One Forbidden Knight

by Nicola Davidson

  “Are you happy with the tents, Sir Brand?” said Lucas, crouching to stoke the fire.

  Glancing over, he admired the three makeshift shelters. They’d draped sheets of dark green canvas over thick branches, securing the bottom edge to the ground with sturdy wooden pegs through small brass circles, and smaller sheets had been unrolled inside the structures to act as a floor. There was definitely something to be said for employing ex-soldiers.

  “Excellent work.”

  “What are we going to do tonight?” said Catherine. “Will someone keep watch?”

  All the men paused and looked at him expectantly.

  “We’ll take shifts,” said Brand decisively. “I’ll take the first, then you lot decide amongst yourselves who will stand guard until morning. You are free to rest after supper, I want us to be packed up and back on the road to Guildford at daybreak.”

  Over the next few hours they played cards, but eventually his men and Lucas abandoned the game for bed. Soon, he and Catherine sat alone on a fallen log, hands stretched toward the fire for warmth, with a heavy woolen blanket covering their legs and cloaks securely fastened around their shoulders. Even so, the seeping chill numbed his toes and ears, and tiny white clouds danced in front of him when he breathed.

  Catherine shivered and wrapped her arms around her stomach.

  “Saints be praised this is only for one night.”

  He nodded. “Arthur would not approve of our outdoor sojourn. Actually, I don’t think the horses approve either. Far too used to their warm stables and unending supply of oats and hay.”

  “You are very good with them. Did your father teach you?”

  Before he thought to temper his reaction, he’d recoiled, his fists clenching. “No.”

  “I’m so sorry, that was awful of me. You don’t have to say anything,” she said, and he forced himself to meet her embarrassed gaze. Clearly she’d just remembered what he’d told her in his library about his illegitimacy.

  Perhaps it was the intimacy of the campsite so far away from London, perhaps just his utter weariness, but beyond all reason, he wanted to tell her about his upbringing.

  “It’s a long story,” he said hesitantly.

  “Well, we do have a few hours to occupy until the next watch takes over. If you want to share, I mean.”

  Brand took a deep breath.

  “I only met my father five years ago,” he began. “He is a wealthy nobleman who sowed his wild oats as a page in King Henry’s court and turned his back on a rather naive young lady when she told him of her pregnancy. His relatives were most displeased and made terrible trouble for my mother, but fortunately her own family forgave the sin and took her back, babe and all. My grandfather oversaw my studies, and my uncle, a soldier, taught me how to ride, fish, and handle a sword.”

  “How wonderful you had them. I bet you were a rough-and-tumble boy.”

  “Indeed I was. There were a few village lads who joined in on the odd adventure, but most weren’t permitted to speak to me or my mother because of the scandal of my birth. She was too well-known for it to be hidden, and gossip travels remarkably well.”

  Catherine flinched. “Do you still see your grandfather and uncle often?”

  An old arrow of pain delved deep, and he took a moment to watch the bright yellow flames and orange sparks of the campfire for composure.

  “Unfortunately, they both passed long ago. That is why when my mother fell ill, I was determined she have the best doctor in England, Arthur Linwood. I do not care for my true father, but his connections enabled me to secure Arthur’s expertise, and that is a service I shall not forget.”

  Catherine made a muffled sound, and he jerked his head around. Her eyes remained dry, but she was biting her plump lower lip hard.

  “He was the best. Wasn’t he? Not a b-butcher.”

  Unthinkingly, he reached over and took her hand in his. “Those guards were fools, spreading practiced lies. Never believe anything other than your father had a remarkable gift for healing.”

  “Papa helped so many people. He didn’t care whether they were nobleman, farmer, or fishwife. But sometimes I had selfish thoughts. So selfish I had to attend confession twice as often.”

  His lips twitched at the grave tone. “Really?”

  “I wished…I wished he weren’t quite so good, because he was always being called away to tend the sick. When he was home, we would go for walks around London and eat pasties from stalls. In our rooms he would read aloud and teach me things so I could assist in examinations. Sometimes I was so lonely without him I thought it might break me. Courtiers are too…changeable…to be true friends.”

