True Love (20 page)

“Catherine.” His response to her caress was a
moan of exquisite longing. “How I want you.”

She knew the exact instant when all of his
honorable resistance crumbled. She saw the hard expression on his
face soften, saw his eyelids begin to close as he gave way to the
sensation of her fingers gently stroking him.

She wanted to say she loved him, but the
words stuck in her throat. She did not think he loved her. Perhaps
it was enough that they wanted each other with undeniable passion
and that she trusted him not to cause her undue pain.

Nor did he. They came together quickly, with
each desperately hungry for the other. Braedon pushed her skirts up
high, his hands and lips caressing her flesh, while Catherine
sighed at every new and unexpected sensual discovery. At her deep
sigh of delight when he gently touched her moist softness, he
ventured further still, to the overheated core of her, his fingers
pushing deep until she whimpered in ever-increasing need.

His muffled groans when she continued to rub
the velvet surface that enclosed his steel-firm hardness only
fueled her own desire. She began to move restlessly, wanting more,
until he took her hand away from his body. A moment later she felt
that same, wonderful hardness pushing at her with intense male
determination. She experienced the merest prick of discomfort, and
then she was his, stretched and filled, changed in a heartbeat from
overeager maiden into true woman,

The expression on Braedon's face was
indescribably tender. Catherine was aware of his fingers stroking
her where their bodies met, just before she shattered into a
thousand pieces of molten gold. A moment later, through the rushing
in her ears and the welter of bodily pleasure, she heard his
smothered cry of completion.

They stayed together, still fused into one
being for some time thereafter, while Catherine slowly regained her
composure. When Braedon at last moved to one side and lay with his
face once more turned to the window, Catherine propped herself on
her elbow and gazed down at him. She was filled with love, with an
aching tenderness, and she longed to hear him say he cared for her
and would fight to be with her. Recalling the look on his face as
he took her maidenhood, she believed he did have deep feelings for
her. But Braedon was accustomed to concealing his gentler
emotions.

She placed a hand on his chest, intensely
aware of smooth skin and firm muscle and the steady thudding of his
heart, and she knew they must be honest with each other or there
was no hope for them.

“Tell me the truth,” she said. “Why have you
come to Wortham?” When he did not answer her at once, she prodded,
“My father said you are one of the king's household knights. I
believe you are something much more.”

“That is so.” He took his gaze from the
window to meet her eyes squarely. “I am loyal to my – to my king,
until death.”

He spoke so firmly, with such conviction,
that Catherine sensed something beyond the simple statement, beyond
his sworn oath to the king. She pressed onward, wanting to know all
of his secrets.

“What of those vials that Gwendolyn
found?”

“Can a man keep nothing private, not even his
baggage?”

“Not if you brought poisons into Wortham, as
Gwendolyn suspects.”

“As you suspect, too, or you would not raise
the subject of those cursed vials. I have found certain herbal
mixtures to be useful in my work. Rest assured, I always keep the
antidotes at hand.”

“Exactly what does that mean? Are those vials
filled with poisons? Don't evade my questions, Braedon.”

“What a demanding wench you are.” He caught a
piece of her hair and twisted it around his finger, smiling, no
longer looking directly at her. “Just a short time ago you were
sighing and writhing in my arms, yet now you are interrogating me
as if you were the king's own lawyer.”

“Don't.” She put her hand over his. “Don't
use what lies between us to avoid being honest with me. Tell me
everything. I promise, I won't reveal a word you speak, and if I
know what you are planning, at the very least I won't interfere
foolishly. I may even be able to help you.”

He was silent for a long time. When
Catherine's patience was beginning to wear thin he said, “There's
poppy syrup, which can ease the pain of a deep wound.”

“I know that,” she said, her voice taking on
a slight edge. “And you know I know it. Poppy syrup can also ease a
man into death, if need be.”

Braedon's face went perfectly still, as if a
shutter was closing over his thoughts. He said nothing, neither
denying nor admitting the unspoken accusation.

