She sent him a hot glare. “I fend for myself.”
“Aye.” He nodded. “You do.” Quite ably, in fact. She carried two very sharp dirks at her belt. “But you’re like a sister to me. Whatever the danger, I’ll not hesitate to stand for you. You must know that.”
Elsie downed the contents of her cup and plunked it down on the oak tabletop.
“Off you go, then. Find yer lady-love.”
Bran grimaced. “Now you are just being cruel.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “Admit it. That’s the true reason ye want to leave. Ye’ve done naught but plot ways to win the lass back since ye’ve returned. If the MacCurrans can offer you the respectability ye need to claim her, then I’ll not fault ye for leavin’. Go after her, ye bampot.” She flipped a silver denier onto the table and rolled to her feet. “But never forget where yer roots are.”
Bran stared at her back as she sauntered out of the alehouse. An unexpected endorsement, that. He’d never told Elsie about Caitrina, but apparently a lack of words hadn’t kept his bright little apprentice from discerning the truth. He glanced back at the parchment. There was no guarantee that settling his affairs with the MacCurrans would give him the means to claim Caitrina, but if there was even a small chance...
Perhaps a brief sojourn in Dunstoras was called for.
At the very least, he owed Bhaltair an apology. The old man might never forgive him, but it would satisfy Bran’s conscience if he had the chance to make his peace.
Bran exited the alehouse, returned to the small hovel he called home, and gathered up his satchel of meager belongings.
It took him several days to make the journey from Edinburgh to Dunstoras, but they were pleasant days. There was something about the Highlands that called to him.
As soon as rolling hills of heather replaced the thicker forests of the Lowlands, his step lightened. And when he caught a glimpse of the creamy tower of Dunstoras through the glen, he smiled. It had the look of a tower that had stood for a thousand years—bold and beautiful against the pale gray sky.
But as he approached the portcullis, a ripple of trepidation ran through him.
What punishment would the laird deem appropriate for his crime?
Lashes? Days in the stockade? He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. As long as it didn’t involve the severing of body parts, he could withstand whatever humiliation the laird had in store. The portcullis was up and Bran rode into the close with a resolute expression.
Wulf was standing on the stone steps on the donjon when Bran entered the inner close.
“About bloody time,” the big warrior said. “Did the invitation not say ‘immediately’?”
Bran dismounted. A lad with features similar to Wulf’s took his horse. His son, perhaps? “Is there reason for haste?”
“According to the Lady Isabail, aye,” Wulf said. “Come, we’ll see you properly attired.”
“Properly attired for what?”
The big warrior scowled. “You ask too many questions.”
“Or not enough,” Bran retorted. “Is there to be a public trial?”
Wulf smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”
The big warrior led Bran into the great hall, where—to his bafflement—a banquet was in progress. “What is the occasion?”
Wulf pointed to the high table. “Your wedding.”
Bran’s gaze latched onto the sweetly beguiling face of Caitrina de Montfort. He hungrily devoured every detail of her appearance, from the welcoming warmth in her eyes to the bold blue satin of her gown. “Mywhat?”
Wulf prodded him in the ribs. “Take your seat, MacLean. The laird is about to speak.”
The chair at the center of the high table stood glaringly unoccupied, and Bran walked to it with a turbulent gut. How could this be his wedding, when he had never asked for Caitrina’s hand? And how could Laird MacCurran condone the marriage of a street thief to a lady of the court?
He dropped onto the seat next to Caitrina and offered her a weak smile.
“Are you party to this?”
