Caitrina.
He pivoted and spied one of Giric’s men hauling Caitrina out of her saddle. And as quick as that, Giric no longer mattered. Bran raced across the yard, reaching the English soldier just as the fiend struck a vicious blow to her chin. She slumped and Bran saw red.
His blade had slipped between the man’s ribs before Bran had consciously decided the fellow’s fate. He caught her before she hit the ground, then turned to face the battle, his knife at the ready. But Giric had not followed him; the big Englishman had seized the moment and hobbled for a free horse. As a growl of frustration rose in Bran’s throat, Giric spurred the horse into a gallop and took off for the northern forest. Only one of his men followed suit—the others all lay dead or injured.
“Go after them,” he ordered several of Dougal’s men. “He’s holding a young lass in need of rescue. Do not rest until you find her.”
They took off after Giric.
Bran sheathed his blades. Crouching, he brushed a stray tendril of hair from Caitrina’s face. A second bruise now marred the tender flesh of her jaw. He was doing a rather poor job of protecting her.
A firm hand patted his shoulder.
He looked up.
“’Tis but a matter of time before that timorous knave is captured,” Dougal said.
Bran wished he could feel as confident. While the bulk of Giric’s men had been defeated, there were others hiding in the northern woods, and the big Englishman was still a formidable opponent. It wasn’t cowardice that had sent him scurrying, but rather a deep-seated determination not to fail his liege lord—of that he was certain. Giric would not give up. Not before Queen Yolande’s bairn was born. But he could not share that reasoning with Dougal.
“Likely true,” he agreed. “But I recommend we remain vigilant, in case he mounts a secondary attack.”
Dougal shrugged. “As you wish. Shall I send for a cart to transport the lady?”
“Nay,” Bran said. “Darkness will be upon us soon. Better that we return her to the manor as quickly as possible.” He lifted Caitrina into his arms. Her limpness knotted his gut, especially when her head rolled back, exposing the pale flesh of her throat. Helpless was not a word he would normally use to describe her. And it was his fault that she’d been so sorely abused.
He handed her to Dougal while he mounted, and then took her back into his arms.
Cradling her in the curve of his shoulder, he made her as comfortable as he could manage as he rode. But that comfort was fleeting. Once the sun slipped toward the horizon, the autumn air grew cooler and she began to murmur incoherently against his collarbone. Only when he wrapped his brat about the two of them, lending his heat to her body, did she settle into a quiet sleep.
Bran held her close to his heart the entire ride home, and enjoyed every moment of her nearness. The soft sighs, the warm press of her body, the complete dependence on him for her safety. He found renewed strength in his sword arm and had almost convinced himself he was champion material by the time they rode through the manor gate.
He wasn’t sure what Dougal thought of the arrangement, nor did he ask.
But the look he got from Lady Gisele when he carried Caitrina into the great hall was quite telling. “Put her down immediately, monsieur. It is inappropriate to hold an unmarried woman so intimately.”
“She is injured,” he explained.
“Put her down,” she repeated.
“Where?” he asked, glancing around. “I cannot simply lay her on the floor.”
Gisele pointed to a chair in front of the hearth.
He frowned. “But she cannot sit without support.”
“Then we will support her,” the lady said. “But if you do not release her promptly, Monsieur Marshal, her reputation will be in tatters.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Her undergarments are on display.”
Bran peered over his arm. “Oh.”
He deposited Caitrina in the chair. Almost immediately, he was pushed aside as the ladies-in-waiting took over her care. He stood there for a moment, feeling distinctly bereft, but could find no reason to remain. Indeed, he appeared quite unneeded.
Quite the opposite of what he’d felt on the journey home.
But accurate.
He had once again fallen into the trap of believing his own ruse. He wasnotMarshal Gordon. He had no right to inject himself into Caitrina’s life, no right to direct her care, no right even to inquire about her health. He was merely a thief, and she was a lady.
Bran backed away from the little group in front of the fire.
