True Love, page 3
“What in the name of all the saints are you doing here?” Braedon growled at her.
There was no answer she could make. The excuse she had planned to use if she was discovered in Phelan's room was meaningless in so pristine and orderly a chamber. The out-of- place clothing plainly indicated that she was caught in the act of searching his possessions. Knowing she was in the wrong, Catherine trembled in Braedon's tight grasp.
With the light from the window behind him, his face was in shadow. It was just as well. His expression was most likely one of outrage and Catherine was glad she couldn't see it. His anger was entirely justified.
“Answer me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Why are you in my room?”
“Release me at once,” she ordered, taking refuge in her chatelaine's habit of command. “I will not be treated this way.”
“If you behave like a common thief, you ought to expect to be treated like a thief,” he said. “Did your father send you to search my room while he kept me talking at the banquet table?”
“No. He doesn't know I am here. Please don't tell him. He will be so angry with me if he finds out.”
“Really? Can I believe you?”
“Of course, you can. I am an honest -” She stopped when she saw the quick flash of his white teeth.
“An honest woman does not enter a man's room as you have done.” Still holding Catherine against the wall, he glanced over his shoulder, looking toward the basket. She saw his sharp profile against the sunlight. “Couldn't you get the knot untied? What an inept conspirator you are.”
“It is a most difficult knot.”
“Deliberately so. It's as good a way as any to be sure no one can tamper with my property without my knowing it.”
“What is in there that you don't want anyone to see?” she demanded.
“My personal belongings,” he said. “Nothing more. I do wonder why you find my basket so interesting. What were you looking for, Lady Catherine?”
His hold on her tightened. She struggled but could not break away. With every passing moment she was more and more aware of his closeness, of the alluring woodland scent of his body, and of his hard muscular strength.
“Sir Braedon, you must know I am not a thief. Let me go this instant.”
“You have entered my bedchamber without my permission, and you have disturbed my possessions. For that, my lady, you owe me a forfeit.”
“What forfeit?” she demanded, making another futile attempt to break his grip on her. He held her securely, yet almost carelessly, as if he was certain she could not escape him and suddenly Catherine was no longer sure she wanted to escape. She was discovering that there was something remarkably exciting about being helpless in Braedon's hands.
“Let me think, now,” he drawled. “Allow me just a moment for reflection. What could I ask of you that you would not otherwise give me? What prize? Have you any suggestions?”
“Certainly not.” She tried to sound offended while knowing she was clearly in the wrong. “You have no right to ask anything of me.”
“No right? After what you have done?”
Something in his voice told Catherine she had misjudged his temper. A faint tendril of alarm touched her mind. She wriggled against his strength, hoping to free herself by sliding under his arms. Without warning he hauled her away from the wall and clasped her in a tight embrace.
“I have just decided what your forfeit will be,” he said. “It's this.”
She was so surprised by his next act that she did not turn her face away quickly enough. Braedon lowered his head until his mouth met hers. It was no gentle forfeit, and not at all like the quick, slightly embarrassed kisses that her father's squires sometimes bestowed on her under the mistletoe during the Christmas festivities. It was like no kiss Catherine had ever experienced in her lifetime.
Braedon's kiss demanded that she respond in kind. One of his arms settled around her waist. His other hand cradled her head, holding her so she could not escape him. After a single, breathless attempt to get free, she gave up all resistance. She sank into his kiss, leaning against his strength, and when his tongue teased along her lips, she opened them. His tongue surged into her and suddenly she was enveloped in heat and longing. Some part of her mind warned that she must stop him. Another part of her wanted him to continue what he was doing and never stop. And then her ever-ready curiosity stirred, making her wonder what would happen next.
She experimented by rather awkwardly touching her tongue to Braedon's. He made a strange, strangled noise deep in his throat and began to suck on her tongue. Catherine thought she was going to burst into flames. Then she stopped thinking. All she could do was cling to him and let him do as he wanted with her.
His hands were on her breasts. He pulled his mouth from hers to kiss her throat and she tipped her head back to let him know she welcomed his impassioned assault.
Much too soon Braedon broke off the embrace and stepped away from her. Reeling in the aftermath of overpowering emotion, Catherine flung out one hand to brace herself against the wall because she feared her knees would no longer hold her upright. Braedon was leaning over the pile of clothing on the floor, lifting it as if to replace it on the basket.
“You have paid your forfeit,” he said, not looking at her. “You may leave now.”
“L – Leave?” she stammered. She was still unsteady on her feet and confused by his actions and his cool, uncaring words. It was as if the kiss that had seared her heart was meaningless to him.
“Go,” he ordered her. “I will say nothing about this incident if you do not. No one but you and I need ever know you came to my room. But I warn you, Catherine, never come here again, for if you do, you will not leave as a maiden.”
“I don't understand,” she said.
“I know you do not, which is why you are not lying beneath me on my bed right now.”
“Braedon—”
“Leave me!”
Catherine had never heard any man sound like that. Braedon's voice was cold and hard as winter ice. It was like listening to a royal command. And like a royal command, there was nothing for her to do in response to his cold voice but obey.
