Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (21 page)

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.

HHH

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.”

HHH

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 the fever 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.

HHH

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.”