True Love (25 page)

“Father,” Catherine exclaimed, “why are you
being so rude to a guest?”

“As for you,” Royce said, shaking a finger at
her, “I'll deal with you later.”

“What have I done?” Catherine cried. “Why are
you acting this way?”

“Lord Cadwallon, would you be good enough to
escort my daughter to her chair and sit beside her during the
feast?” Royce asked.

“I would be honored.” Cadwallon extended his
good arm toward Catherine, who did not take it.

“Father!” she cried in exasperation.

“Do not make a scene before our guests. We
will discuss your misbehavior later.”

“My what?” Catherine could not believe what
she was hearing. She knew Royce was furious with her after catching
her in Braedon's room, but to preserve her honor, and his, he had
refrained from a public display of outrage. She could not
understand why he was making an issue of the matter now.

“My lady,” Cadwallon said to her, “please
allow me to conduct you to the high table. Perhaps you could smile
at me and appear to be enjoying yourself. Lord Achard is watching
us, and Lady Edith, too.”

With a last, puzzled glance at her father,
Catherine accepted Cadwallon's arm. She saw Braedon speaking to
Royce in barely concealed anger. Royce spun on his heel and went to
the dais to take his place at the high table. Braedon seated
himself well down one of the lower tables, and he did not look
happy at being displaced. Nor did Catherine miss Achard's smug
expression as he watched the scene.

“Once again they are plotting without telling
me,” she muttered.

“Do not interfere in matters you do not
understand,” Cadwallon warned her in a manner very unlike his usual
affable self.

“If I were being watched as carefully as you
are being watched at this moment,” Cadwallon went on, “I would
pretend there is nothing wrong. I am not your enemy, Catherine.
Please listen to me.”

She did listen, and she noted the abrupt
change in him, from a relaxed man whose only concern was his
inability to participate in the tournament any longer, to a quiet,
intense person who seemed to have some private knowledge of what
was actually happening. Braedon had said he was trustworthy, so
Catherine decided to do as Cadwallon asked. All through the long
meal of many courses she smiled and tried to look as if she was
troubled by nothing more serious than the success of the huge meat
pie that Cook had produced, or whether there was too much almond
milk in the custard.

Royce did not speak to her at all. He spent
his time conversing with Lady Edith, and with Achard, who sat on
Edith's other side. By the time the feast was over Catherine was
both angry and confused. As soon as the guests dispersed to their
rooms and Royce mounted the steps toward the lord's chamber,
Catherine followed him, determined to confront him about his rude
treatment.

She caught up with him in his chamber as he
was changing his tunic with Ward's assistance. Catherine closed the
door very quietly and advanced into the room.

“Ward, you are excused for the night,” Royce
said, his eyes on Catherine's face. “Go to your bed, lad. You’ve
rendered faithful service and you must be weary. I don't want to
see you again until morning.”

“Father,” Catherine began, then stopped when
Braedon entered just as Ward left them. “Good, I'm glad both of you
are here, so I can question you together. What are the two of you
up to now?”

“That is precisely what I would like to
know,” said Achard, coming into the room before Braedon could close
the door. “Royce, why is it that Braedon is no longer your
friend?”

“My lord Achard,” Catherine said, annoyed,
“we don't need you here. Please leave.”

“She's right,” Braedon said to Achard. “Get
out.”

“This is my room,” Royce declared. “Achard is
welcome here. I invited him to join me. Braedon, I want you to
leave.”

“Not until I say what I came to say,” Braedon
told him.

“Father,” Catherine began.

“Be quiet,” Royce commanded her in a harsh
tone of voice she seldom heard from him. “By heaven, you will do as
I say. I'll have no more argument from you.”

“I don't understand,” Catherine cried.

“He intends for you to marry Achard,” Braedon
said. “He told me so just before the banquet began. That's why he
was so rude about the seating arrangements. He's giving you to
Achard.”

“No! I will never marry Achard.”

“You have nothing to say about it,” Achard
told her. “When a parent makes a decision, the child must abide by
it.”

