Page 16 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)
Branan shoved himself to his feet, knocking his chair over and growling a curse. Before he realized what he was doing, he launched his mug into the hearth, where the ceramic cup shattered.
He stared at it, his limbs shaking, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly.
The servants in the great hall scattered like frightened rabbits.
A pair of months had passed since Catriona’s departure, and already the black rage threatened to possess Branan again. He constantly found himself looking for her, half expecting to see her in a room when he entered, or hear her laugh coming from the hall. They had exchanged several letters, but Branan felt as if Catriona resided leagues away.
Branan rubbed his hand over the rough stubble on his chin. He looked like hell, he knew. He had not been able to sleep and his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. Every morning, Branan stared at his haggard countenance in the mirror and every morning he turned away, telling himself he didn’t care.
What of Catriona? Was she as miserable as he? If she was, her letters gave no indication. The only reason she had struggled afore was due to the fever.
When had this happened to him? Never had he pined over a woman like a lovesick lad. But he could no longer keep his thoughts from her, he found himself painfully distracted every moment of every day.
“Good God, laddie, ye have it bad,” he muttered to himself.
He leaned against the mantel, staring into the hearth flames.
“Branan,” a voice said from behind him.
He turned quickly, surprised to see Gavin. His foster-brother had requested, and Branan had agreed, that he be allowed to deliver the messages this week. “What are ye doing back already? ”
Gavin sat at the table, propping his feet on it while a servant poured a cup of wine for him. “Catriona and Edmund have things well in hand. Haven’t you been reading her letters?”
“Aye,” Branan said tightly. But had to admit, he could remember little of what she said about daily business dealings. Branan had been so caught up in searching Catriona’s words for some sign that she missed him, that she forgave him for leaving, he had ignored the more mundane details.
Gavin studied him a long moment. “She misses you, Branan.”
He snorted, keeping his attention focused on the hearth. “What makes ye think I’m the least bit worried about that?”
“Christ Almighty,” Gavin muttered. “You two deserve each other.”
Branan glared at him.
Gavin waved a scroll case at him, then tossed it on the table. It slowly rolled in Branan’s direction. “More news you should know.”
Branan picked up the case, trying to tell himself that his heart didn’t pound in the hope that this letter would give him some indication of how Catriona felt, how she was doing...if she forgave him. He withdrew the vellum, noting the de Courcy seal and the anger that rose again. Catriona should be writing letters with his crest adorning them.
He shoved away his fury and began to read. No hint at her emotions, if she missed him, if she even wanted him anymore. Nothing but trivial information about Strickland.
“Well?” Gavin asked.
“Well what?”
Gavin rolled his eyes. “Do you not agree that a raid should be planned?”
Branan blinked, then read again, forcing himself to comprehend the letter this time. Silk traders had arrived at Brackenburgh and Catriona learned they had just sold a large amount of silk to Strickland, which he expected to sell for a good profit. The shipment was moving to Newbiggin Hall today to be dyed. It would be a hard ride, but they could probably intercept it.
Perfect. Another raid was exactly what Branan needed to get his mind off of a beautiful, infuriating lass with bright blue eyes. “Gather the men,” Branan said, tossing the vellum on the table. “We ride within the hour.”
****
Branan and his men caught up with the wagons at dusk. They stalked the drovers along the road like a pack of wolves hunting a deer, staying hidden within the trees. Branan dismounted and moved silently through the undergrowth to get a better look at their quarry. Gavin accompanied him.
“They are better guarded than I had thought,” Branan whispered.
“Aye,” Gavin replied. “Strickland must have paid a good price.” He paused and smiled. “’Tis a shame all that money is going to go to waste and he will lose the shipment on top of it. ”
Branan chuckled. “Aye, brother, a terrible shame.”
Quietly, they slipped away, back to their horses. Branan waited until his men signaled they were in position. He drew his claymore and lifted it over his head.
“Cruach Mór!” he roared. His horse exploded through the trees and onto the road.
The battle cry answered around him, his men surrounding the wagons. Branan swung his claymore at the closest guard, dispatching him instantly. Gavin’s hammer crashed down on another guard’s head, smashing into his skull. Jamie charged forward, his horse plowing into another guard’s, knocking him to the ground in front of two wagon horses.
