True Love (3 page)

“Were you born here at Wortham?” he
asked.

“Yes, I was. Tell me, Sir Braedon, have you
ever been to Normandy? I have not, but my father has promised I may
go with him when next he attends the royal court there. I should
like to know something about the duchy from someone who is familiar
with it.”

“Have you lived at Wortham all of your life,
or were you fostered elsewhere for a time?” he asked. “I believe it
is the custom for noble ladies in this country, although I have
known of girls who were schooled in convents until they were
married.”

“I was fostered at Cliffmore Castle until my
mother died,” Catherine said. “I was fortunate that I quickly made
friends with Margaret of Sutton and that my brother, Arden, was
also fostered there. It would have been a lonely time for me
without the two of them. Did you find your years of fostering
lonely?”

“Lady Margaret of Sutton is now married to
your brother,” Braedon remarked with a slight frown.

Catherine was growing more frustrated by the
moment. Braedon was apparently determined to reveal nothing about
himself, or his past. That fact was in itself suggestive. If
Braedon refused to provide the simplest information about his life
it must be because there was something to hide – and whatever it
was, it might pose a danger to her father, or to the folk who were
gathered at Wortham.

Catherine sat back in her chair, toying with
her silver wine goblet while she tried to think how to elicit from
Braedon the true reason for his presence at Wortham. Later, she was
going to have to raise the subject of their remarkably
self-contained guest with her father without insulting Royce's
judgment in inviting the man. Perhaps at that point she could
discern some hint of her parent's actual purpose in holding the
Whitsuntide festival.

Royce leaned forward, one elbow on the table,
to speak to Braedon. At the same time Braedon also bent forward,
facing Royce.

Catherine glanced up at their movements. She
was perfectly positioned to intercept the intense look that passed
between the two of them. She sat absolutely still, not breathing,
not wanting to draw their attention to her. Their words were
trivial, something about the upcoming melee and Braedon's intention
to take part in it. Their eyes bespoke a different tale. There was
a peculiar air of caution about each man. They gave Catherine the
impression that every word they uttered conveyed a double meaning,
which she was unable to translate, but which they understood
perfectly. When Royce's gaze shifted to Phelan and Eustace, who
were sitting at the far end of the high table, it seemed to
Catherine as if Braedon was very carefully
not
looking in
the same direction as Royce.

“My lord, did you hear what I said just now?”
The lady who was sitting at Royce's right hand sounded distinctly
peevish.

“Lady Edith, my apologies for seeming to
ignore you. I do most humbly beg your pardon.” Royce turned to her
and the tense mood of the moment vanished as if it had never
existed.

Catherine was left staring at Braedon while
questions raced through her mind. Who was he, really? Why was he at
Wortham? Why did he counter any question she asked of him with a
query of his own instead of an answer? If he ever did choose to
answer her, could she believe what he said?

A nasty suspicion began to rear itself in her
thoughts. The only explanation she could imagine for Braedon's
reticence lay in her father's secret work for King Henry. It was
possible that Braedon was a spy. If she had guessed aright, then
another problem immediately presented itself to her worried mind.
Was Braedon King Henry's man and, therefore, a friend to Royce of
Wortham, or was he a dangerous foe?

Once the eating was finished a group of
musicians began to play and some of the younger guests organized a
dance. Catherine was invited to join the caracol but excused
herself, saying she must see to certain household duties. In truth,
she had no heart for dancing, not when she was becoming more
certain by the moment that there were hidden undercurrents swirling
amongst her father's guests. Always before Royce had kept his
secret work for the king separate from his life at Wortham. She
found it difficult to believe he would invite criminals and spies
into his home, but she was compelled to face the possibility that
he had done exactly that.

“The stakes must be incredibly high,” she
murmured to herself. “He would not risk his people, or me, without
just cause. Even so, I intend to discover exactly what schemes are
afoot so I can be prepared to help him if his plans go awry.”

She dismissed the stirring of conscience that
warned her against allowing curiosity to lead her into mischief.
Instead, she excused the devious actions she was about to undertake
by promising herself she would immediately tell her father anything
of importance she might learn.

Catherine glanced around the great hall. So
far as she could tell, all of the guests were still present, either
sitting at the tables talking, or dancing. She left the great hall,
pausing in the entry hall for a moment to speak with William, the
captain of the guard. As soon as William excused himself to join
the revelry, Catherine hurried up the curving stone stairs that led
from the entry directly to the upper levels, where the guest rooms
were.

She knew she would not have time to search
all of the rooms during her first excursion, so she selected the
two chambers which she thought were most likely to contain evidence
to shed light on the mystery that was perplexing her beyond all
tolerance.

She came first to the chamber assigned to
Phelan and Eustace. The door was unlatched and it opened at the
light touch of her fingertips. Inside, the room was in shambles,
its original neatness totally destroyed by those two careless
guests. The bedcovers were dragged onto the floor and two wooden
clothes chests sat open with garments strewn about. A muddy boot
and a single stocking were tossed onto the bed, a stool was
upended, and on the small table near the bed a candlestick lay on
its side, the candle extinguished in a pool of melted wax. The
place stank of wine and of other, less pleasant odors.

Catherine did not want to set foot inside the
room. She was terrified of being caught there, yet her inquisitive
nature drove her to search the place. She pulled the door wide,
deciding if anyone came by and saw her, she would use the condition
of the room as an excuse to claim she had found the door open and
had come in to straighten the chamber for the comfort of the guests
using it.

In fact, it was all she could do to touch any
of the men's belongings. She moved what she could with the toe of
one shoe, and used a single finger to lift a shirt and a cloak so
she could see if there was anything under the clothing. Her hasty
search disclosed nothing to answer any of her many questions.
Still, she did not think she had missed anything important. All the
belongings Phelan and Eustace had brought to Wortham were spread
out for her to see.

