Catherine’s head jerked, her hands falling to her sides.
“Now,” he continued, “forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
Moving faster than he ever had in his life, Brand yanked off her well-crafted and recognizable headpiece and cloak, putting her long curls in total disarray. Ignoring her gasp of shock, knowing he was about to do far worse, he tore at her thankfully nondescript brown gown until one sleeve hung limply from her shoulder and simple linen petticoats showed. Lastly, hoping beyond words that the slimy black substance at his feet was just mud, he smeared her hem and right cheek and hiking up her skirts, shoved her up against the alley wall.
“B-Brand,” she choked out as she tried to twist away from him, her eyes huge blue pools of terror. “Stop. Please. W-What…”
“Kick off one shoe and wrap your legs around my waist,” he said harshly, pulling his faded felt cap lower over his forehead. “And for the love of God, do not speak. Not one word.”
Her hesitation stretched to eternity, yet finally she gave a tiny nod.
“I trust you.”
He groaned, relief at her acquiescence warring with anger at her misplaced faith and a spark of something softer he didn’t dare define.
Furious at his lapse, Brand cupped the back of her head and crushed her mouth under his. Exactly what he expected he didn’t know, but after a long moment of frozen shock, her lips softened in submission, and he nearly groaned again. On another occasion he might have smiled at her complete inexperience—her lips were willing but pressed together as tightly as stone masonry. Gentling his action, he coaxed them apart until his tongue could flick their kiss-swollen ripeness.
Catherine gasped, one hand clenching and unclenching the collar of his doublet. He felt the moment she surrendered fully, when her mouth opened for his tongue and her body relaxed, allowing him close enough so her ample breasts were pressed hard against his chest and his rapidly hardening cock could grind against that sweet spot between her legs.
He cursed softly, fighting the urge to yank down his hose and bury himself to the hilt inside her tight heat. He should have had a woman when he had the chance, because any finesse had vanished. Arthur’s daughter, an untried virgin, with her low whimpers and untutored responses, was making him harder than he’d ever been in his life and soon, so soon, those base desires his wife had hated and run from would take over and…
“Oi! You there!”
They both stilled and a violent shudder passed through her frame. Slowly, deliberately, he turned her head away so all a passerby might see was unkempt hair and a grime-streaked cheek.
Panting for breath, he met the cold-eyed gazes of two scarlet-clad guards. Not the pair who had been chasing Catherine, but two others now blocked the end of the alley.
God’s blood. Word was spreading.
“Yessirs?” he slurred, elongating his vowels to pure London tavern.
“What is going on here, then?” one of the guards barked.
Brand cocked his head and blinked several times, as though the question required much thought.
“Just a little swordplay with the, er, wife, sir.”
“Is that right. And you, mistress? You often commit such lewdness in public?”
Before Catherine could speak, Brand forced a hearty laugh. “Alas, sir, my sweetheart is mute. Tis a great thing in a wife. Prettiest duckies around, but none of the damned quacking.”
The second guard coughed, his lips twitching, and exchanged a glance with his companion. “Well. Turn your mind away from the birds for a moment. We’re looking for a lady—”
“A lady, sir? In an alley?”
“We were…informed…she was last seen in this area.”
“Ye have me baffled. Who was seen?”
“Catherine Linwood. Daughter of Arthur Linwood. Some called him doctor, but he was no more than a devil of dark spells, lies, and butchering.”
Catherine’s fingernails clawed his poor quality cloak, her body shaking, and a trickle of perspiration trailed a slick, itchy path down the back of his neck. Quickly, like he merely wished to stretch, Brand rubbed his cheek against hers, and thankfully she stilled again.
“Ain’t never heard of her. What did she do? Steal summin? Run away from ‘er lord ‘n’ master?”
“No. Far worse. Treason against Her Majesty the Queen. Blasphemy and plots with evil intent. We are posting drawings of her with a reward for capture.”
“Oh-ho! What kind of reward?” he said loudly to muffle Catherine’s broken whimper, hoping to sound greedily curious rather than violently ill.
“Coins and ale aplenty for a wise man who loves God and his good queen.”
“Ye know,” Brand said slowly, rubbing his chin and further blocking Catherine’s face, “Think I did see a lady run past just before, going toward the inn. Fancy shoes sound different on these cobbles. And her hair was covered in one of them foine things with a veil. Thought mebbe she be late for mass or a banquet or such.”
The first guard’s hand closed around his sword handle, and Brand froze. Had that been too much? But the man merely leaned over and spat on the ground. “Mass is where you should be. Confessing your sins and begging forgiveness of our merciful Lord. Same for your mute. If she were a good, Christian woman she wouldn’t be cursed with such an unholy affliction. On your way afore I whip you both bloody.”
His heart sank at the one order that could reveal their deception, but obediently, he stepped backwards until Catherine’s legs slid to the ground. Curling one arm around her shoulders, but under her dark, untidy curls, he held her seemingly loosely against his chest and silently urged his feet forward. Ten paces to temporary freedom. They could do this.
“Aye, sir. To church,” he said, hunching his shoulders and staggering deliberately through a small mound of something revolting.
Both guards stepped back, unwilling to be soiled.
Five paces.
Forcing himself to amble, he nodded and continued, “Good day to ye.”
The air outside the alley was the
