True Love (31 page)

“And so it has been,” Catherine said,
thinking that if Braedon had not cared so much for his cousin, he
and Catherine would never have met. She had Linette to thank for
the love she had found so suddenly and unexpectedly, a love that
filled her thoughts day and night – and also for the sorrow that
was sure to come when Braedon left Wortham. She told herself not to
think about that parting. It was still days away.

They drank the fresh water of the stream and
ate some of Sir Desmond's food, which was simple fare, slightly
stale bread, crumbly cheese, and some strawberries he had found in
the woods. Then they sat on the grassy stream bank and waited for
Braedon to come. Cadwallon fell asleep and Sir Desmond kept watch.
After a while Catherine took off her shoes and stockings and
dangled her feet in the water. Finding it wonderfully cool she
ventured farther into the water.

She felt perfectly safe in that secluded
spot, knowing the two knights with her would protect her with their
very lives if need be, and knowing, too, that neither man would
offer her any insult.

She was standing in midstream with her skirts
hiked up well above her knees when Braedon rode through the trees.
He was still wearing chainmail, but he had removed the helm and
pushed back the mail coif. A white cloth was bound around his right
arm over the mail.

“You look so cool,” he said, seeing her,
“that I am tempted to join you. It's a hot day to wear armor.
Cadwallon, wake up. I've left my squire at Wortham and need a new
one.”

While Cadwallon rubbed down Braedon's horse
and let it drink from the stream, Desmond helped his friend to
remove the heavy chainmail. When Braedon was naked from the waist
up, clad only in the linen braies that covered him from waist to
knees, he ran to the pool and with a shout of delight he flung
himself into the cold water.

“Be careful,” Catherine warned from the bank
where she had rather unwillingly retreated in hope of staying dry.
“There are sharp stones in the bottom.”

Braedon flashed a grin in her direction. He
splashed water over his head and sluiced his arms and chest, using
his hands to wash himself, giving careful attention to the wounds
on his arms, both the healing one on his left arm and the new cut
that Eustace had made. When he was satisfied that the wounds were
clean, he lifted handful after handful of water to his lips and
drank greedily. His shoulder and arm muscles rippled in the dappled
sunlight.

Catherine watched him, smiling in relaxed
pleasure. Braedon's undergarment was plastered to his skin and it
was made nearly transparent by the water that soaked it. Through
the linen she could see every line of his hard thighs and buttocks,
and could easily make out the shape of his manly parts. Yet the
scene was entirely innocent, with Cadwallon and Desmond perched on
rocks by the edge of the pool while they talked to Braedon about
his fight with Eustace and the three of them laughed and joked as
if they were overgrown boys rather than strong, deadly knights, and
King Henry's secret agents.

“Fortunate king, to have such men devoted to
him,” Catherine murmured.

Braedon heard her. His gaze met hers and in
the midnight blue of his eyes she saw a tenderness that melted her
heart. Obliged by his love for King Henry to live by deception, yet
Braedon was an honest man. So were his two friends. They all three
harbored within themselves the same solid core of decency and honor
that her father nourished in his bosom. Catherine recognized their
basic goodness in her deepest soul and her throat tightened with
emotion. Her eyes misted over.

Then Braedon laughed and swatted at the
surface of the water, sending a spray of moisture in her
direction.

“No, don't! I'll be drenched!” She scrambled
to her feet, trying to escape from the water he was splashing at
her. She ran only a few steps before she tripped over a tree root
and sat down hard on the moss. There she stayed, unhurt and
laughing uproariously. In those few moments all the fears and
tensions of recent days washed out of her as if she, too, had
bathed in the clear stream.

While she wiped the humorous tears from her
eyes she watched Sir Desmond wrap strips of clean linen over
Braedon's wounds. She did not offer to help, feeling it would be an
intrusion on the closeness amongst the three men. Besides, she
feared if she were to touch Braedon she would not be able to stop
herself from going into his arms, for she longed to hold him close.
Such a gesture would surely embarrass him, as well as his
comrades.

