What a Lass Wants by Rowan Keats Page B

renegotiate her terms with Giric. But now disaster loomed on all fronts. If she left her sister in Giric’s hands, Marsailli faced rape. If she set her free, Giric would retaliate and a bloody battle would ensue. Men would die. And even if Dougal’s men triumphed in said battle, there was a very good chance the Bear would name Caitrina as an accomplice in his crimes.
    Dear lord. What was she to do?
    She offered Bran a teary smile. “Then what?”
    He cupped her chin and wiped her tears away with his thumb. “Let me dwell on it. Marsailli is safe for now. I vow that I will find some way to set her free. Just give me time.”
    She leaned into his hand. Now would be a fine moment to tell him about the Guardians, but losing Bran would destroy her. When her maither had passed, the burden of making a life for her and Marsailli had fallen upon her shoulders. And that burden was overwhelming now. “You have my faith, and more.”
    The gillies had all bedded down for the night, and the great hall was a dark haven save for one torch bracketed on the wall next to the door and another next to the stairs. The banked fire in the hearth gave off only the faintest orange glow, and Caitrina took advantage of the soft lighting. She slid to the edge of her seat, moving forward until their knees touched.
    Layers of cloth separated them, but that didn’t stophot tingles from running up her legs to her most private parts. By god. Even his knees felt strong and sure. “You are a much better man than you would have the world believe,” she said quietly, brushing an errant lock of his hair away from his face so she could better gaze upon his firm cheekbones and deep brown eyes. He had remarkably long eyelashes for a man. “In the space of a day, you’ve twice saved me from harm and once thwarted an attack on my sister.”
    He stayed the movements of her hand with his.
    “Lass,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m not the man you think me to be.”
    The warmth of his hand on hers was quite enjoyable, but she found herself wanting more. Much more. Starting with another kiss. Strangely, the knowledge that someone in the great hall might wake up and notice only added intensity to her desire. “So it wasn’t you who did those things?”
    “My sins far outweigh what few good deeds I’ve done.”
    Caitrina leaned in, breathing deep of his male scent—a heady mix of pine and leather and that spice that was uniquely Bran. “I’m well aware of your sins. I know, for example, that they include kissing unwed ladies in dark places.” She pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth, tasting the slight saltiness of his skin and the rasp of his growing beard.
    He grabbed her arms and pushed her away.
    “Cease,” he said gruffly. “That kiss was an error in judgment. One I do not intend to repeat.”
    “Why not?” she asked. “It was quite delightful.”
    “Because sinful men don’t stop at kisses.”
    Caitrina’s pulse quickened. “Perhaps I don’t want you to stop.”
    “Your future husband surely does.”
    She sat back, smiling ruefully. “That future husband does not exist. No man is interested in wedding the daughter of a man outlawed for murder, especially one with no lands or title to her name.”
    Bran arched an eyebrow. “Your father murdered a man?”
    “Not just any man,” she said, with a short laugh. All she had of her father were a few hazy memories, but her chest still ached when she spoke of him. “A favorite cousin of King Edward. Inside a church, no less. My papa managed to enrage the crown and the pope with one single act of revenge.” There’d been no safe place for him then. Forced to abandon his family, he’d wandered the world until the day he died. But that was not a tale for tonight. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “So, there is no husband waiting for me to arrive chaste and pure at the church door.”
    “Your reputation cannot be as poor as you say,” he disputed, rising to his