Gratefully accepting a serving of crusty bread and hard, crumbling cheese, she ate quickly then gulped down several mouthfuls of wine from a flagon. It was a rich burgundy, potent enough to make her eyes water, but the resulting warmth in her belly was sheer bliss.
A quarter hour later they were on their way again, and she craned her head, looking for any clues of an impending town.
“Are we very far from Guildford, do you think?”
“If we can keep a good pace, and barring any injuries to the horses, I think we should reach there by late tomorrow afternoon.”
“As long as that?” she said, blinking in surprise and dismay. “I thought the town was little more than a day’s hard ride from London.”
“Perhaps in summertime, when the road is firm and dry. When it’s muddy and rutted like this, it is far too dangerous to gallop, a horse could break a leg or slip and throw its rider. We’ll find a place to make camp for the night, my men have sheets of canvas and wooden pegs to fashion into several tents. And wool blankets for warmth. It will be a bit damp and uncomfortable, but adequate.”
“When we reach Guildford, can we look straight away for Robbie’s family?”
“Yes,” he said, skillfully guiding their mount around a section of muddy, cart-gouged road. “Hopefully we’ll have time to find an adequate inn and walk the town to make some enquiries before darkness sets in. Best to start in the area where your father treated his noble patients. It is difficult this time of year, we really are limited in hours of daylight, and in our current situation it’s not safe to be wandering a place we don’t know.”
Catherine couldn’t control a shudder. “Brand…I…”
“I know this is a terrifying predicament to be in. But I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he said softly, his lips so close to her ear they occasionally brushed it. She briefly closed her eyes at the blessed promise, even as a wave of mortifying desire gripped her. It seemed her body refused to listen to reason, refused to remember his utter rejection in the library no matter how vividly her mind recalled it.
“I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you because of me. You’ve already done so much to help me, when you owe me nothing.”
For a moment, his arms tightened around her waist, as if she’d said something entirely objectionable.
“Arthur…you’re Arthur’s daughter,” he said finally, his voice oddly flat. “For that reason alone, I owe you everything. Perhaps you don’t know all he did for me, but saving my mother’s life was just the beginning. I was on a dark path after my wife died, so in many ways he saved my life, too.”
Catherine froze as the word repeated over and over in her head, almost to the beat of the horse’s hooves.
Wife. Wife. Wife.
“Y-you were married?” she choked out.
There was a long pause, so long she dreaded his answer more.
“Yes, to Lady Therese Fairfax, for a short while,” he said curtly. “We’d only been wed six months when she…when she died unexpectedly. That’s nearly five years ago now.”
Nausea roiled in her belly. She’d never met Therese. The blond beauty had been several years older and her superior in all ways: elegant, charming, the pride of an ancient and wealthy Catholic family. But she remembered the lady’s passing, mourned by an entire court it seemed.
No wonder in all that time Brand had never remarried.
No wonder he’d sent her away from his library.
He was still desperately in love with his dead wife.
The light was fading fast now, so fast even the pretty woodlands were turning a dull gray, but they’d found a decent place to stop for the night. About a quarter mile from the road, the site boasted a small, relatively flat clearing cunningly hidden behind a dense group of trees and a narrow, knee-deep stream nearby for water.
Under the guise of rubbing down the horses, Brand let his forehead rest briefly on a warm flank.
God’s blood he was tired. Not to mention in desperate need of a few barrels of wine, and to lose himself completely in the sweet, hot depths of an experienced woman. Anything to take his mind off Catherine Linwood. It was definitely a good thing he’d told her about Therese. Now she had pieced the story together, she would keep her distance, safe in her disgust, in her horror at the truth of what he was.
“Sir Brand! Supper is ready,” called one of his men, and he waved a hand to show he was on his way.
Securing each of the horses to a low, long branch, he ambled back toward the fire where the rest of the party sat devouring chunks of bread coated in cheese that Catherine had prepared. She hadn’t stopped. Not for a moment. Over and over he’d been reminded how useful women outside the nobility were, as she’d gathered wood for a fire, set a pot to boil water, even expertly bandaged Lucas’s palm when he scraped it on a stray tent peg.
“That food smells good,” he said, dropping down onto a fallen log.
Catherine immediately handed him two large chunks of the bread. “I hope so. I can make more, although we might want to save some for breakfast.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I will in a minute. I just need to—”
“Sit down, Catherine.”
Reluctantly, she perched on the log beside him and nibbled at her own supper.
“Are you happy with the tents, Sir Brand?” said Lucas, crouching to stoke the fire.
Glancing over, he admired the three makeshift shelters. They’d draped sheets of dark green canvas over thick branches, securing the bottom edge to the ground with
