“Here,” he said. “I’ll help you with your laces.”
Catherine fumbled with the garments, holding them against herself as she attempted to remove her nightgown with one hand. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“We have not the time for this,” he said impatiently. “And there is not one inch of your body I have not seen already.”
She finally looked at him then, her expression a war of embarrassment, sorrow, and anger. “You need not remind me of that folly. Please leave.”
“Catherine,” he said, gentling his tone as much as he was able, “I won’t look. But for the love of God, now is not the occasion to fight me.”
“Well,” she snapped. “Do it then!”
Gritting his teeth, he turned around and stared blankly at the wall, tapping his fingers on his thigh as he listened to the rustle and rasp of clothing being discarded and put on. Actually, she was dressing with admirable speed and efficiency. Therese had always taken hours to get ready, with the help of at least two chambermaids.
“All right?”
“Yes, Sir Brandon.”
He turned back. Catherine wore the stockings, chemise and petticoat, and had the corset held up to her front with the laces falling behind her. Before she had time to change her mind he stepped forward and carefully threaded the laces in a crisscross pattern, pulling them tight as he went. Damned annoying things, corsets. Significantly easier to unfasten than fasten. Finally he lifted the gown over her head, knotting the ties at the sides, back, and sleeves.
She stepped into the shoes, fastened a small drawstring bag to the sash at her waist and folded the cloak over her arm. “Where will we go? To your country home? By the by, I must warn you I’m a poor rider.”
He stuffed her nightgown into his satchel to gain a moment to think.
“You’ll share with me,” he said eventually, his mind racing. There really was only one place they could go. “And no, we won’t go to my mother. They will look for us there first. To have any chance of solving this mystery, we must travel to where it began. The town where your father died.”
The storm had created havoc in London, the cobbled streets awash with mud, bits of wood and stone, and half-starved animals attacking sacks of grain and ruined market produce. Fortunately for their group of six—her and Brand, Lucas, and three servants with flaming torches to light their way—the sharp-eyed residents in need of coins and ale were sheltering in their homes with doors and shutters securely locked.
It was a painstaking process as the horses stepped around treacherous debris and splashed through deep and murky puddles. Her nerves were permanently on edge as she sat rigidly in the saddle, constantly watching for movement, ears straining in the freezing darkness for any sound not of their making.
“Catherine. If you don’t relax, you won’t be able to walk later.”
She shivered at Brand’s whisper in her ear. It was beyond tempting to do so, to lean back against the huge, solid warmth and protection of his chest, tuck her head into his neck again, and be soothed by the rocking motion of the fine thoroughbred’s rhythmic gait.
Under no circumstances would she do that. Brand had made it perfectly clear what he thought of her, his utter rejection of her wanton behavior couldn’t have been more explicit. She wouldn’t give him a single further reason to dislike her, to goad him into abandoning her to the queen’s men. “I’m fine, thank you,” she muttered, pulling her cloak tighter around her body.
He sighed but said nothing further, and they rode in silence for hours, from the time the first rays of dawn streaked the dark sky, to the point where the winter sun was a pale orb, high above them. On another occasion she might have asked to stop and admire the fresh beauty of the Surrey woods and meadows or the pretty thatched-roof cottages dotting the tranquil landscape. But they were moving at a reasonably brisk trot now. Every mile between them and London offered safety and a much-needed buffer to find answers before anyone else in Guildford knowing the truth about her father’s death was silenced forever.
Abruptly, Brand called a halt and guided their mount into a small clearing.
“We’ll stop here for a bite to eat. There is bread, cheese, and wine in my saddlebags.”
Lucas practically vaulted off his horse toward the food source, and she smiled.
“Save some for me, Lucas,” Catherine said, more amused as he rummaged frantically through the bags like a man unfed for weeks. “My stomach has been grumbling this past hour.”
“That was your stomach?” said Brand, “I thought surely the thunderclaps of a storm to flatten the entire county—”
He coughed, and she quickly removed her wayward elbow from his flat, hard belly, her cheeks hot. The action had been instinctive, as if he teased her often and she responded in kind.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, horrified.
Brand dismounted from their horse, digging into another saddlebag for a handful of oats and rubbing the magnificent ebony animal’s neck while it ate directly from his palm.
“No you aren’t.”
“A truth,” she snapped, then clamped a hand over her mouth. What on earth was wrong with her? Fortunately the servants were in a circle several feet away, eating their own rations and talking amongst themselves, and didn’t witness her lapse.
His gaze met hers, but shockingly, there was no anger there. Just…laughter?
“I shall keep in mind your preferred method of retribution, considering our close proximity for the rest of the journey. Now let’s get you fed while there are still crumbs remaining.”
Lucas snorted. “Not my fault if you pigeons wish to bill and coo rather than eat. This cheese is tasty.”
“That cheese is to feed the three of us, piglet,” said Brand, coming
