Kitabı oxu: «Knight's Ransom»

Chapter One

Bordeaux, France

August 20, 1375

‘Twas four nights before the tourney, and the great hall of the castle was packed to capacity. Knights drawn from as far away as Italy by the promise of blood sport and rich prizes mingled with men too old to fight and ladies who had come in search of a more intimate sort of adventure. The light of a thousand flambeaux shimmered on their silken garments, winked off the golden chains hung around their necks and the precious gems banding their gowns and surcoats. Two stories above the glittering crowd, the banners of French cities captured by the English fluttered in silent testimony to the long, costly struggle waged between the two countries. Ended now by the peace treaty just concluded.

Peace! Gervase St. Juste spat onto the ground beneath the open window where he’d paused to take stock before entering his enemy’s stronghold and presenting himself to John, Duke of Lancaster. He’d not know peace while his people still suffered.

“Can you pick her out in this press?” Perrin asked, straining to peer over Gervase’s shoulder.

“Not yet, cousin.” Gervase buried the hatred he’d nurtured for so long and swept the crowd with narrowed eyes, searching for the woman his uncle had described to him. Bernard had only seen her once, and since the noble ladies all had their hair covered by those ridiculous headdresses ‘twas difficult to tell which were blond.

“There are two men in the Sommerville red-and-black livery.” Perrin pointed to a pair of hulking brutes who stood a few feet away, their backs to the window, facing a small circle of smiling, laughing nobles. “How odd. They look more like men-at-arms than knights. How do you suppose they came to be invited to the duke’s grand fete?”

“Because their lord is a personal friend of both the duke and his brother, the king.” Ruarke Sommerville, English hero of Poitiers, scourge of all France. “Pity he was called back to England ere the tourney began,” Gervase said tightly. He’d have enjoyed crossing blades with Lord Ruarke and to hell with the scheme that had brought him hither.

“Look, there’s a woman with them.” Indeed, one of the Sommerville retainers had moved aside to reveal a lady. ‘Twas she, not the men-at-arms, who was the focal point of the posturing lords and knights. “It could be Ruarke Sommerville’s daughter,” Perrin added in a whisper.

Gervase nodded, noting the wisps of blond hair peeping out at her nape where it was caught in a jeweled caul. “‘Tis likely.” His first impression was of a slender woman in formfitting blue velvet. How fragile she looked, he thought, and his determination to see this through faltered. Then he caught sight of the gems in the trim banding her surcoat and his jaw clenched tighter. Such wealth would have kept his people in food for a month.

“She must be as lovely as your uncle Bernard claimed, for these men gaze at her like fatuous fools.”

“With a dowry as large as hers, she could be an ugly cow and prospective suitors would still sing odes to her beauty.”

A short, dumpy girl edged her way into the circle of admirers. Catherine turned to greet the newcomer, baring her profile to the torchlight—delicate bones, a slim nose, smiling lips and a surprisingly firm jaw. Willful, Gervase thought. Willful, spoiled and so certain of her allure she dismissed her courtiers with a wave of her pale, beringed hand. Linking her arm with the homely girl’s, Catherine started toward the window.

Gervase stiffened and backed away, but for an instant, his gaze locked on Catherine’s. The incredible eyes his uncle had likened to violets widened with shock, mirroring the awareness that arrowed down Gervase’s spine. It exploded in his belly with the impact of a mailed fist. Shuddering against the wash of desire, he turned and melted into the shadows.

He’d been watching her.

Catherine stopped and blinked. When she reopened her eyes, the man was gone, but she knew he’d been there, standing in the courtyard just outside the window. Watching her.

“Cat? What is it?” Margery tugged on her arm.

“Naught, I…” Cat shook her head to clear it, then walked the few steps and sank down onto the bench beneath the window.

“‘Tis likely the heat,” Margery said, plopping down beside her. “Or the excitement.”

Cat Sommerville swept the crowd with a jaundiced eye. Despite the anticipation spicing the heavy air, there was an undercurrent of animosity. The English and French walked about stiff-legged as rival dogs spoiling for a fight. Her own nerves jangled with rising irritation and something she’d come here in hopes of curing…boredom. She might as well have returned to England with her parents ten days ago. At least at Wilton she enjoyed a small measure of freedom, and she wouldn’t have had to put up with the cattiness of the shallow women who’d come here.

“You look lovely this evening,” said her friend.

Cat forced a smile. “As do you, Margery.”

