Free What a Lass Wants by Rowan Keats

were seated around the fire, eating soup from wooden bowls and quaffing horns of ale. “A dozen men in all, most of them half in their cups.”
    “Can you spy the man you seek?”
    She could not. None of the men in sight had a misshapen ear and a scar across his cheek. But what did it matter? The soldier had mentioned the Bear by name—this was definitely Giric’s camp. And if she was not mistaken, the slim woman bent over the cooking cauldron was none other than Marsailli. Caitrina smiled.
    “Aye,” she said. “The one I seek is standing right before my eyes.”
    “Excellent,” Bran said. “Then let us return to the manor. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. It is now time for you to fulfill yours.”
    Her heart sank. It was true. He’d met his obligation—he was due his prize.
    But
she
would not be satisfied until Marsailli was free. Until she could be certain her sister was beyond Giric’s grasp. How was she to accomplish that? Caitrina watched the woman by the fire chat briefly with a tall, thin man with a balding pate and then limp across the muddy field to the green-striped tent. It was definitely Marsailli. The gentle tilt of her head, the way she lifted her skirts as she moved, and the curl of her nut-brown locks were all familiar. But she was hurt—she favored her right side as she walked.
    A bittersweet ache filled her chest.
    Seeing her sister, even from a distance, was a joy beyond imagining, but witnessing her pain was unbearable. She had to set Marsailli free. And soon. The task would not be an easy one, however. The tent she had entered backed onto the burn, and the only way to reach it was straight through the camp—right past all the guards.
    With a grimace, Caitrina turned away from the view and joined Bran at the base of the boulder. She’d been so sure that a route to success would become obvious once she saw the layout of the camp. But she had nothing. Bran offered his hand as they stepped over a rotting log and she slid her fingers into his warm palm. Not even an unwilling ally. Bran would disappear the moment she handed over the crown. Now that the MacCurrans had ridden for Stirling, he had no reason to remain.
    “What will you do with the crown once you have it?” she asked.
    He glanced at her. “What does it matter?”
    “I’m simply curious.”
    “You’ve no need to know,” he cautioned her. “And as you can personally attest, curiosity can sometimes lead you to dangerous places.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “Do you threaten me?”
    He tossed her one of his charming smiles, and she melted a little. “Nay. But the less you know of me and my troubles, the safer you’ll be from those who might come looking for truths.”
    “Fair enough,” she said. “But would I be off the mark to suggest your troubles are the sort that are influenced by large quantities of coin?”
    “That’s none of your concern.”
    But it was. She needed to find some way to keep her ally-cum-thief in her pocket. Coin had seemed an obvious enticement, but he had barely blinked at her broad hint. If Bran was not driven by greed, then what
was
he driven by?
    They reached the horse, and Bran gave her a leg up.
    The sun had finally broken through the clouds and bright splashes of sunlight littered the forest floor around them. As he checked the cinch on the saddle, Caitrina studied the play of light on his golden hair. “The MacCurrans are Highlanders,” she said thoughtfully. “I believe their clan seat is deep within the Red Mountains. The crown must hold great meaning for them if they chased you this far south in an effort to reclaim it.”
    Bran lifted his gaze. His expression was calm, but there was an unusual stillness to him that told her shehad hit the mark. “Wounded pride,” he said with a shrug. “They’ll give up soon enough.”
    “I am acquainted with the Lady of Dunstoras, Isabail,” Caitrina said. “I attended her wedding to Andrew Macintosh a number of years