Cat’s cheeks went hot with the memory of Geordie proposing to her. “Nay.”
“Wonderful.” Lady Jane gave a feral smile. “I’d hate to have to steal him from you.” She laughed playfully, but there had been bite to her words. “Has he told you stories? Like the time he took on twenty men at once? Or when he personally saved the king’s life and then fought so valiantly that he turned the entire path of the battle? We ended up winning simply because of him. Oh, I’d love to hear them all.”
Cat had not heard those stories. She had never even known they existed. Pride effused her once more. Geordie had not just become the knight he’d always wanted to; he was a hero.
How she hated that she’d wounded him so deeply and made him think such terrible things of her. She wanted nothing more than to throw her arms about him and congratulate him on his incredible success.
Truly, she wanted more than that. She wanted to kiss him, to start their life over again back at Werrick Castle, before she’d ever met Sir Gawain.
“Mayhap another time.” Cat tried to give a coy smile to hide the fact that she did not know Geordie’s tales. “For now, I’m seeking out someone else.” She glanced behind Lady Jane to suggest urgency in the matter.
“Well, if you’re seeking Sir Gawain, he is not at court.” Lady Jane looked down at her immaculate nails and straightened a ruby ring on her left hand. “He’s aiding his wife in preparing for her lying in.” She glanced up, her mouth an “o” of surprise. “You did know he was married, did you not?” Her smug grin indicated she anticipated Cat did not.
“Of course, I did.” Cat forced a smile and pleasant tone through the slamming of her heart. “I was actually seeking Lady Anne.” For certes there were enough Annes about for the request to appear benign.
Lady Jane leaned a little closer. “If you were seeking Sir Gawain, I suspect he will be back by Sir Geordie’s feast. You know that man never misses a celebration at court.”
Cat didn’t know that, but simply nodded with a nonchalance she didn’t feel, as if she didn’t care a bit for the treasure of information she’d been handed for free.
“I should very much like to receive an introduction to Sir Geordie,” Lady Jane said with intent.
Mayhap the information did not come free, after all. Freya gave a little choking sound behind Cat, which Cat pointedly ignored. Jane slid her narrowed gaze to the maid before settling her attention back on Cat.
“I am sure I can arrange something,” Cat lied. She’d cut out her own tongue before she used it to introduce Geordie to this viper.
But it was enough to remove Lady Jane from her presence, which had been Cat’s ultimate goal. It wasn’t until the vile woman departed that the disappointment of her news crushed in on Cat.
Sir Gawain was not at court. Her whole purpose of coming to court had been to see him, to have this conversation she had so prepared for. And now…what?
She had no choice but to wait until he returned. Hopefully, Lady Jane was correct in her estimation that he would be back for Sir Geordie’s feast, and Cat could confront him then. She couldn’t even think on what she might do if he did not return. In the meantime, she would have to act as though everything was normal, as though her heart didn’t ache with every beat.
And then there was Geordie. Would she see him? Would he seek her out? Or would he vow never to lay eyes upon her again?
Her chest was weighted with a heaviness she could scarcely hold upright. All her careful plans had gone so poorly, nothing could possibly make it worse.
“Should you like to return to yer room, Lady Catriona?” Freya asked.
Cat was about to nod when a masculine voice pulled her attention. “Lady Catriona, what a lovely surprise.”
She turned and found an older man with silvery blonde hair and deep brown eyes. Lord Loughton. Her stomach sank straight down to her toes.
Perhaps it could possibly be worse.
“Lady Catriona.” He indicated the man beside him, nearly a perfect replica of what the older man in front of her must have looked like when he’d been young. Shining blonde hair, an elegant nose and a mouth almost too wide for his narrow face. “Allow me to introduce my son, Tristan.”
The following day came far too quickly for Geordie’s preference. And with it came the dreaded meeting of Mistress Howard. He walked slowly down to the great hall that evening for supper, fully aware the king would be introducing them.
The massive room never failed to impress. It was said to be the largest in all of Christendom.
The last of the day’s light poured in through leaded windows along either side of the painted walls and one very large one at the end of the hall. Tables lined the length of the hall with the higher nobles and guests of honor nearest the dais, where the king sat at a great marble table. The servant led Geordie to one of the higher seats of honor.
Geordie tried to keep his gaze from wandering over the faces at the head table. He hadn’t seen Cat since his arrival. Granted, there were many courtiers about, and finding one person in a sea of so many was nearly impossible. If he were a wiser man, he would not seek her out; he would meet Mistress Howard, wed her and forget he’d ever known Lady Cat.
It was a futile idea, though. He could no sooner forget her than he could imagine the world without the bright life-giving sun hanging in the sky. She was too engrained in his life, a thread woven into the tapestry of his heart. If one were to pull her out, the rest of him might unravel.
The king was settled on his dais when Geordie arrived. King Edward caught Geordie’s eye and immediately waved him up to the dais as well as someone else from the crowd. The king gave him a wink and a trickle of dread ran down Geordie’s spine.
Sir John emerged from the crowd, at least a head taller than most of those around him. At his side was a slender woman with long red hair.