The girl laughed, a pudgy hand plucking at the skirt of her silken cotehardie. “I look like a short, puce cow in this,” she said merrily. “But Mama insisted I wear it instead of the black, which at least doesn’t cling to these horrid hips of mine.”

“The color is most becoming on you,” Cat replied, unable to truthfully say the close-cut style of the gown complemented Margery’s full figure.

“What a diplomat you are, Cat.” Margery laughed again, transforming her plain-as-pudding features to something approaching pretty. “May I say your gown fits you to perfection and the blue deepens the violet of your eyes. Or has Sir Archie already said so?”

Cat rolled the eyes in question. “Thus far I’ve not seen him this eve. ‘Tis probably too much to expect he’s drunken himself into a stupor and won’t attend.”

“How you speak about the most ardent of your many admirers,” Margery teased without the slightest hint of jealousy or envy. “And you know Sir Archie doesn’t overimbibe.” Planting a hand on her ample bosom, she crossed her eyes in fair imitation of the love-struck knight and intoned, “Moderation in all things, that’s my byword…except in my adoration of you, my fair Catherine.”

Cat laughed and shook her head. “You’ve a wicked sense of humor, Margery.”

“No more so than your own. ‘Tis why we’ve become such fast friends, you and I.”

“Aye. Your friendship is all that’s made Bordeaux bearable.”

“Never say you’re lonely. Why, you’ve a string of men trailing after you that’s made you the envy of every woman here.” Every woman save Margery. Which was but one of the reasons she was Cat’s friend, her only friend. “Especially Lady Clarice. When I went looking for you, I had only to follow that woman’s malevolent stare to find you,” Margery added.

“I don’t understand why she hates me so.”

“She’s jealous of your beauty and wealth.”

“But she has both in abundance, and I’ve made it plain to everyone here that I do not desire any of the men at court.”

“The men, contrary creatures as they are, desire you all the more for your aloofness. And who wouldn’t choose you over her? True, she is pretty and she inherited a rich estate from her poor dead husband, but she’s shallow and vicious, without a care for anyone save herself. While you are good and kind and patient.”

“Patient.” Cat laughed. “I wish my family could hear you say that last. Even I admit I’m impetuous and headstrong. Because you are my friend, you see only my good points.” As she turned to smile at Margery, she spied Clarice.

The woman wrinkled her nose as though she’d scented something bad, then leaned to whisper in the ear of one of the silly women who trailed after her. What were they saying about her? Apprehension trickled down Cat’s spine, making her shiver.

“Don’t give them a thought.” Margery seized Cat’s hand and squeezed. “There is naught bad they can say about you.”

If you only knew. Cat repressed another shiver. Each time a new person arrived from England she braced herself, wondering if they’d be the one to reveal her ugly secret. Though two years had passed since the sordid incident, ‘twas the sort of thing that lingered on people’s minds and leaked out their lips. So deep was her shame she hadn’t even mentioned Henry to Margery, to whom she’d bared all her other foibles and dreams. And if Lady Ela, Margery’s proper mother, learned of the aborted elopement, she’d forbid her daughter to speak with someone as tainted as Cat.

“They’re just jealous because all the men are wild for you.”

Cat grimaced. “I’d settle for one man who was more interested in me than in Papa’s money. Someone who accepted me as I am…warts and all.”

“You do say the oddest things, and I doubt you’ll find such a paragon here. ‘Tis a greedy group that’s come to Bordeaux.” Margery glanced about, frowning. “The old ones have come to relive their glory days, the youths for fame and fortune. Those who can’t earn it in combat, seek to marry wealth…or steal it.”

“True.” Cat sighed, heartily sick of being pursued by men with gold lust, not love in their eyes. Before leaving, her mother had warned Cat to be on her guard. “Philippe will watch you as zealously as he would his own daughters, but you must do your part. Take care you are never alone with any of these men. Most are even less honorable than that disgusting Henry Norville was, and God knows we don’t want a repeat of that disaster,” Gaby Sommerville had added, never one to mince words.

As if Cat would ever leave herself vulnerable to a man again. She drew in a breath of hot, stagnant air and released it noisily. “How I long to leave this stifling court behind and ride out for a day,” she said wistfully.

“’Tis too dangerous.” Margery’s eyes widened. “Never say you are going to sneak out and ride alone as you used to do at home.”

