Page 15 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)

Ch apter Fourteen

Grief

Catriona approached Brackenburgh with Greystoke’s mercenary group as her personal guard. Branan’s threat of death if they failed in their duty hung over their heads. She was not allowed to go anywhere outside of Brackenburgh without an armed escort.

Greystoke rode easily beside her, his men ranging around them in a loose diamond formation, and she discovered he was an intelligent and highly educated young man who enjoyed good conversation. “I have found,” he said, when Catriona asked him about the formation, “this grouping is very fluid and works extremely well for quick adjustments, depending on what challenges we face. With me riding beside you, I can take control of your horse if I need to.”

Catriona arched an eyebrow at him.

Greystoke chuckled. “Although, I strongly doubt I will have to do that. It also doesn’t hurt that attackers have a tendency to ignore me in this position, believing I’m preoccupied with my ward. That opportunity allows me to relieve them of their heads before they know what’s coming.”

“An interesting strategy, Sir Greystoke.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He fell silent for a moment, his expression pensive.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…I fear you may think me too forward…but…” He drew a deep breath and sighed. “You know I was at Brackenburgh during Strickland’s attack.”

She shivered. “Honestly, Sir Greystoke…”

“Nay,” he replied. “I know that was a terrible day for you, but I did see your archery skills firsthand. My lady, you were quite impressive.”

She gave him a halfhearted smile. “Thank you, Sir Greystoke.”

He smiled and nodded .

Brackenburgh loomed closer and Catriona rubbed her temples.

“Are you feeling all right, my lady?”

“Nay,” she said tightly. “The closer I get, the worse my headache gets.”

“Aye. Please tell me if it becomes too much for you.”

Unfortunately, Catriona’s conversation with Greystoke did not distract her for very long. Her heart ached at leaving Branan behind. Last night, he had briefly toyed with the idea of disguising himself as a mercenary in order to oversee her arrival, but ultimately decided against it. Tears blurred her eyes. She felt utterly alone—more so than when she stood at the doors of the chapel and exchanged vows with Richard. But the handfasting ceremony with Branan last night had been beautiful and poignant. Needless to say, Catriona did not get much sleep, both of them knowing they would not see each other again for a long time.

Catriona’s stomach curled into a sickening knot as she entered the bailey. Her head pounded mercilessly. She saw Edmund and several servants standing at the base of the stairs. Her hands suddenly felt clammy and sweaty. The realization that she knew no one struck her. Catriona had no friends here...she had left everyone behind. She had only exchanged meaningless pleasantries with Edmund and a chambermaid.

As much as Catriona wanted to haul her horse around and gallop out of the gates, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, determined to face the challenges before her with courage.

Edmund grinned broadly as she pulled her horse to a stop He quickly moved to assist her, the mercenaries allowing him to pass unquestioned.

“My lady, ‘tis wonderful to see you. I trust your tour went well?”

“That it did, Edmund.”

“Excellent, my lady.” He offered her his arm. “You have returned at a precipitous time. If you are not too weary from your journey, there is someone here who seeks audience with you. I fear it is quite urgent.”

They stepped away from the horses and toward the stairs, Greystoke and one of his men flanking them.

“Of course, Edmund. Allow me to get cleaned up and I shall receive him this evening.”

“My lady,” a young man said. He wore expensive finery as befitted his station. He would have been reasonably good-looking except for a peculiar dent in his nose as if it had been badly broken at one time. A law cleric involved in fisticuffs? Perhaps it had happened before he joined the church. Among the nobility, unless the lands were extensive, the firstborn son would gain the inheritance, leaving second and third sons with nothing, so they often entered the church. The young man pushed his way forward and rudely stepped into Catriona’s path, forcing her to stop.

The ring of steel sounded and two swords suddenly appeared out of nowhere, crossed in front of Catriona and blocking the man’s advance. She nearly leaped backward, they startled her so badly. But she realized Greystoke meant his words. The young man had intruded and her guards would not allow him to get within arm’s reach of her.

