One Forbidden Knight

by Nicola Davidson

  A harsh curse interrupted her babble.

  “Brand?” she said, lifting one hand to hesitantly cup his cheek.

  He jerked away. “Don’t.”

  “I shouldn’t touch you? I’m sorry. I’m very new at this.”

  “You shouldn’t even be here. This is foolish, all wrong. I’m the…damnation!” he snapped, stepping well back from her and running a violent hand through his hair.

  Aghast at the words, she blinked. Tears gathered in her eyes and shivers ran through her body as it rapidly cooled. What had she done wrong? “Brand?”

  “Leave me, Catherine, please. Go to your chamber.”

  “But you—”

  “Go!” he roared, a sweep of his arm sending a quill and empty inkpot crashing to the floor.

  Humiliation scorching her cheeks, she yanked her nightgown back up over her shoulders, awkwardly slid from the desk, and fled the room. Eyes half-blinded by tears, she didn’t stop until she could hurl herself onto the wide bed in the guest chamber and sob into a pillow.

  How fast one could travel from the glorious heat of passion to the icy chill of rejection.

  Indeed, today had truly been the best and the worst.

  Chapter Four

  He’d nearly taken a devout virgin, his friend’s daughter, on a desk.

  Stumbling into a chair, Brand winced at the throbbing, unrelieved agony of the hugest erection of his life, while at the same time welcoming the pain as punishment for his unspeakable transgression.

  It had been a close thing. He’d enjoyed a few women since Therese’s death, but none of those encounters came close to the mindless lust he felt for Catherine. The kiss in the alley revealed a startlingly passionate innocent, willing to submit to him entirely. But this was so much more. Her exquisite body, unwrapped like a and generously offered to him without restriction, without the rigid expectation of gifts and favors in return. About the opposite from Therese. Every hurried, unsatisfying coupling with his wife had been a reluctant bargain struck. Fully dressed, in the dark, and a bleak, tense atmosphere of minimal touching, muttered prayers and her palpable disgust.

  But Carey…

  Brand closed his eyes and groaned, tortured with visions of her lush nakedness. The way she pleaded and writhed in pleasure when he’d stroked and sucked her nipples, the screaming climax when he’d attended to the swollen, pouting nub between her thighs. God. What would it be like with a finger inside her tight heat? Her musky sweetness drenching his tongue? Carey on her hands and knees, breathlessly urging him on as he took her hard from behind, filled her to overflowing with his seed?

  If she belonged to him, he would show her every pleasure. Hold her every night, eventually cradle her rounded belly in his hands as their son or daughter grew strong and healthy within her. For Carey would welcome his child, not get rid of it…

  His eyes flew open, the thought like plunging into an icy bath.

  Marriage? A child?

  Clearly he’d reached his limit of mind-turning events for a day. One marriage was quite enough for any man, to even ponder anything different invited naught but disaster. He might have wealth, but he was no prize. Not to mention Carey’s dangerous predicament, a shocking plummet from grace with the queen.

  Tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, Brand stared at the dwindling fire in the hearth. That was the strangest thing of all. The Linwoods had been firm favorites at the Tudor court for years. Arthur had even named his daughter for Mary and the queen’s beloved late mother Catherine of Aragon. If Arthur’s death wasn’t natural causes, what could the good doctor possibly have done to anger Mary so greatly that he would be killed for it, and all evidence concealed?

  “One man knew,” he muttered aloud. “And fell under a cart, God rest him.”

  An urgent knock at the library door interrupted his musings.

  “Come in,” he called, and one of his men appeared in saturated clothing. “Damn, man, look at you. Take some wine, get in front of the fire before you freeze to death.”

  “No time, Sir Brand. I’ve come from the palace.”

  A chill shot down his spine and he leapt to his feet.

  “What is it?”

