He had told her to stay here. No doubt for her own safety.
But wouldn’t it be best to catch that first sight of Marsailli while she was alone? If she waited until Bran returned, he might glean the personal connection she had to the English soldiers—a disaster by all accounts. She would lose her leverage over him, and with it, his aid.
Drawing the brat tightly around her shoulders, Caitrina ducked under the arching branch of a holly bush and made for the clearing. If she was quick, she might make it back before Bran realized she had gone. Moving swiftly and hugging the trees for protection, she approached the edge of the forest. The clearing was long and narrow, with a small burn running through the middle. Four tents were pitched on the west side of the stream where the ground was flatter, the blue one directly in front of her. Unfortunately, it blocked her view of the campfire, which was in the center, based on the thin ribbons of greasy smoke rising into the cloudy afternoon sky. Even when she stood on the tips of her toes, she could see only three men, none of them Giric. Two were chopping wood for the fire and stacking split wedges. A third was seated on a fallen log avidly cleaning mud from his boots. If there were others, they must be gathered around the fire.
She sighed.
To have a hope of spotting her sister, she needed a better viewpoint. Like the top of that boulder twenty paces to her right. It was partially hidden behind a drooping pine bough, so she wouldn’t risk discovery should one of the soldiers look up.
Caitrina scrambled through the brush toward the rock. There were a number of smaller rocks at the base of the boulder, and she used them to help her reach the top. She was just about to sweep aside the pine bough and take a peek at the camp when a hand grabbed her ankle. She only barely restrained a shriek.
“What do we have here?”
It was one of the soldiers, a tall, gangly fellow with a scattering of blemishes across his chin.
She kicked at him, determined to get free. If Giric found her here, there was no telling what he would do. But despite his youthful appearance, the soldier had a manly grip. He yanked her to her rump and then pulled her down from the rock. Bitter tears sprang into Caitrina’s eyes.
Satan’s beard. Her impatience had ruined everything.
Why hadn’t she waited for Bran?
The soldier grabbed a fistful of her sark and began to drag her through the bracken. “The Bear ain’t too fond of stinkin’ Scots,” he said. “You’d best pray he’s in a merciful mood.”
Nothing Caitrina did gained her freedom—not kicking, not scratching, not biting. The soldier did not seem to care that her nails and teeth dug into his flesh; he continued on his merry way with a smile on his face. No doubt imagining a pleasant reward for capturing a spy.
Caitrina was just about to slump with despair when a rock the size of a small neep hit the lad neatly in the temple, and he fell headfirst into the bracken with little more than a sigh. She tore free of his limp grip and scrambled back into the trees, where she came face-to-face with a rather stony-eyed Bran.
“I know,” she said morosely. “I’m a fool.”
He folded his arms over his chest and continued to stare at her.
“I made a grievous error in not minding your direction, and I sincerely beg your pardon,” she said. He still did not look appeased, so she added, “I’ll not do it again.”
“Did he harm you?”
“Nay.” A wee lie—her arse hurt like the devil—but it eased the icy glare in Bran’s eyes.
He nodded sharply, then pointed to the boulder. “Good. Since you were so determined to climb, let us take advantage of your eagerness. Up you go.”
Her bruised rump protested as she clambered back atop the boulder, but she dared not complain. “You’re a very good shot with a rock. Where did you learn such a skill?”
“On the streets of Edinburgh.”
She tried to image how or when he might have thrown a rock in town, but failed. Thieves apparently led interesting lives. “Why did you not slay him?”
He shrugged. “Never draw your dirk when a blow will do it. What can you see?”
Caitrina peered between the long needles of the pine tree. As she had guessed, the bulk of the soldiers were seated around the fire, eating soup from wooden bowls and quaffing horns of ale. “A dozen men in all, most of them half in their cups.”
“Can you spy the man you seek?”
She could not. None of the men in sight had a misshapen ear and a scar across his cheek. But what did it matter? The soldier had mentioned the Bear by name—this was definitely Giric’s camp. And if she was not mistaken, the slim woman bent over the cooking cauldron was none other than Marsailli. Caitrina smiled.
“Aye,” she said. “The one I seek is standing right before my eyes.”
“Excellent,” Bran said. “Then let us return to the manor. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. It is now time for you to fulfill yours.”
Her heart sank. It was true. He’d met his obligation—he was due his prize.