As startled as she had been, the young man was even more so. He staggered backward, his face draining of color. “What is the meaning of this?”

Sir Greystoke stepped forward. His expression was flat and his body bowed as if with rage. He spoke calmly, but Catriona realized his jaw was clenched so tightly it was a miracle he could form the words. There was something here she was not seeing. A knight as professional as Greystoke would not demonstrate such anger in the face of a bumbling sod who stepped on etiquette.

“My lord, you will maintain a respectful distance from the lady.”

“I am on urgent business on behalf of the bishop’s court. This cannot wait.”

“You will wait until my lady is prepared to grant you an audience.”

“Who do you think you are? This is outrageous! Once my superiors hear of this—”

Edmund discretely whispered in Catriona’s ear. “His lordship, Rhys of Gloucester, law cleric for the bishop.”

“Hear of what, your lordship?” Catriona snapped. She did not move from behind her two guards, suddenly grateful they were there. “Will they hear how Strickland attacked and murdered my husband the night of my wedding? How I barely escaped with my life?” She felt tears burning in her eyes. “Will they hear how after the attack, my household garrison did not have enough men to guard the walls? I certainly hope they hear of it in detail! Do you have any idea what it is like having the sword of Damocles hanging over my head every time I set foot on the king’s road? These guards are not just a luxury, your lordship. If I wish to continue breathing, they are a necessity.” She looked up at Greystoke. “My thanks to you, sir.”

“You are most welcome, my lady.” He hesitated and whispered something to the knight who stood guard at her other side. Catriona did not catch his words, but she heard the urgency. The knight nodded once and barked a command to another mercenary. He moved out of the way as the man took his place. He then sprinted back to his horse before the page could lead it away.

Confused at his odd behavior, Catriona looked up at Greystoke in surprise when he again spoke to her. “May I escort you inside? I am sure you would like to refresh yourself after your journey.”

Sir Greystoke pushed past the outraged law cleric and led the way up the stairs. Edmund remained beside her, her hand still light upon his arm. The replacement guard fell in step behind, and the remaining three mercenaries stood and glared at the law cleric, as if they were a pack of wolves and he nothing more than a rack of meat. For a moment, Catriona thought the cleric might try to follow, but he thought better of it.

“Overstuffed, pompous arse,” Catriona muttered under her breath.

Greystoke choked and shot a glance at her over his shoulder. Catriona realized he had just bitten back a laugh and Edmund was staring at her wide-eyed.

She purposefully gazed at Greystoke with an innocent expression. He tried to keep a straight face, but suddenly barked a laugh, his blue eyes sparkling merrily. “My lady, I should be paying you for the honor of witnessing that.”

Catriona finally allowed herself to smile, hoping that with people around her like Greystoke and Edmund, she wouldn’t be so lonely. “Nay, Sir Greystoke I’m increasing your stipend. If this is any indication of the troubles awaiting me at Brackenburgh, you and your mercenaries will earn every farthing.”

“Thank you, my lady, but it is not necessary.”

Her humor faded as quickly as it came. “Nay, Greystoke, it will be. Trust me. Strickland is only getting started and no doubt will do everything in his power to make my life a living hell.”

****

Hours later, Catriona sat in her chair in the great hall and tried not to stare at the empty one beside her. The horror of that night came roaring back as clearly as if it had happened only moments ago. She fought to still her shaking hands. Catriona had not wanted to marry Richard; she had not loved him, he had a lightning quick temper when provoked, and at times could be obnoxiously overbearing. But the week before her wedding, when Richard had returned to Thistlewood, he had been polite and kind. On her wedding day, he had been gracious, especially in her regard. He said he knew Branan loved her. Catriona wondered how much of his kindness was due to the fact he understood how hard it was for her to say good-bye and become another man’s wife. Richard had his faults, but in his heart he was a good man.

She had only caused him grief with her stubborn foolishness, and then she had caused his death. If she had not distracted him with the trap door when he was trying to defend her… Catriona swallowed hard. Gavin and Branan had begged her to break the betrothal, and in retrospect, she realized that’s exactly what she should have done. If Catriona had listened to them and broken the betrothal, there was a chance Richard would be alive right now.

