By Grace Possessed

by Jennifer Blake

  The curse had tested the two of them, Cate told herself as she looked from one to the other. Yet it had finally allowed them to be together. Might it not do the same again?

  Through it all, Ross stood apart, his gaze watchful. That was until Cate turned to him, drawing him forward. She was astonished at the sudden swell of pride inside her as she began, “Allow me to present my husband.”

  Rand, Baron Braesford, took charge then, directing the men-at-arms to where they would be billeted, also assigning men to help Gwynne see to their female baggage. Immediately afterward, he swept them from the public court where laundry women and kitchen maids, blacksmiths, cobblers and lounging men-at-arms were being entertained by the reunion. With unconscious command, he ushered them up the tower’s curving stair and into the vast comfort of his great hall.

  Ale and wine were pressed upon them, though little else, since it was not long until the main meal of the day. This small hiatus gave time for baths to be prepared, to remove the dirt of travel before they ate. While they satisfied their thirst, Ross and Braesford spoke of the situation along the Scots border, though Braesford’s young squire, David, a blond gentleman with sapphire eyes and the face of a Botticelli angel, spent his time gazing at Marguerite. Cate and Isabel indulged in a fine gossip about the latest scandals, to which Marguerite contributed from time to time—when not slanting her brown eyes in David’s direction. In due course, the sisters were shown to their sleeping quarters.

  Ross remained in the hall with Braesford, saying he would avail himself of the bathing tub when Cate was done. She was just as happy to be away from him for a short while, in all truth. They had been constantly in each other’s company during the journey, which was enough of a trial in their present circumstances. But he had been like a bear with a sore paw. Nothing had pleased him during this last stage of their travel, not the state of the road, the slant of the sun, the queries from the patrols of the noblemen through whose territory they crossed, or requests for necessary halts. More than once, Cate had been forced to bite her tongue to keep from lashing out at him. All that kept her from it was knowledge of the responsibility that sat upon his shoulders.

  To undermine his authority for the sake of venting her temper would have been the height of stupidity, yet it had cost her. She needed a few minutes to herself to soothe her frazzled spirits.

  They had reached Braesford with no further sign of Trilborn. The relief of it was intense; she could feel the knots of strain melting from her neck and shoulders. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the edge of the linen-lined tub. She was so tired that she could almost go to sleep here. She might have, too, except the water was rapidly cooling and her stomach rumbling with hunger. Gwynne would be returning soon, as well, bearing clothing that was deliciously clean for a change. She would expect to bathe her, and Cate was in no mood for it, could not think of being touched just now by anyone except Ross. Since he was unlikely to return for the task, she took up the cloth and hard cake of Spanish soap and began to bathe herself.

  Ross owed it to his host to apprise him of the situation with respect to Trilborn. Not that he thought the Englishman foolish enough to attempt an assault upon Braesford Hall; Trilborn preferred weaker, less well-guarded targets. Still, after his attempt to take Cate, it might be dangerous for Braesford’s good lady to ride without a heavy guard. Lady Isabel was so similar in coloring and size that she could easily be mistaken for her. More than that, she had value as a hostage. It might take Ross’s and Braesford’s combined efforts to prevent Cate from riding out to exchange herself for her sister under such circumstances, particularly as Isabel was with child.

  The fire had been built up in the great hall, with its gridded and painted ceiling high above a stone floor laid with fresh rushes. The walls were hung with arras depicting a hunt of mythical beasts, as well as with ancient banners, swords and helms. The solid table on the dais was being set and trestles put together. The baron paid no attention, but sat with his feet stretched out to the fire while he played with the silky ears of the hound lying beside him. A keen look glimmered in his eyes as he glanced at his guest, but he made no effort to draw him out.

  Ross spent some small amount of time lauding the holdings of his host and asking if there was aught he could tell him of Grimes Hall, Henry’s gift. Braesford knew the property well, as it happened. His own lands had come from the king after the battle of Bosworth placed Henry on the throne, so he had some idea of the questions in Ross’s mind. Without prompting, he gave him a fair notion of the size and value of his new holdings, and offered good counsel on a number of issues.

  In due course, a small silence settled between them. Ross drained his tankard and sat turning it in his hands, his gaze on the leaping orange flames under the heavy mantel. “You’ll be wondering, I expect, how I came to wed Lady Catherine,” he said finally.

  Braesford lifted a brow. “If you think I stand as guardian in any sense to Isabel’s sister, banish the notion.”

  “Nay, not that. I know well she is a ward to Henry. But you may be of a mind to know how I came into it.”

  “As to that, my lady and her sisters were convent educated. All read English, French and Latin, and write a hand far fairer than any I can produce. Cate has kept us apprised of events at Greenwich and Shene.”

  The dry note in his host’s voice sent a tingle down the back of Ross’s neck. “All of them?”

  “I take leave to doubt that, but enough.” Braesford allowed himself a smile. “We know the command to the altar came of a sudden. What we don’t know is what has brought you here so soon after it.”

