Nay. Running was not an option.
Did he not pride himself on his ability to fool almost anyone? Well, here was his chance to make good on his boasts. If he could convince the royal steward that he was indeed Marshal Gordon—without the support of official letters of patent—he would truly be a charlatan of legend.
Eventually, he would be unmasked—all it would take was the return of Marshal Finlay—but every additional day he spent in Caitrina’s company would be worth the risk. And even one more warrior might turn the tide in the battle against Giric.
He tucked the parchment away and twisted in his saddle to face his men.
“The lord steward has joined the queen at Clackmannan,” he told them. “Let us ride swiftly to warn them of the English attack and add weight to the manor defenses.”
They spurred their mounts and cantered toward the manor, making good time. They arrived at the gates before sunset. As he dismounted in the close, he sent a lad for Lady Caitrina. “Please ask the lady if she would spare me a moment,” he told him.
She appeared at the top of the steps only moments later, a worried frown upon her delicate brow. “Did you not receive my message, Marshal?”
“I did,” he acknowledged.
Descending the steps, she joined him in the close. “Then I’m at a loss,” she admitted.
Although his arms itched with a fierce desire to gather her near, Bran did the proper thing and merely smiled. “Thanks to your message, I am fully prepared to update the royal steward,” he said.
Her gaze met his, her eyes suddenly hopeful. “Is the Englishman defeated?”
“Nay,” Bran said. “He has gathered additional soldiers, and we found ourselves outnumbered.” Knowing the question that must be burning in her thoughts, he added, “It appears he still has several ladies in his camp. We must do what we can to ensure they are not caught in the middle of our conflict.”
“Do you have a plan?”
He nodded. “I do, and I promise that as it becomes more firm, I will share the details. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to keep the queen safe.”
As one of the stable lads led his horse away, she asked quietly, “What do you intend to tell the royal steward?”
“I will reassure him of my qualifications.”
Her eyes darkened with worry. “He has already inquired about your credentials.”
“Well,” said Bran, smiling faintly, “he has proven himself a very discerning fellow. We would expect that from a man so close to the queen, would we not?” He tucked his gloves into his belt. “I shall find dry clothes and then meet him in the great hall.”
She nodded slowly. “As you wish.”
He offered her his arm. “Shall we trade this dreich for the warmth of the hearth?”
She laid her hand on his damp sleeve.
“Aye, lead on.”
Chapter 10
There was a large gathering of folk in the great hall when Caitrina descended the stairs for the evening meal. Unlike the queen, who had spent the vast majority of her time confined to her bed, the royal steward was eager to sample all of the food and entertainment the custodians of Clackmannan were capable of preparing. The high table was covered in an expanse of white linen and every chair had been assigned. With the presence of additional nobles, Caitrina, being untitled, found herself seated at one of the lower tables, sharing her meal with a handful of senior villagers and their ladies. She had just taken her seat opposite the reeve’s wife when Bran entered.
The sight of him stole her breath away.
His dark gold hair, loosely flowing down his back, shimmered in the candlelight—a perfect foil for his strong chin and long nose. With a crimson doublet laced over his cream lèine and a pair of black trews covering his legs, he looked every bit the part of a nobleman. Few men in the hall could compete with his bonnie appearance, including the resplendent royal steward, who wore forest green trimmed with beaver.
Caitrina bit her lip as Bran audaciously stepped to the high table, gave a short bow, and introduced himself to the steward.
“Giles Gordon, my lord.” As the royal steward turned to him with a frown, he added, “We met once in Edinburgh, several years ago. I’m not certain you will remember.”
The royal steward’s eyes narrowed and he peered at Bran closely through the smoky haze of the room. “I don’t recall,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so good as to refresh my memory?”
Bran smiled. “Of course. It was the Yule after Queen Margaret’s passing. A quiet affair in the great hall. My uncle, Sir Thomas de Gordon, introduced us.”