  “A small army assembling. They are coming for the lady at first light. You must send her away now, sir, then you can—”

  “No. Mistress Linwood goes with me,” he said sharply, the words tumbling from his mouth and surprising them both. “Tell the stable hand to ready horses for myself and Master Lucas, and get yourself dry and warm. We travel within the hour.”

  The servant bowed and hurried away.

  Running upstairs, he pounded on Lucas’s door and pushed it open. “On your feet, boy, we’re away from here.”

  Lucas scrambled out of bed fully dressed, picked up a scuffed pair of boots and hoisted a bulging satchel onto his shoulder. “Ready.”

  “Good,” he said gruffly, impressed at the lad’s foresight.

  “I just hope you have a better plan to escape the sovereign than my parents did. Although they were actually within Hampton Court. We have a slight head start and the queen isn’t fixed on marrying you…wait, are you planning on deposing King Phillip and wedding Mary yourself? Because that isn’t a smart plan at all. She is old and not very pretty. Possibly a little crazy too—”

  “No,” Brand ground out, unable to suppress a shudder. “Never. Not for all the gold and dukedoms in the kingdom would I wed the queen. Now go downstairs and help with the horses. Mistress Linwood and I will follow anon.”

  Turning, he strode down the hallway to his own chamber, then swiftly picked up a large oiled leather satchel and packed like a soldier—minimum comfort and maximum practicality. Two changes of hose, undershirt and doublet, and on top he rested several sheathed daggers of various sizes and a large bag of coins. Collecting his most comfortable pair of boots, he took a deep breath and made his way to Catherine’s chamber.

  Surprisingly, she sat on the edge of the bed, holding her clothing in her arms.

  “Catherine,” he said, far more curtly than he intended. “Guards are coming from the palace. We must go at once.”

  “I know,” she replied, not meeting his gaze. “I mean, I guessed when I heard you running up the stairs. Might I borrow some clothing? My gown is fit only for burning and my shoes are still in that alley.”

  He strode past her into a small adjoining room and gathered stockings, petticoat, chemise and corset, a simple dark blue woolen gown, heavy black hooded cloak and a pair of wooden shoes, then returned to the chamber. All the items had belonged to his mother so were several years out of style, but they would be comfortable enough for the journey.

  “Here,” he said. “I’ll help you with your laces.”

  Catherine fumbled with the garments, holding them against herself as she attempted to remove her nightgown with one hand. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “We have not the time for this,” he said impatiently. “And there is not one inch of your body I have not seen already.”

  She finally looked at him then, her expression a war of embarrassment, sorrow, and anger. “You need not remind me of that folly. Please leave.”

  “Catherine,” he said, gentling his tone as much as he was able, “I won’t look. But for the love of God, now is not the occasion to fight me.”

  “Well,” she snapped. “Do it then!”

  Gritting his teeth, he turned around and stared blankly at the wall, tapping his fingers on his thigh as he listened to the rustle and rasp of clothing being discarded and put on. Actually, she was dressing with admirable speed and efficiency. Therese had always taken hours to get ready, with the help of at least two chambermaids.

  “All right?”

  “Yes, Sir Brandon.”

  He turned back. Catherine wore the stockings, chemise and petticoat, and had the corset held up to her front with the laces falling behind her. Before she had time to change her mind he stepped forward and carefully threaded the laces in a crisscross pattern, pullin
g them tight as he went. Damned annoying things, corsets. Significantly easier to unfasten than fasten. Finally he lifted the gown over her head, knotting the ties at the sides, back, and sleeves.

  She stepped into the shoes, fastened a small drawstring bag to the sash at her waist and folded the cloak over her arm. “Where will we go? To your country home? By the by, I must warn you I’m a poor rider.”

  He stuffed her nightgown into his satchel to gain a moment to think.

  “You’ll share with me,” he said eventually, his mind racing. There really was only one place they could go. “And no, we won’t go to my mother. They will look for us there first. To have any chance of solving this mystery, we must travel to where it began. The town where your father died.”

