“Why, Cait?” her brother asked, his tone an entreaty. “What did you believe I would say?”
Taking comfort in their connection, she told the truth. “I did not know. And for this reason, I could not risk telling you. If you had ordered me to stop writing to him—”
“I’d never have done so.”
“Perhaps not. But if you had, for reasons I could not contemplate, I could not bear it. We only exchanged a few letters a year, but the joy of receiving his letters . . . those became the happiest moments of my life.”
She let her words penetrate.
“You had your training. Your tournament. Rory,” Cait said, willing him to understand.
“I had only . . .”
She nearly said Conrad. But it seemed too intimate a thing to admit.
“Bradon Moor is beautiful. And more important, ’tis safe. But it has little else to offer a young woman besides embroidery and prayer and waiting for a potential suitor I may or may not care for to come along and take me as a wife. To force me from my home and my family. So that I might continue to learn embroidery in another prison.”
There. She had said it.
“You hate embroidery,” Terric said finally. “Cait, if Bradon Moor feels like a prison, it is because you made it so. You could have come to another tourney with us. Rory and I asked many times. “If,” Terric said slowly, “you were writing to Conrad, if you had an affinity for him, then why did you refuse to come with us?”
Her inability to form an answer to that very question was the very reason she had stopped writing to Conrad. “I . . . do not know.”
Her brother released her hand, his gaze turning incredulous.
“You do not know?”
If she had, Cait would have explained it to Conrad many years earlier. She would have told him the truth of it last night.
“Did you think you would be attacked again? That I wouldn’t be able to protect you?”
“A braw warrior like you? Nay, I did not think it.”
Not precisely, at least. She had no doubt Terric could protect her, and yet there was a tiny part of her that never felt safe. Maybe it never would.
“You can commiserate with Conrad on this,” she said quietly, “as he asked me the same question so many times I could no longer count.”
“Is that why you stopped writing? Because you refused to meet him again and had no explanation for it?”
“Of sorts.”
There was more. Much more. But Cait could never tell him that part. She cared too much for his opinion of her.
“But you’re here now. Why?”
This, at least, was easy.
“Mother insisted on knowing why I would not marry Colin MacGregor.”
“I would have that answer too,” a deep voice boomed from just around the bend of the alcove. Cait closed her eyes.
“And a few others, as well,” Conrad said, coming into view just as her eyes popped open.
Her chest constricted as the two longtime friends stared at each other, her revelations having opened a rift between them. She knew that and hated herself a little for it. If Cait could go back to the beginning, that first moment with Bailey, she would tell him everything. Maybe even why she did not deserve Conrad’s affection.
But she could not go back.
Neither could she hide now from either man, for it had been her idea to come here. She’d insisted on it. Channeling Roysa, Cait straightened her back, lifted her chin, and refused to apologize for that which she could not alter.
“’Tis good fortune you’re here,” she said to Conrad, noting that his dress was more formal than it had been the day before. He looked every bit the English earl, his surcoat emblazoned with the Licheford coat of arms, a black eagle on a field of gold. As tall as her brother, if not more so, his wide shoulders seemed to fill the alcove as his eyes bored into her. “I would have a word?”
She looked at Terric then, wishing she knew more of what he thought of her tale. But she and Conrad desperately needed to finish what they had started the evening before.
“Brother?”
She could have smiled. Tried to cajole him in that way. But Cait did not have a smile left in her. The knowledge that she had to bare herself to Conrad, explain that which she did not entirely understand, or this trip would be for naught . . . Cait simply could not do anything other than plead with her eyes for her brother to understand.
And he did.
Terric turned to Conrad. “I know you to be an honorable man, more than any other.”
Conrad didn’t respond.
“She is my sister.”
Each of the four words was said with significance and emphasis, as if it held secret meaning.
“I know it well,” Conrad answered with nearly as much brevity as Terric.
And then her brother slipped behind the wall, leaving them alone.
And while before the alcove seemed isolated, private, now Cait felt as exposed as if they were standing in the middle of the great hall.
When Conrad spoke, she nearly jumped backward at his abrupt tone. “Come with me.”
Chapter 8
Conrad had already shared their plan with his marshal, a skilled swordsman who had led his father through more than one successful battle, but there was still much to be done before leaving. He would take nearly two hundred men, a large enough contingent to be of use if they could not peaceably overtake London.
But Conrad had no intention of leaving Licheford undefended either. He would keep his people, and Cait and others, safe.
Preparations needed to be made. There was work to be done. But this discussion could not wait.
He would not chance another interruption, hence their descent into the buttery.
“Conrad, where are we going?”
The air cooled as they wound their way down the stone stairwell.
“Careful,” he said, turning. Though he’d thought to reach for a candle just before entering the dark space, it provided little light for him, less so for Cait, who followed.
If she were any other woman, he’d reach for her. But this was Cait. And she was not any other woman.
“The buttery,” he said, holding the candle closer to her. “Can you see?”