Catriona sighed miserably, tears pushing into her eyes. Her head ached and a chill seemed to grip the core of her being. She couldn’t get warm, even though the temperature was comfortable in the great hall. Catriona battled to regain control of her rampant emotions. People filled the great hall to capacity. She dare not cry in public. But her shaking increased, the room spun around her, and she felt her control slipping.

“My lady,” Edmund whispered. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. An unseen force drew her gaze inexorably back to Richard’s chair. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Dear God, nay! She was going to fall apart in a storm of tears. Catriona longed for Branan. Why wasn’t he here? She needed to feel his arms around her. She needed his strength in the face of her weakness.

“What’s wrong?” Greystoke whispered to Edmund. “The herald is preparing to open court.”

Edmund urged her to rise, helping her to her feet. “I should have realized this would be too much for her.” He escorted her across the dais to the step.

“Is it your desire for me to invalidate this marriage?” a voice barked.

Catriona froze on the steps, her head bowed, her body trembling violently.

“Gloucester,” Greystoke snapped. “Shut up before I shove my sword down your throat.”

Catriona stared at him. Never had she imagined Greystoke would say something so rude. It was the antithesis of everything he and his group represented.

“Can’t you see she is still grieving?” he continued. “She was widowed only hours after speaking her vows. She saw her husband murdered on what should have been the most joyous day of her life.”

Her control snapped like rotted wood. Sobs wrenched through her, nearly buckling her knees. If it had not been for Edmund holding her arm, she would have collapsed. Hearing the blatant words, each and every one of them true, made it real. It was as if memory became a physical object and struck her more powerfully than any weapon.

If only she hadn’t distracted Richard, if only she had held her sharp tongue, his attention would have remained focused on the knight before him. Instead Richard had died because of her.

Edmund tried to hustle Catriona off the stairs, to get her out of the room before the painful words could destroy what little strength she had left. But somehow she managed to stop her feet. Her head throbbed, her ears rang, and dizziness assailed her. She couldn’t run from this. She had to find her courage. Catriona had to put an end to this before the law cleric really did invalidate her marriage.

Edmund gazed at her in concern then pressed the back of his fingers against her cheek. His eyes widened. “My lady, you are fevered.”

She frowned at him.

“My lady, you are ill. No doubt that is why you are struggling.”

“There was no bedding ceremony,” Gloucester snapped, jerking her attention back to him. “No one can corroborate that the marriage was ever consummated.”

“Your lordship,” Edmund said, “I told you the chambermaid brought me the evidence when she cleaned my lord’s solar the next morning.”

“And you still have not shown it to me.”

“I also told you I would grant you a private audience.”

“What do you fear that you wish to hide the truth?”

Oh, dear God, nay! This couldn't be happening. Catriona’s thoughts raced, but she couldn’t grab a single one. How could she respond? What should she say? Her anguish wrapped around her mind.

“Here,” a female voice cried. Catriona saw a bloodstained bed linen held up for all to see.

“Oh God,” she gasped. Humiliation completely possessed her. She felt her skin burning as she covered her face with her hands. She no longer fought the sobs wrenching through her. What was the point? She would never be able to set foot in Brackenburgh’s hall again. Her knees buckled and she sank onto the stairs.

The hall echoed with hoots and catcalls, shouts and laughter roared in her ears, but over the din, Catriona heard Edmund and Greystoke bellowing at the fool chit to put the damned thing away. Catriona risked a quick glance at the law cleric. He watched her for a moment, his gloating smile growing broader by the moment.

“Why?” Catriona screamed at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Damnation!” a voice roared, silencing everyone in the hall.

Catriona jumped violently and looked to the door. A giant shadow stood in the frame, blocking most of the light. She fought to blink away the tears clouding her vision. His outline was broad-shouldered, his chest massive, leading down to a narrow waist and long legs. He stepped forward into the torchlight of the hall. His long black hair streamed around his shoulders. His sea-green eyes blazed with a rage he barely held in check.

