Not to mention it was truly a blessing to leave the lovely but stifling confines of St. James’s Palace. Queen Mary was still unwell, Jane suddenly summoned to her brother’s side to act as hostess for a feast of thanksgiving, and other friends surprisingly scarce, so she’d been terribly lonely.
“Flower for milady?”
Blinking, she glanced down at the small, raggedly dressed and shivering girl holding up a half-wilted lily.
Before she could reply, one of the two sour-faced guards leading the way halted and turned. “Away, you. Don’t be bothering the mistress or you’ll feel the back of me hand.”
The child shrank back, and Catherine shot an annoyed look at the guard before delving into her fur-trimmed cloak pocket for a copper she couldn’t truly afford now. “I would love a flower, sweetheart. Isn’t it pretty? Here, for your trouble.”
“Cor, God bless ye, milady,” the girl replied excitedly, bobbing a curtsey, and dashing away with her prize.
Lifting the white and orange-flecked bloom to her nose, she inhaled the fading scent of the lily. It was still delicious, a pleasant contrast to the aroma hanging heavily over the surrounding narrow houses, pie stalls, and various shops. There was no wind today, just a cool, bleak dampness that somehow made the smell of perspiring people, cooking fat, stagnant water, and something foul she didn’t want to think about, so much worse.
“Milady! Milady!”
Catherine stifled a groan. Clearly word had spread quickly. “Yes?” she said, glancing to her right. Yet rather than a mob of other undersized flower sellers, a young man appeared and doffed his cap.
“Mistress Linwood,” he whispered quickly, taking her arm so he could speak directly into her ear. “I beg ye, run. These men mean ye harm.”
She froze. “Excuse me?”
“Please ma’am. I’ve been waiting for days. It’s getting about the city, the questions about ye father’s death, and they don’t like it one bit.”
Spinning on her heel so she stood between the two guards and the slender young man, she stared hard at his bearded face, searching for any signs of trickery. But his gaze was steady and open.
“Who are you?” she said urgently, the words barely forming through chattering teeth.
“I’m Robbie Blacksmith, from Guildford. But that don’t matter. What does matter is that it weren’t a fever. There was a fight. Bad one. Two men telling the doctor he was wrong, and if he knew what was good fer him he would shut his mouth. It were summin’ about her ma—”
“Oi!” bellowed one of her guards. “Get away from the lady. Back, or you’ll feel a sword to the gullet.”
“No!” Catherine burst out. “He’s fine. It is fine.”
Both guards ignored her, and Robbie was torn away, his arms viciously jerked behind his back.
“Country scum,” the second guard hissed. “Just you wait. Stocks and irons for you, me lad.”
Robbie struggled hard in the brutal hold. “I saw. I SAW. Doctor Linwood didn’t die of no illness. A knife. He was staaaaaaa…”
Time seemed to stall. One moment Robbie stood on the edge of the cobbled street, the next he flew awkwardly through the air and landed with a sickening thud in the middle of the thoroughfare, directly in the path of a heavily-laden cart.
She screamed a warning, but he didn’t move, and the next sound she heard was the horrifying crunch and grind of wooden wheels shattering human bones.
Bile filled her mouth, and she choked it down. Yet even as a mass of yelling and screaming people pushed past her to stare at the bloody carnage in the street, only Robbie’s fierce words echoed in her ear.
I beg ye. RUN.
Crossing herself and whispering a fervent prayer for his immortal soul, she glanced quickly around for the guards. Thanks to the relentless curiosity of Londoners, there were now at least ten people between her and them. Taking a shaky breath, forgetting every one of the edicts Papa had ever taught about ladylike behavior, she turned, shoving and elbowing her way through the rapidly gathering crowd to run in the direction of the Grand Duke Inn.
Brand was there, waiting for her. He would know what to do, how to make sense of the words she’d heard, the sickening scene she’d just witnessed.
Blindly, she stumbled along the street, pushing past washerwomen, children splashing in puddles, and a group of men huddled around a crate with cards and coins piled on top.