“Nay. I may be bored nearly to death, but I’m not stupid.” She gestured toward the two hulking men-atarms, who stood with their backs to the tiny alcove, giving the illusion of privacy. “Gamel and Garret guard me so zealously I cannot even visit the garderobes without them. I wish…”

“Mon Dieu. I’ve never seen him before. Who do you suppose that is?” Margery murmured.

Cat followed Margery’s gaze to the man who’d just entered the hall. Tall and wide shouldered, dressed all in black, he stuck out like a raven in a room full of peacocks. Looking neither right nor left at the gawking nobles, he walked toward the dais and their host, John, Duke of Lancaster. The sight of the crowd instinctively parting to permit him passage reminded Cat of her father. Though the stranger was more leanly built, he had the same proud carriage, determined stride and stern expression that made men stand aside for Ruarke Sommerville.

Power. It radiated from this man the way heat did from sunbaked rocks. Here was a presence to be reckoned with, Cat thought, going up on her toes to get a better look. Torchlight flickered over his rugged profile, high forehead, a straight nose and solid jaw. Inky hair fell past his nape, accentuating his deeply tanned skin. She gasped softly, recognizing him as the man who’d stared at her through the window. Who was he?

“Whoever he is, he’s causing a stir,” Margery whispered. “Lady Clarice looks like a child ready to pounce on a sweetmeat.”

Cat realized her own jaw had dropped open, snapped it shut and forced her gaze from the magnetic stranger. “He’s likely some impoverished knight. Why, he isn’t wearing a bit of gold chain.”

“He’s impressive enough without.”

Aye, he was. And that rankled. Cat fought against the insidious pull of something she’d sworn she’d never feel again. Desire. Only Henry had never affected her this strongly.

The stranger stopped before the dais and inclined his head. “Gervase St. Juste begs Your Grace’s leave to enter the tourney.” His low baritone raised Cat’s heart rate another notch. Though his form was correct, uttered by hundreds of men anxious to participate in the tourney, his voice had an edge the others had lacked. Pride, she thought. And mayhap anger, as well.

“I bet he never begged for a thing in his life,” Margery said, and Cat was disposed to agree.

Lord John leaned forward, the disinterest of the past two weeks absent from his leathery face. “From whence do you hail?”

“I’ve a small holding called Alleuze in the Languedoc.”

“Hmm. Have you fought before? We want no inexperienced lads injuring themselves in their quest for glory.”

The strikingly beautiful Clarice sidled up. Her red lips and the black kohl lining her eyes contrasted vividly with her white skin. “Oh, I doubt Sir Gervase is inexperienced.”

“If he is, you’ll soon cure that,” someone shouted. A round of laughter and catcalls greeted this.

Cat waited for Sir Gervase to acknowledge Clarice’s unspoken invitation. A muscle twitched in his cheek, but his gaze remained locked on the duke’s. “I think you will find me an adequate foe.”

“Foe? Have you forgotten we are here to celebrate the peace between our two countries?” Lord John asked sharply.

“I forget naught,” Sir Gervase replied in kind.

“He’s certainly a prickly fellow,” Margery said.

Cat nodded, taken with the way he’d ignored Clarice, yet wary of his animosity. “He doesn’t seem to welcome this peace.”

Apparently the duke agreed, for his gaze narrowed as it swept the bold knight from head to toe. “I crave peace. These continued hostilities have taken a toll on both our peoples.”

Sir Gervase’s raven head bowed a fraction, and his shoulders sagged as though some terrible weight had dropped on them. Then he straightened. “On that we are agreed. Peace is necessary.”

“So you have come to fight in the tourney. Do you seek to bash a few English heads under the guise of sport? Or is it ransom you are after?”

The knight started. “What?”

“Ransom. The taking of prisoners in the melee in order to get rich by ransoming them back to themselves or their families.”

“I am familiar with the process,” Sir Gervase growled. “But I want naught I do not deserve. I come to celebrate the peace.”

Now why did she think that wasn’t strictly true? Cat was intrigued by this big, mysterious stranger. He wasn’t for her. Even had she been in the market for a husband, which she wasn’t, her father would never approve her marrying an impoverished French knight. Still there was something about him that caused a purely feminine flutter deep inside her.

“Cat!” Margery’s padded elbow landed in her ribs. “His Grace is calling for you.”

Frowning, Cat lifted her skirts and worked her way through the crowd to the edge of the dais. “You wanted me, Your Grace?”

