Yolande smiled. “They are all fine men, the Guardians. Strong champions of Scotland. But each has his own vision, and each has a desire to make his mark on history. My son will be pulled in many directions at once, and it will be a challenge for him to find his own way.”
Caitrina nodded. But if she feared ambitious men, surely King Edward was worthy of alarm? “Is the lion to the south not a worry?”
“Scotland’s relations with England are very cordial. King Edward was fond of Alexander, having once been related to him by marriage. He was most gracious at the state funeral and promised to deliver any aid I might require.”
“How very kind of him.” He had approached Caitrina at the same time. Offering sweet condolences to the queen one moment and coercing a lass into treason the next. A true paragon.
“I should like to see what other bounty you unearthed in the stores, but not just now.” The queen lay back and closed her eyes. “I am truly weary.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Her gut knotted, Caitrina tucked the blankets around the queen and stepped back to close the last bed curtain. How she longed to confess what she knew about the men in the woods and Edward’s plans, but that wasn’t possible. Not until Marsailli was safe.
All she could do was pray those wicked plans never bore fruit.
She found her embroidery, claimed a chair before the fire, and began adding snow-white stitches to her winter forest scene. The evening meal would take place without her. She wouldn’t go hungry—trays were typically delivered to the rooms when the queen was resting. But shewouldbe missing an opportunity to see Bran.
A flush rose in her cheeks.
How mad to be looking forward to stolen moments with a wanted thief. But that kiss had been truly marvelous. The intrigues of the past several months were shaping her in ways she could not possibly have imagined. She pushed the needle through the linen backing and pulled the silk thread taut. But her handsome scoundrel would not be pleased to discover that the Guardians of Scotland were about to descend upon Clackmannan.
He’d promptly renege upon his promise to aid her.
Perhaps it might be better not to mention that wee bit of news.
***
Marsailli’s legs shook.
She had not expected to be dragged before the Bear again—Ulric had helped her craft a simple but tasty soup, and the mighty commander had downed several bowls of it at the midday meal. Without a single grimace.
But here she was.
And the dark scowl that distorted his ruined face did not bode well.
“Your sister is a fool,” he snarled, seizing her long braid. He tilted her head so far back that she thought her neck would snap. “She thinks to thwart me.”
“I don’t understand,” she whimpered, the words a burning rasp in her throat. What had Caitrina done?
“Have you seen her?”
“Nay!” Much to Marsailli’s disappointment. Even a glimpse of Caitrina would have made these last few weeks more bearable.
“You lie.”
He dragged her across the tent by her hair, uncaring that her wounded knee slammed into the corner of a table. “But no matter. You are about to learn who truly has the upper hand.” With a low growl reminiscent of his namesake, he threw her down on his pallet.
Cruel intent thinned his lips and left deep furrows in his brow. Her heartbeat stumbled. She scrambled to leave the bed, but she wasn’t quick enough. He caught her about the middle and flung her back on the sheets.
“You will know what it is to cross me!” Grabbing her neckline with both hands, he rent her gown right down the middle, splitting it with three decisive yanks.
Now bared to his eyes, Marsailli squeezed her eyes shut.
“No!” she screamed.
***
Bran slipped through the trees and past Dougal’s guard with nary a sound. It was easier than it should have been—the old man was staring into his fire, his ability to see in the dark weakened by the bright light.
