An unexpected seduction…
Catherine Linwood is amongst the favored of Tudor Queen Mary–until her physician father dies mysteriously. She’s distraught, shunned and desperate for answers. Catherine’s only ally is Sir Brandon FitzAlan...who is willing to risk his life to protect hers. While the handsome stranger’s courage and wit soon capture her heart, his true allegiance and purpose is uncertain.
Brand is well used to the lies and shadows of court. Yet nothing prepares him for his sizzling attraction to innocent Catherine, or the deadly plot she is tangled in, for her father took a secret to his grave that could tear Catholic England apart. With one chance at salvation, Brand and Catherine begin a cross-country journey that reveals the shocking truth...and a burning passion that could save or destroy them both.
One Forbidden Knight
an Entangled Scandalous novella
Nicola Davidson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Nicola Davidson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Kate Brauning
Cover Design by Syd Gill
Cover Art by The Killion Group, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-63375-402-7
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition October 2015
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more from Nicola Davidson… His Forbidden Lady
Don’t miss out on more Scandalous romance… Sins of a Duke
Lady Scandal
Duchess Decadence
Engaging the Earl
For my all-round amazing CP and friend Sherilee Gray—I’m so lucky to have you in my life. And for three fabulous little ladies/future heroines: Madison, Sasha, and Tahlia, with much love.
Chapter One
London, March 1558
She was late. Horribly, fearfully, catastrophically late.
Gritting her teeth against a wave of self-directed anger, Catherine Linwood hurried down a wide, icy-cold corridor within St. James’s Palace as fast as she could without hitching up her dark blue damask skirts and sprinting.
So few people had the trust and affection of their gracious and beloved sovereign Queen Mary. As the only child of Her Majesty’s most favored physician, Arthur Linwood, she had been warmly welcomed to court, granted countless audiences, and given gifts and elegantly furnished rooms.
Now she was repaying the kindnesses with tardiness.
“Catherine, please…” a voice wheezed beside her, and she glanced at Lady Jane Howard, whose complexion currently matched her plum-colored gown. Reluctantly, she slowed her steps.
“I’m sorry, Jane. We are a quarter hour late. You know how Her Majesty feels about punctuality.”
“Yes, but we’ll hardly impress dripping perspiration and gasping like landed trout. Besides, it was feast preparations for your father’s return, not dallying with a gentleman. It was her ladies and their winter ills that kept him away in the country so long.”
Catherine nodded, but her anxiety didn’t ease. Papa would be furious if he knew she’d kept the queen waiting, especially in her current delicate state.
“I couldn’t bear to distress her. She is so close to term now. Just think, finally England and Spain will be joined together again. It feels like we’ve waited forever for a Catholic prince, especially after the last mishap. Poor, dear lady. All the signs, but no bab—”
“Hush!” her friend hissed.
“It’s true.”
Abruptly, Jane grabbed her elbow in an unrelenting grip and yanked her well away from the courtiers calling out greetings and bowing as they passed. “Don’t be a fool. True or false, it is dangerous to speak of such things. It always travels back, and then you’re arrested and made a head shorter. A person’s name, friends, whether they are even guilty, none of that matters. You’re a favorite one day and decorating London Bridge the next.”
Catherine winced. No one knew better than a Howard how precarious the love of a monarch could be. Old King Henry had executed Jane’s father the Earl of Surrey, and her cousins Katherine Howard and Anne and George Boleyn.
“You’re right. I won’t—”
“Good. Just pray for the queen and her unborn child. As long as Elizabeth is heir, there’ll be plots and rebellion. That sly red fox should be rotting in the Tower. Her mother tore this country apart, and she would too.”
“But she’s your cousin,” Catherine mumbled, suppressing a twinge of sympathy at the rough treatment the queen’s half-sister had endured over the years. “Distant cousin,” said Jane coldly. “And a heretic, no matter what she claims. All proper, God-fearing people shun and despise her. You are a devoted Catholic, aren’t you Catherine?”
“Of course!”
“Good. If Elizabeth were to become queen, the country would never recover. Look at the turmoil when Edward was king, then that usurper Jane Grey. Protestants make terrible rulers. They are weak and ungodly.”
“Papa says—”
“Bah. Your father should do naught but doctor. And find you a husband while he has influence and you have your looks. Men might overlook a small dowry and lack of title now, even that you’ve studied Latin texts and tended uncovered limbs. But you are twenty years old, and time is swiftly running out.”
Guilt prickled, the kind that warranted a confessional visit. Disloyalty to her beloved father was wrong, but her lack of husband had become a matter of embarrassment. Papa always laughed and said the day a worthy man presented himself—a kind, devout, and sober Catholic who treated his servants well—he would heartily consent. When she’d seen the unsuccessful men stomp away, with their sour breath and padded doublets, she’d been glad of the firm edict. But lately, she wasn’t so certain.