Branan’s gaze stopped immediately on Catriona. “What the devil is going on here?” Branan strode to the chit who still held the bloody linen and grabbed it from her. “Your duties are at an end here,” he growled. “Get out, now.”

The girl didn’t hesitate, but ran as if the hounds of hell snapped at her heels.

When Branan moved away from the door, Gavin and soldiers from Thistlewood entered. The mercenary Greystoke had spoken to followed. Then Beth sprinted through, looking frantically around the keep. She spotted Catriona and ran to her.

“Saints have mercy,” Beth said, hugging her tightly. “Catriona, are you all right?”

Catriona could only sob against her friend’s shoulder.

*** *

Catriona’s tears twisted Branan’s gut and threatened to ignite his rage. How dare these sods torment her? He had stood at the door long enough to hear and see most of what happened. Branan drew a deep breath, trying to master the demon within him. It had been too soon, he belatedly realized. Returning Catriona to Brackenburgh so quickly had not given her enough time to come to terms with de Courcy’s murder. As he watched Beth try to calm her, Branan realized his second error. He had returned Catriona to face the agony alone—no friends to stand with her, nothing.

Branan approached the dais and crouched, his hand gently caressing Catriona’s hair, but she was lost to her grief. “Beth,” he murmured. “Take her above-stairs to the ladies’ solar.”

“Aye, MacTavish,” Beth replied, but Branan knew the lass was not happy with his error and that Catriona suffered for his choices. “Teach these fool sods a lesson.”

“I plan on it, lassie.”

Giving him a ghost of a smile, she helped Catriona to her feet and escorted her above-stairs. Branan turned to Edmund and handed him the bed linen. “Lock this away where no one but ye can reach it. Because there was no bedding ceremony, we may yet need it, but I vow Catriona willna suffer this embarrassment again.”

Edmund nodded, his expression agonized. “I pray for your forgiveness, MacTavish.”

“I do not blame ye,” Branan said. “’Twas my own mistake. I neglected to consider Catriona’s heartbreak. She blames herself for de Courcy’s death.”

“Herself?” Edmund asked in disbelief.

“I didna allow her enough time to grieve.” Branan sighed heavily, but he knew he had to deal with the law cleric first. “Edmund, I mean to bring this to a stop now. Catriona is a strong willed and fiery spirit, but she shouldna have to bear such malice alone. Last night I swore before God and a priest that I would protect her body and soul.”

“Married?” he gasped.

“Nay, not yet, but we will be when this is over. Last night, we were handfasted in the Scots tradition.”

Edmund’s eyes nearly popped from his skull. Suddenly, he bowed. “I will serve you and your lady faithfully for as long as you would have me.”

“I ken I could count on ye, Edmund.”

Voices and mutterings rumbled through the hall, growing in strength. Except for the servants and the law cleric, the people in the hall were minor nobles, travelers, and merchants, come to share in the trade and commerce Brackenburgh hosted. They had no idea who Branan was or why he was here—only that he had defended a lady grief-stricken over the murder of her new husband, just as chivalry demanded.

Branan knew he was about to take an action that once made would forever set his path. There would be no going back. He gazed at the stairs Catriona had ascended. Branan just prayed she would forgive him. Before he could question himself, he turned and strode purposefully across the dais. Branan drew his claymore and sat in de Courcy’s chair, leaning the weapon against it, just as he would have done in his keep in Scotland.

Shocked voices rose in exclamation.

He sat for a moment to make sure all eyes were upon him. Then he drew a deep breath. “Silence!” he roared.

The only thing to be heard was the soft pop and crackle of the fire in the giant hearth.

Branan’s gaze scanned the crowd, acknowledging no one, but ignoring nothing. The silence grew heavy.

“I am the MacTavish,” he said, his voice rumbling like an ominous storm through the hall. “Son of Raulf and Raina MacTavish, true heir to the Wardenship of Inglewood, and master of Brackenburgh by right of handfast to the lady Catriona de Courcy. I am here to claim my birthright and bring to heel the usurper who murdered my father, who slew my mother, and who threatens to crush my people under his boot.” Branan paused and leaned forward, as if he would explode from the chair and attack at any moment. “My sword will be the instrument of God’s justice. Strickland will answer for his crimes by my hand.”

