Stewart frowned. “I remember the evening and my conversation with Sir Thomas, but I confess I do not recall you, sir.”
Bran shrugged. “You may recall his comment upon my introduction. I believe he called me ‘a blight upon the Gordon name.’”
Stewart’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “I do recall that comment. Sir Thomas has always lacked a measure of tact. He’d taken issue with your reluctance to take a wife, as I recall. Have you since remedied that?”
Bran shook his head. “Regretfully, I am still unwed.”
Stewart patted him on the back and ushered him toward a chair. “That’s a situation that swiftly must be set aright. Are there no suitable ladies in Feldrinny?”
“An estate owned by monks suffers a dearth of fine feminine company, I’m afraid,” Bran said, taking the seat next to Lady Martine with a smile.
As the tables settled into the meal, Caitrina struggled to keep her gaze on her companions. Even though their histories were intriguing and their travels far-reaching, her attention kept drifting to the high table, where Bran was engaged in avid conversation with Martine. Again, he proved quite the raconteur. His stories kept the table amused for several hours, and his compliments kept Lady Martine in an almost constant state of pink-cheeked blush.
Jealousy knotted Caitrina’s belly.
She had never felt such an intense desire to trade places with another woman. But, at that moment, she would have given every jewel she possessed to be seated next to Bran, basking in the warmth of his charming smiles.
How very foolish. She knew he was a fraud—that every word leaving his glib tongue was likely a lie—but that didn’t tame the burning want in her gut. Or silence the fierce whispers in her mind that claimed,He’s mine.
“Have you any children, Lady Caitrina?” her dinner companion asked.
She glanced at him. Sir Murdoch of Inverary. A handsome enough fellow, for an older man. Probably a popular courtier, in his day. If his stories were true, he’d once been captain of King Alexander’s guard. “Nay,” she said. “I’m not yet wed.”
“I have three daughters,” he said. “The eldest is eight.”
“How lovely,” she said, peering around his large shoulders for a glimpse of Bran.
When the meal was finally ended, after a raucous round of toasts to the queen, Caitrina climbed the stairs to her rooms, weary and exhausted. The men had remained behind, still quaffing copious amounts of ale and regaling one another with tales of their conquests, both on and off the battlefield.
Having miraculously passed the royal steward’s identity test, Bran was welcomed into the midst of the courtiers with open arms. How he’d come up with that tale of Sir Thomas, she had no clue. Nor did it matter. Apparently, being called “a blight upon the family name” was an endearing feature.
Caitrina stopped by the drapery-hung platform bed to wish the queen a good night, then crossed to her pallet and accepted the help of her maid in exchanging her gown for a night rail.
She had worried for naught, it would seem. Bran was a consummate liar.
She doused her candle and lay down on her pallet, grimacing. What else had the man lied about? His feelings for her, perchance? If he was capable of pulling the wool over the royal steward’s eyes, he was surely capable of gulling a simple lass from the Highlands. No one at the high table had doubted his identity, not for a moment.
Lying there in the dark, listening to the soft snores of the other ladies, Caitrina slowly became enraged. She’d given her maidenhood to a silver-tongued bounder—to a man who had just spent the entire night complimenting another woman, never once looking her way. Did he think so little of her that his attentions could be so easily redirected? She had thought him a better man than that.
Caitrina tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally, she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. There was only one way to quiet her turbulent thoughts—she needed to speak with Bran.
Slipping her toes into her silk slippers, she rose from the bed and gathered her brat. Once again, she excused herself to the guards at the door with a tale of visiting the garderobe and scurried down the hall.
There was a light under Bran’s door, so she gently knocked and waited. Moments later, the door swung open and he stood before her bare chested and clad only in his braies. She opened her mouth to explain her presence, but he simply yanked her into the room and closed the door. Pressing her back against the thick wooden planks of the portal, he took her head in both hands and proceeded to kiss her as if he’d been imagining this kiss all night.
Caitrina’s indignation melted away under the heat of the embrace.
With his lips on hers, his tongue sweeping the inside of her mouth in a daring dance of desire and his hands caressing her curves with light but loving touches, Caitrina lost all sense of time. She found herself hungrily returning every kiss and wanting more. Had he not broken off the embrace and stepped back, she might well have let him take her right there against the door.
He scowled at her. “Who was that large man you were seated next to at dinner?”
Caitrina stared. “Sir Murdoch?”
“Is that his name? Was he truly as entertaining as you made him out to be?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You laughed at everything he said.”
