He frowned at her concern, unnerved by something rarely shown to him as much as the heated jolt from her light, innocent touch. He clearly needed to find himself a lusty wench and a great deal of wine. Tonight.Yet first he had to pose the question.
“Well enough,” Brand said, clearing his throat. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but by chance are you a relative? Perhaps little Carey’s nurse? Arthur was a dear friend, and I should like to know his daughter will be well cared for, and to offer funds if needed.”
“It is very kind of you to care about my well-being, but I’m not so little.”
He froze. “What? You can’t be Carey! She’s a girl, not, er…”
Unexpectedly, she smiled, a ray of sunshine in the cold, gloomy crypt.
“It is Catherine Mary actually, but I never could pronounce it as a child. I’m not sure why Papa would speak of me as if I were still young. I’m twenty.”
Brand stiffened. He could guess. What loving father would want a heretic, a nobleman’s wretched bastard, lusting after his beautiful, pure, Catholic daughter?
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said gruffly. “Apart from your age, of course. I am Sir Brandon FitzAlan.”
Her eyes widened.
“Then my father misled us both. For when he spoke of his friend Brand, I thought he meant…”
A reluctant chuckle rumbled in his chest as several emotions chased each other across her expressive features. “An old man? I am. A few months shy of thirty summers.”
Catherine’s cheeks took on a rosy hue. “Someone closer to his own age. And status. He never mentioned the title, and I don’t think I’ve seen you at court. Are you…?”
“I’m rarely in London, but yes, I’m one of those FitzAlans. The current Earl of Arundel is my fa…first cousin,” he finished hastily, shocked he’d nearly blurted the long-hidden truth. What the hell was wrong with him? “I never bothered using my title with Arthur. Three years ago he saved my mother’s life, quite frankly he could have called me whatever he pleased. But it was always Brand, and I gladly called him friend.”
“A death does tend to reveal true friends.”
His jaw clenched. How well a widower knew that particular truth. Doubly so when the death was most untimely and raised more questions than answers, when finger-pointing and rumors reached feverish levels. He’d already been on a dark path. If his mother had died he no doubt would have succumbed entirely to the black devils in his soul.
“Indeed it does,” he replied with a curt nod. “How do you find your friends at this time?”
“Her Majesty is wonderful. I often attend her in her rooms, but she hasn’t been feeling well the past few days, so instead sent notes. And I know the local poor have benefitted enormously from her bountiful alms in my father’s name.”
“But what of you?”
“I…”
Catherine’s lush lips curved in a fond smile, and again he fought a heightened awareness, the strong desire to trace her mouth with his thumb. Or tongue.
“Yes?”
“I am most fortunate. She is always so kind to me. I shall keep our rooms at the palace until I marry. Half again my dowry. And some damask and linen, too.”
“Very generous,” he said evenly, barely managing to mask his disgust at the pitiful offering. How fast they forgot a life of highly-skilled and loyal service. In this regard Queen Mary was certainly her father’s daughter.
“It is generous,” Catherine said sharply, staring at the stone floor. “I am most grateful for her compassion in allowing me to remain in the palace. I have no other family, no pending marriage, nowhere else to go. Papa and I…we never had our own home, always loaned rooms. And I don’t think I could bear to be parted from his belongings. The books and that scent of crushed h-herbs he always h-had…”
“I know it,” he said quickly, soothingly. “I don’t think anyone in England bathed as much as your father. Often suspected he was part fish. A well-seasoned fish, naturally. Thyme, a little parsley…”
Her head shot up, and she stared hard at him, her lips trembling. “P-parsley?”
Brand sighed. Clearly he should not be permitted near anyone while sober.
“You’re right. T’was a far more manly scent. Er…basil?”
“Mint,” said Catherine in an odd, suffocated voice, and suddenly she hurled herself against his chest and wept, silent, wrenching sobs that shook her entire frame.
