Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (4 page)

His jaw tightened and his sea-green eyes clouded, as turbulent as a storm. “Catriona, I—”

“Hey now,” a voice called.

Branan stiffened and turned, but then smiled. “Gavin.”

Catriona reluctantly released Branan to embrace her brother, but the giant man beside her continued to possess her attention. His armor failed to hide his broad shoulders and the powerful size of his chest. All semblance of the youth she had known was gone. His face had matured with exquisitely handsome planes, pronounced cheekbones, and a straight nose. His lips were full and well-shaped, his jaw strong and proud. She noted his tanned skin and the tiny smile lines around his mouth and eyes. But his eyes hadn’t changed at all, still a beautiful sea-green color that sometimes shifted with the light. She glimpsed a reflection of deep grief within them, yet he smiled at her, and for a moment his eyes sparked with an old fire that had always taken her breath away.

“I slew two of the sods,” Gavin said and glanced around. “But it seems you had more fun than I did.”

“Here,” Branan said, removing his huge woolen cloak. “You’re half-frozen, Catriona.” Gently he placed the thick wool over her shoulders and wrapped it tightly around her.

Catriona staggered, her exhaustion catching her unexpectedly.

“Branan, she’s well-nigh unto dropping,” Gavin said, refusing to release her.

“The lass said she thought there were five. If ye killed a pair, then we have them all.”

“Wait,” Catriona said. “Is one a huntsman or forester?”

Branan scowled, gazing at the bodies. “I dinna think so, lass. Gavin?”

“Serjants, by the look of those I killed.”

Catriona shook her head. “Then one escaped. I was not sure of the count, remember.”

“Medoubts—” Branan began.

“Branan,” she said wearily. “They never fell more than an hour or two behind me, although I tried everything father taught me. You know how well I understand these woods, yet they stayed on my trail like hounds.”

“Aye,” Gavin said tightly. “There must be a forester.”

“Mayhap they simply—”

“Branan, you lack-wit, you know my sister’s talent, do not deny it simply because she is female.”

“Aye,” Branan said, giving her a wink. “Mayhap the forester escaped. I’d wager he willna pursue, but return to Strickland for reinforcements.”

“Aye, brother,” Gavin said nodding.

“Where should we go?”

Catriona did not want to speak, but with her home destroyed, she knew it was their only answer. She gazed up at Branan, her heart breaking.

“Perhaps we should seek shelter at the home of . . . my betrothed.”

Branan’s jaw tightened but he held her gaze. “’Tis a good idea, lass. I need to speak with him.” He fell silent, his eyes staring into her soul.

Catriona swallowed hard. He did not object to her betrothal. Only now did she realize her heart had clung to a tiny shred of hope, but it suddenly vanished, along with the rest of her foolish childhood fantasies.

“Catriona?” Gavin asked. “Can you ride?”

“Not alone.”

“Let me take her,” Branan said.

To her shock, Gavin released her and Branan lifted her into his arms. She squeezed her eyes shut and settled her head against his shoulder, vowing she would not cry, but tears leaked down her face no matter her effort.

Branan and Gavin had come home, alive and well. She was no longer alone.

Brackenburgh

A
s they rode, Branan wrapped his plaid around them both and held Catriona close. His excuse was to keep her warm, but a part of him savored the wonderful feel of her body against his. In the ten years Branan had been gone, Catriona had blossomed into a beautiful young woman. She only reached the middle of his chest, and when Branan had embraced her, he’d felt as if he could have wrapped himself around her twice.

Although petite, Catriona was strong and lithe. As a child she had mastered the bow and constantly hunted in the forest. Her father had ignored her unladylike behavior, secretly pleased with her skill. Now she was strong, yet the feel of her feminine curves ignited Branan’s blood. Her face was no longer childlike in shape, but her angelic blue eyes were just as beautiful as he remembered. Her smile still dazzled him and her skin remained unblemished.

