True Love (27 page)

“If you try, I will kill you,” Catherine
said, cold and hard and filled with hatred. “I want neither of you.
You spies, with your secrets and your twisted plots, have destroyed
my father!”

“Where's your mistress?” Gwendolyn asked
Achard. “I thought you were in bed with her.”

“I was.” Achard transferred his smile to
Gwendolyn. “After we were finished playing with each other, she
fell asleep. When the urge to have a woman came upon me a second
time, I thought of Catherine, and so I came to visit her. There is
something peculiarly exciting about soft female flesh pressed down
hard against a stone floor.”

“You are disgusting!” Catherine cried. “How
can you expect me to marry you? Why didn't you raise the alarm as
soon as Braedon stabbed my father? Instead, you kicked him – kicked
a dying man!”

“A dead man,” Achard corrected her. “Royce
was already dead. He felt nothing.”

“Hah!” said Gwendolyn to Catherine. “No
respect for the dead. If you ask me, that bodes ill for the kind of
husband and father he'd make. I say, let his whore have him.”

“No one asked you,” Achard said softly,
lifting his sword and pointing it at Gwendolyn. “Say one word more
and I'll spit you on this blade.”

“What I don't understand,” Catherine said,
staring at Gwendolyn, “is why you helped Braedon to find me. I know
you respected my father. Why would you do anything at all for his
murderer?”

Gwendolyn looked at Braedon. For the space of
a single breath he tried to communicate a warning to her to be
careful when she spoke again. Since she knew about the search, she
also knew that Royce was not dead. Braedon prayed she would not
squander that piece of valuable information. It was better saved
for a time when it would startle Achard into revealing something
important.

“Well,” said Gwendolyn, her gaze lingering on
Braedon's wide shoulders, his narrow waist, and his muscular
thighs, “the first night he was at Wortham, when I was sent to
bathe him, he was so kind to me, so strong and virile. I would do
almost anything for Sir Braedon.”

“Ah,” Achard said, nodding, “I understand.
When the urge to have a woman comes upon a man, it matters not
where he spends himself. Of course, the wench will do whatever he
asks of her. She is so homely that Braedon is probably the only man
who ever delved between her thighs. She is grateful to him.”

“That is not what happened,” Braedon said,
his eyes on Catherine.

“I don't care,” she responded.

Braedon saw in her eyes that she did care,
that her tender feelings for him remained unchanged even though she
believed he had killed her father. They were in mortal danger, with
Achard, for all his relaxed stance and mocking conversation, just
waiting for an opening to attack Braedon. It was possible that
Achard would attempt to use Catherine as a decoy or a shield, to
give himself the opportunity to kill Braedon. Only one man would
leave that cell alive. Yet, in spite of the danger, Braedon's heart
warmed at the knowledge that Catherine's emotions remained true.
She stood bravely, bruised chin lifted high, and Braedon ached to
hold her in his arms and tell her the entire truth.

But not yet, not until he was finished with
Achard. Braedon drew his sword.

“What, are you prepared to spill your blood
before Catherine?” Achard asked, still mocking him.

“Mine, or yours,” Braedon answered him.
“Catherine is brave enough to bind up the most grievous wounds. She
will not flinch at the sight of your blood.”

“Catherine will not need to faint, not for
me. Unless, of course, she cries out when I breech her maidenhead.
There will be some blood spilt on that occasion, I am sure.”

Braedon knew Achard was trying to goad him
into making a thoughtless charge at him, in hope of putting a quick
end to his opponent. Braedon heard Catherine's soft gasp at
Achard's sneering words about taking possession of her, and for a
moment the memory of her lying in his bed with her body convulsing
around him filled his mind. He forced the sweet image away,
concentrating instead on his enemy and on the business of
preventing Achard from ever holding Catherine in his arms.

Achard was a skilled swordsman, and he was
bent upon killing Braedon. Their blades clashed together, steel
sliding against steel, their hands almost touching, arm straining
against muscular arm to break the contact. Achard forced Braedon
back and Braedon quickly took the full measure of his opponent. It
was not going to be easy to defeat Achard. They circled each other,
striking and parrying, breath coming quickly.

