“Leave me, Catherine, please. Go to your chamber.”
“But you—”
“Go!” he roared, a sweep of his arm sending a quill and empty inkpot crashing to the floor.
Humiliation scorching her cheeks, she yanked her nightgown back up over her shoulders, awkwardly slid from the desk, and fled the room. Eyes half-blinded by tears, she didn’t stop until she could hurl herself onto the wide bed in the guest chamber and sob into a pillow.
How fast one could travel from the glorious heat of passion to the icy chill of rejection.
Indeed, today had truly been the best and the worst.
Chapter Four
He’d nearly taken a devout virgin, his friend’s daughter, on a desk.
Stumbling into a chair, Brand winced at the throbbing, unrelieved agony of the hugest erection of his life, while at the same time welcoming the pain as punishment for his unspeakable transgression.
It had been a close thing. He’d enjoyed a few women since Therese’s death, but none of those encounters came close to the mindless lust he felt for Catherine. The kiss in the alley revealed a startlingly passionate innocent, willing to submit to him entirely. But this was so much more. Her exquisite body, unwrapped like a and generously offered to him without restriction, without the rigid expectation of gifts and favors in return. About the opposite from Therese. Every hurried, unsatisfying coupling with his wife had been a reluctant bargain struck. Fully dressed, in the dark, and a bleak, tense atmosphere of minimal touching, muttered prayers and her palpable disgust.
But Carey…
Brand closed his eyes and groaned, tortured with visions of her lush nakedness. The way she pleaded and writhed in pleasure when he’d stroked and sucked her nipples, the screaming climax when he’d attended to the swollen, pouting nub between her thighs. God. What would it be like with a finger inside her tight heat? Her musky sweetness drenching his tongue? Carey on her hands and knees, breathlessly urging him on as he took her hard from behind, filled her to overflowing with his seed?
If she belonged to him, he would show her every pleasure. Hold her every night, eventually cradle her rounded belly in his hands as their son or daughter grew strong and healthy within her. For Carey would welcome his child, not get rid of it…
His eyes flew open, the thought like plunging into an icy bath.
Marriage? A child?
Clearly he’d reached his limit of mind-turning events for a day. One marriage was quite enough for any man, to even ponder anything different invited naught but disaster. He might have wealth, but he was no prize. Not to mention Carey’s dangerous predicament, a shocking plummet from grace with the queen.
Tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, Brand stared at the dwindling fire in the hearth. That was the strangest thing of all. The Linwoods had been firm favorites at the Tudor court for years. Arthur had even named his daughter for Mary and the queen’s beloved late mother Catherine of Aragon. If Arthur’s death wasn’t natural causes, what could the good doctor possibly have done to anger Mary so greatly that he would be killed for it, and all evidence concealed?
“One man knew,” he muttered aloud. “And fell under a cart, God rest him.”
An urgent knock at the library door interrupted his musings.
“Come in,” he called, and one of his men appeared in saturated clothing. “Damn, man, look at you. Take some wine, get in front of the fire before you freeze to death.”
“No time, Sir Brand. I’ve come from the palace.”
A chill shot down his spine and he leapt to his feet.
“What is it?”
“A small army assembling. They are coming for the lady at first light. You must send her away now, sir, then you can—”
“No. Mistress Linwood goes with me,” he said sharply, the words tumbling from his mouth and surprising them both. “Tell the stable hand to ready horses for myself and Master Lucas, and get yourself dry and warm. We travel within the hour.”
The servant bowed and hurried away.
Running upstairs, he pounded on Lucas’s door and pushed it open. “On your feet, boy, we’re away from here.”
Lucas scrambled out of bed fully dressed, picked up a scuffed pair of boots and hoisted a bulging satchel onto his shoulder. “Ready.”
“Good,” he said gruffly, impressed at the lad’s foresight.
“I just hope you have a better plan to escape the sovereign than my parents did. Although they were actually within Hampton Court. We have a slight head start and the queen isn’t fixed on marrying you…wait, are you planning on deposing King Phillip and wedding Mary yourself? Because that isn’t a smart plan at all. She is old and not very pretty. Possibly a little crazy too—”
“No,” Brand ground out, unable to suppress a shudder. “Never. Not for all the gold and dukedoms in the kingdom would I wed the queen. Now go downstairs and help with the horses. Mistress Linwood and I will follow anon.”
Turning, he strode down the hallway to his own chamber, then swiftly picked up a large oiled leather satchel and packed like a soldier—minimum comfort and maximum practicality. Two changes of hose, undershirt and doublet, and on top he rested several sheathed daggers of various sizes and a large bag of coins. Collecting his most comfortable pair of boots, he took a deep breath and made his way to Catherine’s chamber.
Surprisingly, she sat on the edge of the bed, holding her clothing in her arms.
“Catherine,” he said, far more curtly than he intended. “Guards are coming from the palace. We must go at once.”
“I know,” she replied, not meeting his gaze. “I mean, I guessed when I heard you running up the stairs. Might I borrow some clothing? My gown is fit only for burning and my shoes are still in that alley.”
He strode past her into a small adjoining room and gathered stockings, petticoat, chemise and corset, a simple dark blue woolen