Errant locks of red-gold hair brushed his cheek as she rested her head against his shoulder. He fought to keep from inhaling her sweet scent—a subtle hint of jasmine that enchanted him. He sighed softly, his arms tightening around her.

“I missed you, Branan,” she whispered, burrowing closer.

He glanced down at her, startled, then smiled. “I missed ye too, lassie.” He released his breath. “Gavin told me about your betrothal.”

“Papa refused to listen to me. I thought I could talk him out of it. I detest Richard.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he’s handsome enough. Many a girl would kill to marry him. But he’s an absolute beast. He’s rude, arrogant, and thinks I’m something to be coddled. If he had his way, I’d be locked in a tower for the rest of my days.”

Branan felt his lips twitch. Confining Catriona would drive her insane. “I had hoped to talk to your father about this.”

Her shoulders bowed. “He’s gone now.”

“I am sorry, Catriona.”

She rubbed her eyes and he knew she fought back tears.

“Still,” he said, trying to distract her from her grief. “Gavin is heir. He now has a say in who you marry.”

She shook her head. “Right after Gavin left, my father signed the betrothal contract.”

His heart crashed to his boots. She shivered and Branan’s arms tightened around her. Betrothal contracts were difficult enough to break, but since her father had placed his mark and then died, dissolving the contract would be well-nigh impossible.

Branan’s anger levered up a few notches and he silently cursed John de Reigny. He loved his foster-father, but how could John do this to Catriona? Why force her into the marriage if she could not abide the man? He never thought John would do anything like this.

Jamie, one of Branan’s men scouting the road ahead, galloped back to the group. “Riders!” he called, drawing his sword and hefting his targe. “About fifteen, heavily armed, ridin’ hard.”

Branan cursed under his breath. With Catriona in his arms, he could not fight. His men immediately moved into positions around him. Their first duty was to protect their laird, and ultimately, the lady in his arms.

Gavin and his serjants formed a line in front of their group. “Wait for my order,” he snapped to his men.

The group galloped into view. Branan swallowed hard. Many of them appeared to be stipendiary knights: hired swords.

A young knight, his armor finely made, led them on a black destrier. He held up his hand, signaling a stop and glared at them. Then he saw Gavin and blinked. “De Reigny?”

Gavin put away his sword. “Aye, de Courcy, we were just coming to see you.”

Branan breathed a small sigh of relief; at least these were not Strickland’s men.

“I just received word that the manor house was under attack,” de Courcy said urgently. “I was coming to help your father.” He pulled off his helm.

Branan examined de Courcy critically. Catriona had spoken truly; he was handsome. His mahogany hair was pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence and his body appeared lean and strong.

Gavin nodded, his back stiff. “I just returned to discover Strickland murdered my parents. Burned the entire household and village.”

De Courcy’s face paled. “Sweet Jesu. And Catriona...?” His gaze scanned their group, locking onto Catriona as she peeked at him from under Branan’s plaid.

Relief flooded de Courcy’s expression and he vaulted off his horse. “Praise the saints,” he said and quickly approached.

One of Branan’s men looked to him. Branan gave him a brief nod and the man allowed de Courcy to pass. De Courcy hurried to Branan’s mount and took Catriona’s hand in his, pressing a kiss against her fingers. “I was so worried about you.”

Catriona’s expression eased. “I am fine thanks to Branan and Gavin.”

De Courcy looked up at him.

“I am the MacTavish,” Branan said.

De Courcy scowled in confusion, but Catriona stared up at him in surprise. “A laird?”

He nodded.

“MacTavish,” de Courcy muttered, as if trying the name and not liking the way it tasted.

“Branan killed three of the men trying to capture me,” Catriona said. “Gavin slew the other two.”

De Courcy’s brows rose on his forehead. “Then I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my betrothed, MacTavish.”

Branan’s anger at his possessiveness grew.

He reached for Catriona. “Ride with me, my sweet. You will be safe at Brackenburgh now that your home is gone.”

Catriona shrank deeper into Branan’s plaid. “I am fine, Richard. Finally I am warm.”

