A reluctant chuckle rumbled in his chest as several emotions chased each other across her expressive features. “An old man? I am. A few months shy of thirty summers.”
Catherine’s cheeks took on a rosy hue. “Someone closer to his own age. And status. He never mentioned the title, and I don’t think I’ve seen you at court. Are you…?”
“I’m rarely in London, but yes, I’m one of those FitzAlans. The current Earl of Arundel is my fa…first cousin,” he finished hastily, shocked he’d nearly blurted the long-hidden truth. What the hell was wrong with him? “I never bothered using my title with Arthur. Three years ago he saved my mother’s life, quite frankly he could have called me whatever he pleased. But it was always Brand, and I gladly called him friend.”
“A death does tend to reveal true friends.”
His jaw clenched. How well a widower knew that particular truth. Doubly so when the death was most untimely and raised more questions than answers, when finger-pointing and rumors reached feverish levels. He’d already been on a dark path. If his mother had died he no doubt would have succumbed entirely to the black devils in his soul.
“Indeed it does,” he replied with a curt nod. “How do you find your friends at this time?”
“Her Majesty is wonderful. I often attend her in her rooms, but she hasn’t been feeling well the past few days, so instead sent notes. And I know the local poor have benefitted enormously from her bountiful alms in my father’s name.”
“But what of you?”
“I…”
Catherine’s lush lips curved in a fond smile, and again he fought a heightened awareness, the strong desire to trace her mouth with his thumb. Or tongue.
“Yes?”
“I am most fortunate. She is always so kind to me. I shall keep our rooms at the palace until I marry. Half again my dowry. And some damask and linen, too.”
“Very generous,” he said evenly, barely managing to mask his disgust at the pitiful offering. How fast they forgot a life of highly-skilled and loyal service. In this regard Queen Mary was certainly her father’s daughter.
“It is generous,” Catherine said sharply, staring at the stone floor. “I am most grateful for her compassion in allowing me to remain in the palace. I have no other family, no pending marriage, nowhere else to go. Papa and I…we never had our own home, always loaned rooms. And I don’t think I could bear to be parted from his belongings. The books and that scent of crushed h-herbs he always h-had…”
“I know it,” he said quickly, soothingly. “I don’t think anyone in England bathed as much as your father. Often suspected he was part fish. A well-seasoned fish, naturally. Thyme, a little parsley…”
Her head shot up, and she stared hard at him, her lips trembling. “P-parsley?”
Brand sighed. Clearly he should not be permitted near anyone while sober.
“You’re right. T’was a far more manly scent. Er…basil?”
“Mint,” said Catherine in an odd, suffocated voice, and suddenly she hurled herself against his chest and wept, silent, wrenching sobs that shook her entire frame.
Instinctively, his arms closed around her. His second mistake, after making conversation without the benefit of sufficient wine, for it was immediately apparent Arthur’s precious daughter was a grown woman. Lusciously so. This close, not even a shapeless gown could disguise her full and firm breasts, slender waist, and generous hips.
“There now, don’t cry,” he said uneasily, awkwardly patting her shoulder while attempting to put distance between them before his unruly body responded to her warm, soft curves in an altogether inappropriate way. Besides, these were real tears. What did he know of genuine, heartfelt emotion from a young woman?
Damnation. They were in a crypt. She was the virginal daughter of his deceased friend, a favorite of the wretched Queen of England, and a damned Catholic.
What in the hell was he doing?
What in the name of the saints was she doing, standing in a cold crypt and weeping in the arms of a stranger?
Yet it felt so good, if entirely different.
Sir Brandon was the physical opposite of her father—so tall her forehead barely reached his collarbone, with wide, wide shoulders and a huge chest that stretched taut a beautifully embroidered dark green doublet. A heavy gold chain announced his wealth and position, as did the fur-trimmed cloak caressing her cheek. As for the heavily muscled arms wrapped around her, oddly, she’d never felt so safe. He might be a man she knew of only through Papa’s mentions, but surely anyone her father befriended would only be good and honorable.
Finally, her tears slowed to a trickle, and he gently set her away from him and stepped back. She immediately missed his warmth, but it did permit a better view of his face.
Perhaps the most interesting face she’d ever seen. Not handsome in a traditional sense; his hair too brown, clean shaven jaw too square, cheekbones too harsh and nose slightly too big to be celebrated by court artists. But they would never quite capture him on canvas. Not the golden shade of his skin or emerald-green of his eyes, so startling under slashing dark brown brows. Definitely not those firm lips which probably fuelled the secret kissing fantasies of every woman from here to York.
“Is there a spot on my face?”
Catherine jumped at the amused question, her cheeks burning. “Ah…no. No, Sir Brandon. I was just looking at your…eyes. Such an unusual color. Lovely.”
He tilted his head, those lips twitching. “It’s just Brand. And the eyes are courtesy of my mother’s Scottish ancestors, I believe.”
“Scottish?”
“Don’t look so horrified. It was no doubt a border raid. Celtic lasses can be rather single-minded and Englishmen not overly resistant to temptation. Now, you must forgive me my short stay, but I have a meeting I must away to. Again may I say how sorry I am for your loss, and should you ever need anything, be assured I am at your service.”
“Thank you,” she replied dully, her heart sinking like
