One Forbidden Knight

by Nicola Davidson

  Brand cursed under his breath. “It was my fault, then. Too damned indiscreet. I’m a bloody FitzAlan, someone is always watching.”

  She flinched at the harsh, bitter words. “Brand? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Just rambling,” he said, the tip of one finger brushing her cheek in a soothing caress. “Go on. You walked from the palace?”

  “Yes. The sun was out and I wanted to get some air. The guards agreed. All was well until we reached the corner of Tewkesbury Lane.”

  “Then what?”

  Catherine shuddered as memories made her stomach roil.

  “A little girl gave me a flower, and I paid her a coin. Then a young man appeared. He said…”

  Her fingers bit into his shoulder as she again fought the urge to be horribly ill.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No,” she coughed, clearing her throat. “No. I want to be away from here. His name was Robbie, and he said…he said my father didn’t die of any illness. That there was an argument, Papa was stabbed, and it was something to do with…” she frowned hard, trying to remember. “Herman…Her many…no…oh, he said something else and it was so noisy and the soldiers—”

  “Right. I see,” Brand replied in a tone that suggested he didn’t see at all. Which was fair, the tale did sound rather farfetched. If she hadn’t experienced it in person she probably wouldn’t have believed it either.

  “No, you didn’t. You d-didn’t see Robbie get crushed by a c-cart. Before he died, he told me to run, that the guards meant me harm, so that is when I did. I ran and ran, only slowing down when I got near the Grand Duke. Then you pulled me into the alley.”

  Brand muttered something under his breath but said nothing further, and she realized another man had fallen into step with them. Not nearly as tall as Brand, and nowhere near as broad, but imposing all the same. Actually, not a man, but a lad, dark-haired, dark-eyed and vaguely familiar.

  “I’ve seen you before. At the palace,” she said slowly. “You’re Lucas de Vere?”

  The lad bowed, actually taking her hand and brushing a light kiss over her knuckles as though they were meeting at a banquet. “Indeed, and humbly at your service, beautiful lady! Not impressed by the events of this day, not one bit. To think, such a jewel put in harm’s—”

  “Lucas,” said Brand, rather sharply, as they stopped outside a long stone walkway with heavy iron gates. “This is neither the time nor place. Now hurry and open the gate; the heavens are about to open.”

  Lucas removed a key from his pocket and attended to a heavy lock, beckoned them both within the high walls and down a gravel path, then secured it again. Beyond a well-manicured lawn stood a large and very beautiful building fashioned of red brick and dark wood timber.

  “Always the time or place to compliment a beautiful woman,” said Lucas loftily. “Even one looking like she’s fought an angry barn cat. You know, Catherine, if Mama were here, she’d pounce with the wire brush and lye soap like she does to my brothers and sisters. I was always too fast to be caught.”

  Brand scowled.

  “If your mother were here, Henry Lucas de Vere, she would drag you by the ear back to Cornwall until you learned to hold your damned tongue. Mistress Linwood is in no need of your opinion.”

  “Mistress Linwood is too long for me to remember. I’m only fourteen, sir.”

  At the boy’s owl-eyed look, she almost smiled. Jane had mentioned exploits of the infamous Lucas de Vere a few times, with a head shake and fond grin. He’d lasted only five weeks in the home of her brother, Norfolk, and now she knew why.

  “Speaking of lye soap,” she said quickly, as Brand carried her inside the house and set her down on a colorful woven foyer rug, “after that alley I’m in desperate need of a hot bath if you would be so kind as to order one for me, Brand.”

  He nodded and motioned to two servants, who bowed and dashed away.

  Lucas appeared beside her and raised an interested eyebrow. “What happened in the alley, Catherine? I was at the Grand Duke, distracting three men carrying a few too many weapons for a simple luncheon—”

  “Cease, boy!” snarled Brand. “I’ll speak with you later.”

  “But—”

  “Go.”

  Lucas grinned widely, lifted her hand and brushed another kiss over her knuckles, then loped away. If he somehow remained un-maimed, no doubt in the future he would shatter hearts all over England and beyond.