“Perhaps I shall be a merry old maid, dancing till dawn and eating sweetmeats all day,” Catherine said eventually, forcing a cheerful grin. “You may visit when your castles, jewels, and future lordly husband grow tiresome.”
“Ha! And you may always visit me. Even if we must roll you from room to room and winch you upstairs. Now, let’s see to Her Majesty.”
Relieved at her friend’s restored humor, they swiftly rounded the last corner of the torch-lit stone corridor and halted outside a pair of wide oak doors blocked by two heavily armed guards.
Taking a deep breath, Catherine smoothed the front of her gown and patted her head to ensure her wayward ebony curls were still secured under a modest velvet hood. It was ridiculous to be nervous, but usually her father stood beside her, and without his calm, black-gowned presence, that comforting scent of herbs and fresh linen, she felt a touch alone. It was always so hard when he was away tending others. Their rooms felt too big without his chatter, his husky laugh, the bubbling of boiling water and knocking of pestle and mortar as he tried new elixir recipes.
Before she could say a word, J
ane glared at the guards.
“Do you not know who we are? Let us pass at once!”
“Yes, Lady Jane. Mistress Catherine,” said one of the guards quickly, bowing respectfully as he immediately turned to knock on the door.
Eventually one of Queen Mary’s ladies appeared to usher them both through. As she followed the two other women into a short passageway, Catherine turned her head and smiled apologetically at the man. As much as she loved Jane, no guard or servant ever moved fast enough for her friend. When the Howards were in power, they more than made up for the times they weren’t.
In the queen’s spacious chamber, her nose wrinkled at the strong odor of perspiration, tallow and perfume. As was custom for childbed seclusion, there was a large fire for heat and candles for light as the windows were boarded over to stop ill winds. It made the area almost unbearably stuffy and taxing for the ladies who attended Her Majesty constantly. Several sat embroidering, one strummed a harp and three more played cards, but all looked flushed and uncomfortable.
“Are you all right now? Do you need me?”
Catherine grinned at the look of sheer longing Jane directed toward the card game. “Go. Go and unburden those poor women of their coins.”
“If you’re sure…” her friend replied, but she had already half-crossed the room.
“Catherine,” boomed a deep, almost manly voice.
She spun around and sank into a low curtsy as Queen Mary ambled toward her, a flowing ermine-trimmed cream gown brushing the floor with each of the petite monarch’s steps.
“Your Majesty. I beg your forgiveness for my lateness today.”
“We shall excuse you today, child, but do not keep us waiting again when we have need of you.”
“No, madam. Never. Are you well?”
“As can be expected,” the queen replied, resting a bejeweled hand on her hugely distended belly. “But everyone will rest better once the child is born. Our seclusion is just begun, yet already we are weary of these four walls. Perhaps you will join us in beseeching the Blessed Virgin for a swift and safe delivery?”
Catherine nodded eagerly. England desperately needed this child to secure the Catholic throne. Three years ago the queen and all those around her had thought her to be pregnant, but there had never been a babe in her belly. This time was different. And Papa, the greatest physician in all of England, would have the honor of delivering the heir.
“Madam, you are in my daily prayers. And King Phillip of course. I hope…I hope very much he will be able to return to England soon.”
Mary sighed, her expression unbearably sad. “That is our dearest wish, but Spanish affairs of state keep him most occupied. He is the best of rulers, so just and dutiful.”
“Of course.”
“Come here and tell us your news,” the queen said, carefully settling herself into a cushioned throne and beckoning Catherine over to a footstool. “It will be a pleasant diversion.”
“Shall I rub your feet for you?”
“Sweet child. So like your mother, God rest her soul. I wish…”
Glancing up from carefully removing the queen’s shoes, Catherine almost shivered at the truly odd expression on Mary’s face. Hard. Calculating. And yet sorrowful too.
“Yes, madam?”
“All wrongs will be made right once our son is born. We ask you to remember that. And know as an obedient and faithful subject, we shall always hold you fondly in our heart.”
“How could I not be?” she said carefully, confused at the queen’s intense words. “The prince will make England whole again. We’ll all rejoice.”
Just for a moment, Mary looked away, one hand clutching the strand of polished rosary beads about her neck. Then she turned back, smiling.
“Indeed. And once we are recovered, we will hold a feast, and you shall be introduced to some fine gentleman. Past time you were married…unless our Lord is now calling you to a different purpose?”
Catherine paused in her gentle rubbing of the queen’s swollen right foot. “No, madam. I still hope to marry. Very much. A special man, handsome, learned and charming would be most agreeable.”
The queen chuckled, a hint of color brightening her usually pale cheeks and livening her brown eyes. “A list! My word. Should he be a lord? A knight? A physician?”
“Well, I…”
“Let me pass! Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”
Catherine jumped at the hoarse cry, but Mary remained very still, calmly watching her personal page’s stumbling approach.
“Yes, boy?”