“Mistress Linwood!”
Even as she desperately wanted to ignore the call, her head twisted to see the guards attempting to barrel their way through the throngs of people behind her. Forcing her aching legs to continue forward, she sent another prayer heavenward when she finally saw the familiar high wooden sign of the Grand Duke dangling from a wrought iron hook in the distance.
“MISTRESS LINWOOD! STOP!”
Terror nearly robbed her of breath at the furious roar, but this time she didn’t pause to see how far behind the guards were. The inn was near. So near. Thirty feet at most. If she could just make it inside without causing a stir, Brand would find and protect her.
Some instinct compelled her to slow to a brisk walk—no lady burst into an inn scarlet-faced and panting—and she swiftly reached up to check her elegant velvet hood was still in place. There and secure. Thank heavens. If she looked like a criminal, she would be thrown straight back out on the street—
The thought vanished in a surge of icy panic as two steel-like arms closed around her body. One crossed her breasts, clamping both elbows to her sides and leaving her hands dangling helplessly, the other sliding up so a large palm could seal her mouth, rendering an instinctive cry for help into nothing more than a muffled squeak. Finally, she was spun around like she weighed no more than a feather, away from the relative safety of the open street and into a dark, fetid alley.
Sweet blessed virgin.
They’d caught her.
Knowing he had perhaps a second or two before Catherine’s limp shock turned into complete destruction of his shins, Brand hauled her further into the alley. It was particularly awful, blocked from the weakened sun’s rays, dank and heavy with the putrid scents of piss, vomit, and stale ale. But beggars could hardly be choosers, and it would be perfect for his hastily put together half-plan.
He and Lucas had sprinted all the way here. He’d sent the boy to turn the Grand Duke upside down while he searched the surrounding streets. If he were a man who believed in everyday miracles, he’d be giving thanks for idiot guards who yelled her name as they chased. That he’d managed to get to her before they did, before she entered the inn was a relief beyond words. He had the sickest feeling she might not have left the place alive.
Keeping one hand clamped firmly over her mouth while evading her flailing hands, he put his lips hard against her ear.
“It’s Brand, Carey. Don’t scream. No matter what you were told, I never sent a messenger asking you to meet me at that inn. Nod if you understand.”
Catherine’s head jerked, her hands falling to her sides.
“Now,” he continued, “forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
Moving faster than he ever had in his life, Brand yanked off her well-crafted and recognizable headpiece and cloak, putting her long curls in total disarray. Ignoring her gasp of shock, knowing he was about to do far worse, he tore at her thankfully nondescript brown gown until one sleeve hung limply from her shoulder and simple linen petticoats showed. Lastly, hoping beyond words that the slimy black substance at his feet was just mud, he smeared her hem and right cheek and hiking up her skirts, shoved her up against the alley wall.
“B-Brand,” she choked out as she tried to twist away from him, her eyes huge blue pools of terror. “Stop. Please. W-What…”
“Kick off one shoe and wrap your legs around my waist,” he said harshly, pulling his faded felt cap lower over his forehead. “And for the love of God, do not speak. Not one word.”
Her hesitation stretched to eternity, yet finally she gave a tiny nod.
“I tru
st you.”
He groaned, relief at her acquiescence warring with anger at her misplaced faith and a spark of something softer he didn’t dare define.
Furious at his lapse, Brand cupped the back of her head and crushed her mouth under his. Exactly what he expected he didn’t know, but after a long moment of frozen shock, her lips softened in submission, and he nearly groaned again. On another occasion he might have smiled at her complete inexperience—her lips were willing but pressed together as tightly as stone masonry. Gentling his action, he coaxed them apart until his tongue could flick their kiss-swollen ripeness.
Catherine gasped, one hand clenching and unclenching the collar of his doublet. He felt the moment she surrendered fully, when her mouth opened for his tongue and her body relaxed, allowing him close enough so her ample breasts were pressed hard against his chest and his rapidly hardening cock could grind against that sweet spot between her legs.
