Caitrina ducked as the branch swung back into place. “I hope you’re right.”
But it was unlikely. Giric was out here somewhere, and this was the only party reported by Dougal and his men. Her heartbeat fluttered. If itwasGiric and his men, Marsailli would be among them, and she could make real plans to set her sister free.
“How do you plan to approach them?” she asked.
“Quietly.”
She waited for him to say more, and frowned when nothing was forthcoming. “Surely you have a plan?”
“Plans have a way of going awry,” he said. “I prefer to think on my feet.”
Caitrina blinked. He thought to engage a brute like Giric with nothing more than his wits? Was he mad? “Do not mistake this man for a fool. His actions may imply a certain rashness, but he is far from simpleminded.”
“We’re not completely without resources,” he said. “I had Dougal post guards in the woods around the camp. They have orders to keep their distance, but if we run into trouble, they’ll be within easy reach.”
That was reassuring. But it was hardly a plan. “Will we seek a high point from which to spy upon the camp?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“When will you decide?” she asked, frowning.
“I’ll know when I get there.”
Caitrina clenched her fingers on his arms. He had no idea what sort of monster they were up against. “Stop. That simply won’t do. We cannot approach this man unprepared.”
Bran tugged on the reins and brought the horse to a halt. He twisted in the saddle and favored her with a narrow-eyed look that instantly wilted her resolve. “Lass, I’ve expended great effort to bring you this far. But make no mistake. I’ll not hesitate to unhorse you right here if you insist on challenging me further.”
Caitrina swallowed tightly.
He would do it; the chill in his eyes made that very clear. Having come this far, being so close to seeing Marsailli, she was left with no option. Bran might well be underestimating Giric, but it made no difference. She had to go on. Dropping her gaze, she said demurely, “I understand.”
“Good.” He settled back into the saddle and urged the horse forward. “It’s not much longer now. I see one of Dougal’s men in the trees up ahead.”
Caitrina peered around his shoulder. “How do you know it’s one of Dougal’s men?”
He pointed. “They all wear a white band painted with a black cross tied about their right arm.”
“That’s quite inventive.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “Pull your brat close and cease your blether now, lass. I’ll do the talking to the guard.”
Caitrina did as he bade. She did not entirely cover her face—that would have raised the suspicions of the guard—but she made sure that her hair and her rather feminine chin were hidden in the folds of the cloth. Her belly was knotted, but she did her best to sit on the horse with a casual confidence as they rode up to the guard.
***
Dougal’s man was a grizzled fellow, bowed slightly by his advancing years. Bran did not recognize him, and judging by the suspicious frown he wore as they approached, the guard knew naught of him, either.
“Latha math,”he greeted the old man in Gaelic.
The wariness in the guard’s eyes eased. “A good day to you, as well.”
“I’m Marshal Gordon,” Bran said. “Late of Feldrinny. Did Dougal mention me to you?”
“Aye, he did,” responded the old man. “But he said naught of you traveling in this direction.” His gaze slid over Bran’s shoulder. “Nor did he say anything aboot this young laddie.”
“The lad is just a stable hand I’ve brought to care for my horse,” Bran said dismissively. “My aim is to take a closer look at our English visitors. Their tale of a broken wheel rings false to me.”
The guard’s gaze lingered on Caitrina for a moment before returning to Bran. “Should we hasten them away, then?”