“What I am looking for is probably safely
stored in Phelan's mind,” she told herself, “or else it's on
parchment and he keeps it on his person. I doubt he'd entrust
anything of value to Eustace. How I wish I knew exactly what it is
I am seeking!”

Convinced there was nothing for her to find
in that chamber, she left it and moved on to Braedon's room, which
was on the next level up from Phelan’s.

She lifted the latch and entered, leaving the
door open a crack so she could hear anyone coming up the steps.
Once inside she took a deep breath, inhaling the clean fragrance of
the soap she provided for all of the guests, mixed with another
scent that reminded her of a forest filled with fir trees and
freshly cut wood.

Earlier in the day when she had bumped into
Braedon in the great hall she was close enough to him to catch a
whiff of his scent. Smelling it again recalled the strength of his
hands on her shoulders and the way he had stared at her mouth. She
could almost hear the sound of his low-pitched voice.

Shaking herself free of seductive memory she
made herself concentrate on the reason why she was in Braedon's
room. She looked around, taking careful note of all she saw.

The shutter at the single window was open and
a shaft of golden, late-day sunlight illuminated a large covered
basket with a folded pile of clothing on the lid. A pair of boots
sat on the floor next to the basket, and a rolled-up bundle that
was probably the squire's bedroll rested beside the boots.

In the entire room not a single item was out
of order, though a faint indentation on a bed pillow hinted that
someone had recently rested there. But the coverlet was
unwrinkled.

“Interesting,” Catherine murmured. “Braedon
the Wicked is clearly an orderly man, with a single squire who is
apparently as neat as his master.”

The sole object she could see that could
possibly hold any sort of secret was the basket. Going to her
knees, she lifted the pile of clothing off the basket and set it on
the floor. Only then did she notice how the basket lid was secured
with a tightly knotted leather thong. Catherine stared at the thong
while the realization dawned on her that it was going to require
valuable time to unfasten the complicated knot. Having done so, she
was then unlikely to be able to retie the knot in the same way.
Braedon would know someone had been prying among his
belongings.

While she knelt there, trying to decide what
to do next, she heard a footstep on the stairs. A glance at the
door told her she would surely be seen by whoever was coming. She
leapt to her feet and whisked behind the door, where she stood very
still, waiting until the person had passed by the doorway.

The oncoming footsteps paused. An instant
later the door swung inward and Catherine heard a muffled curse.
There was absolute silence for a moment while Catherine stared at
the telltale clothing on the floor, certain the person on the other
side of the door was staring at it, too.

Without warning the door crashed shut. In
what seemed to her the very same heartbeat Catherine was slammed
against the wall, held there by a pair of large male hands that
gripped her shoulders with painful strength. Muscular thighs
pressed against her hips, keeping her immobilized.

“What in the name of all the saints are you
doing here?” Braedon growled at her.

There was no answer she could make. The
excuse she had planned to use if she was discovered in Phelan's
room was meaningless in so pristine and orderly a chamber. The
out-of- place clothing plainly indicated that she was caught in the
act of searching his possessions. Knowing she was in the wrong,
Catherine trembled in Braedon's tight grasp.

With the light from the window behind him,
his face was in shadow. It was just as well. His expression was
most likely one of outrage and Catherine was glad she couldn't see
it. His anger was entirely justified.

“Answer me,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Why are you in my room?”

“Release me at once,” she ordered, taking
refuge in her chatelaine's habit of command. “I will not be treated
this way.”

“If you behave like a common thief, you ought
to expect to be treated like a thief,” he said. “Did your father
send you to search my room while he kept me talking at the banquet
table?”

“No. He doesn't know I am here. Please don't
tell him. He will be so angry with me if he finds out.”

“Really? Can I believe you?”

“Of course, you can. I am an honest -” She
stopped when she saw the quick flash of his white teeth.

“An honest woman does not enter a man's room
as you have done.” Still holding Catherine against the wall, he
glanced over his shoulder, looking toward the basket. She saw his
sharp profile against the sunlight. “Couldn't you get the knot
untied? What an inept conspirator you are.”

“It is a most difficult knot.”

“Deliberately so. It's as good a way as any
to be sure no one can tamper with my property without my knowing
it.”

“What is in there that you don't want anyone
to see?” she demanded.

“My personal belongings,” he said. “Nothing
more. I do wonder why you find my basket so interesting. What were
you looking for, Lady Catherine?”

His hold on her tightened. She struggled but
could not break away. With every passing moment she was more and
more aware of his closeness, of the alluring woodland scent of his
body, and of his hard muscular strength.

“Sir Braedon, you must know I am not a thief.
Let me go this instant.”

“You have entered my bedchamber without my
permission, and you have disturbed my possessions. For that, my
lady, you owe me a forfeit.”

“What forfeit?” she demanded, making another
futile attempt to break his grip on her. He held her securely, yet
almost carelessly, as if he was certain she could not escape him
and suddenly Catherine was no longer sure she wanted to escape. She
was discovering that there was something remarkably exciting about
being helpless in Braedon's hands.

“Let me think, now,” he drawled. “Allow me
just a moment for reflection. What could I ask of you that you
would not otherwise give me? What prize? Have you any
suggestions?”

“Certainly not.” She tried to sound offended
while knowing she was clearly in the wrong. “You have no right to
ask anything of me.”

“No right? After what you have done?”

Something in his voice told Catherine she had
misjudged his temper. A faint tendril of alarm touched her mind.
She wriggled against his strength, hoping to free herself by
sliding under his arms. Without warning he hauled her away from the
wall and clasped her in a tight embrace.

“I have just decided what your forfeit will
be,” he said. “It's this.”