  Ross frowned. “If it isn’t convenient to have us, you have only to say—”

  “Peace, brother, no Scots touchiness is required. You are more than welcome, as Isabel has been longing to see Cate and Marguerite. I’m glad to leave off finding excuses for why she must not ride to London in her present condition.”

  Brother. Ross supposed they were that, in a way, being related now by marriage. The idea was not unpleasing. If he had been blessed with a brother a year or two older, it would have been fine to have one like Braesford. Emboldened by the exchange, he set out the adventure of their journey.

  “So there is substance to the rumors of rebellion,” Braesford said with a frown when he was done.

  “Aye, according to the reports of Henry’s agents. He plans to present the young duke of Warwick to prove the boy being touted as a lost prince is an imposter, for all the good it may do.”

  “As he may face invasion whether the boy brought forth is Plantagenet or pretender.”

  “And so I was sent in haste to ask that you man the beacon that tops your pele tower, and send to your neighbors to do the same.”

  “I stand ready to comply, of course,” Braesford replied with some irony, “though I daresay it was a command.”

  Ross tipped his head in mute agreement.

  “As was your marriage. What say you to it now?”

  “Needs must.”

  “The Tower having no appeal? I do understand.”

  Ross gave him a straight glance. “You endured it, so I’ve heard.”

  “Oh, aye, though not because I objected to taking Isabel to wife. Never was there anything I wanted more, then or now.”

  It was a strong man who could admit such weakness for a woman. The contentment in Braesford’s voice was unmistakable, however.

  “You were in love with her before…” Ross stumbled to a halt. “Nay, I should not ask. ’Tis none of my affair.”

  Cate’s brother-in-law chuckled. “I was. I am. But you have the curse in mind, I’ll warrant. You’ve survived it, so need not worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” Ross answered, then lifted a shoulder. “Well, but what think you? Is it a true threat?”

  “They believe it so, Isabel and her sisters.”

  “That’s nay the same thing, is it now?”

  Braesford eased lower in the chair, crossing his long legs. “A man
’s mind can play strange tricks. Thinking a thing can sometimes make it so. Have you not seen the like?”

  “Aye, I suppose.” His own certainty that he was meant to die in his bath by an assassin’s knife touched Ross for an instant. “A prophecy can also be made to come true.”

  Braesford turned a pointed look upon him. “Meaning?”

  “An unsuitable groom could be removed,” he continued in dogged determination.

  “You think Cate wanted you dead?”

  Put in such blunt words, it seemed unlikely, yet there was still the image of her poniard, gleaming as it fell into the bath. Ross explained in a few blunt phrases.

  “What of Trilborn?”

  “I don’t discount his fine hand in it, though he had been sent away from Shene Palace.”

  “At least you have that much sense,” his brother-in-law said with a growl in his voice.

  Ross refused to back down. “I am tied to a woman who expected me to die from the moment the king decreed the wedding. No one would have been surprised if I did. What could be easier than giving the curse a helping hand?”

  “Yet you live. You are wed.”

  “By luck and vigilance.”

  “Think you Cate preferred another, and that’s her reason for having you killed?”

  The specter of Leon, the French master of revels, flitted through Ross’s mind. It took an effort to unclench his teeth enough to make an answer. “I know not.”

  “It can’t be Trilborn. I know him of old, though his holdings are more to the west.” Braesford sent Ross an assessing glance. “She must needs be a fool to take him over you, and Cate is no fool.”

  “By the saints, no! She despises him, and with good reason.” Ross was sure of this much after her trembling relief at not falling into his hands on the night spent at the monastery.

  “He would have her, regardless.”

  “Oh, aye, and enjoy it for that reason,” Ross answered with contempt. “Though he claims to be besotted.”

  “Is he?”

  “Could be it’s her Graydon inheritance that enthralls him. Though you will know this, as your wife has a third of it.”

  Braesford let that pass as he continued his thought. “So Trilborn must kill you now to get to it, and abduct Cate so the king may see fit to hand her and her inheritance over to him. Naturally, he will rape her to make it more likely.”

  Ross’s hand curled into fists so tight his knuckles ached. Such forced alliances were by no means uncommon. “As you say.”

  “For some men, passions such as avarice and rapine are enough. What of you? Have you no feelings for Cate? Did you have none before your vows were spoken?”

  Ross gave him a hard stare.

  A low laugh sounded in Braesford’s chest. “Oh, aye, not my affair.”

  Quiet descended that was really not quiet at all, but carried an undercurrent of the whining wind that whipped around the battlements, the quiet crackle of the fire at their feet, low murmurs from the butlery and pantry where the meal was being prepared, and muted thumping where trestles were being laid with trenchers somewhere behind them.

  The two men stared into the flames until finally Braesford stirred, spoke in low consideration. “As I see it, you have two choices.”

  “And they would be?” Ross could not forebear to ask, though he was wary of the answer.

  “You can leave your bride behind here at Braesford while you take up your new lands without encumbrance, or you can see to it she would rather have you alive than dead.”

  Ross considered it. He thought with immense concentration of being free of Cate as his wife, of leaving her with her sister and never holding her, never taking her into his arms and his bed again. He thought of it for the span of an entire breath.

