“We chased them north to the boundary marker,” Bran said, “before we lost them.”
Dougal grimaced. “Wretched bastards. They should meet the point of my blade for what they did to my men.”
The two guards had been decapitated, castrated, and then strung up feetfirst in the trees—a brutal and insulting message. Neither of the men’s missing parts had been found.
“If they return,” Bran promised, “you’ll get your chance.”
The heavy wooden gate swung open and they entered the close. Bran scanned the faces of those gathered in the courtyard, hoping to spy Caitrina’s dark hair and delicate features. But there was no sign of her. He dismounted and handed off his horse to one of the stable lads. “Have you made an accounting to the queen?”
The constable shook his head. “Her Grace has taken ill.”
“Let us not share the details,” Bran said. “No need to worry the queen needlessly. It’s possible we’ve seen the last of those Sassenach scum.” Unlikely, given that Giric’s interest lay in Caitrina and the queen, but possible. “But keep the watch on the wall until we’re certain.”
Dougal nodded. “You should have one of the ladies see to those hands, Marshal.”
The constable’s face was bland, but Bran had a sense that the man knew exactly which lady would be willing to offer her services.
“Indeed.”
With a sharp nod to the constable, he climbed the stairs and entered the great hall. Supper was still hours away and the room was largely empty. Two of the queen’s ladies were seated before the hearth, working on their embroidery and chatting in hushed tones. Neither was the lady that he sought, but a cask of ale stood on the table behind them and his throat was parched, so he crossed the wooden planking in their direction.
“Marshal Gordon?”
He halted and turned. At the bottom of the stairs, looking slightly disheveled but sweeter than a ripe pear, was Caitrina. The look in her eyes was heartbreaking—a mix of deep fear and faint hope. She clearly knew her sister was gone. It took every ounce of his willpower to remain exactly where he was. The urge to run to her and gather her in his arms was so intense, his arms trembled. “My lady?”
She walked hesitantly toward him, almost as if she expected the worst.
“Have you any news?”
“Nay,” he said. “The Englishmen have escaped.” He didn’t add,I failed you, but those words hung in the air between them. He had underestimated Giric, just as she’d urged him not to, and Marsailli’s loss lay squarely on his shoulders.
Her gaze met his. “I heard that bodies were found.”
“The two guards. No women.”
“You’re certain?”
“Aye.” She had stopped far enough away that even a surreptitious brush against her hand was impossible. “They decamped swiftly, leaving most of their belongings behind. We had the opportunity to do a thorough search.”
“Then we must hope for the best.” She turned to walk away.
Unable to help himself, Bran reached for her arm. “My lady—”
She halted, her gaze dropping to his hand. “By the saints, Marshal. Those wounds are most unpleasant. What befell you?”
“Nothing more than would befall any nobleman who forgot his gloves,” he said dryly.
She guided him to a chair before the hearth and encouraged him to sit. “Well, whatever the cause, they are in need of bandages.”
Bandages? Was she mad? “Absolutely not,” he said, with a scowl. Every gillie in the hall would think him a faintheart.
“Fine,” she said. “No bandages. But we cannot allow those wounds to fester. Give me a moment and I’ll return with some salve.”
He would have refused, save for one thing—allowing Caitrina to care for his hands would give him a legitimate reason to bide awhile in her company. “I’ll wait,” he agreed. “But be quick about it. I’ve tasks that I must see to.”
She smiled and darted for the stairs.
Bran stretched out his legs, aiming his still-damp boots toward the fire. By god, how did noblemen survive long hours on their arses? He was bored already and Caitrina had only just disappeared up the stairwell. The life of a gentleman was definitely not for him. He glanced at the two ladies quietly plying their needles. At this time of day in Edinburgh, he’d be fleecing wealthy men and women headed home from the market.