The fallen rider tried to rise, but the wagon horses reared and trampled him. Geoffrey, Beth’s husband, surged forward, but a guard sitting in one of the wagons managed to load a crossbow. The weapon thunked and the bolt drove into Geoffrey’s chest, knocking him from his mount.
His cousin, Alaric, aimed his own crossbow and killed the guard, then promptly hauled Geoffrey from the fighting. Branan turned, locking swords with another guard, and deflected the man’s attack. With an arcing swing, Branan’s blade bit deeply in the man’s throat.
The drovers tried to urge the wagon horses forward, but Branan’s men blocked their path. Evan, one of the mercenary captains, charged in and leaped from his horse onto the lead wagon. With a strike of his meaty fist, the drover sailed off the wagon and into the dirt. Evan whooped as he grabbed the reins and turned the wagon so it blocked the road completely.
Branan again bellowed his war cry in response to Evan’s success. Another mercenary took control of the third wagon and one of Branan’s clansmen, Connor, grabbed the reins of the second. Within moments, the guards were dead along with the drovers.
“Gather our wounded,” Branan barked. “Put them in the wagons.”
Geoffrey and two other mercenaries were the only ones wounded. Branan’s group quickly took control of their prize and the wagons moved rapidly toward Thistlewood.
When they turned on the trail, only a short distance from the tower, Gavin pulled his mount next to Branan’s. “Now that was fine fun!”
“Aye,” Branan said, grinning. “Mayhap we shall have another feast at Thistlewood tonight. What silk the ladies do not wish to use we can discreetly sell to the de Courcy holdings.”
Gavin winked at him. “Thistlewood and Brackenburgh will no doubt make a good profit. Those who pay rent to Brackenburgh will again avoid the pain of Strickland’s taxes. I have to admit, I would love to see Strickland’s face when he hears of this raid.”
“So would I,” Branan replied.
They broke into the clearing surrounding Thistlewood. Branan’s heart twisted as he saw the women running toward the returning party, for Catriona was not among them. He suddenly remembered Geoff’s wife, Beth, was with Catriona at Brackenburgh. Branan jumped from his horse and hurried to the wagon. His heart stalled.
“Damnation,” Gavin said next to him. “I didn’t realize he was wounded so terribly.”
“I’d send a man for Beth,” Branan said, “but it is too risky to bring the lass here.”
“He would not survive a journey to Brackenburgh. Hell, Branan, I fear the wound will claim his life.”
“Aye, and Beth—what will happen to her when she learns of his death?” He resolved to give Beth one of the silk bolts, though he knew it would be poor consolation.
What if it had been me? What would happen to Catriona?
“Gavin.”
“Aye?”
He pulled his foster-brother out of earshot. “I would have an oath from ye.”
Gavin frowned. “Of course, Branan, you know I will do anything for you.”
“I...” He paused and took a deep breath. “I ken of yer da’s oath to mine, that John swore to guard my da’s back the day he was murdered.”
Gavin’s jaw tightened and he looked away for a moment, only to return and spear Branan with the intensity in his blue eyes. “Aye. You know I will always guard your back, Branan. You are my foster-brother and best friend.”
“I’d have yer vow ye will not.”
Gavin stared at him, stunned.
“I’d have yer vow that no matter what may happen to me, if I should fall, ye will get out alive and protect Catriona.”
“What?”
“I ken ye well, Gavin, I ken ye’d do all ye could to guard my back. But what would happen to Catriona if she lost both of us?”
“Branan, I—”
“Yer vow on yer da’s soul, Gavin, I’ll have nothing less from ye.”
Gavin stared at him a long moment. “All right,” he said softly. “I vow on my father’s soul, if you fall, I will protect Catriona.”
Branan managed a grim smile and gripped Gavin’s shoulder. “Thank ye, my brother. Now let’s be seein’ to the wounded.”
****
Catriona pressed her fingers to her temples, praying her headache didn’t get any worse. Although her fever had passed, her headaches had not. She fought to listen to the herald as he related yet another offer of marriage from Strickland.
