“However?” She could sense there was more to this story.
“However . . .” All traces of Conrad’s scowl disappeared, his gaze intense and . . . something more. Cait’s insides clenched in anticipation of his next words. “There’s much to look favorably upon as well.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Such as?”
“Such as”—Conrad moved his mount closer toward hers—“such as tonight. When we can have that discussion, finally.”
Again, she clenched tightly at the words he did not say.
“Discussion . . . ?”
“Aye, my lady. The one where I show you precisely what you’ve missed these past years hiding away at Bradon Moor.”
Cait’s breath caught at his implication.
That kiss had been such a small taste, one that had merely left her ravenous for more.
“I . . . I’ve missed you,” she said sincerely.
“Oh no, Lady Cait. You’ve little notion of what you have missed when you stopped corresponding with me.” But his tone wasn’t bitter, as it had been just a few days earlier, and he ended with a grin. “But I plan to rectify that. This eve.”
Chapter 19
Cait sat across from him, the only space available, atop a log that appeared to have been strategically placed there for her. They’d made camp, and Cait had ducked into Conrad’s tent to change into the hose and loose linen shirt Sabine had found. By the time she returned, the men had already taken seats around the fire.
Although the day had been cool, the night remained somehow temperate. A full moon, coupled with a cloudless sky, offered as beautiful a night as Cait had seen since leaving Bradon Moor.
“I hadn’t realized the sky could be so beautiful here.”
The men looked at her.
“In England,” she said hesitantly. Not wanting them to think she disparaged their home, Cait clarified, “’Tis lovely here. I . . .” She stopped, Conrad’s grin contagious.
“Our village healer,” said Jeffrey, a man sitting next to her, “said that if a male child is born on the fifth day after a new moon, he will be virtuous and loyal, courageous and steadfast. He will be physically healthy and live long.”
Conrad rolled his eyes. “Were you born on the fifth day after the new moon, Jeffrey?”
Cait tried not to laugh. The young man seemed very sincere in his belief.
“I was.” He lifted his chin, and his flagon.
“I wonder . . .” She accepted a bit of roasted chicken, wondering where they’d gotten the meat. The crated chickens that had come with them from Licheford had been sent along to London with the men, and they had no permits to hunt on this land. “What would your healer have said if the babe was a female?”
Jeffery looked decidedly guilty and offered no response. He was prompted by a kick from the man seated next to him. Was his name Godwin?
“Uh. Well. If it is a female, she will be virile, quarrelsome, and vindictive, but honest nevertheless.”
Conrad burst out laughing, and Cait somehow kept a straight face.
“Quarrelsome and vindictive?”
“Aye, my lady,” Jeffery rushed to explain, “but I do not believe it to be so.”
“But honest,” Conrad managed across from her. His eyes danced in the moonlight, and Cait wished more than anything that she were closer to him.
“And virile,” Godwin added. “A man would be so lucky to have such a woman.”
Their laughter rang out, but it was decidedly at Jeffrey’s expense, and Cait took pity on the poor lad.
“I jest with you,” she said. “I do believe the moon has many special powers.” Cait shifted on the log under her. “But this is certainly not one.”
“Besides”—Conrad stretched his legs out in front of him and looked at Jeffrey—“I need no moon to tell me you are both virtuous and loyal.”
It was stated casually, but Cait could tell Jeffrey did not take it so. The young man beamed as if his lord had just offered high praise, which indeed he had.
For the rest of the meal, she listened to the men’s banter and sometimes participated in it, but her eyes continued to stray to Conrad. In the few days since she’d come to Licheford, Cait had seen plenty of evidence to suggest he was a man of grace and honor, that he still possessed the very qualities she’d fallen for all those years ago.
And she had nearly let him go.
When their eyes met, Conrad’s words, once again, came back to her.
But I plan to rectify that. This eve.
She could tell he must be thinking the same, but neither of them moved. Instead, he continued to converse with his men, all the while watching her. By the time Conrad stood, Cait wasn’t sure if her legs would carry her.
Holding out his hand, Conrad stood before her. She could feel the others’ eyes on them, but Cait had dispensed with any notions of propriety when she and the women had concocted their plan. She took his hand and rose, expecting him to release her once she did. Instead, Conrad wove his fingers through hers. If he’d not already announced their relationship to the countess the day before, such a display would have surely done so to the men who were watching them.
He led her to the tent and lifted the flap, only then releasing her so she could enter. It struck her then that they hadn’t spoken of his words to Lady Lennox, which surely hadn’t helped shore up his relations with the woman. It would be best if they stuck to the cousin façade in the future.
“We should speak of what you said to Lady—”
He spun her around. Two hands grasped the sides of her face as Conrad’s lips silenced the remainder of her words. He kissed her so deeply, and so thoroughly, that she completely forgot about everything, save the feel of him.
When his hands dropped to her waist, Cait held them there. She wanted to be even closer, to feel the warmth of his skin. When he reached up to cup her breasts, she moaned under his touch, keeping her own hands over his.
