He pulled on a clean tunic and belted it
before descending to the great hall for the evening meal, and all
the while Catherine's delighted, triumphant laughter echoed in his
ears.
By the time Catherine completed her morning
duties on Monday and descended to the inner bailey, prepared to
join the hunting party her father had arranged to entertain his
guests, most of those guests were already on horseback and riding
out of the castle gates. Aldis was gone, too, for Catherine had
sent her on ahead with several of their lady guests.
Unfortunately, Achard lingered. Not yet
mounted, he was standing near the groom who held the reins of
Catherine's favorite horse.
When she saw Achard, Catherine's spirits
sank. She wasn't sure she was going to be able to maintain her
polite facade with him, and certainly not if he continued to treat
her as if she was some bird-witted creature. It was quite enough to
have her father avoid telling her the truth about his activities,
and still more galling to believe that Braedon was manipulating her
feelings. It was entirely too much to have Achard hanging about
with the intention of convincing her to marry him.
“My sweet lady, the sight of you delights my
eyes,” Achard cried. He rushed forward to grip her arm as though
she was incapable of taking the last few steps to the bailey
without his aid.
“Good morning, my lord. It was unnecessary
for you to wait for me.” Catherine tried to pull away from Achard,
but he only tightened his grasp on her arm.
“I will wait until the end of the world if
need be,” he declared. “I beg you, allow me to assist you in
mounting your horse.”
“That won't be necessary. My groom is used to
mounting me.” Catherine succeeded in wrenching her arm out of
Achard's grip. She saw his mouth tighten and knew he was annoyed by
her refusal. She didn't care. She was in no mood to provide him
with an excuse to touch her again. She took the reins from her
groom, placed one foot into his joined hands, and sprang lightly to
the saddle. “Thank you, Walt.” She bestowed a warm smile on the
groom. Then, without another glance at Achard, she rode across the
bailey and out of the gatehouse as quickly as she could.
She could see the hunting party ahead, with
Royce and most of his guests cantering down the road to the open
land on the far side of Wortham Village. Catherine set out after
them, unhappily aware of Achard's presence just behind her.
“Do not linger here on my account,” she
called to Achard. “I am not fond of hunting. It's the riding and
the sunshine that I enjoy, so if you want to participate in the
chase, or to be present at the kill, please join my father and his
companions.”
“I could not bear to leave you,” Achard
declared. “You are the reason for my presence at Wortham, and your
sweet company will more than compensate for missing the excitement
of the kill.”
“My company is far from sweet today,”
Catherine said by way of an apology for her rudeness in the bailey.
“I am in a most unpleasant mood. I wish you would leave until I am
in better spirits.”
“I do wonder how you can dislike hunting.”
Achard spoke right over her words, as if what she was saying was
unimportant. “The search for the quarry, the mad rush of the chase
with its accompanying danger, the heart-stopping moment when the
deer or the boar is trapped, doomed, but doesn't know it yet. And
then the dogs attacking, the beast brought down, the final blows
and the gush of blood, the hot scent of victory. Ah, what a
glorious sensation!”
Achard's handsome face assumed an expression
of intense ecstasy. Catherine stared at him, sickened, the bile
rising in her throat at the picture he described and the open
pleasure he took in the thought of killing.
“I do wonder, my lord, if you regard me as
quarry to be hunted down,” she said when she was capable of
speaking without revealing too much of her emotions.
“I regard you as a far more precious prize
than any in these forests,” he responded, waving a hand toward the
trees where Royce's party had disappeared.
Catherine and Achard had passed through
Wortham Village and were now riding down the narrow road that ran
westward through cultivated fields. Catherine noticed a few men
working well beyond calling distance. No one else was about. She
was beginning to feel uneasy about being alone with Achard when he
leaned over and grabbed the reins out of her hands.
“Since you do not want to hunt, let us rest
for a time beside the stream,” he said, indicating the water that
flowed out of the forest to join the river.