  Hell. Brand turned back to the campfire. He didn’t want open honesty, no knowledge they might have much in common despite their very different lives. Even sitting here speaking of the past and cradling her hand was madness.

  The brutal lust that coursed through his body whenever he thought about the alley kiss or interlude in his library was bad enough. But to succumb to deeper feelings, to allow lust to become something more would be the worst mistake of his mistake-riddled life. He had to concentrate on solving the mystery of Arthur’s death and keep Catherine safe until she found the husband she deserved. He must definitely not think of her sitting near a fire in a far different location, smiling and talking as she nursed a brown-haired babe at her breast…

  “Brand!”

  He blinked. “What is the matter?”

  “You’re crushing my hand.”

  “Sorry,” he said quickly, dropping it and folding his arms.

  “I won’t talk about myself anymore, I promise. Tell me…tell me about your mother instead. Is she well?”

  Brand sighed in relief at the easier topic.

  “Very much so. But she chooses to remain in the country, on our lands in West Berkshire. I would stay there too. London…court life…is not for me.”

  “I understand. When I was a child, Papa was the personal physician to Lord Clinton and his family.”

  “Bessie Blount’s husband?”

  “Don’t say it like that, she was wonderfully kind to my mother and me. I often played with the Clinton girls, and attended their lessons when Papa went away with the baron. They traveled everywhere, France, Scotland, and told us jaw-dropping tales on their return. I didn’t want to leave when we were summoned to court, but Papa was renowned for his doctoring by then.”

  “Do you keep in touch with Baron Clinton?”

  “Not really. He’s so busy, and up to his third wife now!”

  “Foolish man,” he said laughing, only to halt when a discreet cough sounded.

  Glancing up in surprise, he saw two servants ready to take up watch duties. Had he and Catherine really been talking for so long?

  Slowly rising, grimacing as his numb feet refused to walk without stumbling, he guided Catherine into her tent.

  “Take this,” he said, unfolding a blanket as she settled onto the rock-hard ground. “Try and get some rest.”

  “Where will you be?”

  Brand hesitated, his reply stalling at her pale cheeks, the tremor in her voice.

  “Here. I’ll be here,” he said instead, wanting to give himself a hard shake even as he spread out a second blanket and lay down on the opposite side of the tent. Reason had fled the day he met Catherine Linwood, so what was one more foolish act?

  She smiled gratefully and closed her eyes, but his remained wide open.

  A mere foot away lay the most luscious temptation he had ever known. And somewhere out beyond the trees, a small army might even now be closing in with deadly intent.

  A more accurate definition of heaven and hell, he couldn’t imagine.

  Chapter Five

  “Catherine. Wake up.”

  Keeping her eyes firmly shut, she shook her head and burrowed further into her deliciously warm bed. The pillowcase was coarser than she remembered, but that hardly mattered, not when she felt so wonderfully content. Safe.

  Sighing hap
pily, Catherine stretched and flexed against the firm mattress. It rubbed nicely against her breasts and that forbidden place between her legs, too nice really, and she couldn’t help doing it again.

  “For the love of God, woman. Wake up.”

  She frowned. Her bed was talking. And in pain?

  One eyelid inched open. It took a moment to adjust to the gloomy darkness barely tempered by a pale beam of light, but with awareness came pure embarrassment.

  Sweet heaven. She was in a tent and actually lying on top of Brand, her breasts pressed hard against his massive chest and her legs partially spread by one muscular thigh. The coarse pillowcase was his cloak.

  “I’m sorry!” Catherine gasped, face flaming and hands flailing as she attempted to untangle her gown and cloak and climb off him.

  Hands gripped her waist like a vice.

  “Stop. Wriggling.”

  Confused by Brand’s rough tone, his short, panting breaths, she lifted slightly and stared down at him. And felt the bulge nudging her left hip.