Instinctively, his arms closed around her. His second mistake, after making conversation without the benefit of sufficient wine, for it was immediately apparent Arthur’s precious daughter was a grown woman. Lusciously so. This close, not even a shapeless gown could disguise her full and firm breasts, slender waist, and generous hips.
“There now, don’t cry,” he said uneasily, awkwardly patting her shoulder while attempting to put distance between them before his unruly body responded to her warm, soft curves in an altogether inappropriate way. Besides, these were real tears. What did he know of genuine, heartfelt emotion from a young woman?
Damnation. They were in a crypt. She was the virginal daughter of his deceased friend, a favorite of the wretched Queen of England, and a damned Catholic.
What in the hell was he doing?
What in the name of the saints was she doing, standing in a cold crypt and weeping in the arms of a stranger?
Yet it felt so good, if entirely different.
Sir Brandon was the physical opposite of her father—so tall her forehead barely reached his collarbone, with wide, wide shoulders and a huge chest that stretched taut a beautifully embroidered dark green doublet. A heavy gold chain announced his wealth and position, as did the fur-trimmed cloak caressing her cheek. As for the heavily muscled arms wrapped around her, oddly, she’d never felt so safe. He might be a man she knew of only through Papa’s mentions, but surely anyone her father befriended would only be good and honorable.
Finally, her tears slowed to a trickle, and he gently set her away from him and stepped back. She immediately missed his warmth, but it did permit a better view of his face.
Perhaps the most interesting face she’d ever seen. Not handsome in a traditional sense; his hair too brown, clean shaven jaw too square, cheekbones too harsh and nose slightly too big to be celebrated by court artists. But they would never quite capture him on canvas. Not the golden shade of his skin or emerald-green of his eyes, so startling under slashing dark brown brows. Definitely not those firm lips which probably fuelled the secret kissing fantasies of every woman from here to York.
“Is there a spot on my face?”
Catherine jumped at the amused question, her cheeks burning. “Ah…no. No, Sir Brandon. I was just looking at your…eyes. Such an unusual color. Lovely.”
He tilted his head, those lips twitching. “It’s just Brand. And the eyes are courtesy of my mother’s Scottish ancestors, I believe.”
“Scottish?”
“Don’t look so horrified. It was no doubt a border raid. Celtic lasses can be rather single-minded and Englishmen not overly resistant to temptation. Now, you must forgive me my short stay, but I have a meeting I must away to. Again may I say how sorry I am for your loss, and should you ever need anything, be assured I am at your service.”
“Thank you,” she replied dully, her heart sinking like a stone in a millpond at his abrupt eagerness to leave. Impersonal coolness now replaced the smile, and no wonder. She’d hurled herself at him like a tipsy chambermaid, babbled about his eyes and offended him. Brand was a powerful nobleman, one of the great FitzAlans. Catherine Linwood a poor nobody, an orphan. Their only connection was a dead man.
He bowed and turned to leave her life forever.
“Wait, B-Brand,” she burst out, unable to bear the thought of losing a man both closely linked to her father, and the first to make her heart skip a beat. “There is something. A service, I mean.”
“Yes?”
“I would know how my father died.”
He frowned. “T
hey did not tell you? I assumed given where he was, he had fallen victim to the plague.”
Frustration and uncertainty rose in her belly, a sensation undiminished since she’d awoken in her father’s rooms and remembered the brief and rather vague explanation of his death. She was a learned doctor’s daughter, not some silly noblewoman who even feared bathing.
“No. The other court doctors said nothing of the plague. Although his body was prepared and buried immediately, they returned his satchel, boots, cap, and crucifix to me.”
A long pause stretched to eternity.
“What exactly were you told, Catherine?” he said finally, his face impassive, but his green eyes were stormy and massive shoulders taut with tension.
“That he died of a weak heart, and a sudden onset of ill humors after being caught outside in heavy rains and mud. But, Brand, his health was always excellent. And he never traveled in poor weather. Ever. Papa always told me to expect him a day or two later because riding in the rain is bad for the chest and lungs, and he couldn’t abide carriages.”
