True Love (2 page)

“The Wicked?” Catherine thought she detected
a gleam in the man's dark eyes as she repeated the appellation,
though she was unable to decide whether it was malice or humor she
saw in him. Under his penetrating gaze she struggled to regain her
usual air of competent serenity. It was a great relief to have her
father join them at that moment and to feel his steadying hand on
her shoulder.

“Sir Braedon.” Royce reached around Catherine
to clasp the younger man's hand. “It's a pleasure to see you again.
I am glad you were able to accept my invitation. This lady is my
daughter, Catherine.”

Before Braedon could respond Phelan was
there, pushing Catherine into the background as he thrust out his
beefy hand to the newcomer. “I do not believe we have met. Royce is
a near relative of mine, since his son and my daughter were wed in
January. Are you a cousin to whom I have not yet been
introduced?”

“I am no relative at all, merely an
acquaintance from court,” Braedon answered.

“I consider all of Royce's family and friends
to be my family and friends, too,” Phelan said. “Here is my son,
Eustace. I suppose you two young men will be meeting in the
lists.”

Braedon responded absently to Phelan, whom he
disliked on sight. Considering what he knew of Eustace, Braedon was
surprised to see that he appeared to be a dull-witted fellow. But
then, perhaps it was precisely Eustace's lack of wits that had
caused Linette's ruin. Braedon warned himself not to dwell on that
particular subject. Contemplation of Linette's life always made him
angry, and anger was not conducive to clear thinking. Instead, he
diverted his attention to a far more interesting person than
Eustace of Sutton.

No one had told him that Royce had a
daughter. None of his contacts at the royal court, not a single
noble, cleric, man-at-arms, servant, nor any of the lower forms of
human life to whom he had spoken while gathering information in
preparation for his visit to Wortham had mentioned her existence.
He thought that was odd, for surely Lady Catherine was well dowered
and, therefore, she was of interest to any nobleman who was hoping
to increase his wealth and land holdings through an advantageous
marriage. Braedon was certain she was unwed. In the performance of
his duties he kept careful track of King Henry's nobles. He would
have been aware of any connection formed with a baron as well-known
as Royce.

Perhaps the omission had occurred because, as
beauty was counted among courtiers, Catherine of Wortham left much
to be desired. She looked to be in her early twenties, at least a
decade older than the usual age for marriage. She was short and her
figure was too well-rounded to match the slender, small-breasted
ideal. Still, there was a delicacy about her. When he had held her
shoulders for a moment Braedon had known that he was strong enough
to crush her bones in his bare hands – except he was by nature
incapable of damaging anyone as exquisite as this most unusual
girl.

Catherine did not possess the blue eyes and
pale blonde hair that poets lauded, nor even tresses black and
smooth as a raven's wing. Instead, her vivid coloring was similar
to her father's. Her gray-green eyes sparkled with intelligence and
the twin, red-gold braids hanging over her shoulders were so rich
in color and so thick that Braedon's fingers fairly itched to
unwind them and spread wide the shimmering wealth of her hair. He
was sure it would feel like liquid silk pouring over his hands. The
lady's chin was pointed and so was her pert, slightly upturned
nose. Her rosy mouth hinted at easy laughter and she moved with
quiet assurance.

She took Braedon's breath away.

The jagged scar on her left cheek did mar her
smooth skin, but not irreparably. He wondered how she had acquired
it. Surely, it could not be a reason for her lack of a husband, for
it appeared to be a recent injury.

Tearing his attention from her, he made a
fast survey of the great hall, noting its cleanliness, smelling the
lavender and rosemary scattered amongst the fresh rushes on the
floor. Brightly colored tapestries hung on every wall. Beneath the
tapestries sat carved wooden chests, with gold and silver plate
displayed atop each chest. Many-branched silver candelabra held the
fine wax tapers that lit the rich scene. Like most stone buildings
Wortham keep needed fires to chase away the chill on all but the
warmest days. The huge fireplaces at either end of the hall were
burning apple wood and the fragrance carried to Braedon's nose,
mingling pleasantly with the smell of the herbs on the floor and
the hint of roasting meat that wafted from the direction of the
screens passage and the kitchen beyond..

