She blushed.
“This is a discussion I would very much like to continue,” he said. “But it will have to wait until I return.” He smiled. “And frankly, I think it should wait until I am no longer attired like a woman. The skirts are a tad disconcerting.”
“Indeed,” she said, with a laugh.
He nodded, preparing to step away.
Her hand brushed his sleeve. “Do take care, Marshal. Giric is a villainous man.”
Their gazes met and held for a long moment.
“I will,” he promised. It was foolish, but his heart skipped a beat, much as it might if he were truly a marshal with enough social standing to court a lady like Caitrina de Montfort. But he was not. And he should remember that. Even with everything that was at stake, all this could ever be was a game.
Bran turned and mounted his horse.
A very dangerous game.
***
Caitrina remained in the close long after Bran and Dougal had departed, and the manor had returned to quiet industry. She sat on the stone steps, watching the stable lads mucking out the stalls, and eyeing the cooper as he made new barrels. It was quite inappropriate to sit and do nothing, but her mind was in a state of turmoil.
Bran was nothing like any man she’d ever met before.
He was charming and competent and completely disreputable. She knew nothing of his past, nothing of his family, and nothing of his reasons for choosing a life of thievery. And yet she was quite certain she was falling in love with him.
Not that she’d ever been in love before. But the fluttering of her heart and the tight squeeze of her chest every time she looked at him were a perfect match to the descriptions of love her mother had given her. Back when Caitrina had begged for an explanation for the loyalty her mother still showed to her father, even after he’d deserted them.
But falling in love with a thief was a grave mistake.
There was no common ground on which to build a life. He could not join her in her world, nor could she join him in his. In truth, joining him on the streets of Edinburgh waspossible, just not very appealing. She would have to give up all of the finer things in life and learn to survive amid thieves and cutthroats. Even if she was willing, how could she ask that of Marsailli?
She blinked back tears.
Assuming Marsailli was ever returned to her.
And there it was: the very reason her heart beat an uneven rhythm whenever he was about. He was no ordinary thief. He could have taken the crown from her rooms and run off. Instead, he was risking everything to save her sister. Knights and constables and marshals did that. Not thieves.
“Lady Caitrina?”
She looked up.
Standing before her was a lad dressed in a purple gown. It was easy to see why Bran had chosen this young man to masquerade as her—he was short and slim. But, sadly, even in a dress, he looked nothing like a woman. He had a wild, scruffy beard that grew halfway to his belt.
“I can’t do it,” he said miserably. “The marshal told me I must scrape the whiskers from my face, but I can’t do it.”
Caitrina stood. “Can’t?” she asked. “Or won’t?”
His gaze dropped to the ground. “A man’s beard is his manhood, my lady. I’m a wee man, and if I lose the beard, I’ll be a mockery.”
“The marshal and the others are depending on you,” Caitrina said fiercely. Marsailli was depending on him. “You must be a man of your word.”
“Nay,” he said, pulling the gown over his head. “I can’t.”
He pressed the gown into her hands and stalked off in nothing but his lèine.
Caitrina stared at the soft puddle of purple silk, wondering what to do. Was there another man of a similar size that she could convince to don the dress? A gillie, perhaps? But how could she ask a man unfamiliar with a sword to step into battle? What use would such a man be to Bran and the others?
And how sure could she be that Giric would fall for the ruse?