  The storm had created havoc in London, the cobbled streets awash with mud, bits of wood and stone, and half-starved animals attacking sacks of grain and ruined market produce. Fortunately for their group of six—her and Brand, Lucas, and three servants with flaming torches to light their way—the sharp-eyed residents in need of coins and ale were sheltering in their homes with doors and shutters securely locked.

  It was a painstaking process as the horses stepped around treacherous debris and splashed through deep and murky puddles. Her nerves were permanently on edge as she sat rigidly in the saddle, constantly watching for movement, ears straining in the freezing darkness for any sound not of their making.

  “Catherine. If you don’t relax, you won’t be able to walk later.”

  She shivered at Brand’s whisper in her ear. It was beyond tempting to do so, to lean back against the huge, solid warmth and protection of his chest, tuck her head into his neck again, and be soothed by the rocking motion of the fine thoroughbred’s rhythmic gait.

  Under no circumstances would she do that. Brand had made it perfectly clear what he thought of her, his utter rejection of her wanton behavior couldn’t have been more explicit. She wouldn’t give him a single further reason to dislike her, to goad him into abandoning her to the queen’s men. “I’m fine, thank you,” she muttered, pulling her cloak tighter around her body.

  He sighed but said nothing further, and they rode in silence for hours, from the time the first rays of dawn streaked the dark sky, to the point where the winter sun was a pale orb, high above them. On another occasion she might have asked to stop and admire the fresh beauty of the Surrey woods and meadows or the pretty thatched-roof cottages dotting the tranquil landscape. But they were moving at a reasonably brisk trot now. Every mile between them and London offered safety and a much-needed buffer to find answers before anyone else in Guildford knowing the truth about her father’s death was silenced forever.

  Abruptly, Brand called a halt and guided their mount into a small clearing.

  “We’ll stop here for a bite to eat. There is bread, cheese, and wine in my saddlebags.”

  Lucas practically vaulted off his horse toward the food source, and she smiled.

  “Save some for me, Lucas,” Catherine said, more amused as he rummaged frantically through the bags like a man unfed for weeks. “My stomach has been grumbling this past hour.”

  “That was your stomach?” said Brand, “I thought surely the thunderclaps of a storm to flatten the entire county—”

  He coughed, and she quickly removed her wayward elbow from his flat, hard belly, her cheeks hot. The action had been instinctive, as if he teased her often and she responded in kind.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, horrified.

  Brand dismounted from their horse, digging into another saddlebag for a handful of oats and rubbing the magnificent ebony animal’s neck while it ate directly from his palm.

  “No you aren’t.”

  “A truth,” she snapped, then clamped a hand over her mouth. What on earth was wrong with her? Fortunately the servants were in a circle several feet away, eating their own rations and talking amongst themselves, and didn’t witness her lapse.

  His gaze met hers, but shockingly, there was no anger there. Just…laughter?

  “I shall keep in mind your preferred method of retribution, considering our close proximity for the rest of the journey. Now let’s get you fed while there are still crumbs remaining.”

  Lucas snorted. “Not my fault if you pigeons wish to bill and coo rather than eat. This cheese is tasty.”

  “That cheese is to feed the three of us, piglet,” said Brand, coming around to help her down from the horse. She winced as she touched the ground, her legs cold and cramped from the icy wind that had swirled up and under her petticoat and gown. Stockings were lovely, but she would give all she owned for a pair of thick hose like the men wore.

  Gratefully accepting a serving of crusty bread and hard, crumbling cheese, she ate quickly then gulped down several mouthfuls of wine from a flagon. It was a rich burgundy, potent enough to make her eyes water, but the resulting warmth in her belly was sheer bliss.

  A quarter hour later they were on their way again, and she craned her head, looking for any clues of an impending town.

  “Are we very far from Guildford, do you think?”

  “If we can keep a good pace, and barring any injuries to the horses, I think we should reach there by late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “As long as that?” she said, blinking in surprise and dismay. “I thought the town was little more than a day’s hard ride from London.”

