“If you wish,” he said, giving her a smile and a short bow. “Have the gowns delivered to my chamber within the hour and I’ll see to it that you get your opportunity for amusement.”
He rolled up the map and strode across the room toward the stairs.
Everything about him bespoke blatant masculinity—the breadth of his shoulders, the heaviness of his thighs, the span of his step. Imagining him draped in a gown, attempting to appear a lady, made Caitrina laugh. He hadn’t a prayer of pulling off such a disguise. Even if the crofter’s wife was a sturdy lass, she couldn’t be more than half his size. Despite her concerns for her Marsailli, she found herself chuckling at the lengths to which he was willing to go in order to secure her sister’s safety.
She would find the gowns.
And let out the seams as required.
***
Bran was standing next to Dougal in the close when Caitrina descended the narrow steps from the great hall. He tightened his brat about his shoulders and bent his head as if to study the muddy ground beneath his boots.
She strode up to them and addressed Dougal. “Have you seen the marshal, sir?”
The constable wasn’t much for playing games, and he quickly stepped to one side and pointed at Bran. “The fool is right here.”
Bran lifted his head and stared into Caitrina’s lovely brown eyes, which widened as she recognized him. A fine reward for the effort he had put into donning his disguise. He smiled. “Elsie Drummond, at your service, my lady.”
Caitrina shook her head. “I’d never have thought it possible, Marshal Gordon, but you look quite feminine. Were it not for the dark shadow of beard on your chin, you could pass for a lady.”
“A little thick around the middle for my taste,” said Dougal, with a snort.
She laughed, a sweet burble of joy that echoed through the close and drew the attention of almost every man. “Aye, but surprisingly bonnie, wouldn’t you say?”
“Make sport, if you wish,” Bran said. “I’m man enough to endure it.”
She acknowledged the truth of his words with a smile. “And what of my replacement? Where is he?”
Bran glanced around. “Yet to appear, it would seem. No doubt a tad reticent to subject himself to ridicule. But he has more time to prepare than I—we must search the farm and find suitable hiding spots for Dougal’s men before planting the white flag.”
“We may have to remain in place for some time before the Sassenachs appear,” Dougal reminded him.
“Aye,” Bran agreed. “’Twill be hardest on your men. You and I will be free to move about.”
“Fear not,” Dougal said dryly. “My men have plenty of experience with sitting on their arses. But I’ll have words with them nonetheless.” He bowed to Caitrina. “Excuse me, my lady.”
She smiled at Bran. “You have a talent for disguise. I was quite convinced you were a woman until you looked up.”
“It’s a skill developed by necessity.”
“Necessity?” Her head tilted, and she lowered her voice. “Are you not a cutpurse?”
“Nay,” he said, equally quiet. But he wasn’t particularly worried that someone would overhear them. Dougal had hailed his men and their attention was already engaged. “A cutpurse cannot return to the same corner day after day. He is doomed to cut and run, or face nabbing by the castle guard. I am that more notorious creature: the pick thief.”
“And what is that?”
“A thief who uses distraction to lighten a purse or snatch valuables.”
Her eyes narrowed. “A distraction such as a charming smile?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a smoothly practiced arc. “Exactly.”
“So the heed you have paid me these past few days has merely been... distraction?”
A fair question. He tossed his smiles often, most times without thought. Charm was a tool of his trade, after all. Quite likely, the first smile he’d sent her way had been a meaningless one, but it hadn’t taken long for her quiet beauty to shake the genuine smiles free. A minute, or perhaps two.
“Lass,” he said softly. “Given that I’m the one who finds himself lighter by one crown, who would you suspect is distracting whom?”