  Catherine cleared her throat. “He is…”

  “There are no adequate words for Lucas,” said Brand shortly. “Now, if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to a guest chamber. Rest, and later someone will be up with a tray for your supper. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with one of my mother’s nightgowns.”

  Stung by the impersonal words and tone, she followed him up a surprisingly wide wooden staircase to the second floor, along a portrait and tapestry-lined hallway to a spacious, well-appointed chamber overlooking the now rain-lashed Thames.

  “Aren’t you going to come back?”

  His emerald gaze froze her to the floor. “No. You need plenty of rest, Catherine. After tonight…I’m not sure when you’ll have it again.”

  If he were a godly man, he’d have been in the chapel on his knees for the past four hours. As a fully fledged sinner, he’d paced his library, emptied several jugs of wine, and ignored a tray of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread. How could Catherine possibly believe anyone other than the queen had instructed the soldiers? Her innocence and blind faith were both endearing and infuriating. And now, thanks to his brainless intervention, she slept upstairs instead of in a dark dungeon. Yes, they did have a temporary respite—the way the wind and rain were attacking the narrow windowpanes, there’d be no armed invasion of his home tonight—but dawn would bring a brutal reckoning. If not Mary’s men then Arundel’s creatures. His father’s spies seemed to discover news before anyone else, and family meant nothing when there was a monarch’s favor to be gained.

  Gripping a wine goblet so hard his knuckles whitened, Brand swore softly and took a long swallow. Then another. He was only halfway to a drunken stupor, and it couldn’t come fast enough. Maybe then he’d have a vision or conjure up some miraculous way to get Catherine and himself away from London before they were dragged to the Tower or had a sudden mishap with a street cart.

  “Brand?”

  With deliberate care, he turned slowly from the roaring fire that offered warmth and light but no comfort from the chills dancing up and down his spine. God’s blood. Instead of being safely tucked under a heap of embroidered quilts, Catherine stood in his library doorway wearing a simple linen nightgown created for a figure both less curvaceous and taller than she.

  “You should be abed, Catherine.”

  “You sound different. Have you…have you been drinking?”

  The gentle reproof in her voice made him want to down several more jugs of wine. “Most astute of you.”

  “I had a few sips of wine, but I still couldn’t sleep,” she said, twisting the folds of the nightgown in her hands until it pulled taut over her breasts, and his cock stirred. “I keep seeing Robbie’s face. The man who warned me. And…the cart that accidentally ran him down.”

  He snorted. “Yes. Accidentally.”

  “You don’t think it was?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” he snapped, angry at her naivety, furious at himself again for the wayward direction of his thoughts and the unwanted reaction of his body. “There is a mystery cloaking your father’s death, and a great many people are striving to ensure it stays unsolved. To the point of wishing you ill as well.”

  “The men with the weapons Lucas mentioned…they were waiting for me, weren’t they?”

  “Quite possibly,” he said bluntly, perching on the corner of his desk to halt the ridiculous pacing. “To what end, I’m not sure. Perhaps they merely wish to examine you, find out what you know.”

  Her shuddering gasp was overloud, ev
en against the crackle and spit of the fire and the storm raging outside. “Then I’ve placed you and Lucas in terrible danger. If they know you helped me today—”

  “They know. Every other Londoner is secretly in someone’s service. Always assume your enemy is swifter and smarter and progress from there.”

  “Brand,” she said softly, hurrying forward.

  Hell. Her unfettered breasts were bobbing under the nightgown with the movement. How easy it would be to undo the narrow ties, to shove the garment from her shoulders and kiss and suck her nipples until she arched her back and begged for more. What color might they be? Palest pink? Dark rose? A dusky brown?

  Draining his goblet, he held up an unsteady hand. “Don’t. Just go back upstairs, Catherine. Now. Sleep is imperative, we may need to leave before dawn.”

  She ignored the order, stepping closer and closer until he could smell the lemon scent of her hair, see the wild pulse beating in her throat. Then soft fingers closed around his arm and a jolt of heat tore through him.

  “Please don’t drink anymore. Please.”

  “Oh, you’re my conscience now? My confessor, perhaps? Forgive me, Saint Catherine, for I am beyond redemption.”

