True Love, page 6
“I will not be put off again,” she shouted at him, “not by you, or by my father, nor by Achard, either. I will have the truth from you!”
“Achard?” he repeated, frowning and looking puzzled. “What has Achard to do with anything?”
“Do not attempt to distract me.” Again she raised the bowl in a threatening gesture. “You are just like my father, changing the subject, raising new issues so I won't pursue any further the matters you don't want to discuss. I tell you now, I have had enough!”
She swung the bowl at him. Braedon leapt aside just in time. On the downswing the bowl struck the edge of the worktable and flew out of Catherine's hand. It landed on the stone floor with a loud clanging noise that reverberated off the walls until the bowl finally stopped spinning.
Catherine could see Braedon was trying hard not to laugh. She lifted her chin, preparing to scald his ears with furious words if he dared to make a joke at her rage.
“I cannot blame you for being angry,” Braedon said. “You are far too intelligent not to notice the undercurrents of conflict swirling amongst your father's guests.”
“Exactly.” Catherine's temper was somewhat calmed by Braedon's acknowledgement of her outrage, though she did not entirely trust his remark about her intelligence. Most men believed women possessed little in the way of native wit. Unlike most men when dealing with a woman, she was prepared to listen to what a man had to say. “Sir, I am waiting for your explanation.”
“Of course.” Braedon spoke slowly, as if he was thinking the matter through very carefully. “You do deserve an explanation. You wanted to know why Eustace and I nearly came to blows. I will tell you why.” He fell silent and Catherine waited, determined to have the truth of the quarrel from him, and then to learn all she could about the undercurrents he had mentioned.
“I have only three relatives living,” Braedon said. “My mother was the daughter of a prosperous weaver. She died soon after I was born. She and my father were not married. Eustace was correct when he called me a bastard. I have never seen the point of taking offense at a fact that is common knowledge. When my mother died, her brother took me into his household and raised me as his ward.”
“That was kindly done of him,” Catherine said. “I am sure there are men who would claim that a sister who has borne a child out of wedlock has brought shame to her family.”
“My uncle was well paid for his care of me.” Braedon's voice took on a timbre that warned Catherine not to pursue that particular line of questioning. “We were discussing my quarrel with Eustace.”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “Please continue.”
“My uncle had one son and a daughter, my cousin Linette. My male cousin treated me with contempt, but Linette was always kind to me.”
Here Braedon fell silent again, pausing for so long that Catherine began to worry that he would say he loved his cousin and would never care for any other woman. She told herself she was being foolish; Braedon's feelings for his cousin were no concern of hers.
“All Linette ever wanted was to enter a convent,” Braedon said. “But my uncle decided his interests would be best served by marrying both of his children into important families. He was rich enough to achieve his goal, so when Linette was fourteen, against her wishes, he arranged a marriage for her.”
“That sounds like Lord Phelan,” Catherine said. “He did the same thing to his daughter when she was young, and then tried to marry her off for a second time as soon as she was widowed. Noblemen as well as commoners sometimes use their children as pawns.”
“Linette never married,” Braedon said in a cold, hard voice. “Before the ceremony could take place she was raped by Eustace of Sutton.”
“Dear heaven.” Catherine's hand was pressed against her throat, and then against her left cheek as her own violent memories of Eustace’s brutality flooded back. She swallowed hard, knowing she could never tell Braedon – or her father, either – what Eustace had done to her. Telling either man would only lead to new violence and she did not want that.
“Oh, Braedon, that poor girl. How unspeakably horrible.”
“The deed was made even more horrible because men at my uncle's level of society cannot avenge the wrongs done to their daughters by noblemen. Nor did her brother dare to challenge Eustace.
“Linette was considered damaged goods after that,” Braedon continued. “Until the day he died my uncle refused even to speak to her, so enraged was he by the enforced termination of his plan to marry her off for his own advantage.”
“Cruel father!” Catherine exclaimed. “How can a man abandon his child for something that was not her fault? Braedon, where is Linette now? If she is in need of shelter, I will take her in and make her welcome here.”
“You would do that? You have a generous heart, Lady Catherine. But there is no need.
One good did come out of the unforgivable damage done to an innocent soul. When I learned what had happened to Linette, I applied directly to my father for justice. He provided a dowry for her, and interceded with an important abbess, who agreed to take Linette into the convent she heads. As soon as Linette recovered from her bodily injuries I personally escorted her to the convent, where the abbess received her with great kindness. As far as I can tell on the infrequent occasions when my duties allow me to visit her, Linette is at peace. But she ought not to have suffered as she did. I will never forgive Eustace for his evil deed, and I will gladly kill him when the opportunity arises – as I am sure it will arise, given his vile character.”
“Was it you who challenged Eustace just now?” Catherine asked. “Or he who challenged you?”
“It was Eustace, drunk and boasting as usual, who began the fight,” Braedon answered. “I was sorely tempted to kill him. But I am Royce's guest, and there are other reasons to wait.”
“What reasons?” Catherine asked.
“Well, for one, he was drunk. I don't want to be accused of slaying a man who is too far gone in his cups to defend himself properly. For my own honor's sake, I would much prefer to meet him during the melee when, presumably, he will be alert and sober.”