With his injuries attended to Braedon entered
the tent to dress. He reappeared a short time later garbed in
tunic, hose, and boots, with his sword belt already buckled on.
When he came to Catherine, to take her hand and lift her off the
moss, the warmth in her heart pooled far inside her and she wished
they could stay where they were forever. Braedon kissed her fingers
and she thought how lovely it would be to retire to the green tent
at night, to lie with him on the narrow bed inside and love him
through the dark hours while the stream rippled placidly by, and
never have to think of duty, or traitors, or her father's wishes,
or the king's.

“We must go now,” Braedon said.

“I know,” she answered, firmly setting her
daydreams aside. “I am ready.”

Sir Desmond was to remain where he was,
available to aid his friends should a message be sent to him.

“For it isn't over yet,” Braedon told them
all, “though Eustace is locked in a cell near to Achard's, and
Phelan has been imprisoned, too, after he threatened both Royce and
the king in front of witnesses. We think we know what Achard's goal
was, but we haven't heard Phelan's story yet.”

“Nor do we know which one of them poisoned my
father,” Catherine said.

“Royce admitted to me in private that he does
know,” Braedon said, “but he's not ready to reveal the
culprit.”

“He probably thinks he'll learn more by
keeping quiet for a while,” Cadwallon suggested.

“Sir Desmond,” Catherine said, “thank you for
protecting me, and for a delightful afternoon. I enjoyed my time
here with you far more than the hours I spent at the
tournament.”

“I was honored to be your host my lady.” The
knight bowed over her hand.

Braedon helped Catherine to mount, and they
set off for Wortham, Cadwallon riding with them.

“Your father wants you to enter the castle
with Cadwallon, as if you are returning from a ride you took to
escape from the unpleasantness that Eustace caused,” Braedon told
Catherine. “Royce will carry on with the entertainment as if
nothing is amiss. Now that the tournament is over the guests will
soon begin to depart.”

“Where will you be?” she asked, unwilling to
think about how brief the time was before all of the guests, and
the secret agents, would be gone.

“Captain William will let me in secretly, by
the postern gate,” Braedon explained.

“Will I see you?”

He did not answer her with words, but the
warm look he gave her told Catherine all she needed to know of his
intentions.

The castle was abuzz with gossip. Achard's
abrupt departure, leaving all of his belongings and his squires
behind, Eustace's unknightly behavior on the field of combat, and
Phelan's disgrace for uttering threats against Royce and King
Henry, were the subjects of much heated discussion. Achard was a
favorite with the ladies, who claimed to miss him sorely, but
Phelan was so unpopular that no one regretted his absence from the
great hall, while everyone agreed that Eustace was fortunate to be
merely consigned to a cell until Royce could decide what to do with
him. The squires and servants who had come to Wortham with Phelan
and his son had already been sent home to Sutton with a message for
the steward there that he was to await King Henry's word on the
future of the castle and its master.

As Catherine entered the great hall for the
evening feast Lady Edith caught her arm and drew her aside.

“You neglected your guests this afternoon,”
Lady Edith scolded. “It is most unlike you, Catherine. Wherever did
you go with that injured knight?”

“Sir Cadwallon was concerned lest a
disturbance should break out between Lord Phelan's people and those
who backed my father's decision in favor of l'Inconnu,” Catherine
answered, “so we went riding until matters could be resolved.”

“I am surprised to hear that you ran from a
confrontation,” Lady Edith said. “Now I, weak creature that I am,
nearly fainted from terror to see the fighting threaten to turn
real.”

“I noticed you left the stand before I
did.”

“Oh, yes. I took my horse and a groom and
fled back to the safety of this lovely castle, where I spent the
remainder of the day lying down, with lavender water compresses on
my brow.”

“I am sorry you were frightened,” Catherine
said.

“I'm sure I wouldn't have been afraid, if
only Royce or Lord Achard were by my side. Royce was occupied with
what was occurring on the field, which is quite understandable, of
course. But Achard's absence puzzles me. Do you know where he has
gone?”

“No, I don't,” Catherine lied. “He may have
revealed his destination to my father. You could ask him.” She was
sure Royce would have a ready excuse prepared to explain Achard's
continued disappearance.