“Sir John.” Geordie inclined his head to the older man in greeting.
“Allow me to introduce my daughter, Elizabeth.” Sir John nudged her forward.
She stepped closer and glanced around like a rabbit caught in a trap before settling her pale green eyes on him. “Well met, Sir Geordie.”
Geordie bowed low in greeting.
“You will find you are seated beside one another.” The king lifted his cup in silent toast and drank. “We expect you will enjoy each other’s company.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Elizabeth spoke in a rehearsed tone and gave a dramatic curtsy.
A flash of blonde hair in the crowd caught Geordie’s attention as he and Elizabeth were led to their seats. Cat?
Geordie scanned those around him but did not find her again. A pang of disappointment echoed within the empty cavity of his chest.
Elizabeth sat in her seat before he took his own. She immediately lowered her head, casting her gaze downward.
Geordie chastised himself for seeking out one woman while sitting with another. He did not have to show interest in wishing to wed her, but he could at least be polite.
“What is your impression of court thus far?” he asked.
“It is loud.” Elizabeth did not look up as she replied, and it left her words muffled. There was an indelicate odor of unwashed body about her. No doubt from her time in the convent when full body bathing was no doubt frowned upon as a show of vain luxury.
“I imagine after so long in a convent that court would be loud.” He gestured to a servant to fill their goblets with wine. “I confess this is only the second time I have been to court myself.”
He had said it to set her at ease, but she tensed at his words. Her reaction unsettled him. He eased to the far-right side of his chair to give her more space and took a sip of wine. Movement from the table across from theirs caught his eye. A man settled beside a woman and did as Geordie had just done, summoning wine for them both.
The woman was the most beautiful in all the world. Long blonde hair, wide blue eyes that he knew sparkled when she smiled, and a rosy, healthy hue to her cheeks. Her figure was slender, her breas
ts ample enough to tempt a man’s imagination, and a flat stomach that would not remain that way for long.
Cat.
Elizabeth said something beside him.
He turned his head toward her to put Cat out of his line of sight. He would not watch her the entire evening when he had another woman at his side. He had morals, after all. “I beg your pardon?”
Elizabeth tilted her face up and met his gaze. “I have said prayers for all those you have slain.”
“I say prayers for them myself,” he said carefully. Truthfully. He had never enjoyed taking life, even if he was good at it. Those faces haunted his dreams sometimes. Night terrors he’d always chased away with thoughts of Cat.
At least he had not committed the sins many of his brethren had. The very thought left his stomach churning. He clasped his wine goblet and took another sip.
“Do you find pleasure in death?” Though she had resumed her stare into her lap, she asked the question with a pitch to her voice. Fear.
“I fight for our king.” Geordie tried to keep his tone light. “It is an act ordained by God when our king wills it as such.”
His explanation appeared to appease her morbid curiosities, for she did not speak again. An awkward silence descended the gap of space between them, widening it. “What past times do you enjoy?” he asked.
“Enjoy?”
“Aye.” Geordie took another sip of wine. “Dancing, reading, sewing, anything of the like?”
“I enjoy prayer.” She clasped her hands in her lap as though she would rather be praying at that very moment. “When I sew, it is strictly for aiding the poor with new clothing.”
“That is kind of you,” Geordie acknowledged. His gaze slid of its own volition to where Cat sat beside a man with golden hair. No doubt Lord Loughton’s son.
Oh, aye, Geordie had asked around about him. Tristan was only slightly older than Cat at five and twenty, the only son of Lord Loughton who doted on him. Despite the full attention of his father and a wealthy upbringing, Tristan appeared to be a man of just morals and integrity.
It was irritating not having anything to latch onto Tristan to despise, aside from his interest in Cat. If nothing else, the baron’s son would treat her well, and might even graciously accept the news that the babe Cat would bear was not truly his. Except that she kept her gaze as downcast as Elizabeth.
The latter realization brought his attention to the woman beside him, where he tried to force it to remain for the better part of the evening. They spoke of her life at the convent and how many times a day she prayed and the many small items of clothing she made for orphanages. Any mention of his time on the battlefield or on campaign with the king caused her to immediately change the topic, typically to something of a less secular nature. And while everything about Elizabeth was wholesome and pure and good, he found he could not wait to remove himself from her company.
A glance across the room found Cat with an expression on her face similar to his own, absent all sparkle and joy.
“I believe the music is about to begin.” Elizabeth stood abruptly. “I should return to my room. I fear I am ill-prepared for the amount of revelry at court.”
Geordie rushed to stand with her and nearly tipped his chair in the process. “Shall I summon a servant to see you to your room?”
“Nay, my nurse shall accompany me.” She indicated the nurse behind her, who had remained as guardian to her mistress through the duration of their painfully disengaging conversation.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Geordie lied politely and offered a bow.
“And you as well.” Elizabeth gave one of her overly dramatic curtseys and hastened from the room.
His attention drifted to Cat in time to see her rising to her feet. She smiled gaily at Tristan and shook her head before turning to depart with a servant. Apparently, she meant to retire early as well.