“That's a wise decision on your part,” Catherine said. “But do take care when you meet him. Drunk or sober, Eustace is not above trickery.”
“I will be careful. I thank you for the warning.” Braedon's fingers brushed lightly across Catherine's cheek. “And I thank you, too, for your kind offer to take in Linette.”
“I know Eustace well enough to be certain that what happened was not in any way her fault,” Catherine said, silently renewing her vow never to reveal the truth about her scar . “My heart aches for the pain Linette must have suffered, and for your grief at her pain.” To emphasize her point, Catherine laid a hand on Braedon's chest. His fingers quickly covered hers, holding her hand there, pressing it against the solid muscle until she felt the steady throbbing of his heart.
She looked into Braedon's night-dark eyes and what she saw there warmed her very soul. She did not doubt a word that he had said, nor did she question his gratitude at her response to Linette's sad tale.
She made no protest at all when Braedon's warm lips skimmed over hers. It seemed an action entirely appropriate to her sudden new knowledge about his past. Knowing about his affection for his cousin and his determination to avenge Linette's lost honor created an intimacy between them. She felt Braedon's arms come around her, drawing her nearer. Her hands crept upward to encircle his neck. Catherine nestled against him and opened her mouth on a sigh.
Braedon's lips grew more insistent. Catherine did not complain. Her blood began to sing, her heart was racing, and when his hand covered her breast she murmured softly and pressed her mouth more firmly against his. The circumstances of his birth did not matter to her. Braedon was an honorable man, a hero willing to defend his ruined cousin. He was vibrantly alive, thrillingly masculine, and she reveled in his closeness.
“Catherine.” Slowly, with unconcealed reluctance, Braedon separated himself from her. “We must end this now. Surely, you know that.”
“I do know it.” She let her fingertips trail along the edge of his mouth before she stepped back from him. “I don't want to end it, but you are right.”
He took her hand and bestowed a lingering kiss on the palm of it. Then he departed, closing the stillroom door softly behind him, while Catherine remained gazing after him as if she was moonstruck.
It was some minutes before questions began to throng her mind. The first question was, who was Braedon's father, that he could provide a suitable dowry to Linette on short notice, and influence an abbess to admit the girl into her convent? It seemed likely that he was the same person who had seen to Braedon's education and to his training as a knight.
Romantic liaisons between noblemen and commoners were not unknown. Sometimes, the families of the women involved found the connection so profitable that they raised no objections. Braedon's remark that his uncle had been well paid to care for him further suggested that his mother's lover was a wealthy and powerful noble. It occurred to Catherine that perhaps her father could tell her who Braedon's male parent was.
Only after reaching this point in her mental review of the interlude with Braedon did Catherine realize that once again she had been distracted from her primary purpose. She had become so caught up in Braedon's story about his cousin's ruin at the hands of Eustace, so concerned about Linette's fate, and so deeply moved by her own emotions toward Braedon that she had failed to insist on answers to her original questions.
“Did he do it deliberately, or was he as disturbed as I was?” Catherine asked the empty room. “One thing is certain: I would make a wretched spy, for I cannot keep my mind on the main subject.”
Braedon ran down the steps from the tower keep to the inner bailey with his thoughts in turmoil. He did not make a habit of unburdening himself to others. Mere words could not change the fact that he was illegitimate, nor did words have the power to alter what had been done to Linette. Yet he recognized that a large portion of his enduring fury over his cousin's fate was dispelled after telling Catherine about it.
His original intention had been to deflect Catherine's dangerous curiosity by recounting e story, and he told himself he ought to feel guilty for having so shamelessly used Linette's history for his own selfish purposes. It was not shame he felt, but an odd peace, as if soothing balm had been poured upon old wounds that had festered too long. How remarkable it was to find that Catherine accepted him as an honest man regardless of his illicit parentage – and what exquisite joy to hear her open-hearted offer to give Linette a home.
Despite his qualms about the nature of his mission to Wortham, and his lingering concern that he had said too much to Catherine, by the time Braedon reached the bottom step and struck out across the bailey, he was whistling a cheerful tune.
Chapter 4
The next day was the Sabbath, a day of rest and a time when only the most urgent travel was undertaken, so no new guests were expected to arrive. With Wortham already full almost to overflowing, Father Aymon, the castle chaplain, said three separate Masses in order to accommodate everyone who wanted to attend. Catherine rose early and went to the first Mass, then proceeded to the kitchen to discuss the day's meals with the cook. A barrel of salted fish had arrived from the seacoast on Saturday afternoon, and the larder was bulging with stores of food.
“There is to be a hunting party tomorrow,” Catherine reminded the cook, “which I expect will provide even more meat.”
“Aye,” said the cook, “but there are still the outdoor feasts on all three days of the tournament. Everyone for miles around will take advantage of the free food. The kitchen servants and I will be working from morn till night to prepare all of it, as well as having to provide daily banquets for the nobles.”
“I have every confidence in you and your staff,” Catherine said with an encouraging smile.