“I am not weary.” Catherine tried, and
failed, to regain her horse's reins. “My lord, I protest. I do not
wish to stop. I want to join my father.”
“But you do not care for the hunt,” Achard
responded, throwing her own words back at her. “Here is a rare
opportunity for us to spend an hour alone together. We can learn to
know each other better. I will have a chance to press my suit with
you without anyone interrupting us, as always seems to happen when
others are near.”
Achard began to lead their horses toward the
stream, to a spot where Catherine could see a pair of large willow
trees growing at the water's edge. It was an attractive location,
with the green branches swaying in the gentle breeze. The grass and
moss beneath the trees suggested an inviting place to sit – or to
lie down – and the drooping willow branches formed a curtain, their
delicate leaves making a private bower. Too private. Catherine
regarded the pretty spot with dread. She was beginning to be
seriously alarmed by Achard's behavior. She decided it would best
if she could get away from him as quickly as possible.
She reasoned that he could not force her to
join him beneath the willows. In order to dismount from his own
horse, he would have to release, or at least lessen his grip on,
the reins of her horse. She would pay close attention to his
movements and seize the moment to regain control of her horse. She
had noticed on the previous day that Achard was not a particularly
good horseman, so she did not doubt that if she caught him in the
act of dismounting, and especially if she startled his horse, she
could be across the open fields and well on her way to catching up
with her father before Achard was back in his saddle and in
pursuit.
Her plan was formulated in haste and without
reckoning with Achard's intentions. As they approached the willow
trees he flung an arm around her waist and pulled her off her
horse, holding her against his side with her legs dangling
free.
“Put me down at once!” Catherine yelled at
him. She struck out with her fists, punching him in the chest and
the chin. “Let me go!”
“As you wish, my lady.” Achard released her,
letting her drop to the ground.
By the time Catherine rolled over and sat up,
Achard had dismounted and was wrapping the reins of both horses
around the trunk of one of the willow trees.
“How dare you!” Catherine scrambled to her
feet, brushing grass and mud off her skirts. “I warn you, Lord
Achard, my father will be very angry when he hears of your
actions.”
“Royce has given me permission to court you,”
Achard said, coming toward her.
“Not as roughly as you are doing,” Catherine
exclaimed. She thrust out both gloved hands to fend him off. “Keep
your distance, my lord.”
“How can I stay away from your sweet lips?”
Achard cried. “My dearest lady, you see before you a lover whose
only sin is that he is overeager. I long to hear you say you will
accept me as your husband.”
“You will never hear me agree to wed you, if
you persist in treating me this way,” she told him coldly.
“Catherine, I adore you. I ache to hold you
in my embrace. One kiss, my sweet love. That's all I ask. Then let
us sit under the willow tree and speak of our happy future
together.”
“Do you truly care for me as passionately as
you claim?” Catherine asked, regarding him with a great deal of
suspicion. She did not take a single step in the direction of the
trees.
“Indeed, I do. Only let me prove the depth of
my feelings to you.” Achard reached out to clasp her in his arms.
Catherine backed away. Achard followed, matching her step for
step.
“If you have any honest concern for me,” she
said, “you will stop this foolishness at once and allow me to
remount and join my father.”
“But you do not like to hunt,” he said,
pulling off his gauntlets and tucking them into his belt with a
swift motion that alarmed Catherine. Before she could move away
from him, Achard caught her wrist and began to drag her toward the
privacy of the willows. “Let us lie down together on the grass
while I introduce you to the ways of love.”
Catherine made a fist with her free hand and
took a swing at him. Achard saw the blow coming and jerked hard on
her wrist, pulling her off balance. Catherine missed hitting Achard
and fell to her knees. When she looked up at him, she surprised a
gloating expression on his face and she knew without any doubt what
he was planning to do to her once he got her to the trees. There,
beneath the swaying, drooping willow branches, his vile act would
be hidden from anyone passing by along the road. After Achard was
finished with her, she would have no choice but to marry him. Or
enter a convent, as Braedon's cousin had done.