No, a woman like Lady Catherine, born into
such wealth, child of two noble parents, honored and respected for
her high lineage, was not for Sir Braedon, simple knight, landless
bastard. He knew it, and told himself so. Then, still feasting his
eyes on Catherine's bright and animated countenance, he told
himself a second time.

Uncomfortably aware of Royce's cool gaze on
him, Braedon tore his attention away from Catherine so he could
concentrate fully on the conversation with Phelan and his son. It
was a relief when Royce moved off to greet a party of newly arrived
guests. Phelan and Eustace trailed after him, which left Braedon
alone with Catherine.

“Sir Braedon,” she said with a glance for the
young man who had followed him into the hall to stand patiently
waiting by the door, “you and your squire are both welcome here.
One of the servants will show you to a guest room, and I will order
hot water and a tub carried to you.”

“After a long ride on a hot day, I will be
glad of a bath,” he said, and grinned at her in expectation of an
interesting hour It was the custom for the lady of the castle or
the lord's daughter to bathe honored guests upon their arrival. Any
man who took impolite advantage of so intriguing an opportunity was
considered a boor and beneath contempt. All the same, the thought
of Catherine on her knees, scrubbing his back and assorted other
parts of him, was delightful. Captivated by the way in which she so
quickly assumed the serious demeanor of chatelaine and hostess,
Braedon could not resist the chance to tease her. “I eagerly await
the pleasure of your company in my chamber,” he said, and was
rewarded for his boldness by the sight of her cheeks blushing
bright pink.

Catherine signaled to one of the pages and
gave the boy instructions about where to conduct the disturbing
guest and his squire.

“Braedon the Wicked, indeed,” she said as
soon as the knight was out of hearing. Her eyes sparkled with
mischief. “Aldis, I want you to find Gwendolyn. Tell her she is to
supervise Sir Braedon's bath, and she has my permission to treat
him in whatever way seems best to her.”

“Gwendolyn?” Aldis repeated in astonishment.
“Why her? She is so homely that no man will look at her, and she is
ill-natured as well. Her temper is vile.”

“Just so,” Catherine said, smiling serenely.
“Still, Gwendolyn is an honest and faithful servant. I think she
deserves the intimate pleasure of bathing a handsome man at least
once in her life.”

“But, do you believe Sir Braedon deserves the
torture of having Gwendolyn in his chamber while he is unclothed?”
Aldis asked on a gurgle of laughter. “She will certainly criticize
everything she sees.”

“If Braedon the Wicked is determined to live
up to the reputation suggested by his name, then we ought to
provide a worthy opponent for him,” Catherine said. “Let us
discover whether Gwendolyn has the spiritual strength to withstand
his seductive wiles.

“Now, as for Phelan and Eustace,” she
continued more soberly, “I want no women to attend either of them.
Let us use the excuse that all of our maidservants are occupied
with our female guests. Nor will I send any pages to serve them,
especially Eustace. There's no telling what depths he will sink
to.”

“Perhaps a man-at-arms would make a suitable
attendant?” Aldis suggested.

“What a good idea. I will speak to Captain
William and explain the situation. I'll ask him to order two of his
toughest men to attend Phelan and Eustace, and I'll have him tell
the men they are to report to him or to my father anything
suspicious they see or hear. If men-at-arms believe they are
involved in uncovering a deception of some sort, they won't mind so
much having to fetch and carry for those two.”

Catherine was sure there
was
a
deception going on, and her curiosity would not allow her to rest
until she knew what it was.

“Father, wait.” Catherine caught up with
Royce just as he was entering the lord's chamber at the top of the
tower keep. She tried to give him a fierce and determined glare,
though she was afraid she failed miserably. She loved him too much
to be really angry with him. “I want a few answers from you.”

“Come in, then.” Royce gestured for her to go
ahead of him into the room. It was large and well furnished, with a
huge bed curtained in green wool and two pairs of windows to let in
light. It was also spotlessly clean, for Royce refused to tolerate
dust or untidiness.

Catherine stalked to the center of the room,
then spun around to face her father.