“Aye.”
She stepped into the room with him, and Conrad immediately went to work. Reaching for a wooden box, he removed four additional candles, their stands in a separate box just beside it. Using his own light, he lit all of them, placing them on top of four wine casks, illuminating the brightly colored stone walls around them.
Like any buttery for a castle such as Licheford, this chamber was as ornate as the one above it, a showcase of his great-grandfather’s accumulated wealth. In some ways, this was the most important room in the keep, and it showed with bright colors and painted walls.
“’Tis beautiful.”
Cait spun around, her cream and pale yellow gown gleaming against the flickering candlelight. He watched as errant strands of her hair kissed the bare shoulders that peeked out from what was a fairly modest gown for a woman of her status.
“It was long when I last saw you,” he said of her hair.
The day after the attack. Terric and his brother had left before the tournament was over. He’d wanted desperately to say more to her that day. To ask if she was well. If she would return the following year. Instead, he had watched silently as the Kennaugh clan departed.
Although the other boys, Terric and Lance and Guy, who had been strangers to them at the time, had seen Cait and her attacker at the same time Conrad did, it was Conrad’s sword that had pierced the man’s heart. The blade had broken, and they’d dumped it into the river with the body.
“It’s been short for many years.”
As before, they stood too close. His body responded to the swell of her breasts, so he took a step back, hoping Cait did not notice.
“Colin MacGregor likes it short?”
He shouldn’t be surprised that he’d made her wince. They had learned a
bout each other through letters, and she had never borne the brunt of the ire that sometimes took hold and threatened to strangle him.
The legendary Licheford temper.
But he would not take the bitter words back. Conrad wanted her answer, to that and many other questions.
“Enough to wish to wed me,” she shot back.
His jaw clenched.
“Who is he?”
He would not pretend that he didn’t care. He would be leaving in two short days and had little time for flowery words.
“The son of a neighboring clan chief. A good man whom I’ve no reason not to marry.”
No reason . . .
He forced his expression to remain neutral.
“But you told Terric you would not marry him. That you came here instead. Why, precisely?” Once he started talking, Conrad could not seem to stop. “Just as importantly, why did you stop writing? Do you know how many letters I sent after your last one?”
Despite knowing he should calm himself, Conrad could not.
“You asked me to keep our exchange from Terric, so I did. Despite all we’ve been through, your brother and I . . . despite the fact that he trusts me with his life, and I trust him with mine, not once did I tell him I’d confessed my love to his sister. A woman who glimpsed inside my very soul. Before she crushed it.”
As he spoke, Conrad realized from the flicker in her eyes that she’d never even read those letters. The ones he continued to send after she ceased to respond.
“I wanted to read them. Broke every seal myself but . . .”
He could not do this. There was too much pain he had long ago buried.
Conrad tried to move past her, but Cait’s gentle touch on his arm froze him in place as easily as the tip of a broadsword.
“Please.”
Two layers of clothing separated him from her hand, but its featherlight touch penetrated them easily. It branded him.
“I cannot,” he said, though Conrad did not move.
“You said you loved me.”
“Once.”
He continued walking, with difficulty, but did not ascend the stairs. He’d come to hear this, and so he would. No matter how difficult it might be. Turning toward her, Conrad hardened himself against her words, waiting for Cait to continue.
“I loved you too.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You did not. You stopped writing me, Cait. You never came.”
Letter after letter, he’d begged her to return to the tournament.
They’d opened themselves to each other in a way people rarely did in person. Maybe because it was easier to write hard truths than it was to say them, or maybe because their connection had immediately been strong. Either way, he’d told her things he hadn’t disclosed to anyone, and she had done the same.
They knew each other in a deep way that transcended the few times they’d seen each other in person.
He knew that she felt weak after the attack. That she’d despised her inability to fight back.
Conrad had encouraged her to speak to Terric, to ask him to train her too. But she’d said her brothers were much too stubborn—they’d consider it a slight on their ability to protect her.
He also knew that Cait saw everything. Observed everyone. Some thought her haughty because of it. Others believed her shy. But she was simply thoughtful, watching and waiting for the moment when her words would have an impact.
But for all he knew about this woman, there was so much he didn’t understand, including why she had refused to meet him again in person. Once, Conrad had even suggested that he visit her at Bradon Moor.
It was the last time he’d ever heard from her.
“I am here now.”
Their eyes locked.
Her meaning was clear.
When he’d overheard her speaking to Terric of Colin MacGregor . . . Conrad had not known what to think. Only that he needed to know if she had come here, to England, for him.
He had his answer.
“Why now? Why after all this time?”
“Colin—”
“Why now?” he repeated, angered at her poor timing. Angry, still, that she had allowed his heart to soar with hope, only to send it crashing down. Conrad did not know that he was capable of loving again, even her.
Some might say he had never truly loved her in the first place. A woman he’d never touched. Never kissed. But he knew otherwise.
