True Love (16 page)

“This isn't women's business,” Eustace
responded with his usual rudeness.

“Oh?” Catherine waited, only half expecting
that he would tell her.

“Sir Braedon deserves to be penalized,”
Eustace said.

“I'm afraid I don't understand.” Catherine
hoped he was annoyed enough to reveal more of his complaint, even
to a woman he disliked.

“Braedon took unfair advantage yesterday,”
Eustace said after a moment.

“How did he do that?”

“You must have seen. We were fighting
directly in front of the stand.”

“I did observe the contest between you,”
Catherine said, “but I saw nothing untoward.”

“Of course you didn't. How could a mere
female comprehend the finer details of swordplay?”

“Will you explain to me what I missed, so I
can tell my father about it?” Catherine asked.

“Why should I bother? You'll only get it
wrong. I'll talk to Royce later.” Eustace stalked off to join
Phelan, who was making a hearty morning meal on fresh bread,
Wortham cheese, a thick slab of leftover beef from the night
before, and a brimming pitcher of ale.

Catherine watched them thoughtfully. Their
heads were together as they spoke in low voices. Once, Eustace
looked at her with a frown, then turned back to his father.
Catherine decided she would give much to know what they were
saying.

“I'll take that, Joanne.” Catherine
intercepted a serving woman as she came through the screens passage
bearing a wooden board on which rested two loaves of bread still
warm from the oven.

“Thank you, my lady. You'll want this knife,
too.” Joanne handed over her burden and headed back to the
kitchen.

Catherine laid the bread on the table where
food was spread for anyone who cared to break the night's fast. The
men liked to take a slice of bread, a chunk of cheese and some ale
and sit together in little groups at the trestle tables set up for
the purpose. The ladies usually preferred to have their morning
meal carried to their rooms, because it took them so long to
dress.

Catherine made a show of slicing the new
supply of bread while she attempted to hear what Phelan and Eustace
were saying. She did not make a habit of eavesdropping, but after
Eustace's remarks she feared they were scheming against Braedon.
Perhaps she could learn what the two were up to and warn him.

“Don't worry,” Phelan said. “Remember, you
are a relative now. Royce will be bound to prefer you over that
bastard, Braedon, and Achard will back us. Royce is sure to fall in
with our plans.”

“Achard will have to marry Catherine,”
Eustace said.

“A minor unpleasantness to gain a large dowry
and a valuable position,” Phelan said. “Once she belongs to Achard,
the wench will cause no trouble.”

Just as Catherine put down the bread knife
with the intention of seeking her father and reporting what she had
heard, Royce walked into the hall with Achard.

“Join us, my lords,” Phelan called to them.
“Family members should break bread together. Achard, you soon will
be part of our family, when you marry Catherine.”

Half a dozen men-at-arms came into the hall
just then, relieved of watch duty and eager for food after their
hours on the battlements. While they gathered around the table
where the bread and cheese were laid out, with their sturdy bodies
and swirling cloaks serving as a screen to hide her, Catherine
slipped away from the hall.

Except for the two guards on duty the entry
hall was deserted. Catherine hesitated, trying to decide between
the stillroom and her bedchamber. Then she heard Eustace's loud,
braying laugh and made up her mind in a different direction. She
ran lightly up the curving stone steps to Braedon's room.

She found him kneeling beside the clothing
basket that sat on the floor. The leather thong was untied, the lid
was raised, and Braedon was rummaging among the garments
inside.

Catherine closed the door as quietly as she
could. He heard her anyway and rose. He had been searching for a
clean tunic and faced her as she had seen him on the previous
afternoon, clad in hose and boots, naked above the waist, the linen
bandage on his left arm pale against his tanned skin. Catherine
felt compelled to touch him. She took a step toward him, then
stopped, thrusting her hands behind her back and clasping them
together to keep them there.

“I have been eavesdropping,” she said.

“Have you?” His eyebrows rose. “You are not
alone in that; not in this castle.”

“I am growing weary of plots and schemes and
intrigues.”

“We are in complete agreement there.”

