No matter how right she felt in his arms, Caitrina de Montfort was not for him. Once Marsailli was recovered—which could be at any time now—he would depart for Edinburgh and that would be the last they would see of each other.
Why did he keep forgetting who he really was?
Before he’d met Caitrina, he’d been rather proud of what he’d accomplished. He’d started with nothing, after all. After his father had met the rope, Bran, his mother, and his brother had escaped to Edinburgh, hoping to make an honest wage. But jobs had been scarce. And then his maither took ill. It was while stealing food that he discovered he possessed unusually clever fingers. A useful skill for a wee lad from the country trying to make his way among toughs born and raised on the streets.
But not a useful skill for winning the hand of a lady.
He grimaced.
It would be best if he stayed away from the lass as much as possible. She had a soft heart, and as surely as the law would one day catch up with him, he would end up breaking it.
He offered Caitrina the smallest of bows, then turned and strode for the stairs.
***
She woke up hungry and sore.
It was dark as sin when Caitrina opened her eyes, the only light a flickering torch near the door. Soft snores filled the air around her, and it swiftly became clear that she was lying on her pallet in the queen’s room. Safe and secure. The battle that had been raging when she fell was apparently over, and, judging by her current location, the outcome had proved favorable for Bran and his men. Which meant that Giric had been defeated.
Fingering her bruised jaw, Caitrina sat up.
But if that was true, what of Marsailli? Was her sister here in the manor?
She slid her feet to the cold floor and snatched up her woolen brat from the end of the bed. There was only one way to find out—she needed to speak to Bran. Now.
It took her a moment to locate her slippers in the dimness, but once her feet were encased, she eased open the door and entered the anteroom. The two guards eyed her with heavy frowns.
“It appears that I missed supper,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I’m headed for the kitchens.”
The frowns deepened.
“Were the Englishmen not defeated?” she asked.
They nodded slowly.
“Then I have nothing to fear. I shall return anon.”
Not giving them any further opportunity to naysay her, she grabbed a candle and left the room. The corridor was equally dim, with only one torch lit at the top of the stairs. Bran’s room was at the opposite end of the hall, and she scurried to his door, hoping that the queen’s guards were not listening for her tread upon the stairs.
She rapped as lightly as she dared on the door.
No answer.
When a second light knock produced the same result, Caitrina took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.
She remembered the room well enough from her last visit. A good thing, as the feeble light from her taper did little to brighten the room. She could barely make out the large platform bed and the two chairs standing before the banked fire, but there certainly seemed to be someone asleep under the covers. Tiptoeing over to the bed, she set the candle down on a side table.
“Bran,” she whispered.
That single, hushed word got her far more than she’d bargained for.
In a blink of an eye, she was yanked off her feet, rolled onto the mattress, and crushed beneath the weight of a wide-eyed, angry man. Caitrina felt the prick of a sharp blade at her throat, and she swallowed tightly.
“It’s Caitrina,” she squeaked.
The knife vanished and he released her, rolling to his back. “Bloody hell, lass. I almost killed you. What are you doing here?”
She sat up and, despite her shock, admired the way the light of the candle traced the lean contours of his arm and chest. In her admittedly limited experience, few men looked as good without their shirts. “Looking for answers,” she said. “I didn’t expect to be attacked.”