  “With your permission, I will leave her here while I inspect this Grimes Hall, as I know not what I will find there.” The place might be a ruin for all he knew of it, fit only for vermin. It might be overrun with men-at-arms awaiting his arrival. It might have no bed worthy of the name, much less of Lady Catherine.

  “And then?” Braesford said in soft inquiry.

  “And then I will keep her close beside me, the better to know her every move.”

  Amusement gleamed silver bright in Braesford’s eyes. “I see.”

  Ross feared that he did see, and all too well. He was married to the eldest of the Three Graces, after all.

  15

  Ross left her behind at Braesford. It should not have mattered, but it did.

  Cate knew the reasons well enough. Her husband had laid them out for her in brusque yet ample detail on the evening before. He knew not what he might find when he reached Grimes Hall, he said. Trilborn could be lying in wait if he had learned what manse had been Henry’s gift. It might still be occupied by its former owner, some attainted Yorkist who refused to acknowledge Henry’s right to transfer ownership, and so must be removed by force. Villagers could have taken shelter there while it remained empty, might have used it to pen their cattle or else half demolished the walls for building stones. The well that supplied the castle with water might be tainted or poisoned. Certainly, it was unlikely there would be anything edible in the larder, or a stick of furniture left unbroken.

  So it had gone, a litany of possible disasters. She would be far better at Braesford, where it was safe and comfortable, according to her husband.

  Ross had not looked at her as he spoke, however, nor had he expressed regret that she was not to see her new home. She was expected to be patient until he decided it was both safe and worthy of her.

  The last thing she felt was patient.

  She was no pampered female incapable of dealing with inconvenience. She had been taught by the nuns to achieve order in a household, to make certain a kitchen was scrubbed and well supplied with victuals, and that nothing offensive was allowed to remain in the entrance court. After years of being restricted in her activities while a dependent at Graydon and at Henry’s court, she had looked forward to ordering everything as she wished in her own realm. To be prevented was a bitter disappointment.

  She might have insisted on going if not for the obvious fact that her husband did not want her with him. It was possible he was as ready to be free of her company as she had been to escape his. Her need had been momentary, however, not a matter of days or even long weeks.

  “Men,” she said under her breath, where she stood with Isabel on the battlements, watching as Ross and his men-at-arms grew smaller in the distance.

  “Just so,” her elder sister answered. “If he could, Rand would have me lie abed from now until our babe is born.”

  Braesford had ridden out with Ross for some small distance before turning aside to attend to some problem concerning a flock of sheep. He also meant to ride along the blue line of the sea in the distance, on his way to visit neighbors with pele towers like his own. Isabel had wanted to join him, but been dissuaded. She and Cate were to remain within the walls until they were certain Trilborn was not in the neighborhood. The last thing he wanted, Braesford had said, was to risk injury to his wife and their unborn child in a clash of arms, or while making a wild dash to safety.

  “At least he cares,” Cate said with a sigh.

  “And Ross does not?” Isabel turned to frown at her.

  “How can he when the match was forced upon him?”

  “But then…”

  “I know, I know. By what means has he escaped the curse? I wish I knew.”

  Her sister’s face cleared. “How a man may feel and what he may admit of it can be two different things.”

  Was it possible? Cate would like to think so. The way Ross touched her, the tender care he lavished upon her, felt as if it were directed by more than mere desire. He had been most ardent the night before, and early this morning, as well, making love to her in ways that stirred her blood now to remember. It was as if the bonding of their bodies must last him for some time, maybe even forever.

  “Cate, my sweet, you are blush
ing. Pray tell from what cause.”

  “Nothing,” she said, lifting her face to the wind to cool it. To prevent further questions, she went on. “Should we go inside? You must not become chilled.”

  “Don’t you start fretting over me! I am as healthy as any peasant woman who gives birth one day and winnows the fields for grain the next.”

  She appeared so, Cate had to admit. “Have you any idea when your babe will be born?”

  “In May, by my reckoning.” Isabel made a wry grimace. “It seems I caught the first time Rand and I made love.”

  Cate gave her a swift glance. “Does it often happen that way?”

  “When both bride and groom are young and healthy and take pleasure in the act, so the old wives say, though less often when the man is older. Why? Do you think—but no, there’s hardly been time to know?”

  Cate gave a mute shake of her head.

  “No.” Isabel sighed. “I wish I might have been there for your wedding.”

  Hearing the regret in her sister’s voice, Cate stepped closer to give her a swift hug. As the eldest of the three, Isabel had always felt responsible for her and Marguerite, always tried to protect them. It was she who had created the special bond between them.

  Soon, now, she would face childbirth. It was a dangerous time for a woman. Cate prayed all would go well. For it to turn out otherwise would be unbearable.

  Would she be fearful in Isabel’s place? Would she dread bringing Ross’s child into the world? She hardly knew, yet the thought of a child gave her a warm feeling around her heart. A baby, a son with his father’s black hair and fathomless blue eyes. He would grow tall and sturdy and brave.