“His lordship has instructed me to present the benefits of marrying his son. Although the loss of your new husband on your wedding night was tragic, his lordship would like to point out the obvious advantages of the joining of two powerful houses.”
Catriona gritted her teeth, fighting to control her anger. Branan had announced to all she was handfasted to him. Strickland apparently chose to ignore that fact. He either did not realize how much weight it carried with the Scottish Church, or did not care. “His bastard son is the reason why my husband is dead,” she snapped.
The herald’s jaw tightened and Catriona reminded herself that anger was not the answer here—polite but firm refusal was.
The herald forced himself to smile. “Lady,” he said gently. “His lordship told you before, the arrival of his son was simply to congratulate you on your marriage. Unfortunately, a careless insult caused the situation to escalate tragically.”
She gulped a deep breath and sensed Edmund and Greystoke moving closer to her in silent support. Normally, she could handle Strickland’s foolishness in stride. But she grew weary of this nonsense. Catriona had not seen Branan in two months, and every few days, the herald reappeared with Strickland’s marriage proposal. Catriona was just plain tired of it.
“Please tell his lordship that my answer is what it was before. Nay.”
The herald gave an exaggerated sigh. “Please reconsider, my lady. His lordship has instructed me that due to the extensive cost of continued raiding, the fees against the landholders will increase. If you are wife to his heir, his lordship can protect you from that increase.”
Catriona stiffened, glaring at him. “And how much is this increase?” she asked, her voice cool and detached, though inside she screamed in rage.
“Twenty percent.”
Her control broke. “What?” she cried, bounding to her feet.
“My lady,” Edmund said quietly.
But she had had enough. Anger surged within Catriona and she clutched the folds of her skirts to keep her hands from trembling. “Tell your lordship, my answer once again is nay. Tell him also that the fee from Brackenburgh will remain what my deceased husband mandated. I will not be manipulated in this fashion.” She turned and glared at Edmund. “See to it this herald has supplies for his journey and escort him to our gates immediately. And furthermore, no one bearing Strickland’s banner will be welcome at Brackenburgh.”
The herald blinked in shock. Though Catriona had always firmly refused him, she had granted him every bit of courtesy. “My...my lady, surely you realize my lord will not be pleased with this.”
“Out,” Catriona growled. “Now. ”
Edmund squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “My lord,” he said, gesturing for the herald to move away.”
“Lady—”
Edmund’s expression turned flat and he looked to Sir Greystoke.
The knight stepped forward, his hand on his weapon.
“Escort him to the gates and close them behind him,” Edmund said.
Seeing Greystoke, the herald bowed and turned on his heel, striding out of the keep with Greystoke only a pace behind.
Catriona sank into her chair, suddenly exhausted.
“My lady,” Edmund said gently. “Are you sure that was wise?”
“Probably not,” she replied ruefully. “But I am so weary of this foolishness. I will not allow Strickland to intimidate me thusly.”
Edmund’s lips twitched and he inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Catriona rubbed her temples again. “Has there been any sign of Jamie with the missives from Thistlewood yet?”
“Not yet, lady, but I’m sure he will arrive soon.”
Greystoke returned and spoke with Edmund. Catriona took the opportunity to have a servant fetch a cup of wine. Glory, she wished her head would stop hurting.
Edmund scowled and faced her. “Lady, there is a Scotsman requesting to see you. He entered before we closed the gates.”
She scowled. If it was Jamie he would have been ushered in immediately. “What goes?”
“He claims he is from clan MacTavish and he traveled from Scotland seeking his laird.”
Catriona’s heart lurched. From Scotland? Was something wrong at the clan? Or was this another one of Strickland’s ruses to get someone close to Branan?
“Gather the guard,” she said softly, “and send him in.”
Edmund’s brows rose. “Are you certain, lady? What if this—”
“Is a ploy?” she finished for him and nodded. “’Tis possible, Edmund, but it is also possible something happened to the clan and Branan should know about it. Send him in.”
