“Do you keep in touch with Baron Clinton?”
“Not really. He’s so busy, and up to his third wife now!”
“Foolish man,” he said laughing, only to halt when a discreet cough sounded.
Glancing up in surprise, he saw two servants ready to take up watch duties. Had he and Catherine really been talking for so long?
Slowly rising, grimacing as his numb feet refused to walk without stumbling, he guided Catherine into her tent.
“Take this,” he said, unfolding a blanket as she settled onto the rock-hard ground. “Try and get some rest.”
“Where will you be?”
Brand hesitated, his reply stalling at her pale cheeks, the tremor in her voice.
“Here. I’ll be here,” he said instead, wanting to give himself a hard shake even as he spread out a second blanket and lay down on the opposite side of the tent. Reason had fled the day he met Catherine Linwood, so what was one more foolish act?
She smiled gratefully and closed her eyes, but his remained wide open.
A mere foot away lay the most luscious temptation he had ever known. And somewhere out beyond the trees, a small army might even now be closing in with deadly intent.
A more accurate definition of heaven and hell, he couldn’t imagine.
Chapter Five
“Catherine. Wake up.”
Keeping her eyes firmly shut, she shook her head and burrowed further into her deliciously warm bed. The pillowcase was coarser than she remembered, but that hardly mattered, not when she felt so wonderfully content. Safe.
Sighing happily, Catherine stretched and flexed against the firm mattress. It rubbed nicely against her breasts and that forbidden place between her legs, too nice really, and she couldn’t help doing it again.
“For the love of God, woman. Wake up.”
She frowned. Her bed was talking. And in pain?
One eyelid inched open. It took a moment to adjust to the gloomy darkness barely tempered by a pale beam of light, but with awareness came pure embarrassment.
Sweet heaven. She was in a tent and actually lying on top of Brand, her breasts pressed hard against his massive chest and her legs partially spread by one muscular thigh. The coarse pillowcase was his cloak.
“I’m sorry!” Catherine gasped, face flaming and hands flailing as she attempted to untangle her gown and cloak and climb off him.
Hands gripped her waist like a vice.
“Stop. Wriggling.”
Confused by Brand’s rough tone, his short, panting breaths, she lifted slightly and stared down at him. And felt the bulge nudging her left hip.
Oh.
Gulping a harsh breath of her own, she didn’t say a word as he grimaced and shifted, his body rigid with tension beneath her. Intrigued, she turned her head downward and watched in rapt fascination as the bulge hardened and lengthened.
Wickedly unbidden, her left hand slid down and stroked him, once then twice.
Brand groaned, his back arching to force his male part harder against her palm, but just as quickly, fingers clamped around her wrist and pulled her away.
“Don’t! What are you doing?” she said. “Please, let me, ahh!—”
The indignant yelp tore from her throat as in one swift, mind-spinning movement, he half-lifted and set her well away from him.
“No.”
“But why?” she said boldly. “You…you wanted me to touch you, I know you did.”
“And you know so little of men. That often happens in the morning…and any woman will do.”
In another place, in another tone, the comment would have been a dagger to the heart. But Brand was so tense, his hands uncharacteristically clumsy as he attempted to yank one boot onto the wrong foot, and without unfastening the buckle.
“Oh really?” she said slowly, deliberately lifting the hem of her gown to her knees to smooth her stockings and put on her own shoes. “Any woman?”
His eyes closed briefly. “Damnation, Carey. I can’t. I bloody can’t. Besides, when this is all over, when you’re back in London safe, well, and in favor again, you’ll feel differently and be very glad I said no.”
Carey.
Heart lifting, Catherine shuffled onto her knees, leaned toward him, and let her fingertips caress his chest. “You think I could just forget everything that has happened? Well, I will not. That my affection is so fickle? No, it is not. That there might be a day when I do not dream of the way you kissed me, your touch on my breasts or between my legs when you showed me such pleasure? You ask too much.”
For the longest moment he stared at her, his gaze hot and hungry. One hand tucked a stray curl behind her ear, the light, brief caress making her whimper.
Kiss me, Brand. Please, please, kiss me.
He cleared his throat. “It’s getting light. We have to get back on the road to Guildford. I’ll go and fetch some washing water.”
And with that, he scrambled out of the tent and marched away.
Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she concentrated fiercely on re-plaiting her hair, brushing her clothing as best she could and once outside, toasting the last of the bread and cheese for the men’s breakfast. An hour later they were packed up and on their way, but Brand hardly spoke a word for the rest of the day’s journey, even holding himself rigidly on their horse so he barely touched her.
When they finally entered the town of Guildford, she—and her aching backside—nearly cheered in relief. A town square had never looked so good, the thought of escaping the bleak and chilly afternoon for an inn with soft beds, roaring fire, mulled wine, and food other than bread or cheese, making her squirm.
“Sir Brand,” said Lucas, pulling up beside them, his young mount stepping and dropping its head in sheer fatigue. “What do you propose, an inn first or scatter to see what we can discover about Doctor Linwood? Is there a certain area? A family we must look for?”
Brand shifted in the saddle behind her.
“We haven’t much time before nightfall, so I think we tie up
