My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Catrin sighed, thankful at least that the loathsome Lord Leighton had left early in the morning, and she had one less worry. She stared at her brother’s haggard face. Richard’s hand clung to hers. His skin felt hot and dry, his slender fingers mere bones beneath pale flesh. His eyes were shut, and his lashes lightly touched his cheek. He was almost feminine in appearance.

How would he ever stand the rigors required of a lord of the realm? Now that he had been fostered with Bran, his knightly training would begin. Unlike Gilbert, so sturdy and spirited, Richard possessed none of the qualities of a warrior. He should be called to the clergy, by rights, becoming a scholarly monk, shut away from life’s hardships and pursuing his love of learning.

She must explain this to Bran. Surely, he would listen. Surely, he would temper the boy’s physical education at her behest.

Catrin could never imagine her brother raising the Rothmore sword in battle, nor staring down a black knight who glared through the sights of his great helm.

“This is but a common contagion,” Meg said, coming to stand behind her. “One that children are wont to contract. His doesn’t have griping in his bowels or flux.”

Meg’s words didn’t ease her worry. “That may be,” Catrin acknowledged, “but Richard was e’er a sickly child. I fear his convulsions will return.”

Richard’s eyes popped open. “I only have them when I’m overly tired,” he said. “I have not had one in a long while.”

Catrin squeezed his hand. “I am glad.”

Richard’s convulsions had indeed tapered off with age, but they were still frightening because no one knew when the demons within would strike him. In this, Isadora had proven to be like a mother bear, fiercely protecting her son from slander and gossip. Few knew of the debilitating condition that caused his eyes to roll back in his head and his body to shake as if possessed by the devil himself.

As much as it pained her to admit, Catrin recognized the sincerity of his mother’s love.

“Never worry, sister.” There was a sly twinkle in Richard’s eyes. “I want to get well so you will tell me the story of your escape from the outlaws.”

“’Tis a promise,” she said with a grin. “I will tell you all as soon as you are out of this bed. But you must call me ‘Olwen’ and remember only Meg and Father Ellis know the truth.”

“I am glad Olwen is safe,” Richard whispered. “Everyone knows she wants to be a nun.”

“Aye, she is safe.” Catrin nodded.

“Is Bran such a bad man?”

Startled, Catrin glanced over her shoulder at Meg, who turned her gaze away, unwilling it seemed, to help her answer Richard.

Catrin didn’t know how to respond. Who was she to judge? Certainly, Bran had been “bad” to her, taking her as forcefully as any wild stallion, but hadn’t she provoked him? Like a mare in season? Didn’t they feed off each other as if an unholy destiny existed between them?

Her cheeks flamed at the thought of their coupling. She had wanted him as much as he wanted her. Her flesh burned with desire and sinful lust, fueled by the wickedness of her lies and false oaths to God with the marriage vows she had uttered.

“I do not know if he is bad,” she said softly. “I only know what people have said about him.”

“But what was his motive? His purpose for killing Gilbert?”

Catrin stared down at her half-brother, wise in so many ways. She had secretly asked herself the questions that came so quickly to his keen mind. In faith, what would be Bran’s purpose when he looked to have received everything his heart desired in marriage to Olwen—land, a castle, and power?

That his “wife” had not come willingly, clearly, was another matter Bran had not foreseen. Further, she hadn’t considered her response to him. Trying to suppress the stirrings of her sinful nature kept her constantly on pins and needles.

Still, why would Bran want to kill Gilbert? She would name a better purpose from the feckless Leighton, whose lands bordered Rothmore holdings, or even from Isadora. Her stepson’s untimely death meant her son inherited the earldom .

Yet why would either one of them want her murdered? Isadora was soon to be rid of her through an arranged marriage. The king would have seen to that if she had “lived.” Then Catrin would no longer pose a problem to her stepmother. There would be no more conflicts in the household, and she would no longer remind Isadora of the Welsh woman who had first won Earl Rothmore, John Fitzalan’s devotion, and borne him two children.

Guy de Hastings had even less cause to kill her, a mere woman, heir to nothing of value.

“I know not Bran’s reason, dear one. I only know people said he sought revenge for Gilbert’s dishonorable behavior on the tourney field.” Catrin offered Richard a smile she did not feel. She didn’t want to disclose the presence of the second piece of scarf, her only true evidence against Bran.

