bandages. “I see you have
kept your promise, Lady Catherine, and have seen to the preparation
of supplies you will need after the melee.”
“I did not bring you here to discuss
tournament injuries,” Catherine retorted rather sharply. “I want to
know why you quarreled with Eustace.”
“As you noticed, he drank too much wine,”
Braedon said, shrugging his shoulders as if the incident did not
matter. “It is an unfortunate habit of his.”
“What was the cause of your quarrel?”
Catherine demanded. She was trying hard to hold on to her temper,
but if Braedon continued to sidestep her queries as her father had
done, she was likely to forget her manners and treat him to a
serious tongue-lashing. She gave him another chance, asking more
pointedly, “Why did Eustace choose to quarrel with you and not with
someone else?”
Braedon was silent for long minutes, until
Catherine's control snapped.
“I want the truth,” she warned him, “and I
want it now.”
“I have just told you the truth,” he said.
“Eustace was drunk.”
Fighting the urge to hit him, Catherine flung
out a hand. Her fingers closed around the rim of a small metal bowl
that sat on the worktable. She lifted the bowl and slammed it down
hard on the tabletop. The noise it made was so satisfying that she
maintained her grip on the bowl, holding it as if she would use it
for a weapon to batter Braedon about his chest and shoulders.
“I will not be put off again,” she shouted at
him, “not by you, or by my father, nor by Achard, either. I will
have the truth from you!”
“Achard?” he repeated, frowning and looking
puzzled. “What has Achard to do with anything?”
“Do not attempt to distract me.” Again she
raised the bowl in a threatening gesture. “You are just like my
father, changing the subject, raising new issues so I won't pursue
any further the matters you don't want to discuss. I tell you now,
I have had enough!”
She swung the bowl at him. Braedon leapt
aside just in time. On the downswing the bowl struck the edge of
the worktable and flew out of Catherine's hand. It landed on the
stone floor with a loud clanging noise that reverberated off the
walls until the bowl finally stopped spinning.
Catherine could see Braedon was trying hard
not to laugh. She lifted her chin, preparing to scald his ears with
furious words if he dared to make a joke at her rage.
“I cannot blame you for being angry,” Braedon
said. “You are far too intelligent not to notice the undercurrents
of conflict swirling amongst your father's guests.”
“Exactly.” Catherine's temper was somewhat
calmed by Braedon's acknowledgement of her outrage, though she did
not entirely trust his remark about her intelligence. Most men
believed women possessed little in the way of native wit. Unlike
most men when dealing with a woman, she was prepared to
listen to what a man had to say. “Sir, I am waiting for your
explanation.”
“Of course.” Braedon spoke slowly, as if he
was thinking the matter through very carefully. “You do deserve an
explanation. You wanted to know why Eustace and I nearly came to
blows. I will tell you why.” He fell silent and Catherine waited,
determined to have the truth of the quarrel from him, and then to
learn all she could about the undercurrents he had mentioned.
“I have only three relatives living,” Braedon
said. “My mother was the daughter of a prosperous weaver. She died
soon after I was born. She and my father were not married. Eustace
was correct when he called me a bastard. I have never seen the
point of taking offense at a fact that is common knowledge. When my
mother died, her brother took me into his household and raised me
as his ward.”
“That was kindly done of him,” Catherine
said. “I am sure there are men who would claim that a sister who
has borne a child out of wedlock has brought shame to her
family.”
“My uncle was well paid for his care of me.”
Braedon's voice took on a timbre
kept your promise, Lady Catherine, and have seen to the preparation
of supplies you will need after the melee.”
“I did not bring you here to discuss
tournament injuries,” Catherine retorted rather sharply. “I want to
know why you quarreled with Eustace.”
“As you noticed, he drank too much wine,”
Braedon said, shrugging his shoulders as if the incident did not
matter. “It is an unfortunate habit of his.”
“What was the cause of your quarrel?”
Catherine demanded. She was trying hard to hold on to her temper,
but if Braedon continued to sidestep her queries as her father had
done, she was likely to forget her manners and treat him to a
serious tongue-lashing. She gave him another chance, asking more
pointedly, “Why did Eustace choose to quarrel with you and not with
someone else?”
Braedon was silent for long minutes, until
Catherine's control snapped.
“I want the truth,” she warned him, “and I
want it now.”
“I have just told you the truth,” he said.
“Eustace was drunk.”
Fighting the urge to hit him, Catherine flung
out a hand. Her fingers closed around the rim of a small metal bowl
that sat on the worktable. She lifted the bowl and slammed it down
hard on the tabletop. The noise it made was so satisfying that she
maintained her grip on the bowl, holding it as if she would use it
for a weapon to batter Braedon about his chest and shoulders.
“I will not be put off again,” she shouted at
him, “not by you, or by my father, nor by Achard, either. I will
have the truth from you!”
“Achard?” he repeated, frowning and looking
puzzled. “What has Achard to do with anything?”
“Do not attempt to distract me.” Again she
raised the bowl in a threatening gesture. “You are just like my
father, changing the subject, raising new issues so I won't pursue
any further the matters you don't want to discuss. I tell you now,
I have had enough!”
She swung the bowl at him. Braedon leapt
aside just in time. On the downswing the bowl struck the edge of
the worktable and flew out of Catherine's hand. It landed on the
stone floor with a loud clanging noise that reverberated off the
walls until the bowl finally stopped spinning.
Catherine could see Braedon was trying hard
not to laugh. She lifted her chin, preparing to scald his ears with
furious words if he dared to make a joke at her rage.
“I cannot blame you for being angry,” Braedon
said. “You are far too intelligent not to notice the undercurrents
of conflict swirling amongst your father's guests.”
“Exactly.” Catherine's temper was somewhat
calmed by Braedon's acknowledgement of her outrage, though she did
not entirely trust his remark about her intelligence. Most men
believed women possessed little in the way of native wit. Unlike
most men when dealing with a woman, she was prepared to
listen to what a man had to say. “Sir, I am waiting for your
explanation.”
“Of course.” Braedon spoke slowly, as if he
was thinking the matter through very carefully. “You do deserve an
explanation. You wanted to know why Eustace and I nearly came to
blows. I will tell you why.” He fell silent and Catherine waited,
determined to have the truth of the quarrel from him, and then to
learn all she could about the undercurrents he had mentioned.
“I have only three relatives living,” Braedon
said. “My mother was the daughter of a prosperous weaver. She died
soon after I was born. She and my father were not married. Eustace
was correct when he called me a bastard. I have never seen the
point of taking offense at a fact that is common knowledge. When my
mother died, her brother took me into his household and raised me
as his ward.”
“That was kindly done of him,” Catherine
said. “I am sure there are men who would claim that a sister who
has borne a child out of wedlock has brought shame to her
family.”
“My uncle was well paid for his care of me.”
Braedon's voice took on a timbre
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