A shudder ran through her. The last time the Bear had demanded to see her, he’d cut off a hank of her hair and she’d wept all night. What would befall her now? Would he shear off the rest of her hair? Beat her senseless? She squeezed her eyes shut. Or would he plunge his dirk into her chest and bury her in the woods—as he’d done with that old tinker who’d had the misfortune to cross their path a sennight before?
Two of his men marched into the tent she shared with the midwife, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her across the muddy clearing, their fingers digging into her flesh. When she stumbled, wrenching her right knee, they paid no mind, continuing to pull in spite of the sharp cry she emitted.
Giric seized her chin in his brutish hand and forced her to meet his gaze. A painful tilt upward. “Are you trying to poison me, girl?”
“Nay,” she cried, tears springing into her eyes. “I did the best I could, but I’m no cook.”
He shoved her away so roughly that she would have fallen had his men not still held her arms. “The best you could? I would feast better at the midden heap, you feckless wench!” Unsheathing his dirk, he pointed it at her. “Have I not made your position here clear? You are at the mercy of my good graces.”
Marsailli stared at the sharp tip of the blade, unable to look away. This was it. He was about to stab his dirk into her. She would die alone in these strange woods, without ever seeing Caitrina again. A violent tremble shook her legs, and her head grew faint.
But, to her great relief, he stepped no closer, apparently content to rage from a distance. “Your sister abandoned you—have you forgotten that? She sent you off with King Edward to waste away with a bunch of nuns. Had I not come to claim you, you would be there still. I’ve brought you home to Scotland and cared for you at my own expense—but even my generosity has its limits. If you are to remain in my camp, you must serve a purpose. Do you understand?”
“Aye.” Marsailli blinked back her tears.
“Then serve a bloody purpose,” he snarled. “Learn to cook a meal worth serving or you will find yourself serving me in ways you will find much less comfortable.”
Marsailli stared at the ground, her shoulders bowed. She was doomed, then. Without an experienced cook in camp, who would teach her? Her next effort would surely give rise to the same anger and disdain as this one.
The Bear’s hand cupped her chin again. “Perhaps that would be the best solution, eh?”
She lifted her gaze to his scarred face.
“You’re a pretty enough girl,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and gentle. “No breasts or hips to speak of, but fair skinned and bright eyed. And you did a fine job of arranging your hair to hide your baldness.”
A heavy sense of uneasiness flooded Marsailli’s body. The look in his eyes was dark and expectant, and a strange smile curved his thin lips. She stiffened in his hold, resisting a powerful urge to leap away, to run as far and as fast as she could.
“Would you prefer to serve me in my bed, little dove?” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “That might be a better use of your talents.”
Marsailli swallowed a mouthful of sour spit.Serve him in his bed?Even without knowing exactly what that meant, she knew the suggestion was horribly inappropriate. A woman did not lie with a man outside of wedlock—and it was quite clear he wasn’t offering to wed her. “Nay,” she said, choking on the word. “I’d prefer to cook.”
His smile vanished. He stared at her lips for a long moment, all suggestion of warmth and kindness gone. “So be it. Return to your cauldron. But disappoint me with your offerings again and your desires will bend to mine.” He released her and walked away.
Marsailli breathed a deep sigh of relief.
She still had no idea how she would produce a meal that would satisfy Giric, but she was happier dealing with that problem than resisting the man’s troubling interest in her lips. If she could learn a few simple recipes, she might be able to keep him at bay. The challenge was finding those recipes. She slowly scanned the camp, eyeing the faces of the Bear’s men one by one. Someone had done the cooking before she was assigned the duty. But who?
She rubbed her aching right knee.
Was it the barrel-chested soldier with the missing thumb? He’d shown her how to start a fire and where to find the cauldron and cooking utensils. Or perhaps the fair-haired lad with the large front teeth? He’d helped her sort through the selection of herbs and spices, ably identifying each by its smell. Or perhaps it was the tall, thin man with the balding pate and shoulder-length dark hair? She regularly found him spying upon her with his arms folded over his chest and a frown upon his face—very disapproving of her every action.
The same way that he was staring at her now.
Of course, he glanced away the moment she met his gaze.
He didn’t look the least bit friendly, and she had no reason to believe that he would help her, but she had to start somewhere. Marsailli straightened her shoulders, lifted her skirts so they wouldn’t drag in the mud, and limped across the camp toward the tall, thin man.
What did she have to fear?
Anything would be easier than facing an angry Bear.
Chapter 3
Bran unrolled the parchment map and spread it across the table. With a corked inkpot in one corner and a pewter cup in another, he held it open while he studied the thin black lines that represented the boundaries of Clackmannan. “The northwest forest, you say?”
“Aye,” Dougal said, pointing to the map. “Right here. We found a dozen Englishmen camped in a small clearing.”
“Was the thief among them?”
