Catherine shuddered, her heart breaking.
“I must pen him a letter.”
Arundel’s shoulders sagged. “No, he wouldn’t believe that. Come with me now, say your farewells, and you’ll be safe from him, from the queen and council. I swear it on my life.”
Cold enveloped her, and a single tear slid down her cheek, but she nodded slowly.
“Very well.”
“FitzAlan. Get up, wretch.”
The swift boot to the shin would probably result in another bruise, but he was beyond caring. Since the moment he’d left the court he’d been in this tiny windowless chamber, unfurnished save a rickety wooden chair, while several senior clerks took turns questioning him on every aspect of the past few weeks. They seemed to believe taunting him, denying him food and sleep, and pouring freezing water over his head when he didn’t answer fast enough would gain what they wanted.
Ha. These men could try forever, even rack him to within an inch of his life, and he still wouldn’t confess to a crime he hadn’t committed. Nor would he implicate Carey. Fatigue and pain were nothing compared to the memory of their last kiss, her signal in the courtroom that he held a place in her heart. That sustained him now. Would have to.
“FitzAlan!”
Brand blinked and smiled pleasantly at the scowling, pock-faced guard. “You bellowed?”
“I said get up. Yer bein’ moved.”
“Excellent. The view from this chamber is most substandard.”
He rose to his feet and for one awful moment thought his shaky legs would buckle under him. But at last they steadied, and he stretched to full height, flexing muscles that burned from misuse.
“Come along then,” the guard said, gripping his upper arm. “And don’t give me no trouble, or you’ll be gettin’ the thrashin’ those clerks were too soft-bellied to give.”
It felt like they trudged the silent hallways of St. James’s Palace for hours, and trickles of perspiration soon bathed his temples as he focused on remaining upright. But instead of leaving for a barge to Traitor’s Gate, they continued on to a section of the palace where the carpets were richer and thicker, the tapestries newer and more colorful.
He frowned. “Are you lost? This won’t get me to the Tower.”
The guard ignored him, abruptly halting in front of a nondescript, partially open door. A moment later he was shoved through it, the door swiftly being closed and locked behind him.
Alone in the candlelit space, Brand rubbed his eyes as a strange, heavy scent enveloped him. Incense. He was in the chapel antechamber? Why the hell would he be brought here?
Light footsteps sounded behind him and he spun, the ill-thought movement nearly sending him crashing to the floor. God’s blood, now he was hallucinating, for an angel stood before him. A shockingly pale, sapphire-eyed angel only missing her wings.
“Carey,” he said hoarsely, one hand reaching out for her, but now his legs ceased to function and he staggered, bumping into a cloth-covered side table. Yet it didn’t matter, for a moment later she hurled herself into his arms, buried her face against his chest and dampened the collar of his filthy doublet with tears. “Brand…”
“What are you doing here?” he said, tangling his fingers in her unbound hair, taking her lips in a hard, lingering kiss. “What am I doing here? How did you arrange it?”
She pulled back slightly, one hand sliding up to trace his forehead, jaw and lips. “I-I have c-come to…”
“Come to what, sweetheart?” he said. Carey was far too pale, too tense, and the agonized misery in her eyes made his gut churn in trepidation. “Tell me.”
“Mistress Linwood has come to make her farewells,” said a crisp, familiar voice as Arundel stepped out of the shadows. “After much discussion, she accepted my offer of passage to France and funds for a new life there. She knows there is nothing left for her in England but the queen’s wrath and a dishonorable death. For that is the only decision the council can and will come to.”
Acute unease swirled, and he stared hard at his father. “After much discussion? What could the Earl of Arundel possibly have to privately discuss with a condemned prisoner, my lord?”
“She guessed, Brandon. About our…true relationship.”
“Even now, you cannot say the words. But how is that information worthy of such a generous boon as freedom?”
“I told her the rest. About—”
“He told me all about Therese and her death,” said Carey, cupping his face in her delicate hands. “And despite that, I lo—”
“Despite…what?” he replied, gently removing her hands from his face and turning to his father. “Precisely which version of the story did you share with my betrothed?”
Arundel hesitated, a distinctly hunted expression appearing on his face. “The truth, of course.”
Icy rage surged through his veins, and he stormed toward the earl. “Liar.”
“Brand! No!” said Carey behind him, but his fist had already curled with the force of thirty years of anger and ploughed into Arundel’s face, sending an arc of bright red blood spraying across the antechamber wall.
“Damnation, boy,” Arundel hissed, yanking a handkerchief from his cloak pocket to stem the flow. “You broke my nose.”
“I doubt that. The FitzAlan nose is rather robust. But a few more blows should do the trick.”
“All right! All right. Perhaps I told the supposed story. But no one believes your version, Brandon. And there are no witnesses.”
“Incorrect. There were several witnesses, and they are all safe and well in a location I won’t share. They know Therese never wanted to marry me, nor I her. They know she wept every day for her lost calling as a nun, how she loathed her forced marriage and the marriage bed. And they know her pregnancy tipped the hatred into madness, as she dressed herself in ancient chainmail and waded into the lake while I met with my steward…”
He paused, as the familiar grief