“Nay, lady, you will ride with me.”

Catriona sighed and moved to untangle herself from his embrace. Branan helped her dismount, surprised she had given in so easily. De Courcy wrapped his cloak around her.

“MacTavish,” de Courcy said, his tone light, “as a reward for helping my betrothed, I’d like to invite you and your men to Brackenburgh.” He paused and leaned closer. “I believe we have a few things to discuss.”

Branan nodded, although his gaze never left de Courcy’s hand as he wrapped his arm around Catriona’s shoulders. “Aye, de Courcy.”

De Courcy nodded and lifted Catriona into his arms. Branan’s throat tightened.

“Honestly, Richard,” she said her voice harsh but weary. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Nonsense,” de Courcy replied. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and it has given you a fright. I do not wish you to swoon.”

Catriona shot a glance at Branan, over de Courcy’s shoulder, and rolled her eyes in the most meaningful fashion. Branan had to fight back an unexpected grin.
De Courcy, ye dinna ken of the fyrdraca ye have drawn to yer breast.

HHH

The large group arrived at Brackenburgh as the faint echo of distant church bells rang for Compline. Branan sighed and his belly gnawed at him, wanting supper.

De Courcy led them through the gates of a large keep built on a grand scale. Branan cringed, thinking of his home in Scotland. This keep made his look like a peasant’s hovel. His gaze automatically found Catriona as de Courcy dismounted with her in his arms. No wonder John had chosen this man to marry her. With his wealth, her future would be secure.

De Courcy instructed one of his men to escort his guests inside while he saw to his betrothed. Branan heard Catriona protest again as he carried her to the stairs, but couldn’t hear her words. He scowled. Her future would be secure, but what of her heart? Catriona’s free spirit would find little comfort in de Courcy’s overbearing nature. Many men did not approve of a woman having a spark of independence, but in the short time Branan stayed with the de Reignys, Catriona’s fire had entranced him.

Branan joined Duguald and Gavin. The rest of the men walked to the barracks and servants took their horses. De Courcy’s steward escorted Branan, Gavin, and Duguald into the great hall.

Further evidence of de Courcy’s wealth assailed Branan inside. A massive fire roared in a huge hearth in the cavernous hall. Expensive tapestries adorned the walls and a giant oak table filled the center of the room. Branan paused simply to appreciate the craftsmanship of the wood. The chairs were equally as fine.

Duguald noted his gaze and chuckled. “’Tis a goodly piece of work.”

“Aye,” Branan replied. “It would take us years to complete one like this.” He ran his fingers lightly along the grain.

The steward escorted them to a small room where they could refresh themselves. Branan removed his armor and donned a clean inar and trews, and wrapped his plaid over his shoulder, tucking it into his belt. Soon, the small group had rid themselves of dirt and returned to the hall.

“Thank you for your patience,” de Courcy said as he descended the stairs. “I have granted my betrothed use of my mother’s former solar. The maids will tend to her and see that she eats.” He paused at the table as a servant handed him a cup of wine. “Although she will never admit it, I know she is exhausted.”

Branan could only agree with de Courcy’s observation.

“Come; sit and refresh yourselves. Our meal will be served soon.”

Branan sat at the table. The servants brought them bread and cheese. He found the wine a bit too strong for his pallet, instead enjoying the finely made ale.

They spoke little except of trivial things during their meal. Gavin carried the conversation, asking about de Courcy’s money-making ventures. Over the course of the evening, Branan discovered de Courcy a shrewd man when it came to profits, and definitely not a slouch when it came to tactics.

Brackenburgh, although a defensive castle, existed primarily for trade. Its locale near the River Petteril, close to the fork of the king’s roads, one of which lead north to the Barony of Carlisle and the other northwest leading to the Barony of Allerdale, gave it a perfect position to serve both goals.

The meal finished and the table cleared, most of the servants departed except for a few who would tend to their cups. De Courcy sat back, his dark eyes glittering as he looked at Branan.