Leaving the cook, she began to walk from the kitchen through the screens passage on her way to the great hall. When she heard an unmistakable voice she paused at a spot where she was still sheltered from view by the carved wooden screen that hid the entrance to the kitchen. Positioned as she was, Catherine was able to hear every word that Eustace spoke.
“I cannot wait to meet that bastard, Braedon, in combat,” Eustace said in a sneering tone. “First, I'll skewer him, then I'll dismember him.”
“I seriously doubt that Lord Royce will permit desecration of a fallen knight's body,” said a smooth, quiet voice which Catherine recognized as belonging to Achard. “Have a care, Eustace, lest you ruin what remains of your good name.”
“What of your good name?” Eustace demanded, still sneering. “You cannot be seriously bent on marrying that unpleasant, interfering wench, Catherine?”
“It's an alliance that any man of sense would consider advantageous,” Achard replied. He made no objection to Eustace's slighting reference to the nature of the woman he aspired to wed.
At that point in the discussion Catherine noticed she could see Achard through one of the openings carved in the decorative screen. Even as she stared, Achard turned his head and his eyes met hers. At once Catherine stepped out from behind the screen to face the two men. Her cheeks felt hot; she hoped she was not blushing with embarrassment at being caught listening to a private conversation. Then, irritated at the way they were talking about her, she decided to do to them what men had been doing to her for days. She would deflect their attention and offer no direct response to any questions they put to her.
“Good morning, Eustace,” she said. “I am surprised to see you out of bed so early. After last night, I'd think you would have trouble rousing yourself.”
“If your servants were more accommodating, I wouldn't have to rouse myself,” Eustace said in his most insinuating manner. “I'd have a pretty female to rouse me. The only servants who enter my room are middle-aged men. Why were you behind that screen?”
“We do have a large company of guests for the servants to attend to,” Catherine responded sweetly. “I can hardly send male servants to wait on a lady, can I?”
“From what I've seen of your lady guests, it might do them good,” Eustace grumbled. “Now, what did you hear while you were hiding?”
“Hear?” Catherine shook her head, doing her best to appear puzzled. “I have been considering the menu for tomorrow. Is there some dish you particularly favor? If so, I will be happy to add it to the midday meal.”
“I don't want anything to eat.” Eustace scowled at her.
“I fear that Sir Eustace is unwell this morning,” Achard explained smoothly. “He has been complaining of an unsettled stomach.”
“Really?” Catherine eyed Eustace while she considered the wisdom of making the obvious comment that his stomach would not be unsettled if only he would drink less wine. She thought better of it and asked instead, “Shall I prepare an herbal remedy for you?”
“You cannot imagine I would ever accept any potion from your hands,” Eustace said rudely.
“I was only trying to help.” To her relief Catherine spotted Royce coming in from the bailey with Braedon. Seizing the opportunity to get away from the surly Eustace, she said, “If you will excuse me, good sirs, I must speak with my father.”
Not waiting for their assent, Catherine sped across the hall. Neither Royce nor Braedon noticed her. Their heads were close together, and what Catherine heard as she approached them brought her to a sudden halt.
“Achard intends to marry Catherine,” Royce said. “He believes it is an alliance that will place him in a perfect position to continue his—”
“Don't stop on my account,” Catherine snapped when Royce saw her and broke off what he was going to say. “Do continue, please. My future is apparently the chief subject of discussion this morning. First Achard and Eustace, now you and Sir Braedon. But no one speaks directly to me about it. It's enough to make me refuse all suitors!”
“My lady, have you brought a bowl to fling at us?” Braedon asked with a perfectly straight face.
“A bowl?” Royce repeated, looking baffled.
“It is a most effective feminine weapon,” Braedon explained, his eyes gleaming.
“Don't you dare mock me!” Catherine thrust a finger at his chest and Braedon took a step backward. “I am heartily sick of men arranging my life, putting me off when I ask questions, refusing to tell me anything! I will tolerate no more of it! Do you understand?”
“Mind your manners, Catherine,” Royce chided her. “There are guests present.”
“My lady,” said Achard from just behind her, “if I have offended you in any way, I do most humbly apologize.”
Catherine whirled on him, angry words on the tip of her tongue. Achard stood before her with one hand over his heart and a supplicating look on his handsome face.
“You are quite right to be distressed,” Achard continued. “I ought not to discuss my romantic hopes, my dearest dreams, with others until after I have laid my heart at your lovely feet.”
“Romantic hopes?” Catherine exclaimed. “My lord Achard, you do not know me. You only met me yesterday. I dare say, your hopes have more to do with my large dowry and my father's high rank than with my person.”
“And yet,” Braedon interrupted her tirade in an oddly breathless voice, “it is possible for a man to be stricken through the heart at his first sight of a lady.”
“I warned you not to mock me!” Catherine was unable to interpret the look on Braedon's face. She thought she detected bitter humor in his glance, and cold determination in the tight line of his mouth. His face and figure were rigid, as if he was trying his best to conceal his true feelings. Catherine assumed he was trying not to laugh at her. The assumption fueled her sense of outrage against men in general and Braedon in particular.