Cait didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t know the answer, but that simply was not good enough for him.
“I have to go.”
This time, Conrad did not turn back. Heart hammering in his chest, he chided himself for thinking he would get answers from a woman so private her own brother had not known she’d fallen in love with his friend. With the man who bore the scar that reminded him of her every day of his life.
Cait Kennaugh was here.
For him.
Unfortunately, he could not be here for her.
Chapter 9
Sabine walked into the hall like a woman who had never once doubted herself, head held high, auburn hair flowing in every direction. Her husband must have done something to upset her because she swatted his hand away as they wound their way toward the head table for the evening meal.
“Well met, Guy,” Terric said from his position on the other side of Roysa. Cait sat beside her too, with two empty seats on her left. She imagined they were for the couple who strode into the hall now, attracting attention from everyone, including her. “How is it possible someone so lovely would willingly marry you?”
Cait tried to smile but could not. Although she hadn’t looked at Conrad directly since taking a seat, she was conscious of him all the same. After their failed talk, he’d disappeared for the remainder of the day. Cait had spent the afternoon with Roysa and Idalia, getting a tour of Licheford Castle and the grounds. Her sister-in-law had also relayed the distressing news that Conrad had failed to mention earlier, that the men would be leaving in two days. Cait had hardly spoken since then. Both Roysa and Idalia had asked, of course, if she were well.
Nay, she was not well at all.
Conrad was leaving, and they’d barely had a chance to speak. If their conversation in the buttery were any indication, coming here had been a mistake. He was unlikely to forgive her. But she refused to accept defeat just yet. She would get him alone again.
“Apologies, Lady Cait,” Sabine said, sitting next to her. “We’ve hardly had an opportunity to speak since you arrived.”
Cait didn’t know what to say, so she blurted out the truth.
“You are very beautiful.”
Had she really just said such a thing to a perfect stranger?
“Not so much as you, to be sure.” Sabine leaned toward her. “I’m told you forced your brother Rory to take you to England with him, just as Dromsley Castle was under attack?”
She seemed mesmerized by the idea, so Cait hated to dissuade her. But that was not quite true.
“I did follow Rory, against my mother’s orders, but I didn’t know how much danger lay ahead. My brothers tell me little.”
She picked up her goblet of wine, the noise from the hall increasing as retainers and servants filled it to near capacity.
“Good,” Sabine said, seemingly satisfied.
Cait stared at her in confusion, but Sabine leaned over to address Roysa.
“Two of four?” she asked, winking to her.
Roysa frowned. “Aye. Two of four. He still says no,” she whispered, looking back to see if her husband had heard. Terric seemed to be intent on his stew, though he did appear suspicious of Roysa’s glance.
Sabine made a sound of disgust in her throat.
Cait looked back and forth between the women.
“Two of four?”
Sabine glanced at her husband, and when she did, Cait could not help but follow her gaze—right past Guy and down to Conrad.
Damned if he wasn’t looking directly at her.
She nearly smiled a
t the thought of how Terric or Rory would react to her silent sentiment, even though she’d not used the word aloud. Her brothers could swear, bed women, and risk their lives in battle. But if she dared to say “damn” or used any other such words, her brothers would immediately threaten to tell her mother.
And if there was one thing Mother did not tolerate, it was language that did nothing but “put your ignorance on display.” Thankfully, it was the one instance in which she did not discriminate between Cait and her brothers. On more than one occasion, Cait had gotten them into trouble for their own bad language. Oh, how much fun they’d had.
Another memory, one of words Conrad had written, suddenly came to her.
They look to me to replace both of them, Father and Mother. I fear no one, including myself, could possibly be both. Some days the expectations of an entire earldom weigh heavy.
It had been three years since he’d written those words. The Conrad she watched now bore no resemblance to the one who worried about his ability to lead Licheford. This man led a country.
Cait tore her gaze from him, chastising herself for being a fool. For thinking he could forgive her for having abandoned him.
“Lady Cait?”
She’d hoped Sabine wouldn’t notice her silent regard.
“Cait, please,” she said, taking a bite of stew. “I am a fool.”
“Nay,” Sabine whispered back.
Cait hadn’t realized she’d said the words aloud.
“We’ve not had an opportunity to speak much.” Sabine placed her wine goblet onto the table, a single drop of red dripping onto the white linen below. “But I know.”
Although Sabine was a virtual stranger, the words didn’t surprise her. These men, her brother and the others, were as much brothers as Terric and Rory. Their wives, it appeared, had forged the same type of bond.
Suddenly, she wanted to be a part of that nearly as much as she wanted Conrad back in her life.
“Lady Sabine—”
“My given name, if you please.”
Cait glanced toward the center of the table, but Conrad was no longer watching them.
“I am not sorry you know some of what is between us. But there is more. Much more. And I am a fool,” she said with conviction.
The Earl: Order of the Broken Blade: Book 4 Page 4