“What are your intentions toward my father?”
Catherine asked. For this question she was going to have a true
response from Braedon, or know why he did not answer her
honestly.

“Royce is my -” Braedon halted in
midsentence, startled by a sudden loud noise coming from beyond his
door. He leapt out of the bed, seizing a knife from under his
pillow. “What the devil is that?”

“I believe it’s Aldis, throwing a metal
pitcher down the steps to warn me that she and Robert are
returning.” Not at all alarmed by the sounds, Catherine feasted her
eyes on Braedon's manly form, crouched to spring on whoever entered
the room. “No one can come in here. I fastened the door securely
when I came in,” she told him, and saw him relax his stance, though
he frowned at her.

“You and Aldis arranged this meeting?”

“Well, my father and Robert were being so
protective of you, and so very secretive, that I wanted to discover
for myself whether you were badly hurt or healthy – which you have
proven yourself to be,” she said with an appreciative smile at his
nakedness.

“By heaven, Catherine, I'll have you over my
knee for this!” He glared at her, and waved the hand holding the
knife. “Get off my bed at once.”

She saw the wisdom in his command, given the
continuing sounds from the other side of the door, so she found her
shoes and put them on, pulled the bodice of her gown back into
place, then tried to shake the creases out of her badly wrinkled
skirts. Meanwhile, the commotion became louder, with men and women
demanding to know what was amiss. Catherine recognized her father's
voice, and Captain William's, and then a very sleepy-sounding
Phelan. Aldis was talking, too, but no one seemed to be listening
to her.

“I have to open the door,” Braedon said.
“Otherwise, they'll imagine I am dead. No one living could sleep
through that racket without wanting to know what is going on. Or
they will think I am pretending to be dead in order to hide
something far worse. Can't you do something with your hair?”

“For a moment I almost forgot that you are an
experienced spy,” she said. She snatched up one of her hair ribbons
from the bed and tied her thick, curling hair off her face, knowing
she was making a bad job of it and sure that anyone who saw her
would realize her hair had recently been down around her waist.
“You must do this sort of thing frequently.”

“Not as frequently as you might imagine.”
Braedon pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around himself,
then gave her an intense look that warmed her as if he had bestowed
an intimate caress on her. “Not as frequently as I would like. Are
you ready?”

She nodded and he unlatched and opened the
door. He staggered a little, as if he was very weak, and he held
the knife as if he could barely manage to keep his fingers around
the hilt. When he spoke he sounded so ill that Catherine, who knew
better, could almost believe he was sorely injured – except that he
very carefully blocked the door opening to prevent anyone in front
of him from seeing her.

“What – what is this?” he asked of the crowd
on the landing outside his chamber. He grabbed one side of the
doorframe for support. “What’s happening?”

Over Braedon's shoulder Catherine saw her
father and a flustered looking Aldis. Royce's eyes met hers. He
reacted instantly, before anyone else in the group on the stairs
could see her.

“Sir Braedon, you are too weak and ill to be
out of bed.” Royce pushed Braedon back into the room, came in
behind him, and slammed the door shut in the face of Robert, who
was trying to enter behind him.

Royce frowned at Braedon and looked at the
rumpled bed. Next he turned his searching gaze on Catherine, taking
in the condition of her hair, the many wrinkles in her silk gown,
her flushed face, and her lips that were swollen from Braedon's
passionate kisses.

“Daughter,” he said in a low and deadly voice
that Catherine had never heard from him before, “you will tell me
exactly what has happened here, and why you are in this man's
bedroom so late at night.”

“Answer me, Catherine,” Royce said, still
employing the quiet voice that made her tremble with fear of the
parent she loved.

“I came here to see if Braedon was in need of
anything,” Catherine responded.

“And did you give him what he said he needed
of you?”

