For something she’d spent a lifetime protecting, it had vanished with surprisingly little fanfare. Just a passing soreness. And her body was already craving another dance with excitement—every time she recalled Bran’s hands and mouth making merry on her skin, a delicious thrill ran down her spine. Which happened more often than she cared to admit.
Including right now.
Caitrina returned to the window and stared out into the close. Sullen gray clouds had swept in from the west and rain threatened to dampen the daily chores of the villeins.
Of course, Bran was determined not to repeat their tryst.
And if he discovered she had sent for the MacCurrans, she might never feel his hands upon her body again. An unimaginable future—she had never felt more alive than when she was in his arms. Even now, her breasts were budding in hopefulness. Who could have imagined he could coax such joy from her body? That his simple caresses could make her heart leap and her body hum? It would be true shame if she never made love with him again.
Ah, well. Her time was better spent crafting a credible tale to give the MacCurrans as to how she acquired the crown. They would not easily swallow the suggestion that Bran had run off without it. But perhaps they would believe the truth—that she’d robbed the robber.
The young lad with her note rode out of the gate and headed west toward Stirling.
She would rehearse her words well and leave out the part where she identified her thief as the marshal. So long as her tale rang true and the MacCurrans never caught sight of Bran, they would take the crown and depart without their culprit.
All would be well.
Heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first and then faster and faster. The villeins below ran for cover. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she wove her hands together to calm them.
It had to be.
***
They arrived at the deep burn soaked to the skin. The rain had not let up the entire journey, and any glamour Bran had attached to his role as marshal had long disappeared by the time they reached the blue-green crag near the northern border. In Edinburgh, he spent most cold, wet days in a pub, lifting coins from fat merchants who gathered around the fire. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly endured the October rains.
Young Robbie rode up alongside him.
“What are you hoping to find?”
Bran pointed to the huge shards of shale looming above them. A low, wet mist had settled across the glen and the higher points of the crag disappeared into the clouds. “A way up into the rocks.”
“But we’ve already examined every inch of the shore,” Robbie said, frowning, “and found no sign of a trail.”
“We missed something; I’m convinced of it.”
The lad nodded, but doubt tugged at his eyebrows. “Then we’ll look again.”
Bran dismounted and gathered the men around him. Rain had plastered their hair to their faces and droplets dripped steadily from their noses and chins. “Revenge is within our grasp, but it must be claimed with discipline. Leave the horses here and move quietly up the brae. Surprise will be our best ally.”
He led them forward over the rocky terrain, showing them how best to travel with stealth—finding the silent, mossy footfalls and avoiding loose slides of shale. The mist worked to their advantage; the slippery rocks did not.
Twice the treacherous terrain brought a soldier to his knees with a loud clatter of stone.
And twice they froze and waited for their foes to race out of the mist with blades held high.
But the blanket of cloud must have contained the noise, because neither fall brought Giric and his men raging down upon them. Bran peered up into the foggy reaches of the crag. Perhaps the huge Englishman had grown so confident of his hiding spot that he no longer posted guards.
At the burn’s edge, they again sought signs of passage.
His men spread out along the shore, examining every turned stone and bent rowan leaf. They scoured the burnside and the base of the rising tower of slate with devotion, as eager to find a clue as Bran was. But as time passed, their enthusiasm slowly eroded. As before, the search met with no success.
Robbie met Bran’s gaze with a grim look and a shake of his head.
Bran picked up a stray piece of rose quartz at his feet and whipped it across the swiftly running water. Bloody hell. How could he have been so wrong? Logic told him this was the most likely place for the English to be hiding... So where was Giric? The rock bounced off the wall of stone on the other side of the burn and dropped into the foaming water. But it didn’t disappear into the depths as Bran had expected. Once the splash receded, he could still see the rock clear as a summer day, its pink shimmer no more than an inch or two below the surface.
He crouched, peering into the dark water as it sluiced through the narrow chasm.
Sure enough, a flat ridge of rock followed the wall of shale just under the surface, wide enough for a horse. If they stayed close to the edge, they could walk around the huge column of shale that hid the rest of the stream from view. As for what lay beyond that? Only discovery would tell.