Suddenly, Achard bent, snatched up the
blanket that lay near the cell wall, and flung it at Braedon. It
caught on Braedon's sword blade and a portion of the blanket fell
across his head. Braedon stumbled, then felt his sword being
wrenched out of his hand.

He caught the edge of the blanket and swirled
it around, hoping to confuse Achard with the unexpected movement.
When Achard rushed forward, sword lifted to deal the slashing,
side-to-side blow that would end Braedon's life, Braedon spun away
on the ball of one foot. In the next instant he plucked from his
boot the dagger hidden there. Before Achard could turn Braedon
caught him from behind, with an arm across his shoulders, holding
the dagger at Achard's throat, immobilizing him. With Braedon at
his back, Achard's blade was useless.

“Drop the sword,” Braedon ordered. “I said,
drop it!”

The sword clattered on the stone cell
floor.

“Thank you, my lord,” Braedon said
pleasantly. “Will one of you ladies please be good enough to take
the sword out of Achard's reach?”

During the fight Catherine had been edging
her way along the wall toward the door. She darted forward to grab
up Achard's sword and hold it in both hands.

“Now,” Braedon said into Achard's ear, “I
think the time has come to punish you for what you have twice tried
to do to Catherine. I promised Cadwallon I wouldn't kill you, that
I'd leave you alive for King Henry to deal with, so all I intend to
do just now is castrate you. Never again will you threaten rape to
any woman.”

“No!” Catherine screamed. “What if he bleeds
to death? Hand over your knife, Braedon. I am going to lock you in
this cell with Achard until Captain William can make arrangements
to take the two of you before King Henry. Be assured, I will
testify against both of you and, woman though I am, King Henry will
listen to me.

“Do it!” she yelled when Braedon just stared
at her. “I am not joking. I will gladly use this sword on either of
you.”

“No, my lady.” Gwendolyn grabbed Catherine's
wrist. “You don't understand.” With strength worthy of a servant
who regularly carried heavy loads, she pulled the sword out of
Catherine's grasp.

“Whose side are you on?” Catherine shouted at
her.

“Yours,” Gwendolyn responded. “If you would
only have a bit of patience and listen to what Sir Braedon and I
can tell you, then you'd understand.”

Achard took advantage of this diversion to
fight free of Braedon's grip. But not for long. Braedon used the
pommel of his dagger to whack Achard on the side of his head.
Achard crumpled onto the floor.

“That's fair enough,” Braedon muttered,
looking down at him. “You hit me with a stool so you could carry
Catherine off, and now I've hit you with a knife hilt in order to
release her.”

Pulling aside the blanket, Braedon retrieved
his sword and sheathed it. He tucked the dagger back into his boot
before turning to face Catherine.

“I did not kill your father,” he said. “I
didn't tell you before, because I don't want Achard to know it
yet.”

“I saw you stab him,” Catherine said.

“Come to my room and I'll show you the trick
knife I used, and how it works.”

“I refuse to go anywhere with you.” Her eyes
blazed a terrifying mixture of love and hatred at him.

“Would you rather stay here with Achard?”
Gwendolyn asked, brandishing the ring of keys. “My lady, every word
that Sir Braedon says is true.”

Catherine looked from Braedon to Gwendolyn,
and back to Braedon again.

“I'll take you to Royce,” Braedon told
her.

“Truly? You didn't -?” She gulped, one hand
at her mouth, and she made no protest when Braedon gently guided
her out of the cell.

“There,” Gwendolyn said, locking the cell
door. “I am not going to put the keys back on their hook and risk
someone coming along to free Achard as we have just freed Lady
Catherine. I will give the keys only into Lord Royce's hands.”

“My father really is alive?” Catherine looked
as if she still could not believe what she was hearing. “Is he
sorely wounded?”

“He's not hurt at all,” Braedon told her. “It
was a trick. My love, you weren't supposed to be in the lord's
chamber. Our plan was for just your father, Achard, and me to be
present. But when I arrived, there you already were, and I couldn't
think how we were going to get Achard to Royce's room a second time
without arousing his suspicions, so I decided to go ahead with the
plan, and Royce went along with my actions, just as we had
agreed.”

“You let me think my father was dead!”
Catherine's fists beat upon his chest until Braedon caught her
hands and held them there, over his heart.