“Why did you invite Eustace and Phelan?” she
demanded.

“I have my reasons,” Royce said. His quiet
voice warned Catherine she wasn't likely to get any information out
of him.

“Usually, when you speak in that tone I
immediately give up asking questions,” she said. “I do understand
there are some matters you cannot discuss with me. But if you are
going to accept those two dreadful men into our household as if
they are dear friends of yours, then I require an explanation. Why
are they here?”

“Because I invited them,” Royce said.

“You are maddening. What if they cause
trouble? When Eustace is drunk, which is most of the time, he is
capable of violence against any man who says a firm word to him, or
of attempting to ravish any woman who crosses his path.”

“I understand from Captain William that you
ordered them attended by men-at-arms,” Royce said. “A wise
decision, my dear.”

“Is there any special problem for which I
ought to prepare?” Catherine asked. She stood with fists on her
hips, one toe tapping the floor in irritation while she tried to
think of a way to wring from him the information she wanted. She
suspected that she could literally wring his neck, which at the
moment she was sorely tempted to do, and he still wouldn't tell her
anything he did not wish to reveal. She made one last attempt. “We
are responsible for the wellbeing of all of our guests so long as
they are under your roof. If there is a chance of our plans for the
Whitsuntide festival being disrupted, I ought to know about it so I
can be prepared.”

“Sometimes, you remind me of your mother,” he
said with a wistful smile. “Especially when you stamp your foot
like that.”

“I am not stamping my foot!” She planted both
feet firmly on the floor and unfisted her hands, holding them down
at her sides. Then she took a long breath and asked another series
of questions. “How do you know Sir Braedon? Is he a friend of
yours, or merely an acquaintance? I have never heard you mention
his name. Who is he? Why is he here?”

“I know many people whom you have never met,”
he said with infuriating calm. “Braedon is one of King Henry's
household knights.”

“That isn't what I asked you,” Catherine
cried, thoroughly exasperated.

“Braedon is an excellent fighting man,” Royce
said. “He is here for the tournament.”

“That's another subject that disturbs me,”
Catherine said. “Why in heaven's name have you decided to hold a
mock war?”

“For entertainment,” Royce said.

“It's so unlike you.”

“Is it?”

“You know it is.” Catherine was beginning to
feel desperate, and to doubt she would ever extract an honest
answer from her parent on any subject having to do with his current
plans. “Never mind, Father. If you won't tell me the real reasons
behind this ludicrous festival you are holding, then I will
discover what I want to know on my own.”

She left the room with great dignity, closing
the door softly as she went. It was quite beneath her to slam any
door. But she closed the door slowly enough to overhear her
father’s parting remarks.

“Yes,” Royce said with a sigh. “You are too
much like your dear mother, especially in your dangerous curiosity.
I fear I will have to take extra precautions to keep you safe.”

“My lady, the hospitality you offer is truly
remarkable,” Braedon said to Catherine. “I am obliged to thank you
most especially for the kind and deliciously mature woman whom you
delegated to assist me in my bath. It was an invigorating
hour.”

His mouth quirked in a half smile and
Catherine found herself wondering what he really thought of
Gwendolyn and why he was making such a point of telling her about
his bath.

Seen at close range Braedon's eyes were not
black at all. They were a dark midnight blue and they glittered
with sardonic humor. Catherine wished the midday banquet was over.
She wished even more fervently that her father had not insisted
Braedon must sit beside her at the high table. He was only a
knight; by the accepted rules of precedence there were other,
nobler guests in the great hall who held a better right to be where
Braedon was. With her father seated on her other side, she was
constrained to be polite to Braedon and not respond to his
provocative remarks. She was trying to be a good hostess, but he
wasn't making her task an easy one.

“Where were you born, Sir Braedon?” she
asked. It was the most ordinary of questions, requiring only a
simple response, from which she could then make some commonplace
remark about having once been there and liked her surroundings, or
never having been there but she hoped one day to visit the place,
and would he please tell her a little bit about it? Most men would
have answered her honestly and then continued to uphold their part
of the conversation. She was rapidly learning how unlike most men
Braedon was. He ignored her query in favor of his own question.