Before Geordie could resolve in his mind what he was doing, he was making his way across the room in her direction. He didn’t know what he would say when he caught her, only that he had to hear her voice, see her face tilt up toward him, to breathe in her beautiful, happy scent.
More than that, he wanted to kiss her again, to feel the vibration of her hum of pleasure through his bones and dancing over his skin. Cat. Whom he had judged harshly.
None of it mattered but her, and how desperately he wanted her.
“Geordie.” A woman’s awed voice came from somewhere behind him.
He’d heard awed voices saying his name since his arrival, though usually it was said with the preceding “Sir” as was befitting of his station.
The praise was generally unwelcome, for the attention left a discomfiting sensation twisting through him. After all, he’d merely done what he had been trained to do. Now though, the attention was especially unwelcome as he chased after the woman that he could not help but love.
“Geordie, please.” A hand grasped his tunic.
The impertinence. He turned abruptly and found himself face-to-face with an older woman. Her mouth hung slack and her eyes swam with tears. The peculiarity of her expression threw off his ire and drew instead at his curiosity.
She released his tunic and brought her hand to her mouth. “Geordie Strafford?”
He winced at the surname, having always hated the memories it elicited. It was why he never used it.
“Just Sir Geordie,” he said gruffly.
“I knew you as Geordie Strafford.” Her lower lip trembled. “Do you not recognize me?”
Geordie shifted his weight uneasily and regarded the older woman. Her dark hair was threaded through with bits of silver, her face weathered by age and her brown eyes sad with the effects of a life not easily lived. And yet there was nothing about her features to recall her in his mind.
He slowly shook his head.
The woman gave a choked sob and put her fist to her heart as though he had greatly wounded her. “Geordie…my sweet Geordie.”
People were watching now. Heat crept into his cheeks at this mad woman’s lamenting. He stepped back, but she cried out and lunged at him.
“Please do not go.” She clutched his tunic with her gnarled fingers. “I cannot lose you again. Look at me, please.” She tilted her face toward him. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose pink from her tears. “Do you truly not recognize your own mother?”
17
Geordie’s breath rasped through his teeth as he swiftly made his way toward one of the tower rooms. He’d paid handsomely for the privilege of a few hours, and even more so for the discretion.
His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep after having spent the night speaking with his mother. The conversation had broken down the wall of emotions he’d spent sixteen years erecting. She had told him everything, from how she had protested how Lord Strafford had given him away to Lord Werrick in goodwill. How Strafford had known of his intent to lie from the start and that Geordie would pay the price.
Strafford had waited until she was asleep and stole away with Geordie. By the time she had woken, Geordie was already in the hands of Werrick. She had begged her husband to keep his word to Werrick, but Strafford had merely locked her in her room and left her to mourn the son her husband had left for dead.
Her other son had died five years later, and she declared her womb to be too sorrow-laden to take seed again. When Lord and Lady Strafford heard of Sir Geordie, they originally thought nothing of it. Until they learned he’d come from the wild north, and realized his description sounded like the very son they had lost.
The baron had been too much of a coward to come himself, and so he’d sent his wife to see if Sir Geordie was indeed their long-lost son, the one presumed dead. Lady Strafford had cried then, grateful to have found him after a lifetime of mourning.
Tears had stung Geordie’s own eyes, but he had held in the emotion, though it all lashed at him: the hurt, the hatred, the desperation for love and acceptance and the barely controlled rage.
Lord Strafford wante
d Geordie to return to Easton Castle in Strafford to take his place among the family. Not as a knight, but as heir to a baron, as was his right by birth.
Such knowledge had overwhelmed him. It sliced open his chest and drew everything held tightly inside outward, bared and vulnerable. He had left the woman who had been his mother as she sobbed her apology and let the door close behind him.
He had needed solace. He had needed air to fill the burning void in his chest. He needed Cat.
This was different from the times he’d been at battle, or at camp afterward, when thoughts of her had been enough to allay his terrible memories of war. She was too close now to merely summon her image in his mind. He needed her.
Was she waiting for him upstairs? He had paid his servant well to approach Freya, whom he knew to be discreet. Was it enough? Had Cat come?
He took the stairs two at a time and pushed through the door. Silence met him. Stark and ugly.
She had not come.
He couldn’t blame her. When last they spoke, he had looked down upon her for the choices she had made with scorn and judgment. Why should he expect her to risk herself to respond to his request?
He braced his hands on whitewashed walls and let the cool plaster dig into his palms until his wrists ached. His head hung down between his shoulders as he tried to catch the racing thoughts darting in too many directions.
“Geordie?” A soft voice spoke. A familiar soft voice, the loveliest in all of Christendom.
He spun around and there she was. Though he did not deserve for her to be there, she was. She closed the door quietly and turned the key to lock them within.
Her intake of breath was audible in the otherwise quiet room. “What is it?”
“My mother.” Geordie shook his head, not even certain where to begin. “She recognized me last night.”
Cat said not a single word, but instead ran to him with open arms. He fell against her, letting her wrap him in her warmth and comfort and sweet, wonderful scent of fresh summer roses. His heart fell open and the entire story came out, every piece of the conversation he’d had with his mother.
Catriona’s Secret Page 13
