Chapter 14
CATHERINE RACED THROUGH THE CLUTCHING WOODS.
Behind her came the hunt. The hounds bayed, the riders blew their horns, and Uncle Benjamin's shouts rang out above them all. Aunt Nora's banshee screech was close behind. Branches whipped at her bare arms. Roots tripped her, brambles caught at her dress, tearing it, catching her skin.
Then she stumbled into a clearing and her legs gave way.
A stallion broke through the trees—ridden by a man with long, flowing hair and the simple clothes of an outlaw. His face was hard and cruel, but his eyes were soft as they found hers. He leaned from the saddle and scooped her up, and the woods parted for him as he galloped away.
“A-Aaron?”
“You are safe,” Aaron whispered, “you will always be safe in my arms.”
They reached a house. Not Caerleon, but a cottage with a thatched roof and roses climbing around the door. Aaron vaulted from the saddle with Catherine in his arms.
“This is not your manor,” she murmured.
“It is my home. I lived a humble life before I became Duke.”
They entered a room warmed by a roaring fire. The air was close and hot. The ceiling was low, criss-crossed with ancient black beams. A pile of sheepskin lay on the stone before the hearth. Aaron lowered Catherine to the rugs.
“The woods can be dangerous,” he murmured. “I must tend to you.”
He undid the buttons of her bodice and eased it from her shoulders.
The bramble scratch across her breast was visible through her undergarment.
He dabbed cold linen against it, and she bit her lip as her nipple rose beneath the cloth.
Then he lowered his head and kissed the scratch, and his lips began to move outward in ever-widening circles.
Catherine closed her eyes, knowing that there was another scratch on her thigh. She felt her dress being pulled down over her hips, then slipping away past her feet. She murmured as the rent in her underskirt was widened and the cold cloth once again pressed against her skin.
Then would come the kissing. Inches from her womanhood. The idea made her moan and sigh, squirming with anticipation.
Catherine jolted awake in a dark room.
The curtains were drawn, and she caught the faintest glimpse of light from the chink in between. Moonlight. She blinked at the ceiling—it took a few seconds to realize that she was in her bedroom at Caerleon. She was in her bedclothes, and the fire had gone out.
Her breath fogged the air in front of her. She threw back the sheets and then stopped. Her nightdress was almost to her waist, and the sheets themselves twisted and misshapen, as though she had been writhing and kicking at them in her slumber.
The dream came back to her then, and in the chilly, night-air she blushed.
Rescued by Aaron from my aunt and uncle. No prizes for guessing where that fantasy came from. Rescued and then...
She remembered being touched. Remembered being half-naked. It made her cheeks burn hotter as she crossed the dark room and added a couple of logs to the fire. Within seconds, they caught, and a welcome supply of heat and light flooded the room.
She combed a hand lazily through her hair, feeling as though she had slept for a week. Now, though, she was refreshed and wide awake. She had never felt better, in fact.
As she stretched, she froze. Never felt better. That had certainly not been the case earlier in the day, if it was the same day. She recalled the terrible symptoms of the illness. All disappeared as though they had never existed… She licked her lips.
Has medicine been administered while I slept? Have I been dosed with poppy juice again?
She hugged herself, remembering her last conversation with Aaron. The one that had degenerated into an argument, and the second attempt at breakfast, where both had shared something about themselves.
The door to the hallway opened a crack, revealing a candle-light. As the person carrying the candle entered the room, they caught sight of Catherine, standing there, and gave a squeak, almost extinguishing the light.
“Oh, Your Grace! I did not expect you to be up and about. His Grace said you were ill,” chirped the maid.
“I am quite recovered, Sally,” Catherine assured, recognizing her companion at once. “By the by, what time is it?”
“Just about midnight, Your Grace. I volunteered to sit with you should you wake up in the small hours and be in distress. I can stay if it pleases you.”
Catherine smiled, sitting on the bed.
“Well, thank you, Sally, for your kind offer. It would have been comforting indeed to wake up to see your face.”
Sally beamed at the gratitude, bobbing a curtsey that made the candle flame wobble precariously.
“I have woken to find myself parched and somewhat hungry. Do you think a glass of milk and a bite of something, some cheese perhaps, could be rustled up in the kitchens?”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace! I’ll see to it right away.” She scuttled from the room.
Catherine took a paper spindle and lit it from the fire, using it to light a lamp which she carried to her bureau. She opened the lid and stared into the cavity beyond.
It was empty.
Her half-written letter, her writing implements, and the supply of paper that had been within... all gone.
A deathly chill settled into Catherine’s bones that had nothing to do with the night air.
She bit her lip, her eyes drawn to the bedside table.
The lamp had stood there, and a book that she had been reading.