She fled from his chamber, ran up the steps to her own room, where she closed and latched the door, and then stood with her back against the solid wood, trembling and aching for something she scarcely understood, yet knew she could not have.
Chapter 2
“Fool,” Braedon muttered. He tossed the woolen tunics he was holding onto the bed and went to latch the door behind Catherine. The gesture was not to keep her from returning, but to prevent himself from going after her. His scornful words were not directed at her, either, but at himself, for the desire that ran hot and heavy through his veins. “Thoughtless, impulsive fool that you are, you may have ruined everything.”
He had temporarily taken leave of his senses. There could be no other explanation for the reckless way he had embraced Catherine. He knew full well that he had no right to touch her, much less kiss her. If she complained to Royce, Braedon's mission at Wortham would be jeopardized, for Royce would have no choice but to order him to leave.
Never before had Braedon found himself in such a predicament. He was always the most cool-headed and responsible of men, carrying out his orders with calm efficiency, refusing to allow feminine wiles to interfere with his work no matter how cleverly those wiles were employed to lure him from his sworn purpose. His personal liaisons were reserved for the brief periods when he was between missions and he always took care to remain distant in his heart even while he indulged his body in erotic pleasures. Nor did he trust the women whose beds he shared. Braedon had survived for as long as he had in his dangerous profession because he rarely trusted anyone, man or woman.
His gaze fell upon the basket in which the tools of his trade were stored, tucked in among his clothing. The intricately tied knot appeared to be untouched and Catherine had sounded as if her attempt to open the basket was unsuccessful. But she was Royce's daughter; perhaps she was as skillful at dissembling as her parent was. It was possible that she had opened the basket, examined the contents, and then cleverly retied the knot, making it appear as if she hadn’t tampered with it. She had been absent from the great hall long enough to complete such a task. Had Royce sent her to his room to search his belongings while he kept Braedon occupied at the high table, or was Catherine telling the truth when she claimed her spying was her own idea?
As Braedon saw it, his present duty required him to draw as much information as possible out of Catherine. In the past he had occasionally used seduction to gain information, but he considered that path the wrong one to use in this instance. Not only was Catherine obviously too intelligent to be an easy conquest, but Royce was likely to take strong exception to Braedon's efforts in that direction. Braedon did not dare chance being challenged to combat by an irate father, or being driven out of Wortham, before he had completed his mission.
“There is a simple way to be sure how much Lady Catherine learned while she was in this room,” Braedon said aloud.
He went to his knees next to the basket and worked at the leather thong with fingers made nimble by years of practice. It was one of a pair of baskets which were lashed to a packhorse when he traveled. The other basket held his chainmail armor. His squire had taken both basket and chainmail to the armorer's for repair of a few broken links. While he was in the outer bailey Robert, who was Braedon's apprentice as well as his squire, was assigned to learn as much as he could about the various guests and their attendants. Braedon knew better than to discount the stories or the gossip that servants and squires and castle artisans routinely exchanged. Often the common folk knew more than their masters about what was really going on in a castle. Robert was sure to return with at least a few valuable tidbits of news.
The leather knot Braedon was working on came apart and he lifted the lid of the basket. At first appearance nothing was disturbed. Still, he wanted to be certain. He lifted out three linen undershirts and the padded gambeson he always wore beneath his chainmail. Next was a neatly folded pile of hose, which he also removed. Under the hose lay the most important layer of all. Braedon decided to check each item of that layer. One by one he picked up the items and examined them for signs of tampering.
Two vials of poppy syrup remained tightly sealed with wax. Two other vials containing dried aconite corms ground together with oil were not only sealed, but wrapped in waxed linen cloths as a further precaution, for aconite was a deadly poison. In a separate piece of linen was a small parchment packet of powered hellebore, another poison.
Braedon's mouth tightened as he looked at the collection of herbal products. He always disliked having to use any of them and made a habit of carrying the antidotes with him. Thus, his supplies also included finely ground daffodil bulbs and a vial of mulberry juice. The dried valerian root was in a tightly sealed jar to prevent its fetid odor from permeating all of his clothing. As an extra measure against anyone detecting the smell of valerian on his person, Braedon daily used a scented soap and an astringent herbal liquid that he applied to his skin after bathing or shaving.
Then there were his weapons, his three secret and trusty blades. A slender dagger just big enough to slip into his boot boasted a razor-sharp edge and a deadly point. It was the twin to the dagger Braedon was wearing concealed against his ankle in a special sheath sewn into his right boot. A smaller knife that could fit into his sleeve rested beside the dagger. There was also a large knife with a rather blunt tip and a cleverly wrought blade that retracted into its handle when a button on the hilt was pressed. The button was so cleverly disguised as part of the decoration of the hilt that only a person who was aware of the existence of such a device could have recognized it.
Braedon's other weapons, the broadsword, shortsword and battleaxe he used for public combat were with Robert, taken to the armorer's for sharpening before the tournament that was scheduled for a few days hence.
