Bran splashed cold water on his face and then headed downstairs to confront Caitrina. But the moment he descended the steps into the great hall, he was accosted by two of Dougal’s men. The lads had the weary, travel-stained look of men who had ridden all night long.
“I’m afraid we have disappointing news, Marshal.”
He sighed heavily. “You lost him?”
“Aye,” said the elder of the two men. “Near the northern border. He entered a deep burn, and we lost his trail.”
Bran knew the spot all too well. He could hardly fault them for losing Giric when he’d done the same. Still, frustration gnawed at his belly. Had he not searched the banks of the burn himself and found no sign of the Sassenachs, he’d have called the lads to task.
“Take a short respite,” he told them. “When you have eaten your fill, come find me. We’ll return to the burn and search again. I know not where, but they must be hiding nearby.”
The two men nodded and headed for the kitchen.
He crossed the great hall to the hearth, where Lady Gisele and Lady Caitrina were diligently tending to their sewing.
“Might I have a word?” he asked of Caitrina.
“Now?” Gisele asked sharply. “Lady Caitrina is engaged in a task of some importance. She is making a sleeping cap for the new king.”
He took hold of Caitrina’s elbow and favored the elder lady with a steely look. “This will take but a moment.” Then he guided Caitrina out of her chair and over to a quiet corner of the hall.
“You are concerned about my declaration of love,” Caitrina guessed. “But there is no need.”
“Of course there is a need,” he challenged. “I’ve misled you.”
“Nay,” she said. She kept a proper distance, but her gaze embraced him warmly. “You were truthful—about everything—and my expectations were fully met.”
“How could they be met if your declaration has not been reciprocated?”
She smiled. “Because you never promised me love. Nor did you demand it.”
It was true—he hadn’t spoken of love. He hadn’t even dared to think of love. Loving Caitrina was a right that belonged to a much finer man than he. But as lowborn as he might be, he wasn’t the miserable creature she had just described—the sort who debauched virgins without a qualm.
“You deserve better.”
She put a hand to her lips and smiled, as if recalling the hot press of a kiss. “I agree, and I’m looking forward to discovering how much better it can be. Tonight?”
“You deserve better than an illicit affair,” he said, pointedly. “There will be no tonight.”
“Surely you don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
Exasperation warred with disappointment on her face, and exasperation won. She scowled. “This is ridiculous. You are simply being high-handed. How will abstaining now improve my lot?”
“I cannot repair the damage already done,” he admitted. Nor, if he was completely honest, would he reverse the sands of time had that power miraculously been given to him. His memories of last night were too dear. “But I can keep you from making an even graver mistake.”
“And what mistake is that?”
“Losing your heart to a lie.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are too late. My heart is already engaged.”
He shook his head. “You love a man who does not exist.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
He spoke quickly, knowing she would interrupt him if he gave her the chance. “The crown you took from me is no ordinary jewel. It is the ancient coronet of Kenneth MacAlpin, the last king of the Picts. The MacCurrans—fierce fellows that they are—are descended from his personal guard, known as the Black Warriors, and they were tasked with protecting the crown, which they believe is destined to be worn by the only king who can lead Scotland into a new era.”