  Oh.

  Gulping a harsh breath of her own, she didn’t say a word as he grimaced and shifted, his body rigid with tension beneath her. Intrigued, she turned her head downward and watched in rapt fascination as the bulge hardened and lengthened.

  Wickedly unbidden, her left hand slid down and stroked him, once then twice.

  Brand groaned, his back arching to force his male part harder against her palm, but just as quickly, fingers clamped around her wrist and pulled her away.

  “Don’t! What are you doing?” she said. “Please, let me, ahh!—”

  The indignant yelp tore from her throat as in one swift, mind-spinning movement, he half-lifted and set her well away from him.

  “No.”

  “But why?” she said boldly. “You…you wanted me to touch you, I know you did.”

  “And you know so little of men. That often happens in the morning…and any woman will do.”

  In another place, in another tone, the comment would have been a dagger to the heart. But Brand was so tense, his hands uncharacteristically clumsy as he attempted to yank one boot onto the wrong foot, and without unfastening the buckle.

  “Oh really?” she said slowly, deliberately lifting the hem of her gown to her knees to smooth her stockings and put on her own shoes. “Any woman?”

  His eyes closed briefly. “Damnation, Carey. I can’t. I bloody can’t. Besides, when this is all over, when you’re back in London safe, well, and in favor again, you’ll feel differently and be very glad I said no.”

  Carey.

  Heart lifting, Catherine shuffled onto her knees, leaned toward him, and let her fingertips caress his chest. “You think I could just forget everything that has happened? Well, I will not. That my affection is so fickle? No, it is not. That there might be a day when I do not dream of the way you kissed me, your touch on my breasts or between my legs when you showed me such pleasure? You ask too much.”

  For the longest moment he stared at her, his gaze hot and hungry. One hand tucked a stray curl behind her ear, the light, brief caress making her whimper.

  Kiss me, Brand. Please, please, kiss me.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s getting light. We have to get back on the road to Guildford. I’ll go and fetch some washing water.”

  And with that, he scrambled out of the tent and marched away.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she concentrated fiercely on re-plaiting her hair, brushing her clothing as best she could and once outside, toasting the last of the bread and cheese for the men’s breakfast. An hour later they were packed up and on their way, but Brand hardly spoke a word for the rest of the day’s journey, even holding himself rigidly on their horse so he barely touched her.

  When they finally entered the town of Guildford, she—and her aching backside—nearly cheered in relief. A town square had never looked so good, the thought of escaping the bleak and chilly afternoon for an inn with soft beds, roaring fire, mulled wine, and food other than bread or cheese, making her squirm.

  “Sir Brand,” said Lucas, pulling up beside them, his young mount stepping and dropping its head in sheer fatigue. “What do you propose, an inn first or scatter to see what we can discover about Doctor Linwood? Is there a certain area? A family we must look for?”

  Brand shifted in the saddle behind her.

  “We haven’t much time before nightfall, so I think we tie up the horses then scatter. We are looking for the family of Robbie Blacksmith. He was the last person to see Arthur alive.”

  “Why don’t we just ask Robbie?”

  Catherine shuddered and crossed herself, as once again the memory of the young man’s gruesome death clawed her mind and heart. “Because Robbie is dead, Lucas. He was pushed in front of a cart by the soldiers for warning me of danger.”

  The lad’s dark eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. Well. I must say, Catherine, it would surely help if you told us what your father did—”

  “Lucas!” Brand hissed.

  “It would help,” said Lucas, his expression stormy. “Because this doesn’t seem like a small thing such as…I don’t know…kissing the queen’s maids or besting her favorite in a tournament. She is so angry. And two people are dead already.”

  Sick despair slumped her shoulders.

  “That is the problem,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t know what he did. Or said.”

  “He might not have done or said anything,” snapped Brand as he slid off the horse. “We all know court rumors are often wrong, yet swiftly spread by those with a grudge or someone wanting to usurp a position. Tis a viper’s nest at the best of times. But we won’t get to the truth until we find Robbie’s relatives. Let’s pair off and search. We’ll stable the horses at that inn over there, and meet again at dusk.”