A knowing grin split the old war-horse’s face. “Caught you daydreaming, eh, m’dear? I said Sir Gervase has a harsh opinion of us and I thought meeting some of our lovely ladies might soften him toward us. This is Lady Catherine Sommerville, daughter to Lord Ruarke and goddaughter to my brother, the king.”

Excitement shivered across Cat’s skin. He was totally unsuitable, yet he fascinated her. “Sir Gervase,” she murmured. Relieved by the steadiness of her voice, she glanced up at the knight. Her heart slammed against her ribs as her curious gaze met his. Gray. His eyes were an unusual shade of gray, she thought. Cool and mysterious as fog on water, fringed by long black lashes. The expression in his eyes changed to something totally unexpected. Contempt. Shock held her immobile.

“A pleasure, Lady Catherine.” His smooth words at odds with his expression, he took the hand she’d instinctively held out. The brush of his mouth on the back of her hand sent a frisson of heat up her arm.

Alarmed, she snatched her hand back.

He straightened, brows winging up over eyes as blank as polished silver. “Have I somehow offended?”

“Nay…of course not.”

“I am glad.” A slow, intimate smile lifted the corner of his mouth, making her think she’d imagined his disdain. He had no reason to dislike her. “I’d hate to see His Grace’s plan fail.”

Intrigued, she smiled. “As would I. Have you supped?”

He nodded, taking her arm and steering her away from the dais. “I ate with my men after we’d set up camp, but the ride in was dusty. A cup of wine or ale wouldn’t be amiss.”

She signaled a passing page, who returned with two cups of wine just as they reached the window seat she’d recently vacated. “You’re out near the tourney fields, then?” She sank down onto the bench, feeling unaccountably nervous and…and vulnerable with this stranger, though the hall was still packed with people and her bodyguards lurked nearby. “Why not here in the city?”

“All the inns were full.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall of the tiny alcove, looking big and solid as the stone behind him. His body blocked the light from the hall, creating an intimate bower for the two of them.

Recalling another time and another man bent on seduction, Cat was half tempted to flee. Pride wouldn’t let her. Eventually she must wed to have the children she wanted. Which meant she’d have to learn to deal with men on an intimate level. Gervase St. Juste could never be her husband, but he was enticing, dangerous. Tempting her to boldness.

“Fortunate you are to be outside the city,” she said, low and husky, keenly aware of the muscles bulging beneath his velvet tunic as he crossed his arms over his chest and the way his knitted hose hugged his long legs and sturdy thighs. Very dangerous. Very tempting. “The noise and smells of so many people living so close together makes sleep difficult.”

“Do they?” He stood so near she could smell the soap mingling with the faint muskiness of his skin and see an odd light flare in his eyes. “Have you had trouble sleeping?”

“Nay,” she said, startled by his intensity. “Well, I am a bit bored, is all, so…” So she gazed out the chamber window and wished she were riding across the hills distantly glimpsed.

“Mayhap I can help allay your…boredom,” he said silkily.

Cat stiffened, wary yet intrigued. “How?”

“Mayhap a walk in the gardens…for a start. We’ll see where that leads us.”

Into danger. “I am not that sort of lady.”

“What sort is that?”

“The sort who goes walking with a stranger.” The walk she’d taken, the one that had cost her so much, had been with a man she thought she knew. A man she’d thought loved her.

Gervase’s smile was ripe with masculine challenge. Her stomach fluttered in response and her palms grew damp. “You’d go if you knew me, then?” he taunted.

Aye. Cat knew then that she was in way over her head. “Possibly.” She stood, shaking out her skirts to hide the trembling in her hands…her limbs.

“Afraid of me?” His smile deepened, another challenge.

Aye, but more so of herself. She angled her chin up to meet the arrogant tilt of his. It was a mistake. In the blink of an eye, he leaned forward, his mouth closing over hers in a fiery kiss. Only their lips touched, but she felt the impact shudder through her body, sapping it of will and breath.

A groan filled her throat, of protest or surrender, she wasn’t certain. Beneath her feet, the ground shifted. Dizzy and disoriented, she brought her hands up, clenched them in the front of his tunic. The growl of satisfaction that rumbled through his chest broke the spell. She tore free of him, cheeks burning, heart thundering. “How could you do that to me?” she asked.

“Quite easily, it seems,” he drawled.

Cat drew back and slapped him as hard as she could…or she would have had the blow landed. Instead he caught her wrist a scant inch from his cheek.

“Don’t ever attempt to strike me.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t molested me.” She shook off his hand.