Fearful murmurs rose again. The law cleric turned to leave.

“I thought your business was urgent,” Greystoke growled and clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder, stopping his flight. “The MacTavish would have a word with you.” He shoved the man toward Branan.

“How dare you lay a hand on a man of the church!”

Branan steepled his fingers in front of him, regarding the law cleric critically. He had been stunned when one of Greystoke’s men returned to Thistlewood with news Strickland had reached into Brackenburgh in a way they never expected. His gaze jumped to Greystoke as the young knight prodded the law cleric forward. Branan thanked God for him and the fact he had thought to send a man back to Thistlewood. Greystoke was experienced, a powerful fighter. He had a good head and a good heart. Branan would be proud to call a man of his caliber his friend.

“You are making a mistake,” the law cleric cried.

“Nay,” Greystoke muttered. “You are the one who has made a grievous error.”

“I will invalidate this marriage! The lady will lose everything!”

“Nay,” Branan said. “She willna lose anything. For ye havena the authority to take it from her.”

“Warden Strickland petitioned the bishop’s court— ”

“I have no doubt he did,” Branan snapped. He spotted the scroll case with the bishop’s writ sitting on the chair Catriona had vacated. Branan picked it up and withdrew the parchment. “The markings on the scroll case are accurate and correctly placed,” Branan said, his voice disinterested. “The writ is valid and signed by the bishop. His seal is genuine.” Branan’s relaxed manner vanished as he leaned forward in his chair. “You, Lord Rhys of Gloucester, are not.”

The man’s face lost all color, but he summoned his courage, fully intending to play the ruse to its bitter end. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He stepped forward, his fists clenched.

In the time it took Branan to blink, Greystoke’s blade appeared at the man’s throat, gleaming sharp and deadly. Alarmed shouts filled the hall. The law cleric’s eyes widened in fear. He froze, not daring to move.

Branan caught Greystoke’s eye and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

“I know you,” Greystoke said, his voice deadly in its softness.

Branan thought the man’s face could not lose any more color, but it did.

“I recognized you the moment you stepped in the lady’s path,” Greystoke continued. “Last year, you were one of the men accompanying Strickland and his bastard as they collected their tithes and taxes. It was my home you came to, demanding money we did not have, it was my wife you touched, and it was my fist that gave you that dent in your nose.”

The man lunged backward, but Greystoke grabbed his elaborate tunic and hauled him closer. The law cleric craned his neck to look up at the giant knight. The audience in the great hall fell absolutely silent.

“Never…” Greystoke said, his voice so low that Branan held his breath to hear the knight’s words. “Never believe you can strike a man’s wife and he will not burn the image into his mind. I will remember you until the day I die.”

“As I said,” Branan muttered and rose from his chair. He descended the dais and strode to the man. “The writ is genuine, so I ken the bishop does indeed desire to investigate this marriage. I also ken he would send a trustworthy man to do it. I dinna doubt the cleric he sent was as talented with his manuscripts and quills as a knight with his sword, but he couldna stand against a blackguard who would murder a man of the church, then steal his clothes and the missive he bore. I ken our patrols will find a badly decomposing body on the side of the road in a day or two. As much as I would love to see ye hang for this crime, I must write a letter to the bishop and explain what happened to his faithful servant. Justice will be his.” Branan paused, stepping closer. “But if the bishop requests that I exact his judgment, I shall do so with a glad heart. I await the day when I can watch you swing from the hangman’s noose.”

The imposter dropped to his knees, groveling for his life .

Branan curled his lip in disgust. “Greystoke, throw this sodding piece of offal in the dungeon. I will pen a letter to the bishop tonight and send a man with it on the morrow.”

“Aye, MacTavish.”

****

Branan knocked softly on the door to the ladies’ solar, wondering how he was going to tell Catriona he had tipped their hand.