Conrad broke off then, looking down at his own hands. When he closed his eyes and moaned, she thought at first it was a sound of pleasure, until he looked at her again. Dropping his hands, he looked at her as if it were the first time he’d seen her that eve.
“What is it?”
When he stepped away, Cait could hardly see him, though she could hear him moving in the dark.
“Conrad?”
No answer. She could see him lower to the ground, to the bedroll she’d laid out earlier.
“Come here,” he said, his voice husky.
She sat next to him, Conrad’s face illuminated just barely from the moonlight seeping in through the tent’s walls.
“Lie with me.”
Confused, Cait pulled off her boots and tossed them aside. She turned to him then, her gaze drawn to the opening in his linen shirt.
“Do not look at me so,” he said, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear.
But Cait could not hide the desire he’d awoken in her. Indeed, she didn’t wish to try.
“Perhaps this will be better.”
Pulling her down next to him, her back to him, Conrad positioned her so that her head was tucked just below his, against his chest.
“I’d have easily taken you, here in a tent, unwed.” One arm wrapped around her shoulders. “I do not think when you’re near. It has always been so. From that very first day.”
The honor she’d always admired in him nearly choked her now, knowing it was responsible for the dousing of the fire he had ignited.
How had she not guessed that straightaway?
“I’d easily have been taken. Here. In a tent. Unwed,” she admitted.
Cait clasped her hand over his.
“’Tis not what you deserve.”
Cait had many thoughts about what she deserved, but none of them were worth mentioning now. She knew he would not wish to hear them.
“Because I am Terric’s sister.”
His silence was her answer.
“Even if we are betrothed?”
; “But we are not . . .”
She could feel his breath on her neck.
“I am sorry for lying to the countess.”
“Are you?”
More silence. Then, “No, I am not. The way she looked at you . . . she acted as if your presence was improper.”
“’Tis more than improper, as well you know.”
“That matters not. She could have hidden her derision. And so I spoke without thinking, daring her to voice her objections.”
Every bit of anger she’d felt slipped away.
“Do you believe”—Cait hated to even think of it—“that her decision to withdraw public support may have been prompted by it?”
If her decision to come had harmed their cause . . .
“Nay, I do not.”
Though his firm tone alleviated her concern a bit, a small bit of doubt remained.
Conrad had pulled a blanket over them, but Cait’s hands and nose still felt cold. She backed into him a bit more, telling herself it was merely because she was cold. The scent of sandalwood and hint of campfire surrounded her, oddly comforting.
“I did not intend to cause any harm with my presence,” she began. “I simply . . .”
“You simply what, Cait? What did you hope to gain from this?”
That answer, at least, came easily.
“You.”
When he exhaled, Cait closed her eyes. “I never should have stopped writing. I should have welcomed you to Bradon Moor long ago. Or come back to a tournament, back to England.”
His arms tightened around her. “I understand why you did not. I do not like, or agree, with your reasoning. But I can understand it. And you are here now.”
I wasn’t too late. Thank you, God, for giving me another chance.
“You knew a man who thought he had rescued you. Who thought he understood his place as the only heir to a great earl, a son to parents more noble than their titles. You knew a man who believed the world was good despite bad people like the one who attacked you.”
The man Conrad had killed.
“I know that man.” Cait turned her head, needing to see him. “That man is you.”
As she said the words, she realized they were only partially true. Hadn’t she noticed that he’d changed? True, he had the same sauntering gait, the same intense, scrutinizing stare, but the boy she’d known had grown into a man, a man who had been through heartache and sorrow. He’d been betrayed by a woman he’d thought he loved. Had lost both parents and seen his country suffer for the sins of the very person who was supposed to lead them.
“And yet you’ve grown,” she added. “We both have.”
“I may perish in the effort,” he said, kissing her lips so softly Cait did not even have time to close her eyes before he finished. “But we will begin anew.”
Neck straining, Cait laid her head back down, fitting against him as if she had been sleeping there for her entire life.
“We will learn about each other as best we can in the midst of such chaos. And when it is over . . . if you still wish it . . .” Conrad swept her hair away from her neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “We will wed.”
She wished for nothing more than that very thing.
“Until that time,” he continued before she could answer, “though I intended otherwise this eve, and very much wish it could be otherwise”—another kiss, this time closer to her ear—“I will ensure when we reunite with Terric I can say honestly that I’ve not behaved improperly toward his sister.”
Kissing her there did not bode well for his promise. But Cait remained silent. She knew Conrad well enough to understand the futility of mounting any kind of argument. He might be more accommodating than most, but he was still an earl, a man accustomed to getting his way.
And Cait had endured—and won—many battles of will with powerful men. Men who were accustomed to having their authority met with deference.
Her father.
Terric.
And sometimes even Rory.
Arguing with his assessment would yield nothing. He wanted them to learn about each other again, as if they had just met?
Very well.
