He stayed the movements of her hand with his.
“Lass,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m not the man you think me to be.”
The warmth of his hand on hers was quite enjoyable, but she found herself wanting more. Much more. Starting with another kiss. Strangely, the knowledge that someone in the great hall might wake up and notice only added intensity to her desire. “So it wasn’t you who did those things?”
“My sins far outweigh what few good deeds I’ve done.”
Caitrina leaned in, breathing deep of his male scent—a heady mix of pine and leather and that spice that was uniquely Bran. “I’m well aware of your sins. I know, for example, that they include kissing unwed ladies in dark places.” She pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth, tasting the slight saltiness of his skin and the rasp of his growing beard.
He grabbed her arms and pushed her away.
“Cease,” he said gruffly. “That kiss was an error in judgment. One I do not intend to repeat.”
“Why not?” she asked. “It was quite delightful.”
“Because sinful men don’t stop at kisses.”
Caitrina’s pulse quickened. “Perhaps I don’t want you to stop.”
“Your future husband surely does.”
She sat back, smiling ruefully. “That future husband does not exist. No man is interested in wedding the daughter of a man outlawed for murder, especially one with no lands or title to her name.”
Bran arched an eyebrow. “Your father murdered a man?”
“Not just any man,” she said, with a short laugh. All she had of her father were a few hazy memories, but her chest still ached when she spoke of him. “A favorite cousin of King Edward. Inside a church, no less. My papa managed to enrage the crown and the pope with one single act of revenge.” There’d been no safe place for him then. Forced to abandon his family, he’d wandered the world until the day he died. But that was not a tale for tonight. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “So, there is no husband waiting for me to arrive chaste and pure at the church door.”
“Your reputation cannot be as poor as you say,” he disputed, rising to his feet and walking around to the back of his chair. “The queen appointed you lady-in-waiting.”
She shrugged. “She is my cousin, and she took pity on me.”
“Surely she has the power to make a marriage for you?”
“Had King Alexander lived,” she said, “she might have arranged a union. Now? Her only thought is for her bairn.” She got to her feet and followed him. His proximity to the chair prevented her from getting too close, so she sidled up to his arm. “Queen Yolande is content that I shall never wed. A husband and bairns of my own would distract me from my duties as lady of the nursery.”
He frowned.
Caitrina put a hand on him, relishing the rippling sinews beneath his linen sleeve. “I am honored to be appointed lady of the nursery, and in the queen’s court I will enjoy a full and purposeful life. But when it comes to bliss, I am master of my own fate. I will make it where and when I can. And I choose now, Bran. With you.”
***
Bran stared at the dainty hand on his sleeve. Pale and lovely, the nails neatly trimmed and smooth. The hand of a lady. “Why me? Why now?”
Her fingers clenched briefly. “Does it matter?”
Surprisingly, it did. He rarely denied himself a moment of pleasure, but this lass was unlike any lass he’d ever tupped before. In two event-filled days, she’d seduced him with a dizzying blend of courage and fear, strength and vulnerability, confidence and hesitation. Every sweetly feminine feature—her nose, her lips, her glorious hair—teased him mercilessly. He wanted her so surely, he could not sit next to her or endure the touch of her hand on his skin without envisioning her beneath him, moaning in ecstasy. And, damn his soul, he needed to know if she felt even a mote of the same desire.
“Aye, it matters.”
A smile came and went on her face. It was gone so swiftly it barely had time to light up her eyes. “Well, then. I suppose a moment like this is best served by honesty.” She chewed her delicious bottom lip. “Your fine looks are a consideration, of course. My eyes are drawn to you the instant you enter a room.”
A problem he shared.
“But I’ve met many a braw fellow in service to the queen and never yet been tempted to cast away the moorings of my maidenhead. So it’s clearly more than that. That smile of yours plays a part. You know the one—the devilish curve of your lips that is half wry humor and half suggestion of wickedly sensual secrets. When you turn it upon me, I cannot help but wonder what those secrets might be. I find you very distracting.”
Bran blinked. The lady was far more observant than he gave her credit for. His smile was a tool he wielded every day in the streets of Edinburgh. Many a rich lass had lost coins from her purse while dazzled by his suggestive grin.
“But again,” she said. “Too simple a reason. The truth lies deeper.” Her gaze met his. “It lies inside the heart of the man Iknowyou to be—the man I’m not certain you see when you look in the still waters of the pond.” She slid her hand across his chest, flattened her palm right over his heart. “You call yourself a despicable thief, and I do not doubt that you are, to some measure. But the man I wish to tup is the honorable fellow who saved my sister from a fate worse than death. Who knocked a young lad on the head rather than run him through. Who urged me to run away when I willingly offered him my body.”
