True Love (15 page)

“Which is not always easy to do,” she said to
Aldis. “Some knights believe it's a sign of vigorous manhood to be
dirty.”

“They won't be manly for long if their wounds
fester,” Aldis responded. She picked up the basket of salves and
ointments and bandages, and the two women left their most recent
patient to the care of his squire.

“You heard me threaten each of those men we
treated with possible amputation should an infection develop, but
they probably won't listen to a mere woman,” Catherine said,
pausing outside Braedon's tent. Robert had sent word that Braedon's
wound was not serious and that Catherine should attend to the other
injured men before coming to him. She had obeyed, setting aside her
desire to rush to him, telling herself if she went to him last, she
would be free to linger with him.

Inside the tent Braedon sat on a stool. He
was wearing only brown hose and boots. His chainmail tunic and
leggings, linen underclothes and gambeson, all lay on the ground,
awaiting the repairs that Robert and the castle armorer would make
to them. When Catherine entered Robert was pouring water over
Braedon's left arm from a large pitcher.

“Let me see it.” Catherine bent to inspect
the wound, pressing around it with gentle fingers. “You've done
well, Robert. Thanks to you, it's clean. It's not a deep cut. I
won't have to stitch it.”

She met Braedon's eyes. She was bending very
close to him, and she could see the streaks of dust on his face.
His hair was dripping wet. She supposed he had splashed cold water
over his head to cool himself. There were dark circles under his
eyes. She yearned to smooth away the lines of weariness engraved at
either side of his mouth.

All of her earlier emotions toward him came
flooding back, threatening to overwhelm her. She told herself
Braedon would not welcome any profession of tenderness from her. He
had deliberately set himself apart from ordinary life. She wasn't
sure she could find a way make him care for her; she only knew she
was going to try.

“Your scarf is ruined,” he said.

“It doesn't matter. I'll give you another to
wear at the next contest,” she promised. Then she turned all of her
attention to dealing with his injuries.

“Aldis, have you one last clean bandage in
your basket? I'll want the sanicle lotion, too. We'll drench a
linen pad with the lotion,” she explained to Braedon, “and bind the
pad over the wound. Sanicle is the best herb for treating such
injuries. Aldis or I will change the dressing twice a day, and the
wound ought to heal quickly.”

“In time for Thursday's contest,” Braedon
said.

“Are you asking me, or telling me?”
Catherine's mouth curved in a smile.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think you are overeager to meet Eustace
again.” Taking the wet pad that Aldis had prepared with the sanicle
lotion, she laid it on the wound. When the cool, slightly
astringent herbal lotion touched the open cut Braedon involuntarily
flexed the hard muscles of his upper arm. Catherine allowed her
fingertips to linger on his warm skin. Braedon was watching her
every move and his eyebrows rose as if he was amused. “If you will
hold this in place, I'll bind your arm,” she said.

“Of course.” He put his hand over hers on the
pad and pressed down firmly.

Behind them, Robert was gathering up
Braedon's underclothes and chainmail, while Aldis straightened the
contents of her basket.

“Twice this day you've bound this same arm,”
Braedon said softly.

“I wish the second time were not necessary,”
Catherine murmured. Sliding her fingers from under his hand, she
took the bandage that Aldis handed to her and began to unroll it.
“I was afraid for you when Eustace confronted you so viciously. It
must have been difficult to restrain yourself from killing
him.”

“It was.” Braedon's eyes bored into hers. “Of
late, restraining myself seems to be what I do best.”

“There, I’m finished.” Catherine tied a final
knot in the bandage. “You will want a bath. I'll see that hot water
is sent to your room.”

“Will you send Gwendolyn to bathe me again?”
he asked. He stood rather abruptly and turned his back on
Catherine.

“Gwendolyn will be delighted to know you have
requested her services,” Catherine said. “Where is your tunic?
Here, let me help you. Robert has his arms full of chainmail and
padding.”

As she spoke Robert and Aldis departed from
the tent. Catherine picked up the plain brown tunic and shook it
out. Braedon stayed where he was, facing away from her.