She had stopped writing. Cait had nearly destroyed any chance of them being together. So she would acquiesce. For now. Or appear to, at least.
“A lovely plan,” she murmured, wiggling against him, knowing precisely what the hardness she found there meant. “Then I will say good night, my lord.”
Conrad groaned but held her closer still.
Cait smiled into the night, thinking on his words. Conrad may be able to tell Terric truthfully he had not behaved improperly toward her, but she had never made such a vow.
And she would most certainly not behave properly toward him.
Chapter 20
Cait thought to torture him.
First, she’d opened herself to him in her letters, telling him stories she claimed she’d never shared with anyone else. Like the time she’d hidden both of her brothers’ swords from them after unsuccessful attempts to get them to train her. Or not so pleasant memories, like the nightmares she’d endured after the tournament.
He’d felt helpless, so far away from her. But as close to her, in other ways, as he ever had to another person.
When she’d stopped writing, Conrad had nearly gone mad. Her brother had attended the tournament that year, just like always, and he’d nearly told Terric everything, even though it would mean breaking his word to Cait. A comment from Terric had silenced him: he’d claimed his sister finally seemed to “be the same woman she’d been before the attack.” Conrad had thought perhaps her correspondence with him had been a reminder of painful memories. It was the only reason he had not gone to Scotland. Why he’d held back.
If she were healing, without him, he would not be the cause of her pain. Certainly not at the expense of her happiness.
Even so, he’d decided he would not marry anyone else. His parents had died, but not even his mother’s memory could force him to fulfill his duty. To marry and extend Licheford’s boundaries. His only relationships were with women such as Lady Threston, although his attention was fixed on managing Licheford, and later, the rebellion.
In some ways, he was content.
Was.
But no longer.
She’d come back into his life with all the force of an explosion, her sole purpose to drive him mad, apparently. The way she was looking at him now, as if he were a particularly fine morsel on her plate . . .
After three days . . . three very long days and even longer nights of torture, Conrad did not doubt Cait did it apurpose. At first, he’d not been sure.
The sidelong glance.
A lingering touch.
The way she moved her backside against him as they lay in each other’s arms at night. Her attentions were hesitant at first, but she’d gotten bolder. Aside from the evening they’d spent in the inn, in separate bedchambers thankfully, Conrad had hardly slept, courtesy of his very innocent, yet not so innocent, companion.
The men asked no questions, but they knew, of course.
Lady Cait was attempting to kill him before they reached London.
“Stop,” he said under his breath, reaching for Cait’s hand to help her dismount in front of Lindemere Castle.
She raised her eyebrows as she took his hand, pretending not to understand. “Apologies, my lord. Have I offended you in some way?”
My lord.
Did Cait even realize that she only used his title when she’d done something impertinent or saucy?
“Nay,” he said tightly, ignoring the stares of Lindemere’s men as he helped her down and led her toward the keep. It looked as if rain were imminent, so he hurried her inside, following the steward.
The decision to arrive after the meal had been strategic. The less time Lindemere could spend with Cait, the better off they were for it. Although Conrad had never met his father’s greatest enemy, he’d heard of him many, many times throughout the years.
/> Nothing could prepare him for the man he saw as the steward led them into the hall.
The large man with ruddy cheeks and bright white hair wore five, nay six, different colors on his person, one as bright as the next. Could this be the villain who had started a war with his cousin? He looked more like an aging jester than a powerful baron.
Conrad deliberately did not look at Cait, for if he did, surely his training would fail him. If the baron had thought to unbalance Conrad by his manner, he had unfortunately succeeded.
“Lord Licheford, however are you, my son?” the man asked with a big smile as he approached, his tone almost . . . warm.
My son? “I am well, my lord,” he said, doing his best to sound both calm and neutral. “If you will allow me to present Lady Cait, sister of Terric Kennaugh, chief of Clan Kennaugh and Earl of Dromsley.”
Lindemere waited for Cait to finish her bow.
“Does her brother know?”
Conrad and Cait exchanged a glance.
“Pardon, my lord?” Cait startled.
“That his sister is in love with the very man who thinks to bring an errant king to heel? One who has come, I assume, to ask for support in such a cause.”
Conrad was rarely rendered speechless, but he needn’t have worried that this was one of the few occasions. The baron quickly filled the void with more words.
“The circumstances that bring an unwed maid and an earl into my hall are curious indeed. But that matters naught, I suppose. You will forgive my mutterings. But her brother is a dear friend of yours, is he not? One of the founding members of your knightly order? The Order of the Broken Blade? I also wonder whose blade it is named for, but that, I fear, is a discussion for another day. Just now your friends are already beginning to arrive in London. You’ve little time to waste here, in my hall, listening to the ramblings of an old man.”
Conrad regained some, though not all, of his composure.
“Lord Lindemere.” How had the man learned so much? And why was he not threatening to toss him out of his hall? “We have indeed come to seek your assistance.”
The Earl: Order of the Broken Blade: Book 4 Page 9