  “Brand.”

  “Just leave!”

  But she stood her ground, cheeks red yet chin raised defiantly. “Y-you are not my father. And I’m not l-leaving until you explain that kiss in the alley.”

  “A ruse to fool the guards. Nothing more.”

  “So you don’t wish to kiss me again?”

  His cock surged at the thought of that and so much more. No. He couldn’t. She was Arthur’s only child. His friend’s precious daughter. A pure, gentle virgin, the last woman in the world for the likes of him.

  “I do not. Now go to bed like a good girl.”

  Catherine tilted her head and regarded him for a long moment.

  “All right,” she whispered, and he almost groaned in relief.

  Until she went up on her toes and leaned in to brush her lips against his cheek. The first was swift, like greeting a friend. The second time her mouth lingered, opening slightly and releasing a tiny puff of warm air against his jaw.

  Brand stilled. “If you play with fire, you will get burned. I’m not a green boy. I’m not a damned courtier to stop at honeyed words, poems, and hot looks while dancing. And I’m certainly no gentleman. I’m a bastard, Catherine. In every sense—my mother was never married to my father. I have no honor to uphold. Arthur was the angel on my shoulder, and he is gone. Stay here and I will spread you across that desk and take you again and again for my own base pleasure because that is what I am. Darkness. Dangerous. If you value your maidenhead, go from here now.”

  She stared at him, her eyes huge sapphire pools. “I know well you are no boy. And our parents’ faults are not our own. But no gentleman? You showed me kindness when others walked by. No honor? You rescued me from those who meant to take me prisoner or worse. Our Lord blessed—”

  “God? God had nothing to do with it. I owed your father,” he said angrily, unable to bear the trust and affection in her gaze, the slight flush in her cheeks that spoke of a fledgling desire newly recognized. Damned foolish woman. Why didn’t she run?

  “Perhaps. But I am in your home. There are many other places. To end the obligation, to be free, you only needed to send me away.”

  “I will,” he bit out, turning his head away from her, at the limit of his control. “Tomorrow. To some high-ranking, sober Catholic courtier, born in wedlock, inclined to marry, and not averse to a learned female. And I won’t look back. Ever.”

  Instead of fleeing, either in temper or sorrow, she ran a tentative finger along his stubbled jaw. “Tis true, I can read and write. But would such a perfect husband be wholly content with that, or might he want more? For in the alley today you taught me how little I know of passion.”

  His control shattered entirely.

  One hand jerked up, clamping around Catherine’s wrist and pushing it behind her, forcing her closer and at the same time, arching her back. The other slid along the side of her face until his fingers tangled in the curls behind her ear and his thumb could drag across her lower lip. Back and forth until the flesh darkened and plumped, ready for the nip of his teeth and a soothing lick of his tongue.

  He wasn’t gentle, couldn’t be, too inflamed by the feel and taste of her faintly wine-scented mouth as he crushed her lips under his, spurred on by her ragged gasps. But soon it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough for the ravenous need that coursed through his body and hardened his cock to the point of pain.

  Never losing contact with her mouth, Brand shifted both hands to her waist, bunching up her nightgown and setting her on top of the desk. He stood between her bared thighs, a glimpsed thatch of dark hair almost his undoing. But no. Not yet. Her breasts had been the nightly torment of nearly a week now, and he would have his full enjoyment of them.

  He stepped back, reveling in her small cry of dismay.

  “Unfasten your nightgown,” he said so roughly, he scarcely recognized his own voice. Tonight he was truly the blackest of devils, tempting, daring an angel to sin. Surely she would say no. Surely she would now flee.

  But Catherine’s trembling hands reached up to comply, tugging at the ties, shrugging the garment from her shoulders and revealing the rounded tops of creamy-skinned perfection.

  He was doomed.…

  She was committing a terrible sin. One that would have her publicly whipped and shamed as the worst kind of harlot. Not wed, not in bed, not even in a bedchamber. Instead, she sat perched on a smooth wooden desk, linen nightgown bunched around her spread thighs, elbows pinned to her sides and breasts partially revealed.

