What a Lass Wants by Rowan Keats Page A

camp, surrounded by his soldiers. What would she say if he asked? “I should like a moment with her alone.”
    A thunderous frown descended on Giric’s brow. “Absolutely not. No man shall be alone with my wife, save I.”
    There it was, then—Bran had no choice but to ask Marsailli for the truth and let her words fall where they may. He crouched beside the pallet. “Lass,” he said softly. He tried and failed to meet her gaze. “I swear I will protect you with my life, should you need it. Tell me the truth. Did you willingly wed this man, or no?”
    *   *   *
    It was late when Caitrina descended the stairs to the great hall. The evening meal had been cleared away and only a handful of gillies remained at work, banking the fire in the hearth and dousing most of the candles. Bran was seated near the hearth, with an ale in hand and a heavy frown upon his brow.
    As she approached, he stood and poured her an ale.
    “What did you determine?” she asked, accepting the cup he offered.
    “The situation is complicated,” he said.
    “How so?”
    “Sit,” he said, tapping the back of a wooden chair.
    She sat. His frown had knotted her belly. He looked far too serious. “Is it not a matter of sneaking into the camp and stealing her away?”
    “Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Sir Giric is claiming Marsailli is his wife.”
    “That’s preposterous! My sister would never agree to wed that wretch.” And Giric despised Scots. He’d never marry one. Of that, Caitrina was certain. “It’s a lie.”
    Bran nodded. “I’ve no doubt of that. The problem is, your sister will no speak against him. Indeed, she won’t say aught at all.” He paused. “Unfortunately, this matter is no longer a quiet affair, to be handled by you and me. I was forced to involve the constable.”
    Her heart sank. If the queen caught wind of her involvement, all her efforts to redeem her family’s honor and restore their place in society would be for naught. “Why?”
    “When I arrived at the camp, Giric was attempting to force himself on Marsailli.”
    Caitrina went cold all over. “Dear god.”
    “My entrance was timely,” he said hastily. “She is safe, for now.”
    Her hand flattened against her chest, a rather pointless attempt to calm her fluttering heart. “Thankheaven.” Her gaze lifted to his. “Or rather, thank
you
. If you’d been even a few minutes later—”
    “She is safe,” he repeated, with a faint smile. “Dougal has placed two men in Giric’s camp, tasked with ensuring her safety until we resolve the matter of his claim.”
    “Does Dougal know Marsailli is my sister?”
    “Nay, Giric said nothing of her relation to you. He claims she is the daughter of a Lowland cottar and that she ran away with him.”
    A convenient lie. For both of them. “What shall we do now?”
    “We need Marsailli to speak. To dismiss Giric’s claim.”
    Caitrina briefly closed her eyes, imagining her sister’s sweet disposition and the effect Giric’s attack would have had. “I’m sure she’s too frightened to speak. She believes he will kill her if she dares to naysay him.”
    “Aye.”
    Caitrina grabbed Bran’s hand. His warm, strong, reassuring hand. It didn’t bear imagining what would have transpired had he not aided her. What would have happened to Marsailli. “I must meet with her, convince her to utter the truth. If she tells Dougal she’s not Giric’s wife, she’ll be free.”
    He gently squeezed her fingers. “It won’t be that easy, lass. Giric will no allow you to walk into his camp and take Marsailli back, no without a fight. If he loses his hold over you, he fails King Edward. From what I’ve heard, incurring the wrath of Longshanks is a sureway to see your head roll. Giric will do everything in his power to prevent that.”
    Caitrina swallowed. The situation had swiftly spun out of control, much faster than she could have imagined. She had hoped to steal Marsailli quietly from the camp and then