“’Tis a true puzzle,” the boy said, his mind already seeming to plot the answer. Then a fit of coughing took him. Concerned, Catrin looked up at Meg.

“Force him to drink,” the maid instructed.

Richard shook his head, for the curative concoction Meg had fixed for him had a foul taste.

“You must, Richard,” Catrin said. “You are in my care, and I want you to get well.”

Richard sighed and did as he was told. Then Catrin soaked a rag with tepid water and bathed his face. She continued until her brother fell into a fitful sleep. She put the rag into the laver and sat back in the chair, worn out with worry and little sleep.

Meg touched her shoulder. “I will watch him for you.”

“Nay, I will stay.”

“You need your rest,” Meg insisted.

“I will rest later. You go. ”

She would not leave Richard. That was all there was to it. He was all she had in this world. All those others she loved had died. Father. Gilbert. Gwendolyn. Even Olwen was lost to her now.

She’d failed to protect those she loved, except for Olwen, and that success might be short-lived if Bran discovered the truth and went after his true wife. A sudden fear knotted in Catrin’s throat at the thought.

“I will bring your supper,” Meg whispered.

“My thanks,” Catrin said, watching the maid slip from the room.

All was quiet, but for the sound of her half-brother’s raspy breathing. He looked so small amid the majesty of the master’s great bed—small and out of place. A lone candle burned at the bedside, its faint light sputtering in the draft.

She, too, was out of place in that room and in that bed, where for several nights she lusted after the King’s Raven, giving him all the pleasure he wanted, but failing to find any satisfaction for herself. Why? Not from his wont of trying that she was unable to topple over that hill of passion he pushed her up.

’Twas her punishment. Just as Richard’s illness was her penalty for the sin of lying in front of God and then wanting another woman’s husband.

The wayward thought provoked her spirit. Nay! Olwen would not have been this man’s wife, no matter the king’s decree. So, why, of a sudden, did she think of him that way? She licked her dry lips, in her mind’s eye seeing the form of her husband as he chatted with Father Ellis, dispensed swift judgment to a wrongdoer, and lightly stroked the arched neck of his black stallion.

A great yearning overwhelmed her. Catrin sat up straighter, denying the warmth she felt, repudiating the raw need snaking through her body.

She wanted him.

’Twas just lust, was it not? Nothing more. Bran ap Madog was nothing more to her than a suspect in the murder of her brother and father. He was nothing more than a means to an end.

The throbbing in her temple would not cease. Neither would the part deep down in her soul that questioned her conscious thoughts. Why did she protest so much?

A strange lethargy enveloped her. God help her. What had she gotten herself into?

She had come to think of Bran as her husband.

Catrin put her head down on the side of the bed and shut her eyes. The rough breathing of the small boy in the bed lulled her until she fell into a fitful sleep.

Bran paused at the open door, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the murkiness of the solar. Evil vapors filled the room with the scent of sickness. A medicinal aroma clung to the very fabric of the wall hangings and coverlets. He gagged and almost failed to enter. What this room needed was light and fresh air enough to chase the contagion away.

Crossing into the room, he spotted Olwen sitting by the bed, her head resting on the side, her face turned toward the door as she slept. He walked toward her, carrying her supper. Meg, the loyal servant, was loath to let go of her duties, but he was master here after all, and the maid could do naught but curtsy and accept his decree .

Now he stood beside the bed holding a tray containing this day’s savory stew and freshly baked bread. Looking down at his wife, a strange awe enveloped him. She had removed her headdress, wearing only a silver net crespine confining her hair. Olwen had attended her young cousin for two days, not coming downstairs, not resting. No wonder she slept the sleep of one exhausted.

Bran placed the tray on a side table and returned to steal clandestine glimpses of his wife. A sharp pain of regret clobbered his gut. Ah, that he could inspire as much devotion as this boy!

What was it about these Rothmore men that they managed to inspire such loyalty and affection? First the sister with the handmade favor and now her cousin Olwen. Both were women who protected and fought for the men they loved.

Bran let out a breath that was much too close to a sigh. He never tired of looking at Olwen. Her comely face was a pale oval of perfection with its straight nose and pert mouth. Now her sapphire eyes were shut, unable to flash at him with anger or with passion.

