He took the linen and wrapped it carefully about his waist. “I shall treasure it.”
Caitrina gathered his lèine from the bed and helped him into it. Then she did the same with the padded cotun and the chain mail hauberk. She felt like a wife dressing her husband for battle, and her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the weight of his mail. Even if he returned safely, this was likely to be a singular moment, never to be repeated.
Her eyes met his, and she knew his thoughts had traveled a similar path.
“Mayhap there is some way—” she said softly.
He put a finger to her lips. “Nay, lass. Such thoughts will only make the parting more difficult. You and I are from very different worlds. I have only one talent, and it will one day see me to the gallows. Let me play this part today and forget for a time what the future holds in store. Today I’m Marshal Gordon. Tomorrow, who knows?”
Cupping her face in his hands, he pulled her close for a kiss.
A tender kiss, filled with deep longing and promises that would never be fulfilled. Caitrina closed her eyes and let herself succumb to the dream. Today, she was the wife of Marshal Gordon, sending him off with all the love in her heart.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
***
Marsailli claimed a small corner of Giric’s tent as her own. She tried to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible, hoping to escape the Bear’s attention. But she was unsuccessful. When he returned to the tent after an afternoon of training his troops, he immediately demanded her presence.
“I want a warm bath,” he snarled. “To soak away the knots in my shoulders. And I want wine. And food.”
She fetched the wine and the food, doing her best to see him sated and content. But as the evening progressed, she found him staring at her with greater frequency, the look in his eyes dark with intent.
Almost without thinking, she slipped her hand into her purse and felt for the needles. The tips were reassuringly sharp, but they felt flimsy even to her delicate hands. Still, any weapon was better than none.
As the cooking fires waned and soldiers throughout the camp ambled off to bed, fear soured Marsailli’s mouth and dampened her palms with sweat. The Bear would soon retire for the night—and would most certainly force her to join him in his bed. How would she resist him?
She could scream, but that was unlikely to gain her anything except an audience.
Giric’s tent stood at the edge of the camp, close to the path that led down to the burn. Her only hope lay in making an escape. If by some miracle she could elude the Bear’s clutches, she could disappear into the rocks and evade capture. It would be risky, especially in the dark, but navigating the slippery shards of shale would be easier than withstanding Giric’s advances.
“Girl,” Giric called.
Marsailli lifted her gaze. He was staring at her over the lip of his ale horn.
“Come here.”
Several times over the course of the evening, he had called her to his side, mostly to refill his cup. But something about the current look in his eyes made her heart pound. Swallowing tightly, she picked up the jug of ale and took it to him. As she neared, he held out his cup, and the furious pound in her chest abated.
She filled his cup.
As she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm. “You look nothing like your sister,” he grumbled.
Marsailli froze. Was it a good thing she and Caitrina had different looks? That she was slim where Caitrina was curvy?
He tugged her hard and she fell onto his lap.
“You’re too thin.”
Yet his disgruntlement did not stay his hands. One of them latched onto her breast and squeezed. Marsailli set the wine jug on the table and dipped her hand into her purse. The needles slid smoothly into her damp palm. What would be the right moment? Was this it?
Giric pressed his face into her neck and planted a wet kiss against her throat.
Fear and disgust snatched the breath from her lips in a hoarse rasp. She struggled for her freedom, but was unsuccessful. He held her firmly on his lap, the hard rod of his erection pressing against her bottom. His fingers pinched her nipple and Marsailli reacted instinctively. She ripped her hand out of her purse, put her thumb on the dull ends of the needles, and jabbed them at Giric’s face.
She was aiming for his eye, but struck his cheek instead.
He howled with rage, leaping to his feet.