She waited a moment while the guard gathered and then Greystoke escorted the man through the door. Catriona surveyed him critically. He dressed as Branan did and appeared rather travel worn. His hair was long and tangled, dark auburn in color, and a scruffy beard grew from his jaw. But his green eyes glittered vibrantly. He stopped a few paces before her and bowed. “My lady, I be Liam of clan MacTavish, I bear messages from our clan tae our laird, but I fear I canna locate him. I had heard ye may ken of his whereabouts.”
“Welcome to Brackenburgh, Liam. I fear I have not seen your laird in a pair of months. ”
His shoulders slumped in dejection.
“Has some mishap befallen the clan?” she asked.
“Nothin’ untoward, lady,” he replied, his voice sounding more weary than before. “But there be things the MacTavish should ken.”
“I see,” Catriona said softly, still uncertain if this man spoke truly. “You appear as if you had a hard go of it.”
He shrugged. “The journey wasna easy and tryin’ tae locate the MacTavish be akin tae trackin’ a kelpie.”
She smiled. “Aye. Allow me this, Liam MacTavish, surely you would do well with a good meal and a place to rest.”
“My lady, this would be a gift.”
“Then please, sir, avail yourself to the welcome of Brackenburgh.”
He bowed. “My gratitude.”
She nodded to Greystoke. “Show him to the barracks and allow him to get cleaned up and get some hot food. Will you join us for dinner this eve, my lord?”
“I would be honored.” Liam replied and bowed again.
Greystoke nodded to one of his men and he escorted Liam away. Greystoke and Edmund both approached Catriona.
“Lady, are you sure this is safe?” Edmund asked.
“We keep him here until Jamie arrives.”
Greystoke grinned. “If he is who he claims, Jamie will certainly know him.”
“Exactly. Until we know for certain, we treat Liam as a noble guest.”
“As you will, lady,” Edmund replied with a bow.
****
Jamie arrived two days later, with his usual perfect timing: right as the servants placed the evening meal on the table. He walked in, striding straight for Catriona.
She rose, smiling, and he immediately swept her into a strong embrace and spun her around.
“Och, lassie, how be ye this eve?”
“Just fine, Jamie, thank you.”
He returned her to her feet and handed her a scroll case. “Branan, as always, sends his affection,” he whispered.
“How is he?”
“He is well, although growing most surly in temper. I fear he misses yer pleasant influence. I ken I do, he has been a bear tae deal with.”
She laughed as Edmund approached and offered his hand. “That makes two of them, Jamie,” he said, giving her a wink.
“Edmund!” she gasped in mock outrage.
Jamie smiled, then sighed softly. “Branan wanted me tae ask ye about Beth. ”
“Beth?”
He nodded. “Her husband was wounded in our last raid. He battled the fever, but the blood poison killed him yestereve.”
“Oh no,” Catriona said, worry cutting through her. “Beth and her husband were quite fond of each other.”
“Aye, I fear telling her such grievous news.”
“Nay,” Catriona said, her gaze falling on her friend, who sat chatting pleasantly with a merchant. “I will tell her tonight, when we are away from prying eyes. She will be heartbroken.”
“I thank ye, lass,” Jamie said, then looked at the table. “I see I have come at a precipitous time—” Suddenly, he froze, his gaze locked on Liam.
Catriona held her breath, knowing this was the moment of truth.
“Bloody hell,” Jamie whispered. “Liam, ye sorry cur!” He charged.
Catriona’s heart lurched.
The two men collided with a roar. It took a moment for Catriona to realize they slapped each other on the back in friendship, not in anger.
“Jamie, ye ugly bastard,” Liam said. “What witchcraft did ye use tae convince the lady tae open her door tae ye?”
Catriona blinked, watching the greeting that began to appear more like a wrestling contest than a welcome. A giggle escaped her, matched by Edmund’s laugh. Suddenly, she sank into her chair, laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
The two men finally stopped trying to bruise each other. “What brings ye here, lad?” Jamie asked.
“I have some messages for the MacTavish.”
Jamie’s smile vanished. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’ serious, but the MacTavish should be aware of it.”
Jamie appeared skeptical, but he nodded. “I shall tell the MacTavish when I deliver his lady’s message.”