He cursed softly, fighting the urge to yank down his hose and bury himself to the hilt inside her tight heat. He should have had a woman when he had the chance, because any finesse had vanished. Arthur’s daughter, an untried virgin, with her low whimpers and untutored responses, was making him harder than he’d ever been in his life and soon, so soon, those base desires his wife had hated and run from would take over and…
“Oi! You there!”
They both stilled and a violent shudder passed through her frame. Slowly, deliberately, he turned her head away so all a passerby might see was unkempt hair and a grime-streaked cheek.
Panting for breath, he met the cold-eyed gazes of two scarlet-clad guards. Not the pair who had been chasing Catherine, but two others now blocked the end of the alley.
God’s blood. Word was spreading.
“Yessirs?” he slurred, elongating his vowels to pure London tavern.
“What is going on here, then?” one of the guards barked.
Brand cocked his head and blinked several times, as though the question required much thought.
“Just a little swordplay with the, er, wife, sir.”
“Is that right. And you, mistress? You often commit such lewdness in public?”
Before Catherine could speak, Brand forced a hearty laugh. “Alas, sir, my sweetheart is mute. Tis a great thing in a wife. Prettiest duckies around, but none of the damned quacking.”
The second guard coughed, his lips twitching, and exchanged a glance with his companion. “Well. Turn your mind away from the birds for a moment. We’re looking for a lady—”
“A lady, sir? In an alley?”
“We were…informed…she was last seen in this area.”
“Ye have me baffled. Who was seen?”
“Catherine Linwood. Daughter of Arthur Linwood. Some called him doctor, but he was no more than a devil of dark spells, lies, and butchering.”
Catherine’s fingernails clawed his poor quality cloak, her body shaking, and a trickle of perspiration trailed a slick, itchy path down the back of his neck. Quickly, like he merely wished to stretch, Brand rubbed his cheek against hers, and thankfully she stilled again.
“Ain’t never heard of her. What did she do? Steal summin? Run away from ‘er lord ‘n’ master?”
“No. Far worse. Treason against Her Majesty the Queen. Blasphemy and plots with evil intent. We are posting drawings of her with a reward for capture.”
“Oh-ho! What kind of reward?” he said loudly to muffle Catherine’s broken whimper, hoping to sound greedily curious rather than violently ill.
“Coins and ale aplenty for a wise man who loves God and his good queen.”
“Ye know,” Brand said slowly, rubbing his chin and further blocking Catherine’s face, “Think I did see a lady run past just before, going toward the inn. Fancy shoes sound different on these cobbles. And her hair was covered in one of them foine things with a veil. Thought mebbe she be late for mass or a banquet or such.”
The first guard’s hand closed around his sword handle, and Brand froze. Had that been too much? But the man merely leaned over and spat on the ground. “Mass is where you should be. Confessing your sins and begging forgiveness of our merciful Lord. Same for your mute. If she were a good, Christian woman she wouldn’t be cursed with such an unholy affliction. On your way afore I whip you both bloody.”
His heart sank at the one order that could reveal their deception, but obediently, he stepped backwards until Catherine’s legs slid to the ground. Curling one arm around her shoulders, but under her dark, untidy curls, he held her seemingly loosely against his chest and silently urged his feet forward. Ten paces to temporary freedom. They could do this.
“Aye, sir. To church,” he said, hunching his shoulders and staggering deliberately through a small mound of something revolting.
Both guards stepped back, unwilling to be soiled.
Five paces.
Forcing himself to amble, he nodded and continued, “Good day to ye.”
The air outside the alley was the freshest he’d ever tasted, but still he hardly dared to breathe.
Stay hunched. Walk slowly. Keep Catherine upright.
With such a reward offered and more and more men joining the search, in a matter of hours, a day or two at best, Arthur’s daughter would be the most hunted woman in England. Something damned ugly was going on, and it seemed to be connected to his friend’s sudden passing. If he stayed with Catherine, he’d soon be seen and become a known accomplice.