“Majesty, I bring grave news.”
“Then do not tarry, tell me.”
“It’s Doctor Linwood, Majesty. He’s—”
“What?” said Catherine sharply, all manners forgotten as icy fright crept down her spine and turned her hands clammy. Had her father caught the fever he’d gone to tend? Fallen from his horse?
The page inclined his head, his eyes somber. “Mistress, I am grieved to report Doctor Linwood has passed away.”
Catherine stared uncomprehendingly. No. Passed away meant dead. And her father was hale, hearty, and shortly to be dining with her. Turbot, roasted beef, marzipan fruit, and a good wine to celebrate his homecoming.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, pushing the words out past the driest tongue in Christendom. “I received a message earlier, he returns this evening. You must be mistaken.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “No, mistress. I’m so sorry. It was his weak heart. And ill humors from traveling in the rain.”
“Papa never travels in the rain. And he certainly didn’t have a weak heart!”
“Are you sure? I—”
“Thank you,” snapped Queen Mary. “That will be all.”
The page immediately bowed low and hurried away, but Catherine barely noticed. Shocking, crushing cold enveloped her, making her body shake and vision gray.
Dead.
Sounds erupted. An awful high, keening wail like a soul condemned to purgatory. Women shouting and heavy boots crossing the stone floor. Chairs scraping and steel flashing. Clamping her hands over her ears, she fought to escape the noise, awkwardly falling from her stool and huddling in a ball.
Dead.
Without warning, impersonal arms hauled her to her feet and a pungent blend of lavender and vinegar assailed her nose. The world spun and spun, and she coughed and clawed at the arms, desperate for an anchor, some way to halt the terror advancing on her like a relentless French army.
The scent came again, choking, overwhelming, but finally relief, as she fell into blessed darkness.
Everything about the day screamed death. From the unnatural slate-gray sky and bone-chilling wind to the dull, ponderous rhythm of the church bells confirming another soul’s departure.
Sir Brandon FitzAlan pulled a flagon of wine from a hidden pocket in his thick black cloak and took several healthy gulps. He was entirely too sober for this and his damned servants were to blame for his rare state of total awareness. Instead of wine, he’d been presented with watered ale all day. One particularly hardy soul, a fourth generation maid with the temperament of a bear woken during hibernation, had actually set a goblet of warmed milk in front of him at breakfast.
Milk.
His stomach lurched, and he coughed, pulled the cloak closer about him, and strode forward past several clusters of gray-and-black-clad mourners who wished to pay their respects but weren’t familiar enough to the family to enter the crypt. As always, he ignored the curious stares, the whispers, the deferential curtsies and bows from those who feared or respected his very powerful family.
God’s blood, he was weary of death. Not only that, he was disgusted by the ugly, hollow shell England had become under the rule of Bloody Mary Tudor—the beheadings and burnings all in the name of her cursed religion. If this woman had her way, England would be naught more than Spanish territory, dragged back to the dark ages and ruined. She’d even managed to lose the jewel of Calais back to the French; Old Henry
would be turning in his grave.
Some called the queen generous. Indeed, so generous she’d sent Arthur Linwood, the finest man he’d ever known, the doctor who’d saved his mother’s life, into the heart of a small plague outbreak. Robbing England of one of its most gifted physicians. Robbing a child of a beloved father.
Damn her to hell.
Finally reaching the Linwood family crypt, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head. His hose was no match for the cold, damp stone but the discomfort was naught compared to grief and rage. His friend and savior was dead.
“Why?” Brand burst out, anger almost robbing him of breath. “I don’t understand. Why you, Arthur?”
“I don’t understand either.”
His head jerked up at the soft, tear-soaked voice. He hadn’t even seen the woman sitting in a shadowed corner, dressed in a heavy and rather shapeless black velvet gown, with a modest black hood and thick lace veil covering her face. Yet the pure misery in her tone reflected his. She wasn’t a casual acquaintance or a courtier attending to see and be seen. This woman had truly adored Arthur Linwood.
“Forgive me, madam,” he said, inclining his head. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You aren’t,” she replied, standing and pushing the veil back from her face.
Brand sucked in a harsh breath at the perfection revealed—thickly lashed, deep blue eyes set in a pale oval face with a slightly pointed nose, high cheekbones, and full, pink lips, all framed by pitch-black curls. Had such a beauty been Arthur’s lover? His friend’s wife had long passed, no doubt the man would have been lonely with only a young daughter for company. If so, he’d been remarkably discreet. In their country jaunts, their many alehouse meetings, Arthur had never mentioned a woman, only his pride and joy: clever, amusing little Carey. Perhaps she was Carey’s nurse? Her aunt or older cousin? In which case he could leave with a clear conscience. Even in her terrible grief, she had an air of quiet gentleness that spoke of a kind and loving guardian to a child.
“Sir?” she said, briefly resting her hand on his. “Are you well?”
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