Liam frowned in confusion and looked at Catriona. “But I thought ye said ye haven’t seen him in a pair of months.”
“I haven’t,” Catriona said, still laughing. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t hear from him regularly.”
His jaw dropped as he looked at Jamie, baffled.
Jamie guffawed and slapped his back. “She foxed ye.”
“Aye,” Liam said, blinking owlishly as he shook his head. “I dinna understand.”
“’Tis caution, Liam,” Jamie said. “The lassie ken I was comin’, and if ye were who ye claimed, I’d ken of ye.”
“That way,” Catriona added, “I could be sure this wasn’t one of Strickland’s plots.”
“I see,” Liam replied. “We have heard little and our clan is worried over our laird, considerin’ what happen tae his da and all. May I travel with ye tomorrow?”
Jamie shook his head. “I’m afraid not, laddie. I have strict orders tae proceed alone. If the sentries see anyone with me, they will shoot with nary a question. I’m sure ye dinna wish tae have that hairy arse of yers prickled with arrows.”
“Aye.”
“I will tell the MacTavish ye are here. If he sends for ye, then ye can pass safely.”
Liam nodded, but Catriona grew concerned over his troubled expression.
“Now,” Jamie said, pulling Liam toward the table. “Tell me of the clan. Does sweet Aislynn still pine for me?”
Liam rolled his eyes. “More like savors the fresh air without the taint of yer sweaty hide.”
Catriona smiled and returned to her food, listening to the rough banter that covered a strong friendship as the two spoke. She held the scroll case in her lap, knowing this evening she would have to reply to Branan’s letter and inform him of recent happenings. “I just wish I could tell you in person,” she whispered to herself.
****
Branan, Duguald, and the other members of the clan greeted Liam warmly. Although Jamie had said several times that Liam’s messages were not overly urgent, Branan remained concerned over what could be so all-fired important to send a man all the way from Scotland.
Liam handed him a scroll case and Branan pulled out several sheets of parchment.
“Come, laddie,” Duguald said to Liam. “Join us at the fire and allow Branan to brood over these missives as a good laird should.”
Branan strode upstairs to his solar and closed the door. Catriona’s message remained on his desk, unread. As soon as Jamie had arrived with word of Liam, Branan had sent him back to Brackenburgh first thing in the morning, to fetch him with all haste. It was now barely dawn.
He sat in his chair and moved a candle closer, glancing at the pages. The first was from the seneschal he had left in charge of the clan. Branan scanned the letter, noting it was simply a report of the clan’s production and asking permission to plow a field which had lain fallow for over a year. It also mentioned that they had an extravagant offer for the foal of Branan’s best mare. She was due to deliver in early summer. Branan could not help but chuckle; the foal hadn’t even hit the ground yet and was already demanding a huge price.
Branan set the missive aside, resolving to answer it later, but also pleased that things did seem well.
The second letter was from his chatelaine, noting their wool production and asking for money to purchase more expensive, finer dyes they could not make. Branan nodded to himself. Although costly, the reputation of their weaving would recoup the price quickly. He paused and frowned. Now that Catriona governed the de Courcy holdings, perhaps he could purchase better dyes at a cheaper price than what they could find at the best markets of Edinburgh.
He set the second letter aside and looked to the third.
The laird of Clan Campbell proposed that Branan strengthen their alliance by marriage to his daughter. He sighed. The laird would not be happy to learn Branan was now handfasted to an Englishwoman.
Branan opened Catriona’s letter, but winced when he read about the latest gambit Strickland had tried. He continued through the letter, noting her mention of sending the supplies he needed. Most were readily available, but a few would take time.
Her letter then moved to a more personal nature. Branan’s eyes widened at the realization. For the first time, Catriona gave hint to her feelings. The more he read, the more quickly he gathered that she was weary and disheartened—and missing him terribly.
Finally! Finally, he knew she needed him.
But that thought brought Branan no joy. If Catriona’s stubbornness slipped, what pain did she truly suffer?
