“You?”
She nodded, wringing her hands. “I could not continue to keep the crown, not once I knew its importance. My deepest apologies, but it rightfully belongs to the MacCurrans and I must see it returned.”
He took a step back. “You sent them a message? When?”
“Two days ago.”
Bran stared at her for a long moment. Then he suddenly turned and ordered the other soldiers and stable lads, “Out. All of you.”
His voice was cold and hard, quite unlike the Bran she knew so well. Her gaze traced the stiff lines of his shoulders and the angry cant of his head. He felt betrayed. Quite understandable.
She waited until they were alone, and then said softly, “I will tell them the thief is long gone. That he hid the crown in the stables and I found it. They need never know you are here.”
He spun slowly to face her. “You kept this from me.”
Caitrina swallowed tightly and nodded.
“Even as we made love.”
A point well taken. Intimacy at such a moment implied a certain level of trust—trust she had abused. “I did not know how to tell you. The crown is important to you. I know that.”
He shook his head. “You know nothing.”
“You need coin to buy the loyalty of the castle guards, not the crown. I can help with that.”
“That may be true,” he said quietly. “But the point is that you did not trust me with your concerns. You did not believe that a thief could be party to such a decision, and you sent a message in secret. That tells me far more about your true opinion than you likely intended.”
“Nay,” she disputed. “You judge my opinion unfairly. I do trust you. I swear it.”
“It hardly matters now, does it? What’s done is done.”
“The crown belongs to the MacCurrans.”
He nodded. “And it shall be returned to them. Fetch it, please.”
She frowned. Perhaps she hadn’t been clear. “You cannot be present when I hand it over. They will surely recognize you as the thief.”
“Fetch it,” he repeated.
Caitrina crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re being difficult. I made the arrangements, and I will be the one to relinquish the crown. You’ll remain inside. If you’ll not agree, then I’ll not fetch the crown.”
“You say that you trust me,” he said. “And yet your actions defy your words.”
His comment was a stab to her chest. It was true, at least in part. She wanted to trust him, but she was leery of what he would do if she gave him the crown. There was a chance he would take the crown and run, but she suspected the more likely scenario was that he would do the foolishly honorable thing and take the crown to the MacCurrans. So, nay, she did not trust him. Not to follow her plan to hand over the crown and lie about the thief.
But his words made her sound so cold and cruel. So unfaithful.
“All right,” she said. “I will get the crown.”
“Be quick,” he urged. “The MacCurrans are not known for their patience.”
She returned to her room and retrieved a wooden box from the bottom of her clothing chest. It was one of several boxes designed to hold satin shoes without crushing them. Inside the box was a velvet bag, and inside the bag lay the silver crown. She did not open it, or explain to the other ladies what she was retrieving. She simply scurried from the room and returned to the stables.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the velvet bag into Bran’s hands. “Now we shall see what my trust begets.”
Taking the crown, he tucked it into a leather satchel on his mount’s saddle. “Some say trust is a weakness.”
When he turned to face her, she retorted, “They say the same about love.”