“I am sorry for the pain we caused you,”
Braedon said. “We thought we knew the way to get information about
Achard's accomplices. Unfortunately, we haven't learned much more
about his activities than we knew before this night began. We are
going to have to think of another plan.”

“Another plan,” Catherine repeated. “And
where will your next scheme end? With my father's actual death?
With yours? Stupid, thoughtless men!”

When Catherine and her companions reached the
great hall Royce, Cadwallon, Captain William and a few men-at-arms
were gathered there, conferring in low voices about where next to
search for her.

“Father! I'm so glad you're alive!” Catherine
rushed into Royce's arms, clinging to him, relishing the solid bulk
of his strong body pressed briefly to hers before he broke away
from her embrace.

“It's all right, Catherine. It was only a
trick, part of the game. As you can see, I am in perfect
health.”

As if his apparent death and her abduction
were ordinary matters, events that occurred every day, Royce took
her by the shoulders and set her aside, while around them the other
men exclaimed at her sudden appearance and Cadwallon and Captain
William began to question Braedon about where he had found her.

“Part of the game?” Catherine knew she was
shrieking again, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from raising
her voice or from expressing her righteous fury at her father's
deception. “Don't you ever,
ever
again play a trick like
that on me!” As far as she could tell her outburst made no
impression at all on her parent.

“I am glad Catherine is safe,” Royce said to
Braedon, “and I thank you for finding her, but we still don't know
where Achard is.”

“He's locked in the dungeon,” Gwendolyn
announced, tossing the ring of keys at Royce. “Thanks to Sir
Braedon, and to me, Lady Catherine is rescued and that miserable
villain Achard lies unconscious in a cell down below.”

Royce caught the keys in midair. He spared a
long look for Gwendolyn before addressing Braedon again.

“Is this true?” he asked.

“Men,” Gwendolyn muttered to Catherine. “They
don't believe anything a woman says, unless she's speaking words of
high praise for male prowess in battle, or in bed. Except for
Braedon. He believed me when I said I knew where you were being
held, and because he did, you are safe. You are, aren't you? Achard
didn't do anything vile to you when he first dragged you into that
cell, did he?”

“The worst he did was punch me,” Catherine
said, rubbing the sore spot on her chin. “That was vile
enough.”

“If you've had your fill of these wretched
warriors,” Gwendolyn said, casting a baleful look at the assembled
men, “I'll see you to your room and find some hot water so you can
wash away the dust of that cell – not to mention washing away the
touch of Achard's hands on you.”

“That sounds like a very good idea,”
Catherine responded with a tired sigh. “I suddenly feel an urgent
need to lie down.”

“Catherine.” Her father's voice stopped her
progress toward the stairs. “Not one word to anyone about the
events of last night. Not even to Aldis. You are to carry on as if
nothing has happened.”

“Yes, father.” It was a properly meek
response but Catherine was still seething with indignation against
Royce. By the time she reached her bedchamber she was shaking in
the aftermath of terror and outrage. She leaned against the bedpost
for support.

“Here you are.” Gwendolyn had left Catherine
at the bedroom door; now she reappeared bearing a large pitcher of
hot water.

“How did you get that so quickly?” Catherine
asked in surprise.

“I took it away from one of Achard's
squires,” Gwendolyn responded with a wicked grin. “I told him you
needed it more than his master, and sent him back to the kitchen
for another pitcher.”

“There's justice for you,” Catherine said
with a choked laugh.

“Let me help you out of that dress before you
fall down,” Gwendolyn said, reaching for the laces at the side of
Catherine's gown. Gwendolyn seemed to comprehend as no one else did
just how deep Catherine's distress ran after witnessing her world
turned upside down before it was righted again, and how she was
still struggling with a feeling of betrayal on the part of her
father.

Thanks to Gwendolyn's competent ministrations
Catherine was undressed, her hands and face were bathed and her
hair brushed, and she was settled in bed within a remarkably short
time. Only then did she begin to relax, snuggling beneath the
familiar coverlet, tucking the pillow under her head just the way
she liked it. She heard Gwendolyn at the door, arguing with Aldis,
but she was too weary to intervene.