Surely, there was something he could do to bolster her spirits, but appearing in the great hall again was out of the question. Only his constant raids against Strickland kept the bastard from attacking Brackenburgh, and Branan did not wish to tempt fate. But her letter sounded so dejected, so unlike his fiery Catriona, that he grew concerned.
Then he spotted a smaller parchment under her missive. He scowled and picked it up. It was from Edmund.
Laird MacTavish,
I must take it upon myself to inform you of our beloved lady. She struggles daily with the powers that rise against her. I fear even her courageous heart has been overtaxed. She faces our enemy alone, although I do my best to help her. I am growing concerned for her health as she is now plagued with constant headaches. Even one as strong as my lady needs to find refuge on occasion.
Your humble servant,
Edmund
Branan rubbed his eyes, his concern growing into worry. Edmund spoke truly. Catriona needed refuge, a brief time of peace. Yet it was too dangerous to bring her here. The departure of the lady of Brackenburgh would be witnessed by Strickland’s spies. That was why he sent only Jamie to her. Because of the de Courcy holdings, many people entered Brackenburgh’s gates without note of the spies. Jamie could walk without remark, as could a trader bearing missives to a household which survived on trade...
Branan blinked, then a slow smile tugged his lips upward.
****
Catriona collapsed into bed, exhausted, but unable to sleep. Jamie was overdue. Although she was never quite certain when he would arrive, Jamie never went beyond a sennight unless they planned something against Strickland, and Branan was very good about informing her. Catriona had stayed up late, hoping Jamie would appear, mayhap at the postern, but she had been disappointed.
She sighed, her head aching again. It wasn’t Jamie she wanted to see, but the letter he would deliver to her. Even with just words on vellum, she heard Branan’s soft brogue speaking as she read. The letters helped pierce the walls of loneliness around her.
And Catriona finally had to admit she was terribly lonely. She hated staying at Brackenburgh with nothing to distract her. The memories of her wedding night remained terrifyingly real. Many times she had nightmares about the attack, but it was Branan they slew, instead of Richard.
She shivered and pulled Branan’s brat over her, inhaling deeply. But the wool only held a faint memory of his scent. Catriona squeezed her eyes closed.
The door rattled and Catriona’s heart lurched, chasing away her thoughts. She listened carefully, but heard nothing more. Probably one of the many drafts moving through the stairwell.
Catriona sighed, not wanting to return to the morose path her thoughts continued to travel.
The door rattled again and her heart fair jumped to her throat. That was definitely not a draft.
Her hand dove under her pillow where she kept a wickedly sharp stiletto. Catriona sat up slowly and opened the bed curtains, peeking through. The fire in the hearth was small, but it continued to cast a dim glow. She wasn’t sure if the door actually moved or if the flickering flames just made it appear that way. Catriona’s heart slammed against her ribs, her palms suddenly sweaty. She clutched the hilt of the stiletto. She had bolted the latch, she was certain of it.
Hadn’t she?
Terror rose as the memory of swords clashing through the hall assailed her ears. Strickland’s bastard had gained entrance to Brackenburgh once, he could do it again.
The door creaked and Catriona flew out of bed, holding the dagger in front of her. Trapped. How could she escape?
Slowly, the door opened, revealing a dark cut of blackness. A giant form moved silently, heavily cloaked, with the cowl pulled low over his face.
Death’s specter was coming for her .
Catriona opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged.
The figure froze. “I didna mean to frighten ye, lass,” a deep voice whispered.
She blinked in confusion, trying to think through her terror.
Slowly, a hand pulled the cowl down and the firelight fell on the graceful planes of his face. Rich black hair shimmered in glossy waves.
“Branan?” she gasped, her body suddenly shaking. The stiletto slipped from her numb fingers and landed on the rug with a muffled sound. Catriona threw herself at Branan’s chest.
His powerful arms wrapped around her and he lifted her from her feet, burying his face in her hair. “Forgive me, lass,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. “I’m sorry I gave ye such a fright.”
Her arms tightened around him and she breathed a ragged sigh.
Branan moved enough to rid himself of his cloak, letting it slide into a heap on the floor. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to a large chair before the hearth. Branan sat and pulled her onto his lap, keeping her tucked firmly against him, his hand gently stroking her hair. He spoke soothingly, whispered words she didn’t understand, but she didn’t care. It was enough to hear his wonderfully deep voice and feel his strong body against hers.