Beth opened it. “MacTavish, come in,” she whispered, holding the door open for him.

He entered, noting the only light in the room came from the hearth fire and a small candle Beth had lit. Her embroidery sat in a chair not far from the bed. Catriona lay still, apparently asleep.

“How is she?” Branan asked, his voice low.

Beth motioned him to the table in the corner, away from the bed so they could speak without disturbing Catriona. “I had to give her a sleeping draught. She was falling apart.”

“That doesna sound like, Catriona, perhaps her grief be greater than I thought.”

“I thought the same, but it was only after she calmed that I discovered she’s fevered.”

He stared at her in surprise. “Catriona is ill? Why didn’t she say anything?”

“I don’t think even she realized it. She kept complaining of an aching head. After she fell asleep, I checked her and she is still unusually warm.”

“That would explain why she struggled so today. If she is ill, the fever and her aching head would make it that much more difficult to cope.”

“And that bloody law cleric would be difficult enough to deal with even on a good day.”

“He wasna a law cleric, but one of Strickland’s men,” Branan said and explained the entire ruse. “I was going to pen a letter to the bishop tonight, but I will wait until tomorrow. I just want to sit with her tonight. Before dawn, I must hie myself to Thistlewood.”

Beth gazed at him a long moment. “What would you like me to tell Catriona when she awakens?”

He grinned and shook his head. “I’m already in deep, lass, ye might as well tell her the truth.”

Beth shook her head. “Strickland will no doubt turn his full attention to Brackenburgh now that you have announced yourself.”

“He may turn toward Brackenburgh, but I willna give him the chance to do anything more. I will hit him with so many raids, he willna dare pull men from his stores to harass Catriona.”

Beth grinned at him. “Now that sounds like a fine plan.”

“I must ask one more boon of ye, lass. ”

“Of course.”

“Will ye please stay here with Catriona. She hasna any friends here. She needs an ally most of all, since I canna stay.”

“She will not be happy when she awakens and discovers you are gone.”

“I know, and tell her I’m sorry, but I’m already mired up to my neck, I don’t need to go under entirely. If ye will stay, I know she has a friend she can trust. I can even send Geoff to work with the mercenary guard if ye wish.”

“I will stay, but keep my husband. He has fine fun during your raids. Now that you are planning more, if he learned you sent him here just because of me, he’d never forgive me.”

Branan chuckled softly. “Verra well, lass, and I thank ye.”

“I will let you sit with her. She should sleep the rest of the night, but if her fever goes higher, send a servant for me.”

“Aye, thank ye again, Beth.”

“You’re welcome, MacTavish, good eve.”

“Good eve.” He watched her leave, then moved to the bed, looking down at Catriona’s small form. Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he eased himself into the bed and pulled her to him. She muttered something, but settled comfortably into his embrace. Branan smoothed Catriona’s hair from her brow and pressed his lips against her skin, noting its warmth. He hoped it would pass quickly. He made sure the blankets were still tucked around her and simply held her while she slept.

Branan only dozed, but the hours passed too rapidly. Although still dark, judging by the embers of the hearth fire, he knew dawn was not far away. He kissed Catriona’s cheek, vexed to note her fever seemed to be worse. God he didn’t want to leave her. Branan unwound himself, but hesitated, remembering her words about the night he left with Duguald. Catriona had already suffered through too much, he would not force her to remember that pain on the off chance she might awaken as he left Brackenburgh. Branan took his brat and wrapped it around her, hoping she would understand his promise. Silently, he opened the door, and like a wraith, he melted into the darkness.

****

Catriona sat up with a start, then groaned as the room spun. She pressed her hands against the sides of her aching head. She struggled to make sense of the flashes darting through her memory, but her pounding head would not allow her to sort through them.

“Catriona?”

She looked to her left and saw Beth rise from her chair. “Beth, I thought for a moment I had dreamed you.”

“Nay,” she said smiling. “But you’ve had a bit of a fever.” Beth touched her skin and scowled. “I thought it was improving, but now I’m not so sure.”