Something caught her eye, and she approached closer.
It was almost impossible to detect in the flickering, golden light of the lamp.
From certain angles, it could be seen—a circle on the varnished wood tabletop.
The kind that would be made by a cold glass, chilled by the liquid within, being placed on the wood.
Such as a glass of milk. Containing a cure-all…
Oh Lord, but he knows that I believe him to be an impostor! He tries to drug me!
Was his plan to keep her captive, drugged, and docile? Why? To return her to her Aunt and Uncle when the time came?
She did not want to believe so, but if Aaron intended to use her, to achieve his business objectives for example, then discard her… he would require her to be compliant. To go quietly when the time came. What better manner to achieve that than to drug her?
The story about my Aunt and Uncle feeding me poppy juice was a lie to cover his own actions!
She felt afraid, terribly afraid. Deep within, a small voice was telling her that it was a ludicrous chain of thought. That no one could be so wicked. She flew to the wardrobe but stopped with her hands upon the handles.
The question of poppy juice never arose until I came here. It would be the perfect way to ensure I made no waves while he is trying to secure his business deal. We have yet to even leave the house together!
The casual cruelty of the notion appalled her. That anyone could be so calculating and manipulative… But part of her resisted the notion. Part of her did not want to believe that her Aaron, in particular, was capable of such an act…
Why? I knew the boy but not the man… Why is it so hard to believe when he is as different to himself as a moth to a caterpillar?
She flung wide the doors as the answer came to her.
Because she was attracted to him. Drawn to him like a moth to a candle’s flame.
She did not want to believe her own suspicions because her childhood friend—the very boy she had once harbored secret feelings for, though he had never looked at her twice in that way—now thrilled her soul and exerted a magnetic pull upon her body.
She could not bear for him to be a wicked man.
Then the call to action drowned out all else. She needed to act before it was too late. Before her choices were taken away from her.
Catherine tore her night clothes from her body, discarding them in a heap and selecting undergarments and then a gown from the wardrobe. It was the same dress she had worn to flee Haventon, old and fraying but serviceable and comfortable.
She was lacing up sturdy walking boots when there came a knock at the door, followed by Sally.
The maid bustled in, chatting away as though it wasn’t after midnight.
In her arms, she carried a tray of fruit, bread, and cheese along with a ceramic jug and a tall glass.
When she finally saw Catherine, she froze.
“Oh…” she said, taking in the dress and shoes, “were you going somewhere, Your Grace?”
Catherine stood, wiping suddenly sweaty hands on her dress.
“Yes, I am leaving, Sally. Leaving Caerleon. Tonight. I must ask you not to raise the alarm. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but…”
“I won’t say anything, Your Grace,” Sally said, quickly.
Catherine was momentarily taken aback. “You… won’t?”
“No, Your Grace! I shall just say that you were sleeping, so I sat with you, and when I awoke, you was gone.”
“But… but that will get you into trouble. I cannot let you do that.”
“No trouble, Your Grace! I’m a heavy sleeper, and no one said I had to stay awake.
Only to be by your bedside. The truth is, that since His Grace employed me…
he is a frightening man and I just never took to him.
But right from the get-go, you’ve been lovely to me.
And I can tell you’re a good person. So, I’m glad to help. ”
Catherine hugged the young woman impulsively.
“Thank you, Sally. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Where will you go, if you don’t mind me prying, Your Grace?” the maid asked.
“I do not know. It sounds foolish, but I haven’t thought that far ahead. Only that I cannot stay here.”
She could feel the tears pricking at her eyes and turned away to hide them. She felt something akin to grief at the prospect of leaving Caerleon Manor and could not understand why.
I must remember what made me want to leave in the first place. There is secrecy and mystery here. And not in the exciting way of adventure stories.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you don’t seem too sure about this…” Sally bit her lip in reluctance.
Catherine blinked her tears away, pushing the sadness to one side. She had to be pragmatic. Her life may depend on it.
“I am, Sally. Now, will you show me a way that I may sneak out of the house—preferably not by the front door?”
The young maid nodded once, then guided her through the night-shrouded hallways. Down narrow stairs and along narrower passages until they reached a heavy-timbered door that opened out onto the stable-yard.
“Look, Your Grace, I have a cousin who lives on a farm near Croxley Green. Blackthorn Farm. Her name is Edith Bagshot. If you tell her that Sally Oldcastle sent you, she will put you up for a few days—” Sally suddenly blushed, “Listen to me, sending you to a farm to live. I’m sure you have grand houses that you can stay at. I just thought...”
Catherine smiled at the maid’s simple, innocent desire to help.
“I will go to Blackthorn Farm, Sally. Thank you.”
She hugged the young maid and then quickly stole away into the night.