  “Perhaps in summertime, when the road is firm and dry. When it’s muddy and rutted like this, it is far too dangerous to gallop, a horse could break a leg or slip and throw its rider. We’ll find a place to make camp for the night, my men have sheets of canvas and wooden pegs to fashion into several tents. And wool blankets for warmth. It will be a bit damp and uncomfortable, but adequate.”

  “When we reach Guildford, can we look straight away for Robbie’s family?”

  “Yes,” he said, skillfully guiding their mount around a section of muddy, cart-gouged road. “Hopefully we’ll have time to find an adequate inn and walk the town to make some enquiries before darkness sets in. Best to start in the area where your father treated his noble patients. It is difficult this time of year, we really are limited in hours of daylight, and in our current situation it’s not safe to be wandering a place we don’t know.”

  Catherine couldn’t control a shudder. “Brand…I…”

  “I know this is a terrifying predicament to be in. But I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he said softly, his lips so close to her ear they occasionally brushed it. She briefly closed her eyes at the blessed promise, even as a wave of mortifying desire gripped her. It seemed her body refused to listen to reason, refused to remember his utter rejection in the library no matter how vividly her mind recalled it.

  “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you because of me. You’ve already done so much to help me, when you owe me nothing.”

  For a moment, his arms tightened around her waist, as if she’d said something entirely objectionable.

  “Arthur…you’re Arthur’s daughter,” he said finally, his voice oddly flat. “For that reason alone, I owe you everything. Perhaps you don’t know all he did for me, but saving my mother’s life was just the beginning. I was on a dark path after my wife died, so in many ways he saved my life, too.”

  Catherine froze as the word repeated over and over in her head, almost to the beat of the horse’s hooves.

  Wife. Wife. Wife.

  “Y-you were married?” she choked out.

  There was a long pause, so long she dreaded his answer more.

  “Yes, to Lady Therese Fairfax, for a short while,” he said curtly. “We’d only been wed six months when she…when she died unexpectedly. That’s nearly five years ago now.”

  Nausea roiled in her belly. She’d never met Therese. The blond beauty had been several years older and her superior in all ways: elegant, charming, the pride of an ancient and wealthy Catholic family. But she remembered the lady’s passing, mourned by an entire court it seemed.

  No wonde
r in all that time Brand had never remarried.

  No wonder he’d sent her away from his library.

  He was still desperately in love with his dead wife.

  The light was fading fast now, so fast even the pretty woodlands were turning a dull gray, but they’d found a decent place to stop for the night. About a quarter mile from the road, the site boasted a small, relatively flat clearing cunningly hidden behind a dense group of trees and a narrow, knee-deep stream nearby for water.

  Under the guise of rubbing down the horses, Brand let his forehead rest briefly on a warm flank.

  God’s blood he was tired. Not to mention in desperate need of a few barrels of wine, and to lose himself completely in the sweet, hot depths of an experienced woman. Anything to take his mind off Catherine Linwood. It was definitely a good thing he’d told her about Therese. Now she had pieced the story together, she would keep her distance, safe in her disgust, in her horror at the truth of what he was.

  “Sir Brand! Supper is ready,” called one of his men, and he waved a hand to show he was on his way.

  Securing each of the horses to a low, long branch, he ambled back toward the fire where the rest of the party sat devouring chunks of bread coated in cheese that Catherine had prepared. She hadn’t stopped. Not for a moment. Over and over he’d been reminded how useful women outside the nobility were, as she’d gathered wood for a fire, set a pot to boil water, even expertly bandaged Lucas’s palm when he scraped it on a stray tent peg.

  “That food smells good,” he said, dropping down onto a fallen log.

  Catherine immediately handed him two large chunks of the bread. “I hope so. I can make more, although we might want to save some for breakfast.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I will in a minute. I just need to—”

  “Sit down, Catherine.”

  Reluctantly, she perched on the log beside him and nibbled at her own supper.