So far as he could tell, Catherine had not discovered any of the herbs or the secret implements hidden away in his clothing basket. The bottommost layer of clothes consisted of a spare cloak and an extra gambeson that he kept in case the one he ordinarily wore was bloodied in combat or soaked by rain. These two garments served as extra padding to protect the secret items he did not want found or handled. He replaced everything, topping the contents with the tunics he plucked off the bed. He retied the thong in his own, special knot.
When he was finished he went to the window, to gaze into the deepening purple dusk while he thought about what he had been sent to Wortham Castle to do. His heart had grown hard during his years of confidential service; still, it saddened him to know that before he left Wortham he was going to have to kill at least one person, and perhaps more than one. Killing was always a sad and solemn deed, an unwelcome necessity. Braedon did not think he would ever become used to it.
Then he thought about the lone man he did want to kill and his lips twisted in a grimace of hatred. When the time came for that particular deed, he would strike without compunction, without pity, and with no sorrow at all when it was over.
The next day, which was Saturday and the first day of the annual Wortham fair, dawned bright and cool. Catherine was as eager as any of her female guests to visit the fair. Left to herself, she would have been present when the first booths were opened, but as chatelaine and hostess she felt it her duty to remain at the castle until everyone was awake and fed. Thus, it was mid-morning before she rode out of the gates with Aldis by her side. Her spirits lifted at once, buoyed by a sudden sense of release.
Her carefree pleasure did not last long. She heard hoofbeats coming from the direction of the meadow where in a few days the tournament was to take place. When she looked toward the sound she saw two men approaching. The lead rider was mounted on a handsome gray stallion and there was no mistaking his identity. Catherine's heart began to beat more quickly.
The man who followed Braedon by half a length rode a chestnut gelding whose coat was almost exactly the same shade as the good-looking horseman's own hair.
“Good day to you, my lady.” Braedon slowed the gray to ride next to Catherine. “If you are heading for the fair, may we join you? This is my squire, Robert,” he added, waving a hand to indicate the man on the chestnut horse.
Catherine had encountered Robert on the previous day only long enough to learn his name and to realize that he was a bit older than most squires, but it appeared Aldis knew him better, for she offered him a friendly greeting and a welcoming smile.
“Well, my lady?” Braedon asked. His midnight eyes held a taunting message for Catherine alone. “What say you? Shall we spend a few hours together at the fair? Or, after last night, do you wish me permanently gone from Wortham?”
“Whether you go or stay, Sir Braedon, must be your own decision,” she responded in as haughty a voice as she could manage when the mere sight of him roused the memory of his passionate embrace. A faint smile teased the corners of his mouth. Catherine keenly recalled the touch of that mouth on hers. It took considerable strength of will to remind herself that she doubted his honesty.
“Is your declaration meant as a yes or a no?” Braedon asked.
“I would be remiss in my duties as hostess if I turned away any guest,” she said. “Of course, you and your squire are welcome to join Aldis and me.”
“I thank you for your kindness, my lady.”
She looked at him sharply, thinking she detected mockery in his smooth tone, but his face had resumed its sober expression.
“Robert and I have been examining the melee field,” Braedon said as the four of them rode on toward Wortham village.
“Have you, indeed?” She tried to sound uninterested.
“I prefer to test any area of combat before I venture onto it in earnest,” he said.
“I suppose it is always best to be prepared.”
“Are you prepared for combat, Lady Catherine?” he asked.
“If you mean, have I laid in supplies of medicine and bandages, then, yes, I am well prepared,” she snapped at him. “As any chatelaine would be. It is wrong of you to suggest otherwise.”
“My lady, it does seem to me that you are greatly annoyed with me, and not just because I questioned your arrangements for those who will be wounded during the melee,” he said, looking innocent though his eyes were sparkling with laughter.
“I am irritated, Sir Braedon, to think a guest in my father's home would take liberties with my person, but to say I am annoyed would give too much importance to an incident that is of little significance.” She thought she heard him chuckle, but she refused to look at him again. She did not want to see him laughing at her.
Behind them on the narrow roadway Aldis chattered away with Robert as if the two of them were the best of friends. Her companion's ease with the squire made Catherine all the more aware of how uncomfortable she was with Braedon. On the one hand, she mistrusted him while, on the other hand, she admitted to herself that she had taken entirely too much pleasure in his kisses. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to repeat the experience, or whether she wanted him to leave Wortham and never return, so she could forget him – if she could forget him. Her unsettled state of mind was most disturbing. She decided her best course for the remainder of the morning was to direct all of her attention to the fair.
The road from the gates of Wortham Castle led westward through cultivated fields to the village, which had grown up beside a meandering river that supplied copious amounts of clean water for drinking and irrigation. Just north of the village a fallow field was serving as a temporary fair ground, with a bend in the river as its western and northern boundary. On all sides the rich farmland belonging to Wortham stretched to the very edges of the forest, with the crops of oats and rye and the smaller patches of beets, onions, cabbages, and other vegetables all displaying softer shades of green than the darker trees beyond. The beneficent sun shone in a cloudless sky.