She looked up at him and caressed his elegant cheek. Catriona couldn’t resist a smile when she realized he was freshly shaved.
“Forgive me,” Branan whispered. “Ye are near spent with all of this. It was my wish only to surprise ye, not frighten ye to death.”
“Branan, be silent and kiss me.”
He flashed her a bright, wicked grin that sent her pulse racing. With a fingertip, he traced a line from her cheek to her jaw. Branan’s gaze locked on Catriona’s, holding her frozen for an endless moment. Her heart rattled in her chest, the feral desire she saw in his eyes sent heat rushing through her body. He stared down at her, his eyes moving over her face as if drinking in the sight before him.
Catriona admired the clean lines of his face, his well-shaped and very kissable lips. She loved the elegant sweep of his eyebrows, and when he looked at her, his dark lashes lowered slightly, seeming to accent the green of his eyes and the passion reflected in them. As always, before Branan kissed her, he held her gaze for a long moment, as if waiting for the perfect instant, as if trying to drive her mad with anticipation. And when she could stand it no longer, he tilted her chin up and proceeded to kiss her senseless.
Too quickly, Branan ended the kiss, his breathing ragged against her neck. “My bonny lass, I have missed ye so.”
Her throat tightened and tears threatened. Dear Lord, she had to get her emotions under control. “What...what are you doing here?”
“Having a wicked rendezvous with the woman I love.” His voice suddenly sounded harsh and primitive.
Catriona’s heart reeled. Branan had voiced the words before, but they impacted her no less than they had on that first night.
“How did you get in?”
His smile grew rakish. “I arrived at evensong, just afore the gates closed.”
Her jaw went slack and indignation replaced her shock. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Forgive me, my bonny lass. I remained in the barracks to make sure there wouldna be a danger to ye. If Strickland’s spies spot me, he would send his men forthwith.”
“And my chambers?” Catriona asked suspiciously.
He winked at her. “’Tis a talent Duguald taught me in my youth. There is nary a lock or bolt he canna open.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
“Only Edmund and Greystoke. I thought it prudent to inform them, lest someone see me sneaking into your chamber. I have no desire to be run through by my own men.”
Catriona settled her head against his chest, her indignation melting. Branan was here, that was all that mattered. She closed her eyes, listening to his heart beat a slow and strong rhythm.
“But,” he said, tilting her chin up again, “the night ages and I plan on savoring every moment.” His mouth claimed hers and Catriona did not hesitate. Suddenly reminded of the evening in her shelter, when Branan held her in his lap, but they had not truly pursued their desires, Catriona now planned to correct that immediately. She acceded to Branan’s lips and he swept his tongue across hers, threatening to devour her. She relaxed against him, inviting him to touch her.
He eased her back in his left arm, his free hand moving to deftly untie the laces at the throat of her nightrail His fingers followed the fabric as he pulled it away, lightly caressing her skin and sending tiny shivers through her. Her breasts felt hard and heavy. Warmth bloomed within her, settling low in her belly.
Branan pulled the gown from her shoulder and exposed her breast. He lifted his head and gazed at it for a long moment. Thick anticipation rose within her. Branan licked his lips, the action coming close to driving her insane, then he lowered his head and drew her into his mouth.
Fire shot through her and a primal groan escaped her lips. She felt so wonderfully helpless in his arms. His mouth provoked a tempest within her, and once again the storm raged out of control. She wove her fingers through his thick hair, tiny sounds she could not control encouraging him.
Slowly, Branan’s velvet lips slid upward to her throat, where he gently nibbled her sensitive skin. His hands stroked her nightrail off her shoulders, pushing it down to her waist, and then returned to softly fondle her breasts.
Catriona felt the heat of his body radiating through his clothing. She struggled to free him of it, especially the heavy belt he wore, which jabbed her in the side.
Branan stopped, removing his belt and then his inar. Catriona scrambled off of him so he could divest himself of the rest of his clothing, her nightrail puddled on the floor at her feet. Branan quickly freed himself from his clothes, but instead of leading her to the bed as she expected, he again sat in the chair, took her hand and pulled her toward him.