“My head feels like a blacksmith has taken up residence.”

“Let me get you some more willow bark.” She turned to the hearth fire to put the kettle over it.

Catriona glanced down at herself, stunned to see Branan’s brat wrapped around her. “Wait...Branan...he is really here?”

“He was, but he had to return to Thistlewood before dawn so the spies wouldn’t follow him. Catriona, everything that happened with the law cleric was one of Strickland’s plots.”

“How did Branan learn of it?” She paused. “Greystoke...it had to be Greystoke who told him.” As Catriona’s thoughts tried to function again, she dimly remembered Branan appearing in the doorway. “Please don’t tell me he did something daft.”

“You mean like tell one and all who he is and why he is here, or just claim himself lord of Brackenburgh by right of handfasting to you?”

Catriona muttered a curse and fell back in bed. She pulled the brat over her head. “Lack-witted barbarian.”

Beth laughed brightly. “Don’t be too hard on him, Catriona, he was quite worried over you. He stayed with you the rest of the night. The only reason he left was to organize more raids from Thistlewood. He’s going to smack Strickland in the teeth so the Warden doesn’t dare move against Brackenburgh.”

“That is probably the best solution now, and I am grateful he came when he did. I just couldn’t cope with it all.”

Beth brought her a cup. “It’s understandable with your fever that high.”

Catriona pushed back the brat and drank the medicant quickly. “I should go below-stairs and break my fast.”

“I’d rather you stay here. Your fever is reasserting itself and you really need to rest.”

“I will,” Catriona said quickly. “But people need to see I will not be bullied from my own hall, fever or no.”

“All right, a short time won’t hurt and I think there’s something in the great hall you need to see. I heard the men hauling it in about an hour ago.”

“This sounds intriguing.”

A bit later, Catriona, dressed in a plain woolen gown, descended the stairs with Branan’s plaid wrapped around her shoulders. It still carried his scent of leather and spice. Although she was painfully aware of his absence, it did remind her he was not that far away. Branan’s appearance in the great hall so suddenly also gave Catriona courage. When she had needed him most, her mist warrior had returned.

There were only a few merchants and travelers in the great hall, taking advantage of Brackenburgh’s Christian hospitality and breaking their fast. As Catriona crossed the room, her gaze fell on two chairs. She stopped, blinking in surprise.

The chair Richard had used as lord of Brackenburgh was gone and the smaller chair next to it, the one that had been hers, had disappeared as well. Instead, two huge beautifully carved chairs, equal in size and decoration, stood in their place. Catriona had seen them before. These were from Thistlewood, and Branan had carved them. Both bore his heraldry. Another plaid was draped over his chair and she saw a folded parchment on it. Crossing the room, Catriona looked closer and saw her name. She picked up the parchment and read.

My bonny lass,

Forgive me for yesterday’s events. It was not my wish you should suffer so. I hope Beth told you all that transpired and why I had to leave you. I pray you understand. I had Jamie deliver our chairs from Thistlewood’s hall. At my clan seat in Scotland, it is tradition for a laird to leave his plaid on his chair if he must depart to tend to business or fight for his king. The plaid is a reminder of his promise to return. And I will return to you, my bonny lass. I am not far and will be there again should you have need of me. As always, you have my heart.

Branan

She gripped the note tightly and drew a deep breath. Branan had heard her plea and listened. He knew how much it hurt to see him disappear in the night all those years ago. Branan disappeared again last night, but not by choice, and he was doing everything in his power to minimize her pain. His brat graced her shoulders, and beside her chair, his plaid would remind her of his promise. Catriona also did not miss the meaning in the two chairs being equal in every respect. She would govern Brackenburgh with Branan, not as his subservient wife, but as his love and lady, shouldering the responsibility together.

“Catriona,” Beth asked in concern, “are you all right?”

“Aye,” Catriona replied, smiling. “You know...I really do love that man.”

Beth grinned at her. “Good, because he is smitten with you. He can be a bear at times, but he’d be lost without you.”