  Catherine sucked in a shaky breath. And yet the queen’s entire army couldn’t have moved her from this place. After what Brand had done for her, what he’d risked to save her life, she desperately wanted to offer something in return. And he desired her, even as he battled against it. His kiss just now…she’d thought no kiss in the world could be more seductive, more demanding, more intoxicating than the one in the alley.

  No woman could be more wrong.

  She felt bewitched, like her overheated, trembling body was no longer her own, and would obey Brand’s every instruction without question. Frightening for her first taste of true passion, but at the same time exciting beyond measure.

  “Catherine.”

  Glancing up, she met his gaze and shivered. He’d told her the truth; darkness and danger swirled in the fathomless, molten emerald depths of his eyes.

  “Y-yes?”

  “Either go, or take your nightgown off. All the way.”

  Her cheeks ablaze, she shrugged again and the nightgown fell to her waist, her nipples puckering slightly without any protection against the coolness of the evening air.

  Brand reached up to cup her breasts, weighing their heavy fullness in his hands. Then his thumbs brushed across the tender tips, and she gasped.

  “I…”

  “Pale pink now,” he murmured, rubbing back and forth over the hardening peaks. “I wonder what hue after?”

  “After? After wh…ohh,” she said, embarrassed at the choked moan that escaped as his touch grew firmer. He alternated the stroking of her swollen nipples with a delicate thumb and forefinger pinch until they were so engorged and sensitive she could scarcely bear the delicious torment, until she couldn’t remain still on the polished desk.

  He smiled and lowered his head. Surely he wouldn’t…

  But he did, and a soft whimper broke from her lips when his tongue circled one aching nipple then lashed across the turgid peak. Over and over he repeated the action, until finally he took it in his mouth and sucked hard, every tug sending a shard of pure desire straight to her dampening core.

  Her cries of delight were overloud in the room, her hands unable to do anything but tangle in his brown hair, anything to hold him to her and ensure he never stopped. Nothing she’d read, nothing she’d seen of hasty cor
ner fumblings could have prepared her for this scorching reality, surely the guiltiest pleasure of all.

  “Darkest rose, sweet Carey,” he murmured gruffly as his head moved between her breasts, the stubble on his jaw a sensual contrast to the smoothness of his lips and tongue. “So sweet.”

  Eventually his hand slid a hot path down her side, coming to rest on her uncovered thigh. While his mouth continued its lush teasing of her nipples, his fingers began stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh. Around and around his thumb circled, inching steadily closer to the place burning for ease.

  “Please,” she begged, intoxicated by the wicked promise in his touch.

  Slowly his fingers trailed to her core, and lightly stroked the tight, moisture-soaked curls there. “So wet for me. So hot.”

  It felt so good she was unable to think, unable to feel shock or mortification at his words, her mind wholly focused on her body’s desperate need for something, anything to ease the unbearable ache between her legs. Then his thumb brushed a kernel of flesh so sensitive, she shuddered and moaned at the jolt of fierce pleasure.

  “I know, sweetheart. I know what you need, beautiful Carey.”

  “Brand!” she gasped, joy at the roughly whispered endearments only enhanced when he cupped her. Slowly, so slowly, palm pressing hard against her mound, his fingers surrounded that slick, swollen nub, rubbing and stroking and lightly pinching, pulling her tighter and tighter toward ecstasy, until finally she reached a point she’d never dreamed existed and shattered, her scream of release echoing in the room.

  Head awhirl, panting for air, she stared at Brand in wonder.

  He watched her, jaw set, perspiration dotting his forehead and temples. Shy at the intentness of his gaze, she glanced down.

  And gulped.

  Steeling herself against a strong fear of the unknown, all teachings of the church, the knowledge that her life would again be changed irreversibly from this moment, Catherine lifted her chin and attempted a warm smile of invitation.

  “D-do you want me to lie down here? Perhaps I could rest my head on your doublet? I know it is painful the f-first time for you must breach my maidenhead, so might you go s-slowly? No, actually, swiftly. If it is swift then it might not hurt so b-badly. I am not some silly girl, I know where your male part must go. I saw a draw—”