“Right. I see,” Brand replied in a tone that suggested he didn’t see at all. Which was fair, the tale did sound rather farfetched. If she hadn’t experienced it in person she probably wouldn’t have believed it either.
“No, you didn’t. You d-didn’t see Robbie get crushed by a c-cart. Before he died, he told me to run, that the guards meant me harm, so that is when I did. I ran and ran, only slowing down when I got near the Grand Duke. Then you pulled me into the alley.”
Brand muttered something under his breath but said nothing further, and she realized another man had fallen into step with them. Not nearly as tall as Brand, and nowhere near as broad, but imposing all the same. Actually, not a man, but a lad, dark-haired, dark-eyed and vaguely familiar.
“I’ve seen you before. At the palace,” she said slowly. “You’re Lucas de Vere?”
The lad bowed, actually taking her hand and brushing a light kiss over her knuckles as though they were meeting at a banquet. “Indeed, and humbly at your service, beautiful lady! Not impressed by the events of this day, not one bit. To think, such a jewel put in harm’s—”
“Lucas,” said Brand, rather sharply, as they stopped outside a long stone walkway with heavy iron gates. “This is neither the time nor place. Now hurry and open the gate; the heavens are about to open.”
Lucas removed a key from his pocket and attended to a heavy lock, beckoned them both within the high walls and down a gravel path, then secured it again. Beyond a well-manicured lawn stood a large and very beautiful building fashioned of red brick and dark wood timber.
“Always the time or place to compliment a beautiful woman,” said Lucas loftily. “Even one looking like she’s fought an angry barn cat. You know, Catherine, if Mama were here, she’d pounce with the wire brush and lye soap like she does to my brothers and sisters. I was always too fast to be caught.”
Brand scowled.
“If your mother were here, Henry Lucas de Vere, she would drag you by the ear back to Cornwall until you learned to hold your damned tongue. Mistress Linwood is in no need of your opinion.”
“Mistress Linwood is too long for me to remember. I’m only fourteen, sir.”
At the boy’s owl-eyed look, she almost smiled. Jane had mentioned exploits of the infamous Lucas de Vere a few times, with a head shake and fond grin. He’d lasted only five weeks in the home of her brother, Norfolk, and now she knew why.
“Speaking of lye soap,” she said quickly, as Brand carried her inside the house and set her down on a colorful woven foyer rug, “after that alley I’m in desperate need of a hot bath if you would be so kind as to order one for me, Brand.”
He nodded and motioned to two servants, who bowed and dashed away.
Lucas appeared beside her and raised an interested eyebrow. “What happened in the alley, Catherine? I was at the Grand Duke, distracting three men carrying a few too many weapons for a simple luncheon—”
“Cease, boy!” snarled Brand. “I’ll speak with you later.”
“But—”
“Go.”
Lucas grinned widely, lifted her hand and brushed another kiss over her knuckles, then loped away. If he somehow remained un-maimed, no doubt in the future he would shatter hearts all over England and beyond.
Catherine cleared her throat. “He is…”
“There are no adequate words for Lucas,” said Brand shortly. “Now, if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to a guest chamber. Rest, and later someone will be up with a tray for your supper. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with one of my mother’s nightgowns.”
Stung by the impersonal words and tone, she followed him up a surprisingly wide wooden staircase to the second floor, along a portrait and tapestry-lined hallway to a spacious, well-appointed chamber overlooking the now rain-lashed Thames.
“Aren’t you going to come back?”
His emerald gaze froze her to the floor. “No. You need plenty of rest, Catherine. After tonight…I’m not sure when you’ll have it again.”
If he were a godly man, he’d have been in the chapel on his knees for the past four hours. As a fully fledged sinner, he’d paced his library, emptied several jugs of wine, and ignored a tray of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread. How could Catherine possibly believe anyone other than the queen had instructed the soldiers? Her innocence and blind faith were both endearing and infuriating. And now, thanks to his brainless intervention, she slept upstairs instead of in a dark dungeon. Yes, they did have a temporary respite—the way the wind and rain were attacking the narrow windowpanes, there’d be no armed invasion of his home tonight—but dawn would bring a brutal reckoning. If not Mary’s men then Arundel’s creatures. His father’s spies seemed to discover news before anyone else, and family meant nothing when there was a monarch’s favor to be gained.
Gripping a wine goblet so hard his knuckles whitened, Brand swore softly and took a long swallow. Then another. He was only halfway to a drunken stupor, and it couldn’t come fast enough. Maybe then he’d have a vision or conjure up some miraculous way to get Catherine and himself away from London before they were dragged to the Tower or had a sudden mishap with a street cart.
“Brand?”
With deliberate care, he turned slowly from the roaring fire that offered warmth and light but no comfort from the chills dancing up and down his spine. God’s blood. Instead of being safely tucked under a heap of embroidered quilts, Catherine stood in his library doorway wearing a simple linen nightgown created for a figure both less curvaceous and taller than she.
“You should be abed, Catherine.”
“You sound different. Have you…have you been drinking?”
The gentle reproof in her voice