“If the queen is due to deliver her child shortly, he would have made all haste to return to the palace. Perhaps he didn’t wish to worry you with a health matter.”
A sudden bone-deep weariness made her shoulders sag. “Perhaps. No, you’re right. I am being fanciful. Forgive me, it has been—”
“I’ll find out,” Brand said roughly. “He was my friend, and I’d not have you distressed. Just give me a week or so.”
Before she could reply, he bowed low and strode from the crypt, taking his warmth and strength away.
Rubbing her arms, Catherine shivered. With one last glance around the oppressive, confined space, she hitched up her gown and hurried out into the damp London air, over to where a bored guard sat perched on a rock between a row of grave markers.
The man got to his feet, a look of relief on his ruddy face.
“Ready to return to the palace, Mistress?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Brand would visit soon. She had one thing to look forward to, at least.
Chapter Two
If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was a mystery.
Resting one elbow on a solid wooden ledge, Brand stared hard out a diamond-paned library window of his London home to where the gray, choppy Thames was doing its best to offer the passengers of several barges an impromptu freezing bath. Exactly what he felt like doing to several suddenly discreet citizens. Discovering the details of Arthur Linwood’s passing should have been an easy task, yet he’d hit a stone wall of pale-faced silence at every turn. Nonplussed, he’d sent out several of his own men to see what they could unearth. Because he didn’t trust the queen as far as the belly in front of her, he’d also instructed another to keep a discreet eye on Catherine and report even the slightest suspicious behavior towards her. Lucas was a loyal lad, even if he was a talkative troublemaker and possessing a fourteen year old’s unique ability to demolish thrice his weight in food. He just couldn’t watch over her himself. Catherine was too young. Too vulnerable. Too open. Too beautiful. Too damned everything. A base, wine-soaked heretic like him would be poison to an innocent like her, yet he’d been unable to banish the woman from his mind. Clearly, the sooner this odd matter was resolved, the better.
“God’s blood, Brandon! You’re not listening to me.”
Masking his irritation, he turned and smiled pleasantly at Henry FitzAlan, 19th Earl of Arundel. The dark-eyed, older lord was about the most powerful in the kingdom, a devout Catholic and someone who never missed an opportunity to aggressively further his own interests. As evidenced with this particular one-sided conversation.
“Of course I’m listening to you, Father. You wish me to leave the agreeable and supremely peaceful existence of widower and re-enter the unholy state of matrimony. Unfortunately I have yet to hear from you a single good reason why.”
Arundel scowled, an expression which did his overly prominent nose no favors.
“A request from me is reason enough. It’s been four years. If you do not marry again, the rumors surrounding Therese’s death will never abate. I am only thinking of your well-being. And that of your mother. Susanna must be very lonely in the country without the companionship of another highborn woman. I should insist she come to London and take her rightful place at court.”
Brand somehow suppressed a laugh. His father could insist all he liked, but it would take several armies to remove his mother from their West Berkshire estate. She hated London and Arundel equally, and as his grandfather’s passing had left her explicitly and generously provided for, the earl couldn’t even bend her to his will through blackmail.
A fact which frustrated the man no end.
“As always, I will pass on your greetings and good wishes.”
“Bah. Tis unnatural, her acceptance of your sinful and wayward existence.”
Brand’s fists clenched. “She understands I have no desire to wed again.”
“You must. Despite past events—”
“My lord. Such a benign phrase for my wife taking her own life.”
His father’s gaze turned colder than a northern wind. “…despite past events there are still many noblewomen willing to accept your hand in marriage. You have a duty to your family to sire sons. A duty to God and country.”
“My family?” he repeated softly, too angry to ignore the unspoken warning. “You mean those who ordered my mother to abort me? Who continuously threatened and harassed her during my childhood? Who to this day cling pathetically to the myths of your saintliness and us being cousins?”
Arundel thumped his empty pewter goblet down on a carved oak side table. “How many times must we have this out? I was a lad of sixteen, Brandon. Sixteen! There was no proof but her word…and my father had far different ambitions for me. But even if I cannot openly acknowledge our true relationship, I have done well for you, have I not? More than well.”
