True Love (4 page)

She was so surprised by his next act that she
did not turn her face away quickly enough. Braedon lowered his head
until his mouth met hers. It was no gentle forfeit, and not at all
like the quick, slightly embarrassed kisses that her father's
squires sometimes bestowed on her under the mistletoe during the
Christmas festivities. It was like no kiss Catherine had ever
experienced in her lifetime.

Braedon's kiss demanded that she respond in
kind. One of his arms settled around her waist. His other hand
cradled her head, holding her so she could not escape him. After a
single, breathless attempt to get free, she gave up all resistance.
She sank into his kiss, leaning against his strength, and when his
tongue teased along her lips, she opened them. His tongue surged
into her and suddenly she was enveloped in heat and longing. Some
part of her mind warned that she must stop him. Another part of her
wanted him to continue what he was doing and never stop. And then
her ever-ready curiosity stirred, making her wonder what would
happen next.

She experimented by rather awkwardly touching
her tongue to Braedon's. He made a strange, strangled noise deep in
his throat and began to suck on her tongue. Catherine thought she
was going to burst into flames. Then she stopped thinking. All she
could do was cling to him and let him do as he wanted with her.

His hands were on her breasts. He pulled his
mouth from hers to kiss her throat and she tipped her head back to
let him know she welcomed his impassioned assault.

Much too soon Braedon broke off the embrace
and stepped away from her. Reeling in the aftermath of overpowering
emotion, Catherine flung out one hand to brace herself against the
wall because she feared her knees would no longer hold her upright.
Braedon was leaning over the pile of clothing on the floor, lifting
it as if to replace it on the basket.

“You have paid your forfeit,” he said, not
looking at her. “You may leave now.”

“L – Leave?” she stammered. She was still
unsteady on her feet and confused by his actions and his cool,
uncaring words. It was as if the kiss that had seared her heart was
meaningless to him.

“Go,” he ordered her. “I will say nothing
about this incident if you do not. No one but you and I need ever
know you came to my room. But I warn you, Catherine, never come
here again, for if you do, you will not leave as a maiden.”

“I don't understand,” she said.

“I know you do not, which is why you are not
lying beneath me on my bed right now.”

“Braedon—”

“Leave me!”

Catherine had never heard any man sound like
that. Braedon's voice was cold and hard as winter ice. It was like
listening to a royal command. And like a royal command, there was
nothing for her to do in response to his cold voice but obey.

She fled from his chamber, ran up the steps
to her own room, where she closed and latched the door, and then
stood with her back against the solid wood, trembling and aching
for something she scarcely understood, yet knew she could not
have.

“Fool,” Braedon muttered. He tossed the
woolen tunics he was holding onto the bed and went to latch the
door behind Catherine. The gesture was not to keep her from
returning, but to prevent himself from going after her. His
scornful words were not directed at her, either, but at himself,
for the desire that ran hot and heavy through his veins.
“Thoughtless, impulsive fool that you are, you may have ruined
everything.”

He had temporarily taken leave of his senses.
There could be no other explanation for the reckless way he had
embraced Catherine. He knew full well that he had no right to touch
her, much less kiss her. If she complained to Royce, Braedon's
mission at Wortham would be jeopardized, for Royce would have no
choice but to order him to leave.

Never before had Braedon found himself in
such a predicament. He was always the most cool-headed and
responsible of men, carrying out his orders with calm efficiency,
refusing to allow feminine wiles to interfere with his work no
matter how cleverly those wiles were employed to lure him from his
sworn purpose. His personal liaisons were reserved for the brief
periods when he was between missions and he always took care to
remain distant in his heart even while he indulged his body in
erotic pleasures. Nor did he trust the women whose beds he shared.
Braedon had survived for as long as he had in his dangerous
profession because he rarely trusted anyone, man or woman.

