True Love by Flora Speer Page A

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