Brand almost chuckled at the absurd thought, as if the decision hadn’t already been made. Hell, he’d made himself Catherine’s champion back in the crypt when he agreed to discover more about Arthur’s death. It was probably his own inquiries that triggered the queen’s wrath.
He cursed softly. For a man who knew more than most about the cruel lengths highborn people would go to in preserving their secrets, he’d been a bloody damned fool.
Now there could be only two options.
Flee.
Or die.
Chapter Three
The lane was quiet. So astonishingly quiet, the pounding of her heart sounded like the beat of a thousand drums.
Any moment there would be shouts, the fast thud of booted feet and the rasp of swords as they were unsheathed. Any moment she would be the one flying through the air then crumpled in a broken heap.
“Catherine?”
It sounded like Brand’s baritone voice, but so far away. And muffled, like he sat underwater, although that was probably because one side of her face was crushed so hard against his chest she would have a doublet button imprint in her temple forever. Not to mention the haystack of curls covering her other ear and impairing her vision.
Yet she had no inclination whatsoever to move her head. Or any part of her limp body really. Brand was practically carrying her along the street under one arm, his strides long, purposeful, but unhurried. Numbness had left her useless, even the effort of breathing and keeping her eyes open a supreme one.
She’d thought the day her father died would be the worst of her life. But witnessing Robbie’s accident, being chased by soldiers, hearing the terrible falsehoods about Papa…and how could it possibly be the worst and the best? She’d heard tales from indiscreet ladies at court, even witnessed the odd heated embrace. But nothing, nothing in the world could have prepared her for the searing reality of Brand’s lips, his huge, hard chest pressing tightly against hers.
“Catherine.”
Brand again, this time louder and slightly impatient. She blinked and shook her head, anything to clear the fog in her mind. “You called me Carey before.”
Almost imperceptibly, his stride faltered. “I had to. So you would know it was me and not someone else pretending to be a friend.”
“Oh.”
“Are you cold?”
“N-no,” she replied through chattering teeth, her body abruptly wracked with shivers. The oddest sensation, especially when perspiration trickled down her upper arms and back. Unfortunately her wits were returning in a flood, and th
e cloying smell of sweat and whatever Brand had rubbed on her cheek and hem, the sight of her torn gown, and dirty cold-reddened bare feet made her want to vomit.
Brand sighed, pausing to remove his cloak, drape it around her shoulders then scoop her into his arms. He felt so warm, and once again so safe, she burrowed against him, curling one arm tightly around his shoulder and tucking her head against his neck.
“Just hold on,” he said quietly. “We’ll be home soon.”
She jerked. “No, please! D-don’t take me b-back to the palace. Those soldiers!”
“You aren’t going back to that damned viper’s nest. I’m taking you to my home until I work out what to do next.”
“Not giving me up for c-coins and ale?” she said softly, a warmth seeping through her body that had nothing to do with his secure hold. Not only had he saved her from those wretched soldiers, he risked his own neck to offer a temporary sanctuary.
“As it happens, I have coins aplenty. And ale gives me a bellyache. Terribly unhealthy beverage, though not quite as bad as milk.”
It might have been a joke, but something about his gruff tone made her relax and let out a long breath.
“I was so scared,” she said slowly, trying to unravel her jumbled thoughts. “I don’t understand any of this, Brand. The soldiers wanting to hurt me…those sinful lies about Papa. There is no way the queen would order this. Mary is a wonderful, kind, and generous woman who loves me as she loved my mother!”
There was a long, long silence. Then his grip tightened. “Tell me exactly what happened. Right from the beginning, when you got the message to meet me at the Grand Duke. Who told you to do that?”
“The queen’s personal page. The same lad who told me of Papa’s death when I was visiting Mary in her rooms. He had two guards with him, and said I had to leave right away as you were waiting for me at the inn. I know that place well. Papa and I often stopped there for food.”
One Forbidden Knight Page 3