  Brand quickly secured lodgings and supper from the smilingly deferential innkeeper who came outside to greet them. Then the other four men left to begin the search for Robbie’s family.

  Catherine wrapped her arms around herself, discreetly flexing muscles cramped and sore from sitting in a saddle for the best part of two days and sleeping on the hard ground. Now they were here in Guildford, she wished she were anywhere else.

  Her eyes had been opened to a different world, one of the glorious pleasures that might be found between a man and woman, certainly, but now she also knew much of dark and ugly matters. Of violent deaths, merciless orders, and cruel lies. Surely Mary didn’t know of these evil deeds. How could she?

  And yet, a devil of doubt whispered, how could she not?

  “Catherine? Are you well? You’ve gone very pale.”

  “I’m afraid,” she admitted reluctantly, almost unable to meet Brand’s steady gaze. “Being here, it makes everything so real. That Papa is never coming back, and my desire to find the truth might put even more lives in danger. What if we discover something truly a-awful, either about my father or—”

  “The queen,” he finished bluntly. “I strongly suspect the latter.”

  “Oh, of course you do. But you’ve never even met her, Brand! How do you think this is for me, knowing someone I loved and served my whole life could have…”

  Unable to even say the wicked, sinful words, she buried her face in her hands.

  Brand cursed, and she wept harder at the thought of him angry with her, until he hauled her into his arms and stroked her hair.

  “Don’t cry, Carey,” he said gruffly, his lips just brushing her cheek. “I would know the truth as much as you. We’ll find it, I know we will. And whatever it is, you won’t be alone.”

  Held tightly against his warm, hard chest, she almost believed him.

  How many Blacksmiths could there be in one bloody town?

  It was increasingly difficult to keep a smile on his face as they were politely fare-thee-welled from yet another unrelated family. He and Catherine had been trudging up and down the narrow, muddy streets of Guildford for hours now, even along the river Wey and as far up a
s the sternly imposing Guildford Castle. Several times it seemed like they had gained a promising snippet of information, only for it to lead nowhere.

  “It’s no use,” said Catherine miserably, her steps dragging heavily in the borrowed wooden shoes. “We’ll never find Robbie’s family. And it’s getting dark.”

  Brand gritted his teeth, hating to admit defeat, but she was right. The night offered an enemy both cover and an easy escape; while they weren’t being followed at present, people were beginning to watch them and he didn’t want to risk Catherine’s safety in a surprise attack. “We will find them. Perhaps not tonight, but in the morning. Besides, the others might have news and even now the right family could be waiting for us.”

  “How…how long do you think we have?”

  “I don’t know. We traveled discreetly and with a destination in mind. Guildford may not be the soldiers’ first choice, but I still wouldn’t dare expect any more than a few days.”

  “And then I’ll be arrested. Do you think the Tower, Brand? Or—”

  “No,” he growled, coming to a halt on the footpath, taking her cool hands in his and chafing them. “I won’t let them take you. Understand?”

  Catherine stared up at him, her ashen cheeks only emphasizing the deep blue of her eyes, the soft pink of her lips. Unable to resist, he lifted his other hand and traced her trembling lower lip with his thumb.

  “I understand,” she replied softly, and in one swift movement she tilted her head so he cupped her cheek. Then she turned, her gaze never leaving his, and kissed his open palm.

  Sensation sparked through him, and he sucked in a harsh breath. How much temptation could one sinner be expected to take?

  Not even an icy stream plunge had been enough to quell his cock after Catherine used him as her feather bed, and the saddle tortured him the rest of the journey. Now when she looked at him with those huge, thickly-lashed eyes and kissed him, it took every ounce of control he had not to drag her into another alley and take her until he collapsed.

  “Let’s go back to the inn,” he said, lust roughening his tone to a near-growl. “I’m sure you would welcome some food and wine.”