“But, I cannot marry you, Achard. I -” She
was going to say that she was entirely Braedon's, that she had lain
with him. Something in her father's face, and in Braedon's when she
looked from one man to the other, told her to keep silent.

She knew why they wanted her to be quiet
about her night with Braedon. If she admitted she had given her
maidenhood to him, that she was no longer a virgin, she would lose
her value as a prospective bride. Except, of course, for her huge
dowry. For one wild instant she wondered if Achard would take her
anyway, just to get the lands and the wealth that came with
her.

“She loves me,” Braedon said to Royce. “She
despises Achard. She told me so.”

“I said no such thing!” Catherine cried.
“Braedon, why are you lying?”

“What difference does Catherine's love, or
lack of love, have to do with my choice of a husband for her?”
Royce asked with all the fine indifference to his only daughter's
happiness that Lord Phelan might have displayed. Catherine would
never have guessed that her own kind-hearted father could be so
cruel. “Marriage is a political arrangement, a transfer of lands
and titles. Affection does not enter into it.”

Before Catherine could shout at him that he
had loved her mother, and he must be mad if he wanted to give her
to a man who had been bent upon raping her only a few days ago,
Braedon approached Royce and shoved him hard on one shoulder.

“I will not allow this travesty,” Braedon
declared in a belligerent voice.

“The decision is mine, not yours or
Catherine's.” With that, Royce punched Braedon in the jaw.

Braedon took a step backward, though he did
not stumble and Catherine could see he wasn't hurt. But he did
raise his fists in preparation for another attack from Royce.

“No, don't,” Catherine begged, stepping
between them. “Please don't fight over me.”

They ignored her, glaring at each other over
her head.

“Catherine belongs to me,” Braedon declared
with remarkable arrogance.

“Under Norman law I hold the right to decide
who she will marry,” Royce snarled. Clasping Catherine by the
shoulders he set her aside so he could stand nose to nose with
Braedon. “Get out of my room.”

“Not without Catherine.”

“I'll call the men-at-arms and have you
thrown into the dungeon.”

“No, you won't,” Braedon said, drawing the
knife at his belt. “I'll never take orders from you again.”

Catherine watched in horror as Braedon's arm
swung back. She tried to scream and could not. All she could do was
stare in shock and disbelief when her lover's arm plunged forward
until his knife struck Royce just below his ribs. Blood spurted
between the fingers Royce clasped over the wound. He gasped and
fell to his knees.

“Achard,” Royce cried, “help me.” He
collapsed onto the floor and lay still.

Catherine found her voice and let out a loud,
wailing cry.

“Father! No! No!”

She was on her knees beside him, turning him
over. He flopped onto his back like a rag doll.

“He's dead,” Achard said, poking at Royce
with one booted foot. “What an unexpected and thoroughly agreeable
turn of events.”

“What are you saying?” Catherine screamed,
hitting at Achard's foot with her fist. “He can't be dead. Braedon
would never—”

“Wouldn't he, if the reward were great
enough?” Achard looked around the room. “You will notice that
Braedon has fled, leaving you behind. Ah, well, perhaps he realizes
he has just ruined any hope he once held of getting his hands on
your dowry. Now, Catherine, you are coming with me.”

“No,” Catherine said, “I cannot leave my
father.”

“I don't have time to argue with you. Someone
must have heard you scream. In another moment or two, there will be
a servant here to investigate.”

Scrambling to her feet, Catherine started for
the door, intending to call for aid. She could not believe her
father was dead. There must be a way to help him, to keep him alive
in spite of his awful wound. He was so strong, so vital, always
full of plans for the future. He could not,
could not
, be
gone. It was impossible.

She did not reach the door. Before she got
there, Achard caught her by one arm and swung her around to face
him. She saw what he was going to do, but before she could scream
out her rage and fear, his fist connected with her jaw. The blow
shattered her senses and the world went black.