“Quarreling already?” Lady Clarice asked, gliding in to wrap a slender arm through the knight’s muscular one.

Cat smiled, displaying the teeth she longed to sink into Sir Gervase. “Nay. But we have run out of things to discuss.”

“Ah. It seems I came just in time. My repertoire is more…extensive,” Lady Clarice murmured. Smug as a cat making off with the cream, she led her trophy away. Just before the crowd swallowed them up, Sir Gervase glanced back over his shoulder and gave Cat a long, simmering look that promised this wasn’t over.

Margery charged into the alcove. “How dare Clarice take—”

“‘Tis all right, Margery,” Cat said hastily. “Sir Gervase and I, er, found we have very little in common.”

“Why are you so angry? What did he say?”

“Naught, he…”

Oscar, the third member of Cat’s guard, a man of medium build, unswerving loyalty and sharp wits, appeared behind Margery. “Fat lot of nerve the knight’s got, running off with that woman. Do ye want we should go after the lout and drag him back?” Flanking him were Gamel and Garret. The twin giants flexed their thick arms and clenched fists the size of hams.

Cat smiled. “Tempting as the offer is, the duke has strictly forbidden fighting off the tourney field, and I’d not see you three land in trouble over a petty slight.”

Gamel swung his shaggy head toward the far end of the hall where Lady Clarice and her friends plied the knight with wine and charm. “‘Tis no small thing to us, m’lady,” he snarled.

“Actually, I found Sir Gervase’s company tedious. Clarice is welcome to him.” Cat glared at the knight, who stood taller than any present save Gamel and Garret, and seriously contemplated squashing his black head with something damaging…a pike, mayhap.

As though sensing her regard, Gervase turned suddenly and their gazes locked. Triumph kindled in those wintry eyes of his, so quickly gone it might have been a trick of the torchlight.

Now what do you suppose he’s about? she wondered.

Lady Clarice was as difficult to shake as a Mediterranean squid and seemed to have more arms. Gervase finally escaped by claiming he needed to visit the jakes, then ducking into the shadow-draped gardens behind the castle. Scarcely had he closed the gate behind him when someone grabbed his arm.

Gervase yelped and yanked his arm free.

“Easy, ‘tis just me.” Perrin’s voice came out of the gloom.

“Thanks be to heaven.” Gervase sagged against the trunk of a birch tree. “I thought it was her.”

“Lady Catherine?”

“Clarice. The stink of her perfume still pollutes my nostrils and I swear there are marks on my chest from her nails.”

“The perils of court intrigue. What of Lady Catherine? I expected you’d have gotten her out here by now so we could be on our way.”

“She proved…difficult.” Gervase pushed away from the tree and dragged a hand through his hair as he paced the path.

“Losing your touch with the ladies?”

“Small wonder. This past year I’ve been too busy keeping the brigands from our door and tilling the fields like a common peasant to woo a woman.” Gervase sighed in exasperation. “But I could think of no other way to get close to her except to swallow my hatred for her family and pretend to court her. Who would think ‘twould be so difficult to get her alone?”

“Aye. She is surrounded by admirers, and two of those Sommerville men-at-arms go everywhere she does. How will you get her away before the tourney starts?”

“I’m not certain I can. We may have to stay and participate in a few of the events in hopes that during the confusion we will find an opportunity to take her.”

“Oh? And what will you do for a suitable mount? Or will you ride old Jock in the jousting lists and the melee?”

“I have yet to figure that out…but I will. After all, we’ve lived on our wits these past six years.”

An hour later, Cat finally slipped away from the hall to walk in the gardens. The cool night air eased the heat from her cheeks and cleared the stench of smoke and unwashed bodies from her nostrils, but for once the familiar scent of roses and herbs failed to lift her spirits.

Sir Gervase’s attempted seduction had shaken her, and when Philippe had arrived a short while later, she’d asked to leave the castle and stay in her father’s tent.

“A tent is no place for a lady,” Philippe had replied.

“I’ve stayed in them since I was little.” Nor could he deny that. “The castle is crowded beyond belief with so many nobles come for the tourney. True, Margery and I are more fortunate than most, since there are only two of us in our bed, but six other ladies spread their pallets on the floor each night. I can scarce arise at night to use the pot but what I step on someone.”

“You are more comfortable here,” he insisted.

“I have never been more uncomfortable in my life, and well you know it. ‘Tis a nest of greedy vipers and backbiting she-cats. Margery is the only one with whom I feel at home.”