Catherine had no desire to spend the rest of
her life behind convent walls, and she most certainly did not want
to wed a man who would treat a woman as Achard was treating her.
She bent her head and bit him on the hand that held her wrist in a
brutal grip, sinking her teeth in as hard as she could. He grabbed
her hair, pulling hard on the braids to force her head back and
away from his hand.
“So, you do like the hunt, after all,” he
said. “You enjoy the final struggle.”
Catherine glared at him. If she could just
get to her feet, she would jab her knee into Achard's groin. It was
a useful piece of self-defense that she had learned one day while
observing Walt, her groom, fighting with one of the
stable-boys.
“My lord Achard!” A loud male voice
interrupted Catherine's struggle to stand and Achard's attempts to
drag her toward the willow trees. “I'm glad I found you. Lord Royce
wants to speak with you.”
“What?” Startled by the unexpected
interruption, Achard released Catherine's hair, but he kept his
hand around her wrist while he squinted up at the horseman who had
moved close enough to suggest a threat. “What the devil do you
want, Braedon?”
“Lord Royce sent me to find you. He asks that
you join him at once.” Braedon swung down from his horse with easy
grace. “I will see to Lady Catherine. I expect she'd rather return
to Wortham than continue with the hunt.”
“I cannot leave her alone with you,” Achard
protested.
“I wish you would,” Catherine cried, tugging
harder on her wrist.
“Lady Catherine's cousin and my squire are
following close behind me,” Braedon said, “so she will have a
suitable escort. I wouldn't keep Royce waiting if I were you,” he
added when Achard still hesitated.
“No, you are correct. The matter may be
important. I shouldn't delay.” Achard finally dropped Catherine's
wrist. Within a moment he was mounted and heading for the road down
which Royce and his companions had disappeared.
“Are you all right?” Braedon reached toward
Catherine to help her stand. She shoved his hands away with a
furious gesture.
“Don't touch me!” She got to her feet, then
stood shaking like a leaf in a gale.
Braedon wasted no time arguing with her. He
scooped her into his arms and carried her to a spot under one of
the willow trees, where the old roots were well padded with moss.
At first Catherine struggled against him, but suddenly she went
still and let him do as he wanted with her. Braedon set her down so
she was resting against the tree trunk. He knelt before her,
studying her face with open concern. Then he noticed the injury
done to her fair skin.
“Your wrist is bruised,” he said, pushing
back the soft leather of her glove to look more closely at the
place where the skin was darkening. He tightened his lips to
conceal his disgust but some of the emotion spilled over into his
voice. “I surmise that Lord Achard was attempting to force you into
marriage.”
“I don't need your help, Braedon. I was about
to leave when you appeared.”
“Were you?” he said, gently stroking her
wrist. He was still wearing his riding gloves and the sensation of
the smooth leather against her bare skin was oddly seductive.
She snatched her arm away from his grasp and
held it against her chest as if to protect it. She stared at him
from eyes that were wide and dark with shock at what had almost
happened to her. Without another word Braedon put his arms around
her. She did not weep or object to his action, but she did sit
rigid and unmoving until he began to rub her stiff upper back and
her shoulders. Then she slumped against him.
“Catherine,” he said after a while, when her
head was resting on his shoulder, “make no mistake about Achard's
intentions toward you. The man is determined to marry you, whether
you want him, or not.”
“I know that now.” Her voice was muffled
against his tunic.
“From what I saw, you offered considerable
resistance for a gently bred lady, but Achard is larger and
stronger than you. He would have won in the end.”
“No,” she said. “I knew how to stop him.” She
explained the maneuver she had seen while watching two young men
fight, and Braedon found himself torn between admiration at her
refusal to give in without testing every possibility for escape,
and concern over what he knew Achard would have done after
Catherine had expended all of her strength.