“John told me much about you, but I fear he never told me you were a laird.”

“He didna ken of it,” Branan said softly. “I didna either until Uncle Duguald brought me to Dun-ArdRigh.”

De Courcy arched an eyebrow then nodded. “So your lands have been keeping you busy.”

Branan nodded. “Our primary income is in wool production.” He fingered the plaid he wore. “Our women are fine weavers and their work is prized. The wool that my men and I wear is the pride of our clan.”

“This pattern you wear is one of the finest, MacTavish. I hope to pursue purchasing your clan’s weaving for resale. We shall both make tidy profits.”

Branan couldn’t resist the smile he shot at de Courcy, yet he made a mental note to request that the women change the thread count. When they sold to other clans, the weave changed subtly. It should be more apparent when sold to the English or even abroad.

“We are also woodworkers. When I am not at the lathe, I am training horses.”

De Courcy arched an eyebrow. “You sound like a very busy man.”

“Aye, but I enjoy the work.”
And my sanity,
he thought.

De Courcy sighed, his expression turning wistful. “I can hardly remember the days when I performed various labors. Now these trade endeavors are so extensive, I barely have time to manage them.”

Branan’s brow furrowed. Were de Courcy’s words an affront or a compliment to the fact that Branan still performed physical labor?

Gavin cleared his throat. “Yet, de Courcy, I hear you have time to take on a relatively new matter, one that requires strategy and the use of weapons rather than just profits.”

De Courcy chuckled, his eyes glittering. “Aye, de Reigny. I like making money, that is no secret, but when something...or someone...threatens my ventures, I find it prudent to seek other means of recourse.” He paused, studying the others for a long moment before his gaze locked on Branan. “I understand, MacTavish, that there is no love lost betwixt you and Warden Strickland.”

Branan’s jaw tightened. “Aye.”

“John told me that by all rights you should be the heir to the Wardenship.” He paused and scowled. “I am not sure if I am clear on this, but John explained you are not Strickland’s son, that you were begotten of Lady Raina’s first husband—the Scotsman, Raulf MacTavish, whom Strickland murdered. In truth, you are of Scottish blood; what I’ve seen thus far has proven it.”

“’Tis sooth. My mother only claimed me as Strickland’s son because she feared he would kill me the moment I uttered my first squall.”

De Courcy nodded, surprising Branan with an expression of approval. He motioned the servants to quickly refill their cups then lifted his as if in a toast. “To the wisdom of your mother, Branan MacTavish, for protecting what she held most dear.”

“Well said,” Gavin replied, lifting his cup.

“Aye,” Branan said and acknowledged the toast.
But my mother paid such a terrible price because of her love for me.

“Strickland,” de Courcy continued, “and I had a...disagreement. It seems the expense of maintaining the Royal Forest of Inglewood is increasing.”

“Increasing to line his pockets, you mean,” Gavin muttered.

“Brackenburgh answered the challenge in stride and we paid our due. Remember making money is my talent, so I was still able to show a profit even after the hefty increases.” De Courcy paused and sighed. “Unfortunately, many townships were not able to do that. Strickland punished them by burning their stores and their homes. I tried to help those Strickland persecuted, but he grew suspicious of me, thinking I was holding back.”

“He not only bites the hand that feeds him, but he lops it off,” Branan muttered.

“Strickland’s bastard delivered a message from his father. He threatened my standing and my profits if I did not give them more.” De Courcy’s lip curled. “When I asked why Strickland did not come himself, the whelp replied that he was collecting his due from another village. The idiot was too busy pillaging to come threaten me. He had to send his by-blow to do it.”

Gavin shook his head. “One would think if a man has the bollocks to threaten one with financial backing such as yours, he’d leastways do it in person.”

“Aye,” de Courcy replied, his disgust poorly veiled. “There is a point where a man must take a stand, otherwise Strickland would have bled me dry. I flatly refused the cur and told him he could get only what we had been giving, not a farthing more.”