True Love (24 page)

“I am sure your imagination would not flag,”
she said, secret meaning in her crystaline blue gaze.

“I wish you luck in the hunt.” Royce dropped
her hand and stepped back.

For an instant Lady Edith appeared to be
irritated by Royce's words. Then Achard bowed and extended his arm,
and with a last, questioning look at Royce she placed her fingers
on his wrist and allowed him to lead her out of the hall.

“I do hope Achard will decide he wants to
marry Lady Edith, rather than me,” Catherine said to her father.
Since she was standing near him, she had heard his exchange with
the lady.

“I doubt if that will happen,” Royce said.
“Thanks to her late husband's spendthrift ways, her dowry is
considerably smaller than yours.”

“Still, she is very pretty. And you have been
alone for many years.” Catherine meant the words as an opening. If
Royce was fond of Lady Edith and was considering marriage to her,
Catherine wanted him to know she would not be difficult about his
plans, or jealous of a new chatelaine at Wortham.

“Unlike Achard, I am not seeking a wife,”
Royce said. “Do you yearn for a stepmother?”

“I want you to be contented. It would please
me to see you happy, as I remember you and my mother were happy.”
Royce's reaction to that statement stunned her.

“Never again will I sacrifice a woman I love
to a villain,” Royce said with considerable force. His mouth hard,
his eyes bleak, he stared at Catherine as if he saw someone else in
her place. Then he shook his head and spoke again. “I will spend
the next hour conferring with my steward.” He stalked out of the
hall.

“What villain was he talking about?”
Catherine murmured. “Does he mean he has withdrawn his permission
for Achard to court me? Oh, I do hope so. Or does he mean he thinks
Braedon is a villain? That seems far more likely. He left so
quickly that I didn't have a chance to tell him what Gwendolyn said
about Achard. How tired I am of all these secrets.”

Just then, to her surprise, Braedon came into
the hall fully dressed and walking with a very convincing limp.
Several of the guests interrupted his progress across the hall to
speak to him and ask about his health. He appeared to be in fine
spirits.

“Good day to you, Lady Catherine,” he said in
a cheerful voice. “Dare I hope you are not joining the hunt? And if
not, will you consent to visit the fair with me? As you can see, I
am not yet fit enough to ride all day, but I am sure I can sit a
horse long enough to reach the village.

“Aldis tells me there is no reason why you
cannot go,” he continued. “She and Robert are eager to act as our
chaperones, and Lord Cadwallon is willing to keep your father
company.”

“I think my father does not want company.
Something has disturbed him.”

“Wouldn't you be disturbed if someone was
trying to kill you?” Braedon asked in a quieter voice. “But Royce
will be in no danger this day. Ward will keep a close watch on his
master, and Cadwallon is a completely trustworthy friend. All of
which means you have no excuse not to attend the fair with me.”

Catherine frowned, considering the many
questions still plaguing her about Braedon. Gwendolyn's story
appeared to absolve him of poisoning her father. She could not deny
to herself that she loved him. Her deepest instincts told her she
could trust him. And yet, mysteries clung to him like wisps of fog,
frequently shifting, concealing and then revealing heretofore
unguessed-at aspects of his character. Perhaps she could learn
something more about him while they were at the fair.

Most of all, she simply wanted to be with
him, to touch him occasionally, to hear his low, rich, thoroughly
masculine voice that seemed to caress her with every word he
spoke.

“Yes,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “I
will spend the day with you.”

The fair was even more crowded with customers
than on its first day. There were more merchants participating,
more booths set up, and a good deal more noise. Everyone seemed to
be talking at once, extolling the fine merchandise, calling out to
friends. Children shouted and raced between the grownups and,
occasionally, upended a counter and were subjected to a scolding
from an irate vendor.

“Where did all these people come from?” Aldis
cried, looking around.

“Word travels,” Catherine said. “People know
there is a gathering of nobles at Wortham, all of them willing to
spend freely, and the news is passed along.” She noticed how Aldis
kept her hand firmly in the crook of Robert's elbow so as not to be
separated from him, and she saw how her cousin looked at the
handsome young man.