“Braedon?” She touched his bare shoulder,
noting the tension in the corded muscles of his neck and back.
“You've been sweating all day in that heavy armor. Put on your
tunic before you catch a chill.”

Gathering up the fabric of the tunic sleeve
she moved around him to slide his injured arm into the sleeve. When
she reached for his hand she looked down and saw the hard bulge of
manly flesh at his groin. And she understood that, whether he would
admit it or not, being close to her affected him as strongly as
being close to him affected her. Braedon had turned away from her
to hide the burgeoning evidence of his desire. Somewhere deep
inside Catherine a sweet warmth began to flow.

“You should leave now,” he said, his eyes
dark with undisguised longing.

“Not yet. Not until I help you with your
tunic.”

“What a persistent woman you are.” But he let
her ease his bandaged arm into the sleeve. After he pulled the
tunic over his head Catherine reached out a hand to adjust it for
him, as she had seen Robert do with the chainmail earlier in the
day.

“I am so glad you weren't sorely injured,”
she said, touching the corner of his mouth, trying to press away
the deep groove there.

“Oh, I am sore, but it's not my arm that
aches. I beg you, Catherine, send Gwendolyn to attend my bath. Do
not come yourself.”

She longed for him to embrace her. She wanted
to feel safe and secure within the great strength of his arms, but
she knew he wasn't going to put his arms around her, or kiss her,
and so she did what he had done to her on several occasions. She
placed one finger on his lips. She felt the tremor that went
through him as though it was convulsing her own body. She saw the
burning light in his eyes, and knew it matched the glow in her own
eyes.

And then she left him, before she could
dissolve into tears.

The warriors who had fought all day came to
the banquet table ravenous, and they ate and drank well into the
night. Royce endured good-natured teasing because the team of
knights he led in the melee had been defeated.

“It's the sign of a kindly host to let his
guests win,” protested Lady Edith, who was in her usual seat next
to Royce.

“What of the guests on his team who lost?”
cried Achard from his place on Lady Edith's other side. “Oh, the
humiliation of this day!”

“Never fear, you will have a chance to redeem
yourself on Thursday,” Royce said, laughing. “Then we will draw
lots again and you may be fortunate enough to find yourself on the
team that opposes me.”

Achard smiled at that, but the smile did not
reach his eyes. He was avoiding Catherine. She assumed he was still
chaffing over the matter of her scarf, but she did not intend to
give him any token of hers to wear on the second or the third day
of the tournament. Though she would be as polite to Achard as to
any other guest, she was resolved to grant him no particular
favors.

As the prolonged meal ended the minstrels
struck up a lively melody and the knights who retained enough vigor
after the day's exertions began to dance. Before Achard could claim
her, Catherine headed for the screens passage and a quick escape to
the kitchen. Braedon blocked her way.

“Since I wore your scarf today,” he said, “we
ought to dance together. It will look odd if we do not.”

Catherine was about to comment on his
reluctance to accept her scarf, and the rather ungracious way in
which he asked for her hand in the dance, until she looked into his
eyes. Perhaps the realization of the depth of her feelings for
Braedon made it easier for her to understand the true emotions
behind his sometimes rough and abrupt manners.

“I would be delighted, Sir Braedon,” she
said, smiling and making a pretty curtsy. She put her hand in his
and let him lead her into the circle that was forming at the center
of the great hall.

Braedon closed his calloused fingers over
Catherine's delicate hand and wished he dared to sweep her into his
arms. His common sense warned him that he could never have her, yet
Catherine drew him as a candle flame draws a moth, and Braedon
greatly feared he would be destroyed if ever he plunged into her
bright flame. Clearly, the best course for him was to stay as far
away from Catherine as he could. Yet, for all his good intentions,
they were constantly thrown together.

