For an instant, she couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed tight, grateful beyond belief that someone had found her. “Aye,” she croaked.
“My name is Niall MacCurran,” the shape at the top of the crevice said. “Your sister sent me. Hold tight, lass. I’ll have you out of there in a wee moment.”
“Caitrina sent you?”
“Aye, and Marshal Gordon.” The end of a rope dropped down beside her. “Tie that around your waist. There’s a good lass.”
As soon as she knotted the rope, he began to pull her up. At the top of the crevice, he layered his brat atop hers and rubbed her arms to build some warmth. Marsailli immediately felt the burn of heat returning to her skin, and she smiled at her savior. “Thank you,” she said, as her teeth began to chatter.
“I can smell a campfire,” he said. “Let’s get you back to your sister and dry those damp clothes.”
It took them longer than Marsailli thought to reach the basin. Niall tested every route carefully before trusting his full weight on the rocks—a wise decision. Several times, the entire shelf of rock slid off the edge, crashing to the ground some distant drop below. Eventually, though, they reached the sturdy stone path.
At the mouth of the basin, Marsailli hesitated.
“Giric is dead,” Niall told her quietly. “Marshal Gordon did what had to be done.”
She lifted her gaze to his angular face. “Good,” she said simply.
He pointed to a haphazard lean-to and a blazing fire. “I think someone is waiting for you.”
Marsailli had endured a great deal in the four months since she last saw Caitrina, and she’d felt a full range of emotions about her sister. But the moment she turned her head and looked into Caitrina’s familiar face, all of it instantly fell away. Tears sprang to her eyes and her bottom lip trembled.
She lifted the hem of her gown and raced across the rain-sodden grass.
Hot tears competed with the cold droplets on her face. She threw herself into her sister’s arms and released a sob of pure joy. Caitrina’s warmth and scent and familiar shape enveloped her, and she closed her eyes.
Finally, she was safe.
***
Bran rode alone on the journey home.
They waited until daylight, then wended their way south through rain-chilled glens and across gray, somber moors. Caitrina and Marsailli shared a mount, grateful for the time together, recounting in hushed whispers meaningful moments of the past four months.
As he watched them rebond as sisters, he realized the day had come to say good-bye to Marshal Giles Gordon. All he had hoped to accomplish was done. Caitrina was happily reunited with her sister, the crown was back in the hands of the MacCurrans, and the deaths of the two guards had been avenged.
There was nothing left to hold him to Clackmannan.
Except Caitrina.
He took a deep breath and felt a twinge of pain in his chest. It was very tempting to ply his charm and convince her to run away with him. He was fairly certain he could paint a rosy picture of their future together—rosy enough to coax her into giving up the life she currently led, which lacked a wee bit in the promise of love.
But that would be selfish.
Caitrina deserved so much more than a life on the streets of Edinburgh. It was a hard, cruel existence. The law eventually caught up with even the best thieves, and the only thing he could guarantee his wife was that she would one day see him swing.
Only a blackguard would lead a woman down that path.
And he was better than that. Or so Caitrina believed, anyway.
Bran glanced at Niall MacCurran. “I’m ready to return to Dunstoras to face my punishment.”
The other man shrugged. “Your fate is in the hands of the laird.”
“How did Bhaltair take my betrayal?”
Niall snorted. “As he takes everything. The witless old fool is convinced you were destined to take the crown. That it was a necessary event, predestined by the stars.”