“Braedon,” Catherine said, slowing her pace
to let the other couple walk on ahead, “is there nothing you can do
for Robert? Aldis says he is too poor to afford knightly
equipment.”

“I would gladly help him if I were able,”
Braedon said, “but I own little more than Robert does. I can barely
afford to feed my horses, and Robert rides my extra mount.”

“How did you acquire your own armor and
horses?”

“They were a gift from my father on my
twenty-first birthday,” Braedon said.

“Perhaps he would be willing to help Robert,
too,” she suggested.

“I cannot and will not ask him for more,”
Braedon said, very firmly. “He has other children to provide for,
including girls who will require dowries. My knightly equipage and
the accolade he bestowed on me were more than I had any right to
hope for. Many men do nothing at all for their illegitimate
offspring.”

“Your own father knighted you?” Here was
further proof that Braedon's father was, at the very least, a
knight. Catherine was watching his sharp-chiseled, serious face
closely, and she detected there a certain warmth which she took to
be genuine affection for his parent. Her assumption was confirmed
by his next words.

“There was a time when I thought I would
remain a squire for the rest of my life, like Robert,” Braedon
said. “There are worse fates. While I was my father's squire, he
always treated me kindly.”

“As you treat Robert now.”

“I try. If the opportunity occurs, I'll see
him knighted.” Braedon's gaze rested on his squire, who was showing
Aldis something at a nearby booth. “Life for men like us is risky.
And frequently brief.”

“Don't say that.”

“Why not? It's true enough, as you and I
know. A man can be cut down on the melee field, or in battle, or
poisoned in his own home.”

“There’s something I haven't told you,” she
said, and there, with the crowd milling around them she revealed
Gwendolyn's story of seeing Achard outside Braedon's room at a time
when he could have overheard Gwendolyn and Robert speaking about
the contents of Braedon's baggage. Catherine decided not to mention
the cloaked figure leaving Braedon's room that Gwendolyn had seen
late at night.

“So, Achard probably knows about the poisons
you carry,” Catherine finished, “and I suppose he could have stolen
them from your room while you were sleeping. It would be safe
enough for him to try such a theft; if you wakened or Robert
returned, Achard could say he was visiting to see how you were. But
why he would want to harm my father I don't know, nor could he have
administered the poison himself. He had no opportunity.”

“I am sure he has an accomplice,” Braedon
said.

“I've been thinking about that, and I keep
coming back to Phelan and Eustace, both of whom dislike my father,
in spite of their loud protestations to be family members and dear
friends.”

“Now, there are two serious possibilities,”
Braedon said, “though I would wager more heartily on Phelan than on
his son.”

“Thank you for not discounting a woman's
opinion.”

“I'd never discount you, Catherine. Nor
Gwendolyn, either. What she lacks in beauty she makes up for in
wits. While you, my love, possess both in ample supply.”

His love? Was that how he thought of her, or
was he speaking casually, as men sometimes did? It was the second
time he had used that term while talking to her. His hand rested on
her shoulder in a possessive way. Despite the dangers that lurked
at Wortham and all of her unanswered questions about him, still
Catherine felt remarkably safe with Braedon. She lifted her eyes to
meet his, only to discover he wasn't gazing at her. He was staring
at someone else. Catherine looked about the fair ground while
Braedon's hand tightened on her shoulder. And she saw who had
caught his attention.

“There is the same man you were talking to
when we were here last week,” she said.

“So it is.” Braedon was still staring at the
man.

Glancing between the two of them Catherine
saw Braedon jerk his head in a quick, scarcely noticeable motion.
The stranger changed direction and came to them as if he was
carried forward by the movement of the crowd.

“Sir Desmond,” Braedon said, “well met.”

“A pleasure to see you again,” the stranger
responded as if the meeting was completely unintentional.

“Lady Catherine, may I present an old friend,
who is a simple knight like myself. Desmond and I were squires in
the same household.”

“Welcome to Wortham, Sir Desmond.” Catherine
extended her hand to the sandy-haired, gray-eyed man. He was as
tall as Braedon, though he did not appear to be quite as tightly
muscled, and his figure displayed none of the firmly leashed power
that emanated from Braedon.

