True Love (12 page)

“Please, don't tell my father about this,”
she begged. “Achard won't attempt to overcome me by force again,
not if he seriously wants me to agree to marry him.”

“I cannot believe that
you
believe
what you've just said,” Braedon exclaimed.

“I don't want to disrupt my father's plans
for the festival,” Catherine insisted. “The next few days are so
important to him, for more reasons than you or I can guess.”

“I do understand,” Braedon said. Royce needed
proof of Achard's treasonous activities before he could accuse a
fellow nobleman to King Henry.

Royce also needed to discover what plots
Phelan and Eustace were hatching. If Catherine made a loud outcry
about Achard's behavior toward her, Royce would have two choices.
He could challenge Achard to open combat in defense of Catherine's
honor, or he could order Achard to leave Wortham and never return.
Either course of action would ruin any hope Royce held of bringing
Achard down and ending his career as a double spy, and perhaps of
stopping whatever Phelan and his son were scheming to do. But it
seemed to Braedon that the price of Royce's plan was far too high.
Not for the first time, he wondered how Royce could use his
daughter in the plan against Achard.

“I cannot agree to keep silent about Achard's
assault on you,” Braedon said, tightening his arms around her.

To his surprise, Catherine did not argue or
try to pull away from him. She sat huddled against his chest, her
face hidden in the wool of his tunic front, and her very silence
told him how frightened she had been.

“So long as Achard is at Wortham, I do not
want you ever to be alone,” Braedon said. “Keep Aldis close to you.
I will watch over you as best I can, and I will alert Robert to the
danger from Achard. All of us together ought to be able to keep you
safe.”

She raised her head to look at him. Her lower
lip trembled. It was all Braedon could do to stop himself from
kissing her.

“Why were you looking for me?” Catherine
asked.

“You were not riding with the hunt,” Braedon
answered. “Nor was Achard present. It worried me that both of you
were absent.”

“I am glad you appeared when you did. Thank
you, Braedon.”

Braedon bit back the curse that rose to his
lips. Catherine loved her father, so Braedon refused to speak ill
of Royce in her presence. But as soon as his work at Wortham Castle
was done, after Achard and Phelan and Eustace had all three paid
the price for their traitorous deeds, then, Braedon resolved, he
would talk to Royce in the sternest way he could, and warn King
Henry's master spy that he could not put his daughter at risk, ever
again. He would strongly suggest that Royce find a decent,
kind-hearted nobleman and arrange for Catherine to marry him
promptly, so she would be safe from the dangerous arrangements
Royce was too often constrained to make when he pursued his secret
duties for his king.

Then, once Braedon was assured that Catherine
was safe, he would tear her out of his heart and his mind, and ride
away from Wortham and never think of her again, for she could never
be his. He trusted himself to be wise enough to remember that
all-important fact. Catherine would go to some other man's bed,
bear another man's children, grow old with someone else by her
side. She would forget about Braedon the Wicked and the few days he
had spent at Wortham Castle.

While he remained at Wortham it was his duty
to protect her and never to do anything to cause her heartache.
Therefore, in lieu of the kiss he desired with all of his being,
Braedon forced himself to be content to smooth back Catherine's
red-gold hair and stroke her cheek. When she decided she was
recovered enough to remount her horse, he offered her an
encouraging smile and a helping hand.

By that time Aldis and Robert had arrived and
the four of them made their way back to the castle while Braedon
explained what had happened and how they were to watch Achard and
prevent him from making any further attempts on Catherine.

“When all is said and done, the fault lies
with you,” Braedon declared, facing Royce across the table in the
cleric's office. He was too angry to mince words with his superior,
or to keep his voice low. “Because of your insistence that she
would be safe on your lands, Catherine was put in danger of rape. I
cannot believe King Henry expects you to sacrifice your only
daughter in his cause.”

“I very much doubt that you know what King
Henry expects of me,” Royce said, meeting Braedon's outrage with
cool distain.