“I wish people would simply tell the truth. I
cannot believe my father is involved with Phelan. He despises the
man. I know he does. Yet, he invited both Phelan and Eustace to
Wortham. Why did he do that?”

“What did you overhear, Catherine?”

She told him, adding that Eustace was going
to lodge a complaint against him.

“As Eustace so rudely noted, I am but a woman
and I admit, I am no expert on swordplay,” she finished. “Still, I
cannot believe you broke any rules yesterday.”

“Thank you for those words.”

“I thought you should know about Eustace's
intentions.” Catherine drew a long, shuddering breath. “And I
needed to tell someone. Lately, I feel as though I am walking
through quicksand. I don't know who I can trust. Aldis in most
cases, but she does occasionally say too much. Always before, I
could trust my father. But now -” She stopped, her throat
constricting with frightening emotion.

“You trust me, or you would not be here.” His
hand brushed her cheek and she pressed her face against his palm,
seeking comfort in his touch.

She did not know how it happened, but
suddenly she was in his arms and her hands were caressing his
spine, stroking along bare, warm skin, feeling the muscular
strength of him. Braedon was so tall and so strong, yet whenever he
touched her it was always with gentleness. She drew back a little
to look into his eyes, and what she saw there made her tremble.

“Ah, God help me!” With a groan Braedon
brought his mouth down on hers, engulfing Catherine in heat and
desire.

The passionate longing blossomed so quickly
within her that she could neither think nor protest. She knew he
should not kiss her – they both knew it – yet she was unable to
stop what was happening between them, and she feared he could not
stop it, either. His skin burned beneath her stroking fingers, his
rigid manhood pressed hard against her, and Catherine could not get
close enough to him. The tighter he held her, the more she wanted
to dissolve into him, to become part of him. She was aware of his
hands cupping her hips, pulling them closer still to his heat. Her
knees buckled, only his strength keeping her upright. Her breasts
ached and tightened, her heart was pounding, and in the center of
her being a great knot began to coil tighter and tighter.

“We must stop.” Braedon lifted his head,
though he continued to hold her wonderfully close.

“Don't let me go,” she begged.

“I should not be doing this. You should not
allow it,” he said, his voice ragged.

“Whenever we are together, I want you to hold
me.”

“I know. It's the same for me. Catherine, you
know what I am and why this cannot be. Furthermore, I have a
mission to complete. You are a sore distraction to me.” He let her
go suddenly, as if his hands were burnt from touching her. Turning
away, he bent to pluck a tunic from the basket of his
belongings.

“You are more noble than I.” Catherine put
her fingers to her mouth, feeling lips bruised from his kisses.

“Noble? I think not,” he said over his
shoulder. “I am half mad with wanting you, and I cannot think
clearly when you are near.”

He pulled the tunic over his head, struggling
a bit to get the sleeve over the bandage on his arm. Catherine
stepped forward to help him. Her natural curiosity required a quick
glance at the contents of the open basket. She saw a stoppered
vial, the bottom of a pottery jar, and the hilt of a knife before
Braedon closed the lid, cutting off her view. He took up the thong
and used it to secure the basket against intrusion.

“You must go,” he said, not looking at her.
“I thank you for the information you brought.”

“Braedon,” Catherine stopped, knowing he was
right. She should not be in his bedchamber. “If I learn anything
more that could be useful to you, I will tell you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

As she stepped out of his room Robert
appeared on the stairs. Judging by the bundle of folded linens and
the clean gambeson he carried, he was coming from the laundry.
Catherine pushed open the door for him, accepted his murmured
thanks, and went on her way.

Inside the room, Robert dropped Braedon's
clean clothes on the bed before sending his master a questioning
look.

“There is gossip that Eustace wants your
blood,” Robert said when Braedon did not speak.

“So I have just been told. I have an
important job for you.”

“Anything,” Robert responded eagerly,
grinning at him in expectation.

“I want you to carry a message out of the
castle for me, a message I do not wish to write down. Listen
carefully and memorize what I say.”