His gaze fell upon the basket in which the
tools of his trade were stored, tucked in among his clothing. The
intricately tied knot appeared to be untouched and Catherine had
sounded as if her attempt to open the basket was unsuccessful. But
she was Royce's daughter; perhaps she was as skillful at
dissembling as her parent was. It was possible that she had opened
the basket, examined the contents, and then cleverly retied the
knot, making it appear as if she hadn’t tampered with it. She had
been absent from the great hall long enough to complete such a
task. Had Royce sent her to his room to search his belongings while
he kept Braedon occupied at the high table, or was Catherine
telling the truth when she claimed her spying was her own idea?

As Braedon saw it, his present duty required
him to draw as much information as possible out of Catherine. In
the past he had occasionally used seduction to gain information,
but he considered that path the wrong one to use in this instance.
Not only was Catherine obviously too intelligent to be an easy
conquest, but Royce was likely to take strong exception to
Braedon's efforts in that direction. Braedon did not dare chance
being challenged to combat by an irate father, or being driven out
of Wortham, before he had completed his mission.

“There is a simple way to be sure how much
Lady Catherine learned while she was in this room,” Braedon said
aloud.

He went to his knees next to the basket and
worked at the leather thong with fingers made nimble by years of
practice. It was one of a pair of baskets which were lashed to a
packhorse when he traveled. The other basket held his chainmail
armor. His squire had taken both basket and chainmail to the
armorer's for repair of a few broken links. While he was in the
outer bailey Robert, who was Braedon's apprentice as well as his
squire, was assigned to learn as much as he could about the various
guests and their attendants. Braedon knew better than to discount
the stories or the gossip that servants and squires and castle
artisans routinely exchanged. Often the common folk knew more than
their masters about what was really going on in a castle. Robert
was sure to return with at least a few valuable tidbits of
news.

The leather knot Braedon was working on came
apart and he lifted the lid of the basket. At first appearance
nothing was disturbed. Still, he wanted to be certain. He lifted
out three linen undershirts and the padded gambeson he always wore
beneath his chainmail. Next was a neatly folded pile of hose, which
he also removed. Under the hose lay the most important layer of
all. Braedon decided to check each item of that layer. One by one
he picked up the items and examined them for signs of
tampering.

Two vials of poppy syrup remained tightly
sealed with wax. Two other vials containing dried aconite corms
ground together with oil were not only sealed, but wrapped in waxed
linen cloths as a further precaution, for aconite was a deadly
poison. In a separate piece of linen was a small parchment packet
of powered hellebore, another poison.

Braedon's mouth tightened as he looked at the
collection of herbal products. He always disliked having to use any
of them and made a habit of carrying the antidotes with him. Thus,
his supplies also included finely ground daffodil bulbs and a vial
of mulberry juice. The dried valerian root was in a tightly sealed
jar to prevent its fetid odor from permeating all of his clothing.
As an extra measure against anyone detecting the smell of valerian
on his person, Braedon daily used a scented soap and an astringent
herbal liquid that he applied to his skin after bathing or
shaving.

Then there were his weapons, his three secret
and trusty blades. A slender dagger just big enough to slip into
his boot boasted a razor-sharp edge and a deadly point. It was the
twin to the dagger Braedon was wearing concealed against his ankle
in a special sheath sewn into his right boot. A smaller knife that
could fit into his sleeve rested beside the dagger. There was also
a large knife with a rather blunt tip and a cleverly wrought blade
that retracted into its handle when a button on the hilt was
pressed. The button was so cleverly disguised as part of the
decoration of the hilt that only a person who was aware of the
existence of such a device could have recognized it.

Braedon's other weapons, the broadsword,
shortsword and battleaxe he used for public combat were with
Robert, taken to the armorer's for sharpening before the tournament
that was scheduled for a few days hence.

So far as he could tell, Catherine had not
discovered any of the herbs or the secret implements hidden away in
his clothing basket. The bottommost layer of clothes consisted of a
spare cloak and an extra gambeson that he kept in case the one he
ordinarily wore was bloodied in combat or soaked by rain. These two
garments served as extra padding to protect the secret items he did
not want found or handled. He replaced everything, topping the
contents with the tunics he plucked off the bed. He retied the
thong in his own, special knot.