“You think not?” Braedon was finding it
increasingly difficult to restrain his anger. “Perhaps I know the
king better than you imagine.”

“I am aware that Henry has, on several
occasions, given you private assignments,” Royce said. “However, on
this occasion you are under my command. Do not question my actions
again – or my motives in regard to my daughter.”

“Father?” Catherine came to the doorway. She
sent a perplexed look from Braedon to Royce. “I heard loud voices.
Is something wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” Royce said, glaring at
Braedon. “We were merely speaking too loudly.
Much
too
loudly. Anyone could have heard us,” he added, his gaze fierce when
he met the younger man's eyes.

“Ah, dearest Lady Catherine,” Achard
exclaimed, crowding into the room behind her, “here you are. I have
been looking everywhere for you.”

“Achard, I will speak with you in private,”
Royce said. “Catherine, Sir Braedon, if you will excuse us, my lord
Achard and I have business to discuss.”

It was a firm dismissal that allowed no
protest. Catherine and Braedon left the little office at once,
Braedon hurrying past Catherine on his way to the entry hall and
thence to the bailey. He needed to breathe good, fresh air while he
restored the calm manner with which he usually faced the world. But
Catherine would not let him go.

“You were quarreling with my father about
me.” Her accusation halted him.

“Not quarreling,” he said. “It was merely an
argument. I expressed my opinion that Royce ought to be more
careful of your safety.”

“You told him what Achard did,” she said,
still accusing.

“You knew I would. Royce had to be told. I
wasn't sure you would do the telling, so I did it.” He had meant to
spare her the need to recite the unpleasant details, and he had
coupled his bare account of Achard's actions with a warning to
Royce that was strong enough to earn him Royce's displeasure.
Braedon could bear it; he had been at odds with his superiors
before. He hoped Royce was at that very moment bestowing upon
Achard the severe reproof the villain richly deserved.

“Do you really know the king well?” Catherine
asked.

“What?” He stared at her, startled by the
abrupt change of subject.

“I heard my father say that King Henry has
assigned you to private tasks,” Catherine said. “I take the remark
to mean that, like my father, you are one of the king's spies, and
therefore, from time to time you meet with him face to face.”

“You don't know what you are saying.” He
frowned at her, but Catherine would not be quiet.

“I suspected you of being an agent soon after
I met you,” she said. “I just wasn't sure who you are working for.
Is he dreadfully sad?”

“Is who sad?”

“The king, of course. I've heard his heart
was broken when his sons were drowned last autumn and that he
hasn't smiled since then.”

“It was a great tragedy,” Braedon said. He
closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about William and Richard
and the end of their young lives and all that those two deaths
meant. Then he took a deep breath in an effort to subdue both his
remaining irritation with Royce and his confusion over Catherine's
odd question. “Every king needs legitimate heirs. Having them
insures a peaceful change when the old king dies.”

“Let us hope King Henry has several sons with
his new queen,” Catherine said. “And soon. He is quite old, after
all.”

“You ought not to say such things aloud,”
Braedon cautioned her. “If you are overheard, your meaning could be
misconstrued.” He glanced around as he spoke, to be sure there was
no one near.

“Because I am sympathetic to my liege lord?”
she responded with a scornful laugh for his concern. “I am loyal to
King Henry, but I am worried about the future, too. Nor am I alone
in my fears.”

“Catherine, be quiet,” he said.

“No, I will not.”

It seemed to Braedon as if she was trying to
provoke him into making some statement that would reveal his own
opinion about Henry's recent remarriage, or about his possible
choice of a new heir. The issue was of serious concern to Royce and
Achard, to Phelan and Eustace, and, yes, heaven help him, it
concerned Braedon, himself. It was the issue behind Achard's
dastardly behavior and Phelan's scheming. Perhaps Catherine
understood what was at stake, and was desperate to learn something
definite that would put her fears to rest. But Braedon could tell
her nothing.

“Have you met Queen Adelicia?” she asked. “Is
she pretty? Do you think she cares for the king?”