“Oh,” said Lady Edith with a naughty smile
and a fluttering of her thick blonde eyelashes, “I could never ask
Royce where his rival has gone.”

“His rival?” Catherine repeated, trying her
best not to laugh.

“Well, Royce has hinted to me – that is, he
mentioned – just in passing, you understand. You do understand,
don't you? Could you ask Royce for me?”

She looked flustered and sweetly confused,
with one slender hand at her trembling lips and her lashes
fluttering wildly. To a man's eyes, Lady Edith was probably
adorable. Catherine was unimpressed.

“I don't understand why you cannot just ask
my father if he knows where Lord Achard is,” Catherine said with
considerable firmness. “In fact, I think you ought to do exactly
that.”

“You do?” Lady Edith's pale blue eyes went
wide at the suggestion and her voice quavered with indecision. “I
should ask him directly?”

“It might make Father just a little bit
jealous.” Catherine's next words were prompted by mischief, and by
a growing dislike for Lady Edith, who apparently had not stopped to
think about the consequences of her actions in pitting one
prospective husband against another. “I have heard it said that a
jealous man will sometimes forget caution and make declarations
that – well, you understand, don't you?” she ended her suggestion,
mocking Lady Edith's own words. However, it seemed that Lady Edith
did not comprehend mockery. Her lovely face brightened and a
glorious smile burst forth.

“Oh, Catherine, dearest Catherine, do you
mean you will accept me if Royce -?” She seized Catherine's hands
and held them tightly. “Oh, how happy you have made me.”

“I rather think it is my father who will make
you happy – or not,” Catherine said.

“Oh, yes, I will go to him now and try to
wheedle him into telling me where Achard is. And then, when he is
thoroughly vexed with jealousy, I will let Royce know how wonderful
I think he is. And
then
, perhaps – oh, Catherine, you are
such a dear!” Lady Edith planted a kiss on Catherine's cheek and
rushed off toward the stairs, apparently heading for the lord's
chamber.

Catherine stood bemused, rubbing at her
cheek, until she heard Cadwallon's voice behind her.

“Desmond is right, you know. You are truly
your father's daughter,” Cadwallon said, chuckling. “I doubt if it
has ever occurred to our lack-witted Lady Edith that a man cannot
be made jealous on behalf of a woman for whom he does not
care.”

“I hope you are right,” Catherine said. “I
could not bear such a flighty creature for my stepmother. Lady
Edith would drive me into a convent within a month.”

“Less,” said Cadwallon with complete
seriousness, “and your father with you. Never fear, Royce does not
want a wife.”

Whether Royce wanted a wife or not, Lady
Edith sat beside him once again during the feast, and she acted as
if she was already the lady of the castle.

“Dear Catherine,” she said, reaching across
Royce to lay a hand on Catherine's wrist, “Royce has invited me to
stay on at Wortham after the other guests leave. I am so
excited.”

“We will be pleased to have you,” Catherine
said politely.

She sent a questioning look toward her
father, seeking guidance on how he wanted her to treat Lady Edith,
but he wasn't looking at her. Royce was smiling at Lady Edith and
the lady was gazing into his eyes and fluttering her lashes
again.

“How does she do that?” an exasperated
Catherine asked Cadwallon, who was sitting next to her. “I should
think her eyes would begin to water.”

“Why don't you ask her?” was Cadwallon's
straight-faced response. “Perhaps she'd be willing to teach you the
trick of it.”

By the time Catherine reached her bedchamber
that night she was heartily weary of Lady Edith. Craving fresh air
after the heat and closeness of the great hall, she threw open the
shutters and leaned her head against the stone window frame. The
last colors of the late spring sunset were fading away and the sky
was growing pale. At this season of long days there would be only a
brief period of darkness before the sun rose again. Catherine
watched the evening star glowing in the western sky and wished
Braedon were with her to see it, too.

Suddenly and silently, as if in answer to her
wish, he was there. She heard the door open and close, heard the
latch click shut, and she knew who it was by the racing of her
heart. She did not have to look away from the sky and the star to
recognize his step.