When he was finished he went to the window,
to gaze into the deepening purple dusk while he thought about what
he had been sent to Wortham Castle to do. His heart had grown hard
during his years of confidential service; still, it saddened him to
know that before he left Wortham he was going to have to kill at
least one person, and perhaps more than one. Killing was always a
sad and solemn deed, an unwelcome necessity. Braedon did not think
he would ever become used to it.

Then he thought about the lone man he did
want to kill and his lips twisted in a grimace of hatred. When the
time came for that particular deed, he would strike without
compunction, without pity, and with no sorrow at all when it was
over.

The next day, which was Saturday and the
first day of the annual Wortham fair, dawned bright and cool.
Catherine was as eager as any of her female guests to visit the
fair. Left to herself, she would have been present when the first
booths were opened, but as chatelaine and hostess she felt it her
duty to remain at the castle until everyone was awake and fed.
Thus, it was mid-morning before she rode out of the gates with
Aldis by her side. Her spirits lifted at once, buoyed by a sudden
sense of release.

Her carefree pleasure did not last long. She
heard hoofbeats coming from the direction of the meadow where in a
few days the tournament was to take place. When she looked toward
the sound she saw two men approaching. The lead rider was mounted
on a handsome gray stallion and there was no mistaking his
identity. Catherine's heart began to beat more quickly.

The man who followed Braedon by half a length
rode a chestnut gelding whose coat was almost exactly the same
shade as the good-looking horseman's own hair.

“Good day to you, my lady.” Braedon slowed
the gray to ride next to Catherine. “If you are heading for the
fair, may we join you? This is my squire, Robert,” he added, waving
a hand to indicate the man on the chestnut horse.

Catherine had encountered Robert on the
previous day only long enough to learn his name and to realize that
he was a bit older than most squires, but it appeared Aldis knew
him better, for she offered him a friendly greeting and a welcoming
smile.

“Well, my lady?” Braedon asked. His midnight
eyes held a taunting message for Catherine alone. “What say you?
Shall we spend a few hours together at the fair? Or, after last
night, do you wish me permanently gone from Wortham?”

“Whether you go or stay, Sir Braedon, must be
your own decision,” she responded in as haughty a voice as she
could manage when the mere sight of him roused the memory of his
passionate embrace. A faint smile teased the corners of his mouth.
Catherine keenly recalled the touch of that mouth on hers. It took
considerable strength of will to remind herself that she doubted
his honesty.

“Is your declaration meant as a yes or a no?”
Braedon asked.

“I would be remiss in my duties as hostess if
I turned away any guest,” she said. “Of course, you and your squire
are welcome to join Aldis and me.”

“I thank you for your kindness, my lady.”

She looked at him sharply, thinking she
detected mockery in his smooth tone, but his face had resumed its
sober expression.

“Robert and I have been examining the melee
field,” Braedon said as the four of them rode on toward Wortham
village.

“Have you, indeed?” She tried to sound
uninterested.

“I prefer to test any area of combat before I
venture onto it in earnest,” he said.

“I suppose it is always best to be
prepared.”

“Are you prepared for combat, Lady
Catherine?” he asked.

“If you mean, have I laid in supplies of
medicine and bandages, then, yes, I am well prepared,” she snapped
at him. “As any chatelaine would be. It is wrong of you to suggest
otherwise.”

“My lady, it does seem to me that you are
greatly annoyed with me, and not just because I questioned your
arrangements for those who will be wounded during the melee,” he
said, looking innocent though his eyes were sparkling with
laughter.

“I am irritated, Sir Braedon, to think a
guest in my father's home would take liberties with my person, but
to say I am annoyed would give too much importance to an incident
that is of little significance.” She thought she heard him chuckle,
but she refused to look at him again. She did not want to see him
laughing at her.