“I wish you would not use that tone with me.”
Catherine was recovering from her initial surprise and her
momentary fear of him. She realized that in coming into Braedon's
bedchamber the way he did and slamming the door shut before anyone
could see her, he was protecting her from the gossip of their
guests and from possible scandal. She was confident that Royce
would inflict no physical chastisement on her. It was not his way.
Instead, he would try to make her feel guilty and ashamed, until he
had convinced her to apologize for her behavior. He could not know
that she felt no guilt at all for what she and Braedon had done.
But she did harbor considerable anger at her father. Having learned
something of strategy from him over the years, she attacked.

“It’s you who are at fault here,” she said.
“You have used me in your plots, you have evaded answering my
questions about what sort of intrigues you are involved in, and now
you dare to scold me because I have seen to the comfort of one of
your guests. I am exceedingly irritated with you.”

“I can imagine what kind of comfort you
provided to this – this
guest
,” Royce said, his tone making
it clear there was another, worse term he would have preferred to
use for Braedon.

“What happened here was entirely my fault,”
Braedon told him.

“It was not!” Catherine declared. “If there
is blame, then I share in it.”

“
If
there is blame? By heaven,
Braedon, you will pay dearly for this transgression!” Royce grated
through set teeth.

“Indeed, I shall, my lord,” Braedon said,
“but not just yet. First we have the king's work to do.”

“Aye,” Royce said, “and when that work is
completed, Henry will hear from my own lips my reason for killing
you.”

“I will not allow this quarrel to continue,”
Catherine exclaimed. “I came to Braedon's room of my own free will.
Everything that happened here I did most willingly. In fact, I was
the instigator. You cannot lay all the blame on Braedon.”

“I know exactly where to lay the blame,”
Royce said. “Go to your room, Catherine.”

“Not until you promise that you will not harm
Braedon.”

“My life is safe enough for now,” Braedon
said to her.

“Of course,” she cried, beginning to be angry
with him, too. “You and my father have more plotting and scheming
to do for King Henry, and that takes precedence over anything else
that happens.”

“You know what I am,” Braedon said.

“Yes, I do. You are a dead man.” Her throat
was tight with the urge to weep.

“Obey your father, Catherine.”

“I regret nothing that you and I have done in
this room,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I am only sorry that
I have caused trouble for you.”

“Good night, Catherine.” Braedon's voice was
soft, almost tender, and he smiled at her. “When you speak to the
other guests, please do not forget that I am supposed to be sorely
wounded.”

There was nothing more she could say, no
reason to stay where she was. When Catherine opened the door only
Robert was waiting outside. Everyone else had gone back to bed.

Left alone, Braedon and Royce faced each
other like warriors on the field of battle.

“I am not too badly injured to fight, if that
is what you want,” Braedon said, acknowledging Royce's right to
avenge his daughter's honor.

“What I want is for you to stay away from
Catherine. You are no fit match for her.”

“I know it.” Braedon was certain that Royce
was aware of all that had happened between himself and Catherine,
and that the knowledge was a knife twisting in Royce's heart. So
would any proud man feel whose daughter had lain with a nameless,
landless bastard. The fact that Royce's loyalty to King Henry
prevented him from seeking immediate redress only made the
situation worse.

Braedon knew there was no point in protesting
that neither he nor Catherine had been able to prevent their coming
together. It had been inevitable from the instant of their first
meeting. He could only pray that Catherine had not conceived as a
result of their lovemaking, that they had not created another
bastard like himself, for he had been so overcome with passion for
her that he had not stopped in time, as he planned to do, but had
spent his seed deep inside her in a joyous frenzy unlike anything
he had ever experienced before. If Catherine were his wife, his
happiness in that moment would have been perfect.

But Catherine was not his wife, and never
could be. Suddenly, the pain of what he was became too much to
bear. With the sheet still wrapped around his middle Braedon turned
away from the room to stare out the window. Royce's cold,
calculating words pursued him like arrows striking into his
heart.

“Let me reiterate what I said to Catherine.
You and I will continue to work together until we have accomplished
the mission King Henry set for us. You may trust me to do no harm
to you while you are at Wortham. But from the day we bring the
conspirators against the king to justice, beware of me.”