“Lady Catherine, I must have a word with you
in private.” With a forbidding frown Gwendolyn looked around the
kitchen as if she would challenge anyone who tried to prevent her
from saying what she wanted.

“Can it wait until later?” Catherine asked.
She was feeling distracted. In less than an hour the midday meal
was to begin and with the heavy rain keeping most folk indoors it
was unlikely that anyone would skip the feast that would break up a
long and gloomy day. The servants were all busy with the
preparations and the cook was making it noisily clear that she was
irritated by a custard that had failed to set properly. Catherine
was attempting to deflect the cook's ire away from the badly
rattled girl who had mixed the custard.

“It's about Sir Braedon,” Gwendolyn said.

That got Catherine's full attention.
Gwendolyn looked so serious that Catherine stepped away from the
center of the kitchen to a quieter corner.

“We can talk here,” Catherine said, “but be
as quick as you can. I haven't much time.”

“Well, I can see that for myself, can't I?”
Gwendolyn snapped. Rightly interpreting the cold look Catherine
bestowed upon her, Gwendolyn softened her habitual belligerence and
spoke more respectfully. “I know you are overburdened, my lady, but
I have thought about it and thought about it, and I feel certain
you would want to know. I can no longer delay revealing what I
saw.”

“What did you see?” Catherine asked, striving
for patience. Difficult and unpleasant though Gwendolyn could be,
she possessed a shrewd intelligence that Catherine valued. It was
almost always useful to listen to what Gwendolyn had to say.

“It happened the first day Sir Braedon came
here, when you sent me to bathe him,” Gwendolyn explained. “The
squire left the clothing basket open and I noticed two knives among
Sir Braedon's clean shirts.”

“There is nothing very unusual in that,”
Catherine said. “Everyone carries knives, and Sir Braedon came here
intending to fight in the melee. It would be perfectly natural for
him to carry extra weapons in case the ones he uses in the melee
are damaged.” Catherine did not add that she had seen Braedon's
knives for herself. She was about to make an excuse and return to
the work of supervising meal preparations when Gwendolyn spoke
again.

“So I thought, too, my lady. I saw nothing
strange in those knives and I still don't. That's why I didn't
speak to you about them at once. It's the other objects that
disturbed me so much that I decided I ought to tell you.”

“What other objects?”

“I went back to Sir Braedon's room last
evening, to help him bathe after the melee. Sir Braedon's squire
neglected to lay out a clean shirt for his master before he took
the chainmail to the armorer to be cleaned and repaired, so I took
one out of the basket. Actually, I picked up two shirts at once by
mistake.”

“What you mean is that you were searching for
those knives, to get a second look at them,” Catherine said, noting
the quickly subdued expression of guilt that flitted across
Gwendolyn's homely face.

“Yes, I was.” Gwendolyn's eyes met
Catherine's boldly. “I won't say I'm sorry, either. There is
something mysterious and very provocative about Sir Braedon.”

“I agree,” Catherine told her. “Nor am I
likely to reprimand anyone else for giving way to curiosity when I
am cursed by the same sin, as everyone at Wortham well knows.”

“Just so, my lady.” Gwendolyn nodded and did
not wait for Catherine to prod her into telling the rest of her
story. “The knives were still there, right where I saw them the
first day, but Sir Braedon's clothing had been moved around during
the last few days. His things weren't as neatly packed as before.
So I was able to see what else was in the basket.”

“And what was that?” Catherine asked. Having
her own guilty conscience over actions similar to Gwendolyn's, she
was painfully aware that poking into the baggage belonging to
castle guests was the height of impertinence for servants, as it
was for their masters, but she was every bit as curious as
Gwendolyn must have been when confronted with Braedon's open
basket.

“Vials.” Gwendolyn whispered the single word
as if she spoke of some great horror – or, perhaps, a delicious
scandal. “Vials and jars, all of them tightly stoppered with cork
and wax.”

“Sir Braedon does use scent,” Catherine said.
“As you know, having bathed him.”

“These weren't scent bottles. They were the
kind of vials that hold poison,” Gwendolyn said.