Catherine knew where she was. She had visited
the dungeon a few times in recent years, because she believed a
chatelaine ought to know every part of the castle. Only seldom did
Royce incarcerate anyone, so there were no prisoners at the moment.
No
other
prisoners, she corrected herself. She was the only
one, and she wasn’t there by her father's order. Thus, no
man-at-arms was on duty in the anteroom just up the steps to
prevent escape, or to hear a prisoner cry out.

She was alone and likely to remain alone
until Achard came back. He had carried her to the cell she was
presently occupying. In a hazy way she remembered him dumping her
onto the stone floor, the jangle of the keys as he locked her in,
and the sound of his footsteps growing more distant. After that she
must have fainted again, and for a long time, because daylight was
streaming through the high, slit window.

No, she hadn't fainted. In her father's room
Achard had punched her hard enough to knock her unconscious and
after she was tossed into the cell the same black, numb state had
reclaimed her. Her jaw still hurt when she touched it, she felt
queasy, and her head was spinning.

She didn't try to stand up, she just slid
across the floor until her back was resting against the wall. There
was a blanket in the cell, which she guessed Achard had used to
wrap her in when he carried her to the dungeon. Catherine pulled
the blanket around herself to keep off the chill of stone walls and
floor. The cell was reasonably clean. Neither Catherine nor her
father held with keeping malefactors in filthy conditions, so the
dungeon was swept during each spring and autumn housecleaning.

Her father.
He had accused her of
unseemly passion for a man she didn’t know and she, blithely
certain of her own heart, had insisted she loved Braedon. Now her
father was dead and it was at least partly her fault, for she’d
refused to listen to his good advice about a man he knew far better
than she did. She still could not accept Royce’s death, though she
had watched him die and had seen how he lay unmoving, even when
Achard kicked him.

She did not want to believe Braedon would
commit so heinous a deed. Yet he had, while she watched, unable to
stop him, and with that single, dastardly blow he had destroyed
every vestige of love she felt for him.

Braedon's guilt was partly hers, for she had
deliberately ignored her knowledge that he was lying with almost
every word he spoke to her, and that he was engaged in secretive
schemes. Wanting him with a passion she scarcely understood, she
had given herself to him with an open heart, given herself to a man
who had then betrayed her, and her beloved father.

And now, because of her willful disregard of
the truth about Braedon, her father was dead and she was doomed to
be forcibly wed to Achard, who did not love her, but only her
dowry, who would surely treat her unkindly. Her dowry was what
Achard had wanted from the very beginning, since before he appeared
at Wortham. She could imagine how viciously he would react when he
realized she was no virgin. He'd have her dowry under his control
by then, so it would no longer matter whether she lived or died.
Either way, Achard would have what he wanted, though he might let
her live long enough to bear him a child to be his heir.

The thought of conceiving and then carrying
Achard's child made her feel ill. She wanted no one but Braedon to
touch her in that way – Braedon, who had murdered her father. In
spite of everything she knew about Braedon, she wanted him still,
and with an aching intensity that broke her honest heart.

Catherine put her head down on her knees and
wept in shame and despair.

“Damnation. What a cursed muddle this mission
has proven to be.” Clutching his aching head, Braedon stumbled into
the lord's chamber. “I tried to stop Achard as we planned, but he
hit me with something hard. I was so stunned by the blow that I
didn't see what he used or which way he went. He was too fast for
me.”

“He hit you with the stool. So much for your
clever ruse.” Royce finished scrubbing the last of the pig's blood
off his abdomen, grimacing at the discolored towel before he tossed
it aside. “Disgusting stuff. The next time,
you
will pretend
to be killed and I will use that trick knife of yours. Where is
Catherine?”

“Catherine?” Braedon rubbed at the back of
his head, where a large and painful bump was rising. “She must have
gone to seek assistance for you. It's probably too much to hope she
will meet Cadwallon first. We are going to have to concoct a story
to explain to her, and to your guests, why you aren't dead. What's
wrong?” Braedon asked, seeing the horrified expression on Royce's
face.

“I thought you had her – or Cadwallon
did.”