What a Lass Wants Read Online Free Page B

she gave the marshal one last bitter stare, and then turned on her heel. Damn the man. And damn the thief who’d chosen this direction in which to travel. Between the two of them, they had ruined everything.
    She mounted the stairs to the third floor. But she could not be so easily stymied. If riding out the front gate was out of the question, then she’d find another way to search theforest.

Chapter 2
    O nce Lady Caitrina had disappeared into the stairwell, Bran released the breath he’d been holding. A very determined lass, that one. He’d fully expected to have to drag her up the stairs, kicking and screaming like a wildcat. But apparently, ladies-in-waiting didn’t resort to such antics.
    He gave the lady a reasonable lead, then followed her up the stairs.
    The queen had appropriated Marshal Finlay’s rooms, so the seneschal had offered Bran a smaller room at the opposite end of the third-floor corridor. Any room would do, frankly. He’d be here only a night or two. All he needed was a wee bit of privacy . . .
    He opened the door to his chamber.
    The young lad bent over a small oak chest by the window abruptly straightened. “Marshal! My apologies. I thought to be done afore you returned.”
    “What in the bloody blazes of hell are you doing?” demanded Bran. His satchel lay at the young man’sfeet, the contents open to view. The fine wool of the two purloined tunics spilled out onto the plank flooring.
    “Unpacking your belongings.”
    Was that a glint of silver he spied in the corner of the satchel? Lord. If the lad but touched the bag once more, the crown would be revealed.
    “This is how you mind my effects?” he asked coldly, pointing at the satchel. “Allowing my clothing to wipe the mud from the floor?”
    A flush rose in the lad’s cheeks. He immediately bent and reached for the spilled cloth, but Bran halted him.
    “Nay,” he snapped.
    The young man straightened. His lips were twisted with regret, but Bran could not allow a moment of sympathy to undo all his hard work. He’d paid a high price to acquire that crown.
    “Do not touch my things again. Get out.”
    The lad bobbed his head and scrambled for the door.
    Bran watched him flee down the corridor, then closed the door and sighed. A thousand ways for this ruse to go astray, and he’d just tripped over one of the simplest. He had forgotten that well-born men had others unpack their bags. Fool. And sending one lad running would not save his treasure. With the queen in residence, there would be gillies constantly underfoot, sweeping cobwebs and delivering firewood and lighting candles. He could not continue to keep the crown inside the manor.
    The safest place was the stables. He’d noted several dark spots up in the rafters.
    But he’d have to wait for nightfall to move the crown.
    Bran placed his clothing in the chest and looked around for a temporary hole to hide the crown. Not in the bed—gillies might warm the sheets before he retired for the night. Not under the bed—the bed stood on a platform. He slowly spun around. A cushioned chair, a small table, the hearth . . . Not a lot of choices. His gaze tilted upward. The bed hangings were really his only alternative—there was a chance the gillies would ruffle them to rid them of dust, but he suspected that was not a frequently performed chore.
    A sharp rap sounded on the wooden door. “Marshal?”
    Bran shoved the crown under the bed pillows. “Aye?”
    The door swung open. The cook stood there, a white cloth wrapped around his substantial middle and a worried frown upon his brow. “Murtagh, sir. The cook. I wonder if I might have a word regarding this eve’s meal?”
    “Have you consulted with Her Grace’s cook?”
    The man’s frown deepened. “Oh, aye. That I have. And there lies the root of my difficulty. The wee Frenchie’s demands are quite unreasonable, Marshal. He’s asking for delicacies we’ve no hope of acquiring.”
    “What sort of