What a Lass Wants by Rowan Keats

firelit center of the camp, Caitrina’s sister was dragged out of one tent, across the muddy field, and into another. Bran was too far away to see faces, but the stiff reluctance evident in the girl’s shoulders and the sharp yanks the soldier made on her arm put his teeth on edge. Something unpleasant was about to transpire.
    He had to get closer.
    Bran swiftly counted the men visible in the camp. Five, if he included the fellow who had just escorted Marsailli into the tent. Six others were patrolling the perimeter. That left one unaccounted for, if Dougal’s original assessment was accurate. One soldier who was likely inside the tent with the leader.
    A loud male voice raged from the tent.
    The words were indistinguishable, but the fury that shook every syllable gave wings to Bran’s feet. A man with such anger bottled inside him would find some way to unleash it. Bran dove for the soldier closest to him, unsheathing the dirk at his belt as he ran. A man wearing a mail hauberk was protected against attack, save for in two places: the loins and the neck. Reaching the loins required an adroit knife thrust up and under the hem of the hauberk. The neck was a much easier target.
    The man was seated on a fallen log.
    Bran swiftly silenced him and dragged his body back into the shadows. Four more to go. The three huddled around the fire would be the true test of his skills. But the one tending the horses would be an easy—
    “No!”
    The desperate cry froze Bran’s blood. He knew that sound—he’d heard it before. Once. In a dark wynd in Edinburgh. It was the hopeless plea of a lass who believed she was doomed. He was out of time. If he didn’t intervene right now, Caitrina’s sister would be ruined or dead.
    He grabbed the dead soldier’s sword, spun on his heel, and raced for the rear of the tent where Marsailliwas being held. A decisive slice of his dirk parted the canvas, and he stepped inside. The scene was just as he’d imagined—the lass was pinned to a pallet by a very large scar-faced man, who had turned his head at the sound of ripping canvas.
    Bran pointed his sword at the man’s naked back. “On your feet.”
    The lout ran a finger down Marsailli’s tearstained face. “I do not answer to nameless curs, especially in my own tent.”
    “As long as you are on Clackmannan land,” Bran said, “you answer to me. My name is Marshal Gordon, and my soldiers surround your camp even as we speak.”
    The man made no attempt to stand. Instead, he kissed the lass’s cheek. “You overstep your bounds, Marshal. Even the king has no right to interfere in the matters between a man and his wife.”
    Marsailli’s pale, thin arm, visible beneath the man’s large body, trembled violently.
    “The lass appears unwilling,” Bran noted. “You’ve proof, I trust, of this union between you?”
    The man threw him a scowl. “I have twelve men who will vouch for me.”
    Eleven men, actually. Bran shook his head. “I’ll need more than statements from your men. This lass is a Scot, and as such, is owed my full protection. I assume the vows were made before a church?”
    Rising to his feet, the big man faced him, quite unabashed by his state of undress. The scar across his cheek formed a ragged line from the edge of his mouthto his mangled ear. Caitrina’s Giric, no doubt. “Nay, they were made here, just moments ago.”
    Bran grabbed a blanket and tossed it to Marsailli. “Moments ago, I heard a man’s voice raised in anger and a woman’s plea for rescue.”
    “A marriage in Scotland is made by mutual consent,” Giric said, dismissing Bran’s comments with a wave of his hand. “By law, the word of a man and his wife is proof of the union. So, ask the girl to verify my tale. Ask her to confirm that we are wed.”
    Bran glanced at Marsailli. The girl was cowering beneath the woolen throw, still shaking badly. Her word
should
be enough—but her fear made her an unreliable witness. She was a captive in Giric’s