His lips lifted in the roguish smile she loved so much. In the firelight, his green eyes gleamed with a feral spark.
Catriona returned his smile, gazing at his swollen shaft jutting upward against his flat belly. Oh, this might indeed be fun. Branan tugged her closer. She sat on his lap facing him so that her legs went around his waist. Fortunately, the chair did not have any arms and it was a sturdy piece of furniture.
He kissed her, his mouth toying with hers, and she felt his shaft slide over the damp folds of her femininity. A soft gasp escaped her, but her position was awkward and she couldn’t move like she wanted to. “Surely there is an easier way,” she muttered.
Branan chuckled, a guttural sound in his chest. “Aye, lassie, but ye will find this most satisfying. Trust me.”
She did trust him. She loved him, savored the feel of his mouth against hers, of his hands caressing her body. He gripped her sides and gently lifted her. “Guide me inside ye, lass.”
Catriona did so and moaned as he filled her. For an instant, she couldn’t move as waves of pleasure wracked through her. Branan filled her utterly. Glorious sensations radiated deep within her being, spreading outward to the tips of her fingers, toes, and aching breasts. Gently, he shifted his hips. They were fit so tightly together, Branan had no need to move much. She cried out as the agonizing pleasure cut through her even more intensely. She arched upward and threw her head back.
“Aye, my sweet love,” he whispered. “Wrap yer arms around my neck, lean back just a bit more.”
She obeyed as he moved again inside her. His mouth closed over her breast and his thumb found the most sensitive spot between her legs.
She moaned his name in total abandon as Branan expertly tortured her with exquisite pleasure. She found herself rocking her hips back and forth, driving his shaft deeper within her. She whimpered as his thumb persecuted the throbbing nub between her legs and his teeth nipped and teased her nipple.
“Sweet glory,” he growled under his breath.
A dim part of Catriona’s mind acknowledged that she was being selfish, working only to fulfill her own pleasure. But Branan offered this to her freely and she found she couldn’t deny him.
The coil of energy forming deep within her expanded and her movements became harsher, more desperate. She panted and moaned his name, begging him to free her from this torture. His thumb moved forcefully over her aching nub and his mouth drew hard on her breast, his hips shoved forward, and the world exploded in ecstasy.
****
Catriona cried his name as his hot seed filled her gloriously tight passage. Branan felt her body convulse around, him adding exquisite torture to perfect joy. He shoved himself into her again and again, sweat rolling from his brow, his thumb continued to work, wringing every last convulsion of pleasure he could from her. He savored the taste of her, the scent of her mingling with his own.
She relaxed suddenly against him, her face buried against his neck. Branan fought to catch his breath. The aftershocks continued to move through her and he changed the tempo with which he touched her, from demanding to a soothing caress over her sensitive femininity.
Branan backed away and gathered her in his arms, although his strength had abandoned him. He carried her to the bed where they collapsed and he covered them with the blankets.
Catriona snuggled close. “I love you, Branan,” she purred into his ear.
He squeezed his eyes closed and wrapped her in a tight embrace, his heart rioting. “And I love ye, Catriona. More than ye will ever know.”
Once again, Branan could only lightly doze, a part of him aware of Catriona curled so wonderfully against him as she slept. But there was also a part of him aware that he had to leave before dawn, the moment the gates opened and allowed traders to come and go as they pleased.
God, he didn’t want to. He desperately wanted to stop time and remain with her without worry. But when Branan heard the sounds of life stirring within the castle, he slowly tore himself away from her. At first, he toyed with the idea of waking her by making love to her again, but ultimately decided against it. It was hard enough to leave her, if he awakened her, he might never find the door, and if he made love to her yet again, he might not be able to walk at all.
Branan silently dressed, but wrapped his brat around her. Taking the old one he had left before, he shoved it into the small pack he carried. He paused, lightly caressing Catriona’s hair, and then kissed her cheek. As silently as he had arrived, Branan slipped from the room. Outside, he vanished into the pre-dawn mist.