She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“As men who’ve sworn a blood oath tend to be, the MacCurrans are thoroughly committed to their cause, and the only way I was able to gain the crown was to exchange it for a hostage.”
Her jaw dropped.
“So,” he said grimly. Destroying her illusions about him was much harder than he thought it would be. His every instinct told him to stop talking, to fold her into his arms and soothe away the frown on her brow. “I barter innocent lives for artifacts of immeasurable worth. Does that sound like a man you can admire?”
“A hostage? Who did you take hostage?”
“That doesn’t matter.” He thrust his untrustworthy hands behind him. “You’ve given your heart under false pretenses. You’d be wise to take it back.”
He wanted her to take the lead, to storm off in an angry fit. But she did not. She simply stood there and stared at him with wide, round eyes. As if he were some kind of vermin that had crawled out from beneath a rock. So he did the hardest thing he’d ever done—he turned his back and walked away.
***
Dougal’s two men met him in the close. Still chomping on bread and cheese, they walked with him to the stables. As their horses were saddled, Bran inspected the crofter’s oxcart, which still stood in one corner. Three holes had been drilled into the bed of the cart to hold the poles, which had been removed, as per his orders. He crouched to examine the underside of the cart. A small wooden frame had been attached to the bottom, cradling a slab of slate. Suspended several inches below the cart bed, the slate would have provided a simple but effective support for the poles.
He frowned.
The slate was a vivid blue-green—the distinctive color of the crag near the burn at the northern border. If he needed confirmation that his hunch was right, it was staring right at him. Giric was camped somewhere in that pile of rocks. In a cave, perhaps. Or a small hidden corrie.
He stood, suddenly hopeful.
“Gather a dozen men,” he told the two who had accompanied him. Giric couldn’t have more than three or four men left. “Quickly now. I believe we have a chance to rout this lawless Englishman once and for all.”
As they raced for the barracks, Bran glanced toward the manor house.
The steps were empty, but he suspected Caitrina was watching him from a window. She must surely think him a despicable wretch—and deservedly so—but perhaps he could ease her heartache by retrieving Marsailli. With her sister returned to her bosom and Giric’s tyranny ended, Caitrina’s worries would be far less onerous.
Bran selected his favorite steed, the big gray stallion, and led him out of his stall.
And he would be leaving her something less unworthy to remember him by.
***
As Bran led a troop of fourteen soldiers out of the manor gate, Caitrina turned away from the window and returned to the writing desk. She truly was a disloyal wretch. The man she loved was riding off to rescue her sister, and here she was, penning a message to the MacCurrans.
It was horribly unfair.
But what choice did she have? If she accepted the basic facts of Bran’s story as truth, then keeping the crown from its rightful caretakers was reprehensible. And if she failed to take action, she would be a party to the crime.
She dipped her quill into the inkpot. The challenge would be returning it without handing over Bran, which she simply wouldn’t do. Perhaps she was a naive fool, but the one part of his tale she refused to believe was his heinous hostage taking. He’d had numerous opportunities to show her the ruthless side of his nature, and it had never surfaced. A more honorable and loyal soul would be hard to find. She simply couldn’t picture him holding a dirk to someone’s throat and demanding the crown.
She penned her message, short and to the point:The crown is in Clackmannan.
Waiting for the ink to dry, she stared into the fire in the hearth.
It still felt like betrayal to contact the MacCurrans. Bran would not forgive her easily, no matter how fine her intentions. He’d gone to great lengths to acquire the crown, and great lengths to earn it back from her. He must need it. But for what?
She had no idea.
Yet understanding that was the key to understanding the man himself. He was a good man, undeniably. But without knowledge of his motivations, of what drove him to do the things he did, she was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. Unfortunately, he seemed reluctant to share details of his life in Edinburgh—which left only her imagination to fill in the gaps.
An imagination that, at the moment, preferred to replay all the magical details of their night together. She rolled up her parchment note, tied it with a small white ribbon, and handed it to the young lad waiting patiently by the door. He bowed and left the room.
The queen was napping in her bed, with one of the ladies seated quietly at her side sewing. Another trio of ladies was seated in front of the hearth, nibbling on candied fruit, sipping mead, and discussing the merits of various small hawks for hunting. Caitrina would have joined them, but she feared the rosy glow of her cheeks and her repeated sighs would draw more attention than she was prepared to handle. She could not stop thinking of her night with Bran.
She had expected to mourn her maidenhood more.