Brand turned away. It was either that or pummel his father to the consistency of jellied eel. Unlike his devil relatives, the man had ruthlessly ignored his bastard son for twenty-five years, providing nothing and allowing no contact between his three children and their half-sibling. Then came 1553, a tumultuous year for Arundel including his release from imprisonment for suspected plotting, and the deaths of King Edward and Lady Jane Grey. Near-mortality had clearly bitten hard, as handwritten notes, coins, bolts of cloth and a thoroughbred stallion arrived for his cherished “cousin.” A barrage of personal meetings, forced name change and a royal summons to court for a knighting ceremony followed, as did the swift marriage to Catholic heiress Lady Therese Fairfax after she was “discovered” naked in his palace accommodation.
Done well was highly debatable. Although there was one service Arundel had rendered that he would never forget: securing Arthur Linwood’s gifted expertise.
“Indeed, sir,” he said eventually, through teeth clenched so hard they would grind to powder. “Most well.”
“Excellent. Then I shall look forward to seeing you at the feast next week to give thanks for our impending royal heir. Several fine young ladies will be present. Oh, and by the by, Brandon, it would also be prudent to attend Mass more publicly. Start your new life as you mean to go on.”
“My lord.”
Fortunately he was spared any further response as the five-foot, eight-inch and growing, black-haired whirlwind of chaos known as Lucas stumbled into the room with a tray full of cakes, fruit, and a meat pie. “Ohhh, beg pardon, milord.”
“Master de Vere,” replied Arundel with a tight-lipped smile as he strode past. “Cousin. Good day.”
Lucas perched his gangly frame on the edge of a table. “Really don’t know why he bothers with that cousin mummery. Truth is plain as the nose on both your faces. Old Henry acknowledged his boy, why can’t Arundel?”
“Your godfather also cropped people at the neck for speaking out of turn. By the saints, boy, your mouth is going to get you killed one day.”
Brand sighed. This was Lucas’s ninth noble household in two years for “education and advancement”. He’d been deposited here by a visibly relieved Arundel three months previously. Allegedly the lad was ungodly and uncontrollable, endured solely because he was the old king’s godchild and eldest son of a legendary warrior, then smilingly gifted on when sanity ran out. Personally, he found the boy intelligent and trustworthy, just easily bored and prone to blurt each and every thought he had.
“What are you doing back so early, Lucas? Something to report?”
The boy’s brown eyes sharpened. “Actually surprised to find you here. Thought you’d be at the inn waiting for Mistress Linwood.”
A chill slithered down his spine. “What inn?”
“Ack, you are getting old. Your message! Told her to meet you at the Grand Duke Inn over in Tewkesbury Lane. She left to go there with two guards so I thought all must be well and came back here for a late lunch…Sir Brand? What’s wrong?”
A curse so foul left his lips that even Lucas blanched. Then he stalked to a cupboard, found the plainest cloak he possessed, an old black velvet cap left behind by a long ago drinking companion, and his sharpest dagger.
“Come with me,” he snarled, shoving the dagger into a hidden pocket in the cloak while one thought pounded his head as relentlessly as a drumbeat.
Please be safe.
Her heart was beating so fast, her mind so awhirl, Catherine scarcely felt the uneven cobbled street under her shoes.
All might soon be better with the world. Brand had sent a personal messenger asking her to meet him at the Grand Duke, a busy, respectable inn she’d visited many times with her father. Finally, she would know the truth of his death and be able to sleep again at night. Finally, she could think of a possible future, instead of the darkness of losing the only family she had.
She smiled ruefully. And she would see Brand, of course. The time between their meeting in the crypt and now felt like years even though it had only been several days. This time she would behave like a grown woman and true lady—calm and gracious in a modest, properly fitting dark brown velvet gown and matching hood. Definitely no weeping over herbs or nonsense about his eyes or ancestry.
One Forbidden Knight Page 2