His reasons for walking away were logical, full of wisdom even. But Caitrina could not accept his decision, not if it meant she would be forced to steal the queen’s babe. Not if it meant Marsailli had to suffer. She straightened her shoulders. “Then you will forfeit the crown.”
He smiled. “I am a thief, my lady. I make my living snatching items from unwilling hands. You may think you’ve found a clever hiding spot, but I assure you, by this hour tomorrow, I’ll have it safely tucked in my pouch.”
The unshakable confidence in his eyes deflated her. “Why did you agree to find the camp, if you were so certain you could reclaim the crown?”
His smile turned rueful. “I’m easily swayed by a pretty smile.”
“Not any longer, it would seem.”
He shrugged. “All good things must come to an end.”
“Indeed,” she said silkily. “Including the politeness of our banter. The gloves have come off, as they say in the lists. If the crown is not incentive enough to keep you at my side, then perhaps this will be: Unless I have your pledge of aid, I will send a messenger to Stirling the moment I return to the manor. The castle is less than a day’s ride away. I’m certain the MacCurrans will make haste to Clackmannan and apprehend you—beforeyou can locate your precious crown.”
***
Bran folded his arms over his chest. He should be angry that his bonnie young lassie was once again attempting to coerce him. Especially since Wulf MacCurran had pledged to separate Bran’s head from his shoulders if he ever dared to steal from Dunstoras. But despite the genuine concern he had regarding the MacCurrans’ return, he could summon only a mild amusement. “You run a great risk telling me of your intent before you are safely within the walls.”
“You’ll not harm me.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “You think not?”
“Nay,” she said. “Spilling blood is not in your nature. If it were, that English guard we encountered would be lying in the sod. Instead, he’s merely nursing a lump on the head.”
“I don’t have to spill blood to harm you.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Do your worst. Nothing short of a mortal injury will stop me from sending that messenger.”
He glared at her for a long moment, trying his damnedest to cower her. But her bright red cheeks and bristling posture won him over. She might be tiny, but she was definitely fierce. A grin broke free. “I admire a woman of determination. Fine. I will stay an additional sennight—but no longer. If Marshal Finlay returns from Oban to find me masquerading as a nobleman, I’ll be tossed in the oubliette.”
Caitrina sighed. “That’s fair. Thank you.”
He gathered up the reins and vaulted back into the saddle. They rode in silence up to the open postern gate, both lost in their thoughts. As Bran ducked under the stone arch, he asked, “Did you happen to note the tent your sister was residing within?”
“The green-striped one next to the burn.”
“Good,” he said. “We’ll return to the camp tonight and determine our best course of action.”
She stiffened against his back. “It can’t be tonight. My maid believes I’ve spent all day in the cellars looking for goods to appoint the nursery. I cannot show up empty-handed.”
Bran resisted a snort. Empty-handed? She was hardly that. Caitrina’s hands were splayed across his belly in a most disturbing way. He felt the play of her fingers with every breath he took. “Then by all means let us see what the stores have to offer.”
He helped her slide off the horse at the rear of the stables, then continued on to the front alone. With a series of crisp demands, he made certain the stable lads were fully occupied, allowing Caitrina to change her clothing undisturbed.
Agreeing to rescue her sister was likely a huge mistake.
But he understood the gut-deep worry of having a sibling imprisoned. Especially a younger sibling, one with less skill and knowledge. One who looked to his elder sibling with faith and surety. Bran handed the saddle to a lad, removed the horse blanket, and began to brush the destrier with a woven straw whisk. Eight years had passed since he lost Neasan to the damp chill of Edinburgh dungeon, but the bitterness still chewed at him. He had failed his brother—left him to die, instead of risking all to free him—but saving others was still within his power.
So he would do his best to free the girl.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caitrina sneak off toward the manor house, attired in her brown and green gown. There was an added benefit, of course: more time in the fair lady’s company. He found her charming, despite her propensity to blackmail. He grinned. Or perhaps it was her willingness to do so that appealed to him. He definitely admired her resolve.
He tossed the brush aside and led the dapple gray destrier into the stables.
Whatever the source of his interest, he intended to take full advantage of his time at her side. Even if that meant crawling through an endless number of dusty storerooms to find whatever the lady was looking for. He tied the big warhorse inside and gave it a pat on the neck. A short dalliance could prove enjoyable—as long as he remembered that he traveled light and fast.
***
As the hard rap of boot steps echoed in the passageway, Caitrina pulled her woolen brat tight around her shoulders. The cellars were dark and rather disquieting. She spun around, lighting the passageway behind her with the torch, and immediately breathed a sigh of relief. It was Bran. “Were you able to procure the keys?”