“Are you planning to join us for the last day
of the tournament?” Catherine asked him.

“I am sorry to say I cannot, my lady. I was
recently injured. I won't be fighting again for some time.”

“Then will you come for the feasting and to
watch the tournament? I am sure my father would like to meet
you.”

“The last day of the tournament will be held
on Tuesday,” Braedon told him, “beginning at midmorning. Royce has
postponed it from Monday in hope that with an extra day of rest he
will feel well enough to compete.”

“Again, I must respectfully decline,” Sir
Desmond said. “I am staying elsewhere and it would be a rudeness if
I were to leave. In fact, I only rode to Wortham because I felt the
need of some exercise after being confined to my bed for too long.
And I ought to be returning. If you will excuse me, my lady.
Braedon, we will meet again soon, I trust.” With a bow Sir Desmond
took his leave of them.

“He certainly wasn't confined to his bed last
week, for he was here, at the fair,” Catherine remarked, looking
after him. “Where could he be staying that's near enough for him to
ride to Wortham for the day? Braedon, why did you want us to
meet?”

“Because I expect you to remember his face,”
Braedon said, “as he will remember yours. Now, come along and help
me search for Aldis and Robert. They have vanished. I begin to fear
that you and I will have to act as chaperones to our chaperones –
if we can find them.”

“I saw them go into the fortune teller's
booth,” Catherine told him.

“Then they are in serious danger. Mab will
certainly assure them they have a happy future together,” he said
with a laugh. He caught Catherine's hand, to pull her toward Mab's
booth. “Let us rout those two out of there. It's time to return to
the castle.”

“So soon? We've scarcely been at the fair an
hour. Did you come only to meet Sir Desmond? Was it because you
needed to tell him about the alteration in the tournament schedule?
Who is he, really?”

Braedon stopped to tilt her chin up so she
could see how he was laughing at her.

“You ask too many questions,” he teased. “If
we weren't in so public a place, I'd silence your pretty mouth with
a kiss.”

“Would you?” she responded with some
acerbity, believing he was trying to divert her thoughts from Sir
Desmond's sudden appearance and quick departure. “Perhaps I'd
refuse you.”

“No, you wouldn't.” His voice was a soft
caress, the low pitch of it sending heat into the very core of her
being. “You want me to kiss you as much as I want to do it. Heaven
help me, Catherine, there are moments when I think I'll die if I
don't have you again.”

“Braedon,” she breathed, almost overcome with
desire for him. She swayed toward him just as Aldis and Robert
burst through the curtain over the entrance to Mab's booth. They
were laughing and joking, and their voices broke the spell that
held Catherine and Braedon.

“Your pardon, my lady,” Braedon said to her,
his eyes growing distant. He removed his fingers from her chin. “I
misspoke.”

“You didn't,” she said, but she wasn't sure
he heard her, because Robert was laughing and saying something to
him about Mab's wonderful predictions.

Whitsunday passed quietly, with Father Aymon
conducting several long services to mark the holy day. By midday
the guests had all made their communions, having fasted since the
previous evening as the Church required of them, and they were
eager to indulge in an afternoon of feasting. Royce appeared in
both chapel and great hall and seemed to be completely recovered
from what he insisted was no more than a simple stomach upset
caused by bad fish.

“But there is another person here who knows
he wasn't merely ill,” Catherine said to Braedon. With a sensation
of considerable unease she looked around the great hall. “Perhaps
more than one person.”

“We will uncover the villains, never fear,”
Braedon murmured. He was still pretending to limp, and to anyone
who spoke to him, he provided a creditable impression of a man who
regretted that he would be unable to compete in the final day of
the tournament.

“I can sympathize with you,” said Lord
Cadwallon, rubbing his own broken arm. “I am growing ever more
impatient with this affliction.”

“Braedon, I've been looking for you.” Royce
joined their little group, his face dark with disapproval. “I do
not want you at the high table. Find yourself a seat among the
men-at-arms.”