Bran’s lips met hers, warm and firm and frankly demanding. He nibbled at the corners of her mouth, then pressed deep and hard. Caitrina was a little shocked. This was not the perfunctory peck of a gentleman admirer; it was an intimate meshing of lips that had no match in her imagination. But it was wonderful. Her entire body came alive to his touch, every inch of her skin atingle.
She eagerly pressed back, needing more.
And he gave her more. Taking her chin in hand, he deepened the embrace, opening his mouth and sucking on her bottom lip. Caitrina nearly swooned. Her hands clutched the front of his lèine as an unexpected ripple of delight shot from her mouth to the very tips of her fingers and toes.
But the best part wasn’t her reaction; it was his.
As the kiss continued and she mewled her approval, his breathing grew harsh and ragged. The hand that held the torch shook and a flush rose on the crests of his cheeks. The extent of his desire for her was obvious. Which was why she was amazed when he gently pulled away and took a step back.
He tossed her a rueful smile.
“You should slap my face for taking such liberties.”
“When I enjoyed them as much as you? I think not.” She put her hands to her lips, which were still tingling. “And in any case, I owe you my thanks for a timely rescue. That wooden basin would surely have left a dent in my skull.”
He bent and picked the basin up. “Aye. It looks to be hollowed from a single piece of wood.”
“More important,” she said, “the pattern of tiny lilies carved around the lip is just the sort of detail the queen will admire.”
“Then it seems you have what you came for,” he said.
“Indeed I do.” Caitrina’s eyes met his and she smiled. “Precisely what I came for.”
***
The sun had set and Giric was partaking of his eventide meal when three of his soldiers approached the tent. Two senior men, half dragging a young lad with dried blood on his brow. He knew by their grim expressions that their tale would not be to his liking, so he took another leisurely sip of his wine before he acknowledged them.
“Well? What is it?”
“We found Davie here lying in the gorse with a bump on his noggin. It took us some time to wake him, but eventually—”
Giric sighed. “Get to the point.”
“He caught someone spying on the camp.”
Giric lumbered to his feet, shaking his head. The tent was barely tall enough to contain him, and his hair brushed the drooping folds of blue canvas. “That’s not precisely true now, is it? What you mean to say is that he caught someone and then let him go.”
“Nay,” young Davie protested. “I never let him go. I was attacked! Hit with a rock the size of a melon.”
“Is the spy in custody?”
“Nay.”
Giric raised an eyebrow. “Then I was correct. You let him go.”
“Not willingly,” Davie said. “I was doing my duty, all proper-like.”
“All proper-like,” Giric repeated softly. “Truly?”
The lad nodded.
“Take a look at your two companions and tell me what you see.”
Davie glanced to either side of him. “Soldiers.”
“And how do you know they are soldiers?”
“They’re wearing mail hauberks and carrying swords.”