“If anyone bothers you, you have only to tell me and I will bring the matter to His Grace, the duke.” Philippe’s expression sharpened. “Are you certain this Gervase St. Juste didn’t insult you? Oscar seemed to think—”

“We merely…argued. The man is arrogant and surly. I can look out for myself. However well-meaning, Lord John’s interference would only make things worse, for there are some who think our family’s connection with the king’s has given me airs.”

“You? Never.” His brown eyes danced. “I know you’d rather be mucking out a stall than dancing with…what was it you called them…ah, yes, those lead-footed nobles.”

“Then you see why I’d rather stay in the tents than—”

“Out of the question. Your sire was most specific in his instructions. You are to stay within the castle except whilst attending the tourney events. Gamel and Garret are to be with you at all times, and one is to sleep across the doorway of your chamber at night.” Nor could she shake Philippe’s determination. Having served her father for some nineteen years, first as squire, then as a knight, he was not only loyal, he knew the folly of disobeying Ruarke Sommerville.

Sighing, Cat turned her back on the castle and walked along the gravel path.

“Are you certain Gervase St. Juste didn’t insult you?” Garret grumbled as he and his brother fell into step behind her. “I’ve not seen you so angry in years.”

Too true. Clearly her initial impression of him had been in error. He might have her papa’s size and commanding presence, but Ruarke Sommerville would never have stooped to insult a woman. Obviously Sir Gervase was an arrogant lecher. He and Clarice deserved each other. Yet the few times Cat had surreptitiously glanced their way, she’d been stunned by the pang she felt at the sight of his tanned face bent close to Clarice’s pale one.

“Mayhap, Sir Gervase will be wounded in the tourney and thus God will punish him for his meanness,” Cat said with forced cheer. Determined not to let the knight ruin what was already an unpleasant visit, she continued along the path. On either side grew the flowers and herbs Princess Joan had planted here when she and the Black Prince first came to Bordeaux.

“Gamel, do you know what that one is?” she asked.

The giant swung his sword scabbard out of the way as he hunkered down beside the plant in question. His thick, scarred fingers stroked the leaf with surprising gentleness. “Horehound by the smell and these white flowers.”

“Very good.” Cat beamed at her pupil. The brothers had learned much in the two years since Henry’s treachery had made them her guardians. She’d been confined to Wilton’s grounds, then, under the guise of improving the gardens. Talking about herbs had eased the tension of having someone following her at all times. “There are few things here even I recognize. I wonder if the local herb woman—”

“Lady Catherine. Ho, Lady Catherine,” called a horribly familiar voice. Before she could bolt behind a bush, Sir Archie was upon them. He grabbed her hand in one of his slender ones and pressed his wet lips to her fingertips.

Cat repressed a shiver of revulsion. Archibald de Percy meant well, he was just so…soft. With his curly hair and big, vapid eyes he reminded her of a brown sheep. A wealthy, handsome sheep, ‘twas true, but a sheep nonetheless.

“My dearest Catherine. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that preparations for the tourney kept me on the training grounds and thus I am so late in arriving.” He pulled a linen square from inside his tunic and dabbed at the perspiration on his clean-shaven face. His short crimson tunic was the height of fashion, as were his shoes, the toes of which were so long they flopped when he walked. “I chased all over the castle looking for you. What say we sit over there?” He pointed to the arbor at the end of the garden.

Cat groaned. This must be her night for seductive males. The out-of-the way corner and its concealing trellis overgrown with grapevines was a favorite for lovers who wished to dally without being seen. “I don’t think—”

“We cannot let her out of our sight,” Garret growled, and for once Cat was glad of her father’s precautions.

Archie drew himself up to his full height of some five feet ten inches. It brought his aristocratic nose level with Garret’s breastbone; still he managed to look down on the man as he snapped, “I assure you, my intentions are most honorable.”

“That may be.” Garret stared at Archie the way a bird might a worm. “But we’ve got our orders. And unless Sir Philippe says differently, the king himself is not getting our lady off alone.”

“Of all the ridiculous, disrespectful…” Archie grumbled and complained but had to content himself with sitting in the arbor with Cat while the brothers stood at attention a few yards away, in full view of the shadow-draped interior. “I don’t see why you put up with them.” He dusted off the seat with his damp handkerchief, then swept her a low bow. “Lovely lady…”

Cat bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling. “They mean well…and they do have their orders.”