He would not have asked her to dance except
that Royce had decided it was time to draw Achard out, to confirm
the report about him by making Achard say or do something to reveal
himself as a double agent. Royce thought tweaking Achard's pride by
making him jealous over Catherine was the quickest way to provoke
him. Braedon considered it possible that Royce's informant was
wrong and Achard's presence at Wortham had more to do with
Catherine's large dowry than with relaying information to the
French king. Either way, Catherine was being used, and the better
Braedon knew her the less he liked his present duty. He could deal
with any wounds to his own heart, but he feared Catherine was going
to be hurt by her father's schemes.

The dance began. Braedon bowed, Catherine
curtsied, and they separated to move through the intricate pattern
with the other dancers, until they returned to their original
positions facing each other, to bow and curtsy again before
repeating the pattern.

Braedon was an expert dancer. It was part of
his value as a spy. He was able to make polite conversation with
each lady who became his partner for a few moments and perhaps
learn something informative from her, while at the same time he
observed what was happening elsewhere in the hall. He saw Achard
still sitting at the high table talking with Royce and Lady Edith.
So far as Braedon could tell, Achard was unaware of Catherine, or
of who her partner was. So much for making the man jealous. Very
likely, Achard's publicly expressed devotion to Catherine meant no
more than Royce's flirtation with the empty-headed lady who sat
giggling and smiling beside him.

The pattern of the dance brought Catherine
back to face Braedon again. She was smiling and breathless, her
eyes aglow with pleasure, and Braedon gave in to the impulse to
smile back at her and pay her compliments. Then she whirled on to
the next man in the circle and another lady took her place. Around
they went again, stepping through the pattern until Catherine
returned one last time and the dance was over. Laughing, she made a
deep curtsy and took his outstretched hand.

“I seldom dance when we have guests,” she
said. “I am usually too busy.”

“You mean, you are too responsible a
chatelaine. You ought to enjoy yourself more often. Pleasure
becomes you.” Braedon took a secret, dangerous delight in watching
her blush, until Royce's hand on his shoulder recalled him to
duty.

“Father,” Catherine said, smiling at her
parent, “are you actually going to join the next dance?”

“Lady Edith has cajoled me into it,” Royce
said. “And Achard has requested the honor of being your partner.
Sir Braedon, will you excuse us?”

“Certainly, my lord.” Braedon stepped aside.
The way in which the expression on Catherine's face altered from
happiness to resignation saddened him. He was irritated beyond
reason that Royce continued to allow Achard anywhere near
Catherine. Telling himself that Catherine was Royce's
responsibility, Braedon caught up a pitcher of wine and his goblet
from the high table and left the great hall for the solitude of his
bedchamber.

The rain began shortly before midnight. It
was not a gentle spring drizzle, but a wild, windy storm with
flashing lightning and a heavy downpour that grew in intensity
through the night. When gray, soggy daylight arrived, Royce was
compelled to postpone the hunting party that was to have been the
entertainment for the day between tournament contests. Though no
knight worthy of his spurs would ever admit to being tired, there
were remarkably few complaints about the day of enforced
inactivity.

Not everyone rested from the intrigues that
were vexing Catherine's good nature. The day began badly when she
observed Achard and Lord Phelan in close conversation in a corner
of the great hall. They separated as soon as they saw her and when
Achard moved toward her with a purposeful stride Catherine fled to
the kitchen, which was fast becoming her place of refuge. It was
the one room where she could be reasonably sure Achard would not
follow her.

When one of the serving women told her that
Achard had left the hall, Catherine returned, only to be waylaid by
Eustace.

“I have been trying to speak to your father.”
Eustace did not bother to utter a polite greeting first. “Where is
he?”

“Perhaps in the clerk's office,” Catherine
responded. “He is often there in the mornings, attending to estate
business.”

“Bah! I want nothing to do with clerks,”
Eustace exclaimed.

“Then you will see him here in the hall
during the midday meal,” Catherine said.

“There are always too many people around him,
especially that idiot, Lady Edith. I need to speak to Royce in
private. I have a complaint to make.”

“If there is something amiss in our
hospitality,” Catherine said with an inward sigh, “you may speak to
me, Sir Eustace, and I will try to rectify the problem.”