“Catherine, be quiet!”

This time she obeyed him, but she made the
mistake of smiling at him. Catherine's smile held a special magic
for Braedon. The scar on her left cheek, never ugly to Braedon’s
sight, vanished when she smiled to become a rather long, charming
dimple. Both of her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes were
sparkling with mischief. In short, she looked as if the dangers of
earlier in the day had never existed. All of Braedon's good
intentions and his carefully thought-out resolutions in regard to
her began to dissolve in the warmth of Catherine's smiling gaze.
With a growl of frustration and longing, he caught her by the
shoulders and gave her a quick shake.

Catherine gasped in surprise, but before
Braedon could administer the stern rebuke her careless words about
the king had earned her, she lifted her hand and laid it gently
against his cheek.

Braedon shuddered at her touch. He was
growing weary of having to fight his manly urges whenever he was
with Catherine. The desire to kiss her was almost overwhelming, and
he detected in her eyes a welcoming light that seemed to tell him
she would offer no resistance.

When he had kissed her in his room on his
first day at Wortham, it had been a careless, defiant gesture. In
the few days between that afternoon and the present moment his
feelings toward Catherine had altered until he knew he could never
again regard her without strong emotion. He ought to be thoroughly
ashamed for what he felt toward her. But it wasn't shame that
burned through his veins and curled into his loins; it was desire,
fierce and unquenchable – and terrifying, because underneath the
heat of physical longing lay feelings far more dangerous, a solid
respect for her intelligence and honesty, and a tenderness that
would endure long after the last embers of passion were spent.

“I have cursed Achard for what he did to
you,” Braedon said, knowing he must spare her the weight of his
most improper longing toward her. His desire for Catherine was his
own responsibility. His alone. “If I kiss you now, there will be
little difference between Achard and me.”

“Not so,” Catherine declared. “Achard has
never kissed me. If he had dared – if ever he does dare – I swear
to you, Braedon, I will bite his tongue off! But I will not bite
you.”

“Catherine! What am I to do with you?” Torn
between unexpected laughter and self-loathing for his intemperate
desire when he knew better than to embrace her, he turned away to
lean his forehead against the cold stone wall of the corridor where
they stood.

“I am a bastard,” he reminded her, “a man
with no land and few possessions, who must remain clear of all
entanglements except my loyalty to my king. My heart, and my life,
are entirely devoted to King Henry's service; therefore, I cannot
care deeply for any woman. Do not expect more of me than I can
give.” Now, at last, he did feel shame, and helpless rage against
the circumstances of his birth, which he was powerless to change.
He straightened, turning away from the wall to look down at
her.

“One of the few things I can give you is some
very good advice. Pay careful attention to what I say, Catherine.”
He placed a finger on her deliciously soft lips to stop the words
he could see forming there. “Do not speak foolishly about King
Henry and his lack of an heir, as you just did. Do not speculate
aloud about his possible choice of a new heir, or whether Queen
Adelicia will ever bear him a son. Those are serious matters, and
what you say may be overheard and used against you, or against your
father.”

“I do understand,” she said, her lips moving
against the finger he still held to her mouth.

“Then think carefully before you speak, lest
you put yourself or Royce into danger.” He lowered his hand from
her lips, fighting his unworthy desire to embrace her, to kiss her
and plunder the warm honey of her mouth.

“Now, if you will excuse me, my lady,” he
said, making an elegant bow worthy of the royal court, “there are
preparations I still must make before the tournament begins
tomorrow.”

Coward that he was, he retreated from the
temptation of her presence before she could voice any response to
his warnings.

The final touches to the structure where
Royce's noble guests could watch the tournament in comfort were
completed shortly after sunrise. At one side of the field a long,
wooden gallery had been constructed. Cushioned benches were set
along each of the five levels of the gallery and a blue cloth
canopy was draped over a frame to provide shade for the ladies and
for the older noblemen who were not participating in the games.