green stripes. There was obviously a clearing up ahead—quite possibly the very place where Giric was holding Marsailli. The woolen brat she wore was a loose weave of green and brown. If she kept to the forest and moved carefully the way Bran had taught her, perhaps she could peer into the camp and find her sister.
She chewed her lip and stared into the woods where Bran had disappeared.