His fingers curled at the thought of Olwen naked above him—the tiny knife in her hands, so easily overcome. How he longed to have her ride him like that, of her own free will, not taken so forcefully that, although his manhood exploded with pleasure, he came away each time edgy and angry with himself and with his lack of self-control.

The more he resolved to do better, the more his vices overcame his best intentions. ’Twas better to stay away from her. Doing so was his frustration and the penance he had meted out for himself .

Yet ’twas impossible to remain aloof from the one possession he had failed to conquer.

Swathed in the remnants of an erotic dream, Catrin opened her eyes. She was immediately catapulted from a cocoon of dreamy pleasure into harsh reality. Blinking again, she stared up at the dark, foreboding visage of the man in her dreams. This same man scowled darkly at her, his male scent of woodruff almost a slap to her face.

“What do you want, my lord?” She kept her voice low, but it sounded harsh even to her own ears.

Standing up quickly, she swayed for an instant before gaining her balance. Her throat ached, and she swallowed. Then, before he could answer, she raised a finger to her lips. Bran’s mouth tightened, so he surely caught her meaning. Catrin shooed him backwards toward the window seat, far enough away from the bed so as not to disturb Richard.

“I have brought your supper,” he said, so stiff that no emotion crossed his face or marked his eyes. “And I have come to see how you do.”

Catrin did not want his concern. “You can see I am doing well enough, my lord.”

“Aye.” He nodded, his regard sweeping from her head to her toe. “How is the boy?”

She drew in a breath, suppressing the need that touched each part of her body with that glance. “Richard is still ill,” she answered, “but I have hope for a full recovery.”

“What about yourself? Will you take your supper downstairs? With me? ”

Annoyance crawled along her spine. “My duty is to Lord Rothmore.”

“What about your duty to your husband?” Bran’s jaw clenched with evident anger.

She lifted her nose in the air. “I have done that duty, my lord.”

“As you are wont to tell me time and again.”

His long hair, glinting in the fading light from the glazed window, tempted her. Catrin longed to run her fingers through its length. She stared up at him, at the grim set of his mouth, the mouth that had ravaged hers and seared her breasts. Unbidden, her body came alive with desire.

Her heart squeezed unbearably. “Would you rather we tell the king we did nothing to help his grievously ill vassal? Two in my family were lost to Edward this year.”

He rested a hand on her sleeve, lightly, as if coaxing. “Coming downstairs will not hinder his lordship’s recovery.”

Catrin felt the heat in his touch. She trembled, outraged at the ache of longing that spiraled through her body. “Thank you, my lord, for your concern, but I choose to see to Richard’s nursing myself,” she said, trying to make her tone dismissive.

“Your devotion is noble.” Harsh light burned in his eyes. “Have it your way—for now. But be aware, I have prepared the solar in the opposite tower for your cousin’s use while he remains at Northbridge.”

“Now?” Panic rose in her voice. “Richard must leave this room now?”

“He may stay here until he is well. But this is our room, Olwen. This is where we seek our privacy. Where we know each other as husband and wife. I want this room returned to what it was before he came. ”

She lowered her lashes, hoping to cover the surprise that might show in her gaze. “I’m sure Richard will appreciate that you have given up your bed for him.”

“And what about you, Olwen? Do you appreciate what I’ve done for him?” His gentle pressure on her sleeve increased as his warm breath skimmed her temple. “And do you not long for what we can have in that bed?”

Bran’s hand connected them. Yet his fingers were merely a tease. She hated herself for wanting more of what they promised to do to her—what they could do to her in that bed. “What we can have, my lord? I do not understand. Our coupling is as any wild creature might have, devoid of any spark of love.”

“Love I cannot measure, but I give you my respect and devotion as my wife.”

His eyes shifted back and forth, his gaze scorching her face, forcing her to tighten her jaw in an attempt to withstand the pull he exerted on her resolve. God help her! If he dropped his lips to hers at that moment, she would kiss him back.

Richard’s coughing broke the spell between them. Catrin sucked in a breath. “Go, my lord, lest you catch the contagion as well. This is no time for discussion.”

“I will go now,” he said, his voice full of angry authority. “But I will return. I am master